[Lady Justice 37] - Lady Justice and the Living Trust

by Robert Thornhill

But now that I’m also serving the Lady Justice in the high heels and fish-net stockings, I see things from a different perspective.

  The obvious answer from a moral point of view would be to call the cops, but there was no doubt in my mind that doing so would put myself and my loved ones in danger. The other problem was that with Carmine gone, someone else would step in as the don of the Italian mafia. The mob wasn’t going away.

  There is no denying that Carmine is a crook. His organization involves drugs, hookers, gambling, and a protection racket, but in spite of all that, he does have a moral compass, and there are lines he will not cross. Carmine is the devil we know. His successor could be much, much, worse.

  Adding to my dilemma was the fact that Carmine had saved my life more than once. I owe him for that.

  Then, I thought about my role as the successor trustee for Cosmo Sabatini. The old accountant had kept this evidence hidden in his basement for fifteen years. If he wanted to expose the Don, he could have done it at any time. My job was to carry out his dying wishes, and I didn’t think that included ratting out his old friend.

  I knew what I had to do.

  It was getting late and the three of us were pooped. We decided to call it a day. Maria left and I drove Maggie home.

  “I have one more thing to take care of,” I said as we pulled to the curb.

  “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” she asked. “I know you must be as tired as I am.”

  “No, I have to check on one of the grandkids,” I lied. “It won’t take long. While I’m out, I’ll pick up a couple of sandwiches from Subway.” I hated to tell Maggie a fib, but I didn’t want to get her involved with the mafia, and to tell the truth, I didn’t want her to know that I had the goods to put Carmine away and was letting him off the hook, even if it was for her own protection.

  As soon as she was in the door, I called Carmine.

  “Carmine, Walt here.”

  “My old friend! What can I do for you?”

  “It’s what I can do for you. Can you meet me at Cosmo’s house?”

  “It’s getting late. How about tomorrow?”

  “No, it has to be tonight.”

  “What’s so important that it can’t wait until tomorrow?”

  “I can’t tell you over the phone. Just trust me. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Okay, but this better be good.”

  I had just pulled up in front of the house when Carmine’s big Lincoln pulled in behind me. Vito climbed out and opened the door for the Don.

  “Let’s make this quick,” he said. “I’ve got a plate of lasagna and a willing lass waiting for me at home.”

  I opened the door and led them into the basement.

  “Over there,” I said, pointing. “Those boxes. Take a look.”

  He took the lid off of the first box, tossed it aside, and picked up one of the journals. Then he took another, and another.

  Then he looked at me. I didn’t know if he was going to shoot me or thank me.

  “Do you know what these are?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Are the cops coming?”

  I shook my head. “No, they’re not.”

  “Why not? You’re an ex-cop. You’ve got friends on the force. You could be a hero.”

  “I guess I’m just not cut out to be a hero,” I replied. “My job right now is to carry out Cosmo’s dying wishes. I didn’t think that would include sending his old friend to jail.”

  I had never seen Carmine cry, but a single tear slipped down his cheek. He quickly wiped it away.

  “Thank you, Walt. I owe you.” Then he turned to Vito. “Put these boxes in the car.”

  He gave me a quick embrace and headed up the stairs.

  Did I make the right decision? Only time will tell.

  CHAPTER 8

  After several grueling days of sorting and boxing, we finally had all of Cosmo’s personal possessions divided into two categories, donated items and sale items.

  I called the Salvation Army and arranged for a pickup of the donated items. For some reason, it was a sad moment for me when I watched the big van drive away with the remnants of Cosmo’s life. Very soon, his wardrobe would be hanging on a rack in the thrift store. Someone would buy a suit, not knowing that the suit was the one Cosmo wore proudly when he and Catherine celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary. Death happens and life goes on.

  Once the donations were gone, we had to decide what to do with the sale items --- and there were a lot of them.

  We had two choices, a garage sale or an auction. I knew about garage sales. That meant examining every piece, deciding on a price, affixing the price to the item, then displaying the stuff, hoping all of it would sell. Too much work.

  After consultation with Maggie and Maria, we decided that an auction was the best way to go. I made a few inquiries which led me to auctioneer, Colonel Billy Bob Beaudrow. When the old gent stepped out of his car, I though maybe I had mistakenly called Colonel Sanders. The auctioneer was the spitting image of the fried chicken magnate.

  I was greeted with a “Howdy,” and a hearty handshake. For the next hour, the Colonel examined the items to be sold, then explained his fee.

  “I charge a minimum of $1,000, or 15% whichever is greater, plus the advertising costs which can be another two or three hundred.”

  Needless to say, I was shocked. “Any idea how much we can expect from the auction?”

  “Can’t really say for sure,” he replied. “Depends on lots of things, weather, other auctions, that sort of thing, but I’d say the sale should gross at least twenty thousand.”

  I did some quick math in my head. The Colonel would be walking away with a cool three grand. Then I thought how much it would be worth to me to price and label every item, then try to peddle it all.

  “Deal!” I said. “Where do I sign.”

  The sale was set for the following Saturday. That would give the Colonel plenty of time to advertise and get the items ready for auction.

  The day before the auction, the Colonel’s crew arrived with a couple of flat bed trailers and a dozen folding tables. All of the small items were divided into lots and arranged on the tables and trailers.

  When the crew was finished, I called Angelo, Lucia, and Mario as I promised. I wanted to give them the opportunity to buy any mementos of their grandfather before everything was carted off by strangers.

  When they arrived, there was no greeting of any kind. All I got was attitude.

  “So how does this work?” Mario asked, not making any effort to hide his contempt.

  “As Lou told you, your grandfather specified that everything was to be sold or donated to charity. What you see before you is everything that will be sold at auction tomorrow. I told you I would give you first chance to purchase any of your grandfather’s things that are important to you. Look around, and if you see something you want, I’ll give you a reasonable price.”

  “Thanks for nuthin’” Angelo muttered stalking off.

  The three wandered around for maybe fifteen minutes before returning.

  “Nothin’ here I want,” Angelo said with a shrug.

  “Me either,” Mario said.

  I turned to Lucia. “How about you?”

  “There’s a chair over there I might be interested in. I remember when I was a kid, Grandma Catherine would sit in that chair and rock me. How much for it?”

  I followed her to the chair. It was definitely an antique.

  “It’s beautiful. You can have it for a hundred dollars. I imagine it’s worth a lot more.”

  “A hundred bucks!” she screamed. “You’ve got to be kidding me! This just isn’t right!”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m just doing as your grandfather instructed in his trust. Don’t kill the messenger.” As soon as I said it, I knew it was a mistake. I shouldn’t be giving them any ideas.

  “You can go to hell!” she said, stomping off.

  “Hang on a minute,” I said, as the thr
ee headed for their cars.

  “What now?” Mario asked with disgust.

  “It’s been over a week since our meeting with Lou Gallo. As you know, you receiving your inheritance depends on fulfilling your grandfather’s requirements. How’s that coming along?”

  Mario gave a deep sigh. “I joined a Gambler’s Anonymous group. They meet every Monday evening at the Community Christian Church. Happy?”

  “Actually, I am. How about you, Lucia?”

  “I joined an AA group. They meet at the same church on Tuesday evenings.”

  “Wonderful. How about you, Angelo. Have you found a job yet?”

  “Not yet. I’ve put in at least a dozen applications. I’m trying.”

  “Great. Let me know when you land one of those jobs.”

  “Sure,” he muttered, and the three grandkids stalked off empty handed.

  So sad, I thought. Out of all the things that Cosmo Sabatini held dear, there was nothing of sentimental value to his grandchildren.

  When I woke up on Saturday morning, I was happy to see the sun shining through the bedroom window. Nothing puts a damper on an auction like a soggy, wet day.

  After breakfast, Maggie, Dad, Bernice, and I headed to Cosmo’s house.

  Dad and Bernice had talked me into letting them set up a cookie stand. Bernice had made dozens of her snickerdoodles. They were going to sell a cookie and a cup of coffee for a buck. The Colonel told me he would have a food wagon peddling hot dogs, burgers and soft drinks. I didn’t see how their little stand could hurt, and it made the old folks feel like they were making a contribution.

  The auction was to begin at nine o’clock. When we arrived at eight-thirty, we had to park three blocks away. Hundreds of people were already milling around the tables and trailers, perusing the remains of Cosmo Sabatini’s life.

  I have been to many auctions. I used to go with my grandfather when I was a kid. I would find something that I was interested in, but somehow it never worked out.

  When I find something I like, I usually have to stand around two or three hours before the auctioneer gets around to selling it. When the time comes, I discover, to my dismay, that three other people want the same thing and are willing to pay more than me. I usually walk away disappointed and empty-handed.

  There’s something about an auction that brings out the competitive spirit in people. They will stand around for hours waiting to bid on an old toaster. When they discover that the old biddy across the way wants the same toaster, they will try to outbid the old gal and wind up paying thirty bucks for a toaster when they could have purchased a brand new one at Wal Mart for $19.95.

  At precisely nine o’clock, the Colonel picked up the mike and the sale began.

  The minute he opened his mouth, I was mesmerized by the tongue-twisting, rapid-fire, staccato that sought bids for the first piece. It reminded me of the old 50’s song, The Auctioneer, by Leroy Van Dyke. Auctioneering is definitely an art and the Colonel was a master craftsman.

  As the sale progressed, I was overcome by melancholy. One item was an old Singer treadle sewing machine. I could envision Grandma Catherine pumping away, mending an article of clothing or piecing together cloth squares for a quilt top. The new owner would be totally unaware of the many hours she spent sewing for her family.

  Another item was a wooden box containing a set of sterling silverware. I wondered how many special dinners had been served using the ‘good stuff’ from the wooden box.

  Time passes, death happens, memories are lost, and life goes on.

  As the sale progressed, I could see that we were doing quite well. Items were selling for way more than I would have imagined. The rocking chair that I offered to Lucia for a hundred dollars sold for a hundred and seventy-five. I made a mental note to bring that to her attention.

  Every winning bidder went to a trailer to pay for their new-found treasure. A young woman, the Colonel’s daughter I discovered later, took their check or cash and deposited it in a metal box.

  Hundreds of dollars were flowing into the trailer and that made me wonder about security. I knew the Colonel had a crew of beefy young men on his payroll. Some of them worked with him at the tables and trailers, holding up items as he solicited bids. Others were sprinkled throughout the crowd like undercover cops.

  On several occasions, when the spirited bidding got out of hand, one of the guys would appear to restore order. I figured as many auctions as the Colonel had done, he had everything under control.

  I was wrong.

  About three o’clock, a young man pulled a nylon stocking over his head and stepped up to the trailer window. Brandishing a gun, he demanded the Colonel’s daughter surrender the cash box. She immediately complied, figuring the thief would be immediately apprehended by one of the Colonel’s beefy crew.

  The thief tucked the box into a backpack and took off. He had only gone about ten steps when a huge guy who could have been an NFL linebacker blocked his path. I figured it was all over for the thief. The linebacker lunged, but with cat-like quickness, the thief ducked under his massive arms and sprinted away.

  He made it another twenty feet when he was confronted by two more of the Colonel’s men. Seemingly boxed in by the men in front and a trailer behind, I was sure it was all but over. To my surprise, and I’m sure the surprise of the Colonel’s men, the thief leaped onto the trailer bed and raced to the far end. His dismount would have been the envy of Mary Lou Retton.

  The crowd parted as the thief sprinted toward the street, followed by three more of the Colonel’s men. It was obvious that there was no chance for the burly guards to outrun the slippery ninja. From all appearances, the speedy guy was going to get away with the day’s receipts.

  Suddenly, a lone figure stepped into the path of the fleeing thief.

  I was shocked to see that the only obstacle between the ninja and the street was the ninety-pound frame of Bernice Crenshaw. She had taken a shooter’s stance, pointing her .32 revolver at the oncoming thief.

  He stopped short, as surprised as the rest of us. He had outrun and outwitted the Colonel’s men. He was no doubt trying to decide whether he could outrun a slug from the old woman’s .32.

  You could have heard a pin drop as the crowd waited anxiously to see the outcome of the standoff.

  Bernice took a step forward. “I know what you’re thinking. Can an old woman like me hit the broadside of a barn? Take one more step and you’ll find out. Maybe you’ll get lucky, but maybe you won’t. What’s it gonna be, creep?”

  The thief didn’t have the opportunity to make a choice. The specter of the old woman with the .32 had slowed him down long enough for the Colonel’s men to catch up. The linebacker hit him from behind and flattened him like a pancake.

  The crowed cheered as Bernice tucked her .32 into her ankle holster and took a bow.

  “I’ve got more snickerdoodles if anybody’s hungry.”

  I had no doubt that the Colonel would remember this auction for a very long time.

  CHAPTER 9

  The auction was a huge success. We grossed just under $24,000. By the time the Colonel took his commission and expenses, we had a cool twenty grand to add to the kitty.

  The one thing I held out of the auction was the suitcase full of baseball cards. I figured I could get more from a collector, and to tell the truth, I wasn’t ready to give them up just yet. Browsing through the collection of baseball heroes from the 50’s and 60’s brought back fond memories.

  After going through them one last time, I put the suitcase in the car and headed to Morey’s Coins and Cards. I figured the first thing I should do was get an appraisal from an expert.

  A little bell tinkled when I entered Morey’s shop.

  “Be with you in a minute,” Morey shouted. He was busy helping a middle-aged man with a mustache and goatee.

  “How can I help you?” he asked, concluding his business with Mr. Goatee.

  “I have a baseball card collection,” I replied, holding up the suitca
se. “I was hoping you could give me an idea of its value.”

  He glanced at the suitcase. “You lookin’ to sell it?”

  “Maybe,” I replied. “It depends on what you’re offering.”

  “Let’s take a look.”

  I sat the suitcase on the counter and opened it. I had purposely put a few of the most valuable cards on top.

  He slipped off the rubber bands and fanned through the cards. “Nice collection. I could give you --- ummm--- maybe two grand.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “That’s all! There are over two hundred cards here. That averages out to ten bucks a card. I know Musial is worth $175 and Mantle goes for $200.”

  “Yeah, but that’s in pristine condition. These cards are okay, but a long way from mint condition. You interested or not?”

  “Ummm, not right now. I think I’ll ask around and get another opinion.”

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself. If you can’t do any better, come on back.”

  On the way out, I noticed that Mr. Goatee had been listening to our conversation.

  I tossed the suitcase in the back seat and headed to The Card Shack for a second opinion. When I pulled into the parking lot, I noticed that another car had pulled in right behind me.

  I parked, stepped out of the car, and when I went to retrieve the suitcase, I saw a blur out of the corner of my eye.

  I ducked, but it was too late. I saw stars as my assailant whacked the back of my head. I crumpled to the ground as my attacker snatched the suitcase from the backseat.

  Barely conscious, I watched him sprit to his car. I caught a glimpse of his face as he climbed into his car. It was Mr. Goatee. I didn’t have the strength to get up, but as he drove away, I got his license plate.

  It took fifteen minutes for the parking lot to stop spinning. Struggling to my feet, I slumped into the car, pulled out my cell phone, and called Ox, my old partner at the police department.

  “Hey, Walt. How’s your day going?”

  “I’ve been better,” I replied, rubbing the knot on the back of my head. “I need a favor.”