“Godfrey Chambers,” I said.
Mr. Conway made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan.
“Ah, yes,” he said. “Godfrey Chambers. Well, then, I assume Mr. Chambers also told you that his uncle, Horace Latimore, named him a beneficiary, and that our company has refused to pay the benefit.”
“Yes. That’s what he said.”
“And did Mr. Chambers, or Mr. G-Force as he likes to be called now, happen to mention that Horace Latimore is not, in fact, his uncle?”
Uh … no. Mr. G-Force had failed to mention that particular item. A small prickle of irritation crept up the back of my neck.
“That is a fairly important fact, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Norbu?”
“That depends,” I said. On who’s trying to con me, I thought. Even with my limited experience, I suspected an insurance company was at least as likely to be running a con as a recovering drug addict and criminal informant.
“Mr. Conway, I’m a bit late to the party,” I said. “Can you fill me in? If Horace Latimore is not his uncle, how did G-Force get into the picture?”
“You’ll have to ask him,” Conway said. “All I can tell you is we’ve proven to our satisfaction that Godfrey Chambers is not Horace Latimore’s nephew, and therefore does not qualify.” He chuckled. “Not that it took much proof. Let’s just say the evidence was pretty black and white.”
Ten seconds later I had G-Force on the line.
“Anything you forgot to tell me about Uncle Horace?”
“Like what?”
“Like maybe he isn’t your uncle? Like maybe he isn’t African American?”
G-Force let out a howl. “You been listenin’ to that stingy mofo Conway, ain’t you? Lying sack o’ shit!”
“I notice you didn’t answer my question.”
“Aw, man, I hate to hear that tone, like you don’t believe me.”
“G. Drop the wounded-victim act. I asked you a question.”
“Fine. No, Horace ain’t exactly my uncle, but it don’t matter!”
“Why not?”
“’Cause my name in his will, that’s why!”
Two hours in, and my serenity lay in shreds.
“G-Force, I assume you have a copy of this will.”
“Lookin’ at it right now!”
But, of course, he didn’t have a fax machine or a scanner or any simple way to send it to me.
“Look,” G-Force said, “I’ll borrow a ride. I don’t have to be at the car wash for a couple hours. Where you live?”
I didn’t feel like entertaining G-Force in my canyon sanctuary, so we arranged to meet halfway, at a café I remembered as having great espresso just off the 101, in Sherman Oaks.
This time, I took my workhorse wheels. After losing my beloved Toyota to gunshot wounds, I’d recently replaced it with a metallic-gray, 2005 Dodge Neon. My new partner was small, zippy, and forgettable—just right for surveillance jobs. Most people relegated it to the category of cars that “all look alike.” Not a lot of room to stretch out for extended periods of time, but good enough for my modest height and needs. I was hoping to add at least another 100,000 miles to its current 85,000, and assumed with time we’d become good friends.
A half hour later I was sipping an espresso in a corner table of the Crave Café when a beat-up Pacer the color of rust pulled up and parked on Ventura Boulevard, right in front. I almost ran outside: I’ve never seen a Pacer in the actual flesh, or should I say actual tin?
A black man unwound from the car, all six feet plus of him. It was G-Force, but I blinked at the changes. He had packed on probably 25 pounds since I last saw him, all of it muscle. Instead of a tangle of dreadlocks, his shaved scalp gleamed like polished wood, bracketed by smallish cupped ears, seashells that lay close and tight to his skull. His T-shirt and nylon gym pants were a far cry from the supple leather and thick gold chains of his former life of crime. But the angular cheekbones; graceful brows arching over dark, intelligent eyes; and generous mouth were the same, as was the small cleft pressed in his chin, like an afterthought. G-Force had been, and still was, a very handsome man.
He loped inside, clutching a manila envelope under his left arm. His eyes were wary as he took in the brick walls and hardwood floor; the menu items hand-scrawled in chalk behind the counter; and the plates of grilled chicken panini, arugula salads, and strawberry crepes. I waved, and he was at my table in three long strides.
“Want anything? You have to order at the counter,” I said.
He shook his head. “Naw, man, place makes me jumpy.” I registered the customers occupying the scattered tables: trim soccer moms in yoga outfits with streaked blonde hair; hipsters with Van Dyke beards tapping out dialogue on laptop screens; businessmen in designer jeans and sport coats, no ties. Every Achilles has his own heel—maybe for G-Force, it was yuppies.
“Not your kind of clientele?”
He surveyed the room like a stand-up comedian assessing a new audience. “Nothin’ wrong with them, exactly. Just can’t figure out what category to put ’em in now.”
I waited, curious.
“Used to be they johns. S’posed to steal shit from, sell dope to, boost they cars. But now?” G-Force shrugged. “I ain’t slinging or boosting or any of that crap anymore. Don’t know what category they in. Understand?”
“I think so. Your way of seeing people is changing.”
“Yeah. Got me flat mystified half the time. Only category I got left is, people that might need to get they car washed.”
“Well, in L.A., that’s everybody,” I said. “So wherever you are now, you’re in the right place.”
G-Force lowered his head and eyed me, his arched brows pulled close. I wondered if I’d gone too far. Then, his face split into a dazzling smile.
“Heh, heh, heh,” he hooted. “Man, you speak the truth! Car wash my ticket to the bigs, heh, heh!” He flipped his chair around with one hand, as if it weighed nothing, and straddled it like a pony. He rested his forearms across the top. Whatever that did to his biceps, it caused me to flex my own, and vow to double my push-ups routine. The Buddha calls this “comparing mind.” Never works out well for one’s self-esteem.
I reached out my hand. “Insurance policy, please.”
He slid an envelope across. I pulled the documents out—a copy of Horace’s will, plus the policy. I leafed through both before rereading the material more slowly.
Both documents had the usual boilerplate legal garble, but the list of “Uncle” Horace’s bequests was clear, as was the sum total of his actual estate: $128,000 in a savings account, $14,000 in a checking account, a half-interest in a coin laundry, and a 1998 Toyota Camry. Plus, one life insurance policy.
Only one sentence in the will dealt specifically with G-Force:
My nephews, James Lunzy and Angus Lunzy, and Godfrey Chambers, are beneficiaries of my $100,000 life insurance policy. I bequeath the funds to be divided equally among them.
The money in the savings account, the Camry, and the half-interest in the laundry went to someone named Christian Peet.
I glanced up at G-Force. “These two, James and Angus Lunzy, they’re contesting your third of the one-hundred-thousand-dollar insurance policy?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t understand. It’s quite clear. Why would the insurance company be stonewalling you?”
“They sayin’ Horace ain’t my blood uncle so they don’t have to pay.”
“Did you tell them Horace was your blood uncle?”
He chewed on his lip. “Uh, no, not exactly.”
“G-Force. Please. What is your relationship to Horace Latimore?”
G-Force looked around, as if checking for spies. He kept his voice low.
“Horace my Eskimo.”
“I’m sorry. Did you say Eskimo?”
“Yeah. You know, he the one showed me the way.”
“The way where?” I mindfully uncurled my fists, thus preventing me from leaping across the table and punching him
.
“At first we just pen pals. You know, when I was at Pelican Bay,” G-Force said and turned his chair around. He settled into it, warming to the subject. “But then Horace came to visit for real, and started taking me through them steps. Horace the man. Really saved my ass, you know? He even let me stay with him ’n’ Christian when I first got out. Said he wished they could adopt me.”
“So he let you live in his igloo?” I teased, but the look on G-Force’s face humbled me, and I regretted my flippant words.
“Horace my sponsor, but he says, in his heart, G-Force his son, his own son.” G-Force’s voice grew thick. “Man so sick and all, but still he take me in. He’s like my hero. Guess that’s why he changed his will.”
“And how did …” I asked, glancing at the line, “how did James and Angus Lunzy feel about that?”
“How you think? Shit, man, them two boys resent me for breathing. Horace didn’t have no kids of his own. Horace was uh … was …” G-Force resorted to an effeminate flap of the wrist.
“Homosexual?”
“Yeah. Ain’t no big thing, not to me. Anyway, so, but Angus and James? They always knew they could stop by the laundry and get a Benjamin from Uncle Horace. Horace love his sister, Wanda, more’n anybody else on earth—she Angus and James’s mama—so when she passed, long time ago, he tried to take care of ’em.” G-Force shook his head. “They take his money, but they treat him like shit.”
“How so?”
“You know, callin’ him a faggot, minute his back is turned. Make me wanna whup they ass. Only family they got, no reason to be like that. But Horace, that man a saint. Not their fault, he say. They the sick ones.”
“He sounds pretty wise.”
I reread the will, with fresh eyes.
“So Christian Peet was his partner?”
“Horace with Christian pretty much his whole life, drunk and sober. They the only people I know stayed together like that. Christian still run the laundry, probl’y be fluffin’ and foldin’ ’til he drop, too.”
For a brief, painful moment, I thought of Bill and Martha, and their almost 20 years of …
Let it go.
I studied the key line in the will one more time.
And then I saw it:
My nephews, James Lunzy and Angus Lunzy and Godfrey Chambers are beneficiaries.
My punctuation-prone brain must have automatically inserted a comma earlier, between the “Angus Lunzy” and the “and Godfrey Chambers.” I’d expected a comma, and so I’d slotted one in. But it wasn’t there. A simple enough omission, but one that CAII was using to justify cutting G-Force out of the will. Somebody over there, some crook disguised as a Grammar Nazi, must have pounced on the interpretation that Horace was leaving $100,000 to three nephews before proving that Godfrey Chambers was not a blood relative, not by a long shot.
To me the intent was clear: Horace wanted to divide the insurance money between both nephews, plus Godfrey Chambers. Otherwise, why put his name in there at all?
The whole situation was absurd, and made no sense. CAII may have found a tiny loophole, based on a missing comma, but they had nothing to gain by cheating G-Force—the underwriter had to pay out regardless.
No, the only persons to gain from this were Angus and James Lunzy.
So that’s where I’d start.
“What do the nephews do, G-Force? If you know.”
“This and that. They mama leave them money when she die, too. Horace say they never been self-supporting and never will be as long as someone else there to pay.”
The net gain to Angus and James was $16,666.00 each. Was that enough money to contest Horace’s wishes? Sure it was. I’d seen people killed for a lot less. Once, when I was still a rookie on patrol, I’d arrived first at a scene to find a pair of dead bangers bleeding out on the floor of a Mexican restaurant. Double homicide and messy enough to make you swear off salsa forever. According to the bartender, they’d gotten into an argument about who was going to pick up the tab. Banger One apparently thought Banger Two had eaten more than his share of carne asada. When the homicide investigators emptied their pockets, they found rolls of $100 bills—a combined total of close to $10,000.
The unpaid bill came to $12.39. That was the first time I truly understood the insanity of the mind’s attachment to being right.
In this case, though, the culprit at first glance was pure and simple greed. Didn’t explain everything, but at least I had an initial clue.
“Can I keep these for now? I’ll need to make copies for my file.”
“’Course.” G-Force stood up. “Think you can get me my money?”
“I’ll try my best.”
“’Preciate that.” I’d forgotten how big G-Force’s hands were. He held out a paw, and I allowed my knuckles to be crushed.
As we walked outside, I had to ask.
“G-Force?”
“Yeah.”
“Why Eskimo?”
G-Force crossed his arms and leaned against the Pacer, smiling slightly. “It’s like this. Brother walks into a bar, says to the bartender, ‘No such thing as God.’
“‘Why you say that?’ says the bartender.
“‘Last year,’ man says, ‘got sent to Alaska on a job. Three days in got caught in a blizzard, worst one in a hundr’d years. Buried to my neck in snow, no food, no idea where I was at. So I prayed to the man upstairs, prayed my butt off, said I’d never do wrong again if on’y He save my freezing ass. But He lef’ me there to die.’
“Bartender just stares.
“‘What?’ brother says.
“Bartender says, ‘You here, ain’t you? You ain’t dead.’
“‘Yeah, well, ten seconds after I quit praying, here come an Eskimo. Give me food, take me to his igloo so I have somewhere to sleep.’
“Bartender shake his head. ‘You even dumber than you look.’
“‘What? I’m jus’ sayin’, God didn’t save me. Eskimo did!’”
G-Force punched my arm lightly. “Heh-heh-heh. Horace told me that story first time he come to Pelican Bay to visit. That Horace, he something else.”
As I breezed along the 101 North toward Conway Associates, I offered up my own petition to the Great Beyond: please, let this ridiculously good Friday afternoon traffic hold until I get to Westlake Village. Then I passed a pleasant, jam-free half hour identifying and appreciating all the Eskimos in my world. Chief among them was Bill Bohannon.
CHAPTER 8
The long, narrow building, set behind a newly constructed industrial complex just off Agoura Road, was of pebbly stucco—squat, one-story, painted an uninspiring beige, and fronted by an equally long, narrow parking lot. Unlike its gleaming neighbors, this drab structure had been here for some time. In the distance, a sad little ridge of drought-scorched hills pretending to be mountains made for a depressing view. I parked my Neon at the far end of the lot. It was almost five o’clock, and I was exhausted. I swallowed a huge yawn as I scanned the immediate area for possible caffeine franchises. Not a one, not even a Starbucks. My plastic Starbucks gift card, a thank-you gift from a happy client, was burning a $100 hole, minus one Caffè Americano to go, in my back pocket.
Maybe on the way home.
Each individual business in the building was marked by a faded awning with stenciled numbers denoting the office address. I didn’t see any surveillance cameras, high tech or otherwise. Maybe these were not the kinds of businesses that experienced break-ins. I rechecked my text from G-Force as I strolled closer, and soon located the insurance firm almost precisely in the middle of the row of modest enterprises. The numbered awning, once navy blue, had faded to a color closer to purple. The business, its double doors of frosted glass etched with the initials CAII, was flanked by a tax consulting agency and a run-down fertility clinic, both of which triggered in me instant pangs of anxiety.
I pushed against the doors and stepped inside. The temperature was a good 15 degrees cooler than the afternoon heat behind me. Despite its lofty titl
e, Conway Associates Insurance, Inc. was underwhelming. The space was maybe 900 square feet, longer than it was wide, with a small reception area up front and a smaller conference room to my left. I counted two more frosted glass doors, closed, leading into what I assumed was a pair of private offices, one on the right side, in no-man’s-land, and one at the back, facing the direction of the hills. I also noticed an emergency exit in the back—the old-fashioned kind complete with a metal panic bar.
One wall boasted several framed, fading endorsements from local clubs and businessmen’s associations. No sign of a security system in place here, either. No infrared, ultrasonic, or microwave detectors. No photo-electronic beams. No nothing.
The overall impression was of an enterprise struggling to stay afloat.
A youthful, plump woman with thin wire-rimmed glasses and an erect back perched behind a curved Plexiglas desk, tapping a computer keyboard industriously. Her hair was light brown and twisted, rope-like, into a bumpy knot on the top of her head, Siddhartha-style. She presented me with a sweet smile.
“May I help you?”
I recognized her voice: Miss Grammar-pants.
“Yes, I’m here to see Mr. Conway?”
“Senior or—”
“Junior.”
She tap-tapped again, and frowned at her computer.
“I’m sorry, did you have an appointment?”
I glanced behind her at the two doors, one to my right and one at the back. I had a fifty-fifty chance.
“Thanks, he knows what this is about,” I said over my shoulder, and headed right, for door number one, the one in no-man’s-land. Junior didn’t get the mountain vista, I was betting.
As I entered, the man inside startled like a deer. He half-rose behind his desk while one frantic hand clicked and moved the mouse of a large desktop computer. The computer pinged, and then fell silent. Roland Conway, Jr.’s pale-blue eyes met mine. His were rinsed hot with something. Irritation, maybe?
No. Fear.
He stepped around his desk.
“I’m sorry. Who are you?” The deep voice belonged to someone much heftier than the man before me. One of Mother Nature’s little tricks, to keep her entertained.
The Fourth Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (A Tenzing Norbu Mystery series Book 4) Page 5
