The King of Lies

by John Hart

  “Also for the record, accept my condolences on your loss. I know that Barbara must be a great comfort. She comes from a fine family. A beautiful woman.”

  For the record, I wished there was shit on my shoes. “Thank you,” I said.

  “Although your father and I were often on opposite sides of the table, I had tremendous respect for his accomplishments. He was a fine attorney.” He eyed me from his great height. “Something to aspire to,” he concluded meaningfully.

  “I don’t want to take any more of your time than necessary,” I reminded him.

  “Yes, of course. To business, then. Your father’s estate was sizable.”

  “How sizable?” I interrupted. Ezra had been secretive about his finances. I knew very little about it.

  “Sizable,” Hambly reiterated. I looked blank and waited. Once wills are put into probate, they become public record. There was no reason for reticence.

  Hambly grudgingly conceded. “Roughly forty million dollars,” he said.

  I almost fell out of my chair—literally. I would have guessed six or seven million at the most.

  “In addition to his skills as a lawyer,” Hambly continued, “he was an adept investor. Other than the house and the building on lawyers’ row, it’s all in liquid securities.”

  “Forty million dollars,” I said.

  “A little over, actually.” Hambly met my eyes and, to his credit, kept his face neutral. He’d been born rich, yet would never see forty million dollars. It had to gall him, and I suddenly realized that this was another reason my father had gone to Clarence Hambly. I almost smiled, but then I thought of Jean and the miserable house she lived in. I smelled stale pizza and pictured her face in the window of her beaten-down car, the way she’d heaved herself up the steps of Glena Werster’s stone monument to greed and ego. At least that will change, I thought.

  “And?” I asked.

  “The house and the building go to you outright. Ten million dollars will fund the Ezra Pickens Charitable Foundation. You will have a seat on the board. Fifteen million dollars goes into trust for you. Taxes take the rest.”

  I was stunned. “What about Jean?” I asked.

  “Jean gets nothing,” Hambly stated, then sniffed loudly.

  I came out of my chair. “Nothing?” I repeated.

  “Sit down, please.”

  I complied because I lacked the strength to stand.

  “You know how your father felt. Women have no business dealing with money or finances. It might be imprudent to tell you this, but your father changed the will after Alex Shiften came on the scene. Originally, he planned for two million to go into trust for Jean, to be managed by this firm or by her husband, should she marry. But with Alex in the picture . . . You know how your father felt.”

  “Did he know that they were sleeping together?” I asked.

  “He suspected.”

  “And so he cut her out of the will.”

  “Basically.”

  “Was Jean aware of this?”

  Hambly shrugged but didn’t answer the question. “People do funny things with their money, Work. They use it for their own reasons.”

  I felt an electric tingle as I realized Hambly wasn’t talking about Jean anymore. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

  “The trust for you,” Hambly began, finally taking his seat.

  “What about it?”

  “You will have full, unfettered use of the income it generates until age sixty. Conservatively invested, it should provide at least a million dollars a year. At sixty, you get it all.”

  “But?” I sensed a catch.

  “There are certain requirements.”

  “Such as?”

  “You are required to be actively engaged in the practice of law until such time.”

  “What?”

  “This point is exquisitely clear, Work. Your father felt it important that you carry on the practice, that you maintain your place in society and in the profession. He was concerned that if he just left you the money, you might do something imprudent.”

  “Like be happy?”

  Hambly ignored my sarcasm and the raw, naked emotion that must have been in my voice. Even from the grave, my father was trying to dictate the terms of my life, to manipulate me. “He was not specific in that regard,” Hambly said. “But he was very specific in others. This firm will act as trustee. It will be up to us”—he gave me a thin smile—“up to me, actually, to determine whether or not you are actively engaged in the practice of law. One of the criteria, for instance, is that you bill at least twenty thousand dollars a month, adjusted for inflation, of course.”

  “I don’t bill half that now and you know it.”

  “Yes.” Another smile. “Your father thought this might prove to motivate you.”

  “Un-fucking-believable,” I said, anger finally finding a voice.

  Hambly rose to his full height and leaned forward, hands splayed on his desk. “Let me make one thing clear, Mr. Pickens. I will not tolerate profanity in this house. Is that understood?”

  “Yes,” I said through clenched teeth. “I understand. What else?”

  “Any year that you do not satisfy the requirements of the trust document, the income from the trust will go to the Ezra Pickens Foundation. If in two of any five years you fail to meet the requirements of the trust document, the trust will terminate and the full corpus of the trust will transfer irrevocably to the foundation. However, when you reach age sixty, should you comply fully, the entire balance becomes yours to do with as you please. I will provide you with copies of all documents, of course.”

  “Is that it?” I asked, my sarcasm so thick, no one could miss it. I should have known better.

  “In essence,” he said. “But there is one last, small thing. Should it ever be shown that you have given any money whatsoever to your sister, Jean Pickens, either directly or indirectly, the trust will terminate and all funds will transfer to the foundation.”

  “This is too much,” I said, on my feet and pacing.

  “It’s your father’s last will and testament,” Hambly said, correcting me. “His dying wish. Few would complain after hearing that fifteen million would be theirs to play with. Try to look at it from that perspective.”

  “There’s only one perspective here, Clarence, my father’s, and it’s twisted as hell.” The older lawyer started to speak, but I cut him off, watching his face redden as my voice rose and my respect for the rules of his house vanished. “Ezra Pickens was a twisted, manipulating bastard who never gave two shits for his own daughter and cared just a shade more than a rat’s ass for me. Right now, he’s laughing in his fucking grave.” I leaned over Hambly’s desk. I felt spit fly off my lips and didn’t care. “He was a first-class asshole and you can keep his money. You hear me. Keep it!”

  I subsided backward as the last words left me. I’d never felt such rage, and it left me spent. For an instant, there was silence, broken only by the slight tremble in the old lawyer’s clenched fists. His voice, when he spoke, was tightly caged.

  “I understand that you are under severe stress, so I’ll try to forget your blasphemy, but don’t ever come to this house again.” His eyes hinted at the strength that made him such a good lawyer. “Ever,” he reiterated. “Now, as your father’s attorney and the executor of his estate, I’ll tell you this: The will is valid. It goes into probate tomorrow. You may find that your position on this matter changes as your temper cools. If so, call me—at the office. As a final matter, I’ll tell you something else. I hadn’t planned to, but your behavior has changed my mind. Detective Mills has been to see me. She wanted to see your father’s will.”

  If Hambly was watching for a reaction, he wasn’t disappointed. My anger fled, replaced by something less honorable, something cold and slick that coiled in my stomach like a snake. It was fear, and with it in me, I felt naked.

  “At first, I denied her, but she returned with a court order.” Hambly leaned closer and spread his hands;
he didn’t smile, although I could feel it in him. “I was forced to comply,” he said. “She was intrigued. You might wish to explain to her how fifteen million dollars does not interest you.” He straightened and his fingers snapped shut. “Now, my courtesy has come to an end, as has my patience. Any time you wish to offer your apology for desecrating my Sunday rest, I will consider it.” He gestured at the door. “Now, good day to you.”

  My mind was awash, but one question had to be asked. “Does Mills know that Ezra cut Jean out of the will?” I asked.

  “That question,” he replied, seeming to relax into himself, “is best presented to Detective Mills. Now go away.”

  “I need to know, Clarence.” I held my hands out, palm up. “Please.”

  “I’ll not interfere with her investigation. Take it up with her or leave it alone.”

  “When did he cut her out? What date?”

  “My obligation to you does not extend beyond that of executor and primary beneficiary to this will and the trust it establishes. Given the circumstances surrounding your father’s death and the police interest in the matter, it would be unwise, for either of us, to take this matter further. I intended no other impression. Once the will is in probate, you may contact me at any time during business hours to discuss any relevant matters. Beyond that, we have nothing to talk about.”

  “What date was this will executed?” I demanded. A reasonable question, one within my rights.

  “November fifteenth,” Hambly said. “Year before last.”

  One week before my father disappeared.

  I left, too angry to be scared. But I knew how it would play to the cops. If Jean knew that Ezra was going to cut her out of two million because of her relationship with Alex, it would be one more reason to kill him. That’s how Detective Mills would see it. Did Jean know? When did she know? When did Ezra cut her out? I could hear Mills asking those exact questions. But had she?

  Damn Clarence Hambly and his petty vindictiveness!

  Back in the truck, Bone scrambled into my lap and licked my face. I rubbed his back, glad for the company. I realized that for the past days, while addled by alcohol, grief, and anger, the world had moved on. Mills had not been idle; she’d targeted me. I was a suspect. The concept was too much. I couldn’t get my head around it. In the past day, I’d come to understand so many things, none of them pleasant. Now this. I had fifteen million dollars, but only if I surrendered what little remained of myself.

  I sat in that driveway, under windows that looked like mirrored eyes, and dark thoughts twisted my mouth into a bitter smile as I thought of Ezra’s will and his last effort to manipulate me. My life was still a mess, but in this regard I knew something that Ezra didn’t, something that he could never imagine. Black humor moved where the fear snake had been; it bubbled like hot oil and it released me. I pictured Ezra’s face, the horror if he only knew, the utter disbelief. I didn’t want his money. The price was too high. The thought made me laugh, so that’s what I did as I drove away from Hambly House, circa 1788. I laughed like an idiot. I fucking howled.

  Yet by the time I got home, the hysteria was gone and I was empty. I felt lacerated inside, as if I were full of glass; but I thought of Max Creason, who’d had his fingers broken and his nails ripped out, yet who still has the strength and humor to tell a total stranger to stop being a pussy. It helped.

  I put Bone in the backyard with food, water, and a belly rub, and then I went inside. My note to Barbara was where I’d left it. I picked up the pen and added this: “Don’t be surprised to find a dog in the backyard—he’s mine. He can come inside if you want.” But I knew it wouldn’t happen; Barbara didn’t like dogs. The one I’d brought to the marriage, another yellow Lab, had never gotten to come inside. We’d been together for three years when I married Barbara; then he went from constant companion to barely tolerated nuisance, another casualty to poor choices. I vowed that that would never happen again. As I watched Bone from the kitchen window, I felt the great hollowness of the house around me, its emptiness, and I thought of my mother.

  Like my father, she was raised dirt-poor, but, unlike Ezra, she’d been content in her own skin. She’d never wanted the big house, the cars, and the prestige, none of it. Ezra, however, had been ravenous, and as he bettered himself, he came to resent her for the constant reminder she was. Ezra had hated his past, been ashamed of it, and history had shared his bed.

  This was my theory, for how else could two people rise from abject poverty, bear two children, yet end up worse than strangers?

  Years of this resentment had made my mother as hollow as this house, the well into which Ezra had dumped his anger, his frustration, and his hatred. She’d taken it all, borne it, until she was a shadow, and all she had for her children was her fierce embrace and the admonition to be silent. She’d never stood up for us, not until the night she died. It was that brief strength, that incandescent flash of will that had killed her, and I’d let it happen.

  The argument had been about Alex.

  When I closed my eyes, I could see the ruby red carpet.

  W e were at the top of the stairs, on the broad landing. I looked at my watch because I had to look away from Jean and from my father. She was defying him, and the explosion was building. It was four minutes after nine, dark out, and I barely recognized my sister. She was not the broken-down wreck that the psychiatric hospital had sent back to us. Not even close.

  Mother stood, stunned, hand to her mouth. Ezra was shouting, Jean shouting back, jabbing a finger into his chest. It could not end well, and I stared as if at a train wreck; and I watched my mother reach out, as if she could stop the train with her ten small fingers.

  And I did nothing.

  “That is enough!” my father yelled. “That is how it’s going to be.”

  “No,” Jean said. “Not this time. It’s my life!”

  Father stepped closer, towered over her. I expected Jean to melt away, but she did not.

  “It stopped being your life when you tried to kill yourself,” he said. “Then it became mine again. You’re barely out of the hospital. You can’t possibly think right about anything. We’ve been patient, we’ve been nice, but now it’s time for her to go.”

  “Alex is none of your business. You have no right to ask that.”

  “Let’s get one thing clear right now, young lady. I’m not asking. That woman is trouble and I’ll not have her messing up your head. She’s just using you.”

  “For what? I’m not rich. I’m not famous.”

  “You know what.”

  “You can’t even say it, can you? For sex, Dad. Yeah. For sex. We’re fucking all the time. What’re you going to do about it?”

  Father went suddenly still. “You’re an embarrassment to this family. It’s disgraceful the way you two carry on.”

  “So there it is,” Jean said. “It’s got nothing to do with me. It’s all about you! It’s always been about you! Well, I’ve had it.”

  Jean turned to walk away. She didn’t look at me, didn’t look at Mother; she just turned and took a single step. Then Ezra grabbed her. He jerked her so hard that she fell to her knees.

  “Don’t you walk away from me! Not ever!”

  Jean pulled herself to her feet and twisted her arm free. “That’s the last time you’ll ever put your hands on me,” she told him.

  The moment seemed to freeze, Jean’s words hanging between them. I saw my mother’s face, pure despair, and again her eyes beseeched me. Yet the shadow of my father held me, and Mother must have sensed this.

  “Ezra,” she said.

  “You stay out of this,” he commanded, eyes on Jean like a promise of violence.

  “Ezra,” she repeated, taking a monumental step toward him. “Just let her be. She’s grown now, and she’s right.”

  “And I told you to shut it!” His eyes never left Jean, and when she tried again to turn away, he snatched her up and shook her, an angry boy with a boneless doll; but Jean had bones, and I feared
they might break. “I said don’t you ever walk away from me!” Then he was grunting, incoherent, and Jean’s head was loose on her neck. I watched as my mother took hell into her hands.

  “Leave her alone, Ezra.” She pulled at his massive arm. Jean had gone completely limp, but he continued to shake her. “Damn it, Ezra,” she shouted. “Leave my daughter alone!” She began to beat on his shoulders with her narrow fists, and tears shone in the seams of her face. I tried to move, to speak, but I was paralyzed. Then he struck out, a backhand that traveled forever; and then she was falling. Time seemed to stand still but didn’t; then she was crumpled at the foot of the stairs, another boneless doll in the house my father made.

  Jean collapsed when my father released her. He stared at his hand and then at me.

  “It was an accident, boy. You see that, don’t you, son?”

  I looked into his eyes, saw for the first time that he needed me, and felt myself nod; it was an irrevocable step.

  “Good boy,” he said. Then the ground fell away and I tumbled into the deep well of self-loathing.

  I have yet to find its bottom.

  If they’d found Ezra with only one bullet in his head, I’d have called it suicide. How else to deal with the truth of his actions? And yet the greatest sin can be one of omission; such was my burden, the cost of which was my mother’s life and my immortal soul. Protecting Jean was my responsibility. I knew my mother’s weakness as I knew my father’s rage. Without words, she’d begged me to intervene, pleaded as only the weak can plead. I don’t know why I didn’t act, but I fear that my soul is flawed by some tragic weakness born under my father. For it was not love for him that stayed my hand, never love. Then what? I’ve never known, and that question haunts me still. So I’ve lived with my failure, and slept with the memory of a cartwheel dance down ruby-covered stairs.

  Jean was barely conscious when it happened; she never knew for certain, but she guessed, and in my eyes she saw the lie that had become Ezra’s truth. When asked, I said that Mother had slipped. She had tried to intervene in an argument and she’d slipped. It was just one of those things.