It didn’t work out that way.
Phillips never followed through. When Sol told the bank he could no longer make the payments, they agreed to a quick sale. After the loan was paid off, Sol could use the leftover proceeds to take a small apartment somewhere.
Then Sol learned the truth.
Those papers he had signed for Phillips to rent the house gave the stranger full ownership. He also learned Phillips had taken out a second mortgage and had already received a large check.
By the time he got his brother involved, it was too late. All the money was gone—and so was Phillips.
Sol remembered these things clearly, because his mind wasn’t quite gone yet. He shuffled over to the sink and filled a glass with tap water. He brought it over to the counter and looked at the medications again. There were pills for high blood pressure, pills for his prostate, heart pills, pain pills, and cholesterol pills.
And a sedative.
Sol had a lot of trouble sleeping lately. He knew Ben was trying to help, but it was too late. And he didn’t want his brother or his nephew to get involved financially. He wasn’t a charity case.
He wondered what would happen if he took much more than the normal dose. He was determined to find out and pried the childproof cap off with his arthritic fingers as his heart ached over the unbelievable mistake he had made.
“I’m sorry I lost the house, Esther,” he said and swallowed the first pill.
He proceeded to take one pill at a time with water until he could no longer stand. After ten or fifteen minutes, he found himself on the kitchen floor, sleepier than he had ever been in his life. This was about the time he remembered he had wanted to write a note to his brother. It was too late.
As he closed his eyes for the last time, he said, “I love you, Esther. Maybe we can play canasta when I…”
“Mr. Hershon, please feel free to make yourself comfortable.” The nice-looking gentleman with the worn attaché case studied the old man to make sure he was mentally present. He had done this so many times he wanted to be certain the client was legally capable of signing the papers.
“I’m fine,” the old man said. “Would you like some coffee, Mr. Kimball?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll make a fresh pot.”
As the old man tottered toward the kitchen, Mercer took in the dining room. The house was in need of updating, although the furniture appeared to be in good shape. The wallpaper with little pastel flower baskets had a few stains on it. Hardly noticeable with all the faded family photos covering the walls. He thought he recognized some of the faces. But he had seen so many family photos over the last few years they were bound to look the same after a while.
“Do you mind if I look around?” he said.
“Help yourself.”
Mercer got up and went into the living room where he found an old-fashioned walnut stereo console with a built-in TV, a La-Z-Boy recliner, and a cloth-covered sofa with white lace doilies. He remembered the old man telling him his late wife had crocheted those when they moved in.
As he wandered from room to room, appraising the bedrooms and bathrooms, he mentally added up how much cash he would soon have based on the equity. The house, as in all the other cases he had handled, was not paid off. The old man struggled to make his mortgage payments and was desperate for help. That’s where Mercer came in.
He had told the old man repeatedly in those meetings at Starbucks how he was committed to helping the elderly. Why, his own mother had lost their home and ended up on the street with his younger brother and him when Mercer was only fifteen. The incident affected him deeply, and he vowed to protect others from that terrible fate.
Strolling back to the dining room, Mercer was convinced he had made the right choice in taking on this client. He was certain he would have signed papers tonight, and tomorrow, he could start the loan process, giving himself a couple hundred thousand in cash, easy. He sat at the table as the old man brought out a silver tray with a silver coffeepot and china cups.
“Were those wedding gifts?” Mercer said.
“Yes. I still like to use them. They remind me of my late wife.”
“Very nice.” Mercer waited patiently as the old man poured the coffee with trembling hands.
Sipping his coffee, the old man looked at Mercer with rheumy eyes. “I’m so pleased you decided to help me rent my place,” he said.
“Yes, so am I,” Mercer said as he arranged all of the paperwork on the table. “Dammit!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Can you believe it? I forgot a pen.” Mercer was genuinely embarrassed; it wasn’t like him.
“It happens,” the old man said, waving his hand.
He got up and went into the kitchen. Could he move any slower? Mercer seethed. Finally, Hershon returned with a blue ballpoint pen with the name of an insurance company printed on the barrel. He also carried a bottle of Fundador.
“Thanks,” Mercer said.
“I thought you’d like some brandy for the coffee. In Spain, they call it con gotas.”
“No thanks,” Mercer said.
“Well, I’m having some,” the old man said and poured about two fingers into his cup.
“You know, why not?” Mercer said and slid his cup over. “This is a happy occasion, after all.”
“It sure is,” Hershon said as he poured. “And you say you’ll take care of everything?”
“That’s right. Your signing these papers authorizes me to rent the house for you. I’ve already included a provision stating that you can remain here as long as you live. I plan to use one of the bedrooms for myself and maybe the study, if you don’t mind.”
“No, no, sounds fine. I don’t need much,” the old man said, smiling. “And it will be good to have some company. Do you play chess?”
“Not really.”
“Is it chilly in here?” Hershon said.
“I’m very comfortable.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kimball, but this weather aggravates my arthritis. I hope you don’t mind if I light the fire.”
“Be my guest.”
Mercer watched with irritation as the old man got up again, shuffled over to the fireplace, and turned on the gas. A bright blue-orange flame licked its way up through the cement logs. Hershon warmed his hands there momentarily, came back, and sat down.
“That’s better,” he said. “Sorry for the interruption.”
“Now, here are the papers you need to sign,” Mercer said. “I’ve already put little yellow arrows where your signature goes. And you’ll be getting a complete set of the documents for your records.”
“Good,” the old man said.
Mercer wasn’t sure, but the old man actually seemed to be looking forward to this. “Now, Mr. Hershon,” he said, “let’s get started.”
Mercer got butterflies. It always happened when he was about to reap a windfall. He had been doing this for five years now, and he was the best. How many clients had he scammed? Was it twenty-four or twenty-seven? He couldn’t remember exactly.
He had begun his new career in Florida when his name was Finch. Things were really bad there, and he did well. But when the complaints came in and the authorities began investigating, he hightailed it and came west to Kansas City. Eventually, he moved on, hitting Denver, Billings, Phoenix, and now Los Angeles. He skipped Las Vegas, because, frankly, he was afraid of crossing paths with organized crime. Even someone as good as he was had to be careful.
Los Angeles was perfect. Everything was so spread out. He could easily go from one depressed community to another, pulling the same scam. All he had to do was change his name every six months and move on. He was now known as Frank Kimball.
He had already amassed quite a lot of money, which he had deposited in several offshore accounts. But he wasn’t flashy. That was a mistake amateurs made. He did nothing to attract attention. Even his name was forgettable. He currently drove a used Honda Civic and wore off-the-rack suits from JCPenney. His shoes had r
ubber soles, and he wore no jewelry except for a Timex watch with a brown leatherette band. He lived in a nondescript one-bedroom apartment in Torrance and paid cash for everything. He was, in his own opinion, the picture of ordinariness. This helped him present a trustworthy appearance.
Whenever he met a new prospect, he often talked about his late wife, who had been tragically killed by a drunk driver. They had only been married a year. Although he would like to remarry, he was too involved in church work at the present time. Maybe the right girl would turn up someday. People, he noticed, loved that crap. And he served it up in a slop pail.
“What was your wife’s name again?” the old man said.
“Lillian,” Mercer said. “She went by Lilly.”
“Such a pretty name. Something wrong?”
Mercer felt strange. The sensation was unlike anything he had ever felt. He hoped he wasn’t getting sick.
“Just a little lightheaded,” he said. “Must be the brandy.”
“Have some more coffee,” the old man said. “This time I’ll leave the brandy out.”
“Okay,” Mercer said and drained his cup.
He watched as Hershon tried reading the fine print on each of the documents. “That’s just an indemnity clause,” Mercer said. “Pretty standard.”
“Maybe I should call my son to help me,” the old man said.
Not a good sign, Mercer thought. He might have to abort. You never wanted an outside party involved, especially one he hadn’t already vetted. Anything might happen. The son might have an attorney and insist on having the papers reviewed. Or worse, he might be an attorney.
He recalled the time he had conned an old couple in Phoenix. Right before he was to drive over to the couple’s condo so they could sign the papers, the husband called and said Mercer should meet them at his son’s law office. He remembered the threatening tone of the man’s voice—like he already knew. Mercer never showed up. Instead, he used the opportunity to get the hell out of Dodge.
Mercer tried getting to his feet to leave, but found he couldn’t stand. What was happening? Was it some kind of virus? His head felt funny, and there was a tingling in his arms and legs.
“I have another appointment,” he said. He was slurring his speech and drooling. Was he having a stroke? “So if you want your son to look over the paperwork, I’m afraid we’ll have to reschedule,” he said.
“No, we can take care of it now,” the old man said. “My son lives next door in the little bungalow you saw when you drove up.”
“Uh-huh,” Mercer said, his body becoming weaker.
“I’ll just call him. Only take a minute.”
Mercer watched as the old man struggled to his feet and went into the kitchen to make the call. He could hear part of the conversation. It was hard, because, apparently, the dishwasher was running. He gathered the son’s name was Barry or Larry.
When the old man returned, Mercer could no longer move or speak. He was completely, utterly still. The only things functioning were his eyelids, which fluttered frantically.
“Gary will be right over,” Hershon said. “Ah, I think I hear him now.”
Mercer listened as the back door opened with a squeak and a voice said, “Pop?”
“In here, son!”
Mercer could tell the old man loved his son dearly. He tried to remember if his own father had ever acted in a similar way toward him. There was one time when he was three and his father held his hand as they went outside to buy ice cream from the truck.
Another man, around thirty, stepped into the dining room. He was wearing a sport coat, slacks, and a tie, and carried a doctor’s bag. He appeared frighteningly professional.
“Mr. Kimball, this is my son Gary. Gary, Mr. Kimball. He’s the one who’s going to help me with the house.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Gary said and extended his hand.
Mercer failed to move a muscle. Instead, he made a gurgling noise and stared at Gary stupidly.
“Kind of rude, isn’t he?” Gary said to his father as he took a seat at the table. “Now, let’s see what we have here.”
The son went through the papers, moving his lips as he read the fine print. All Mercer could do was watch and wait.
“More coffee, Mr. Mercer?” the old man said.
Gary set the papers down, folded his hands, and leaned forward. His expression changed from one of a genial smiling rube to that of a hanging judge about to hand down a sentence.
“I’m no lawyer,” Gary said, “but I have to say, based on what I see in these documents, you are trying to take advantage of my father.”
Mercer’s eyes became huge. He would have given anything to be able to get up and run. All he could do was emit a pathetic squeak.
“Sorry, I didn’t hear you,” Gary said. “I just can’t imagine another scenario where you come out looking good in this thing, Kimball. If my father signs these papers, you gain full control of the title. It says so right here. And although you verbally promised him you would rent the house, there is nothing in here to indicate that. So, theoretically, you could renege, apply for a line of credit, and take out every drop of equity my poor father has, leaving him penniless of course.” He turned to his father. “Sorry if this is a shock to you, Pop.”
Mercer closed his eyes, trying to block out the reality of what was happening, but he couldn’t shut off his hearing.
“No, I’m afraid it won’t do, Kimball,” Gary said. “I’m canceling the deal.”
He gathered up the papers, took them over to the fireplace, opened the glass doors, and tossed them in. Mercer watched as his con went up in flames. Three weeks’ work gone. He had turned away two other prospects—good prospects—because he was so sure this one would pay off big. And now, he had nothing except ashes to show for his effort.
Gary returned to the table, stroked his father’s head, and gave him a kiss.
“Family is everything to me,” he said. “After my mother passed, I focused all my attention on keeping my father safe. I look after his health, make sure he eats right, and see to it that nothing bad happens to him.”
Mercer opened his eyes and realized Gary had opened his doctor’s bag and was now laying out surgical equipment on the table. Tears blinded Mercer momentarily, but he was certain one of the instruments was a dangerous-looking surgical saw. It was slightly larger than an electric toothbrush, made of stainless steel, with a round blade with little holes all the way around.
“I’ll tell you what really hurts though,” Gary said. “My parents were too poor to pay for medical school. But my uncle Sol—Dad’s older brother—wasn’t. He wanted to make sure I had the life he felt I deserved. And he had the pleasure of seeing me complete my studies and become a top-rated surgeon here in the Los Angeles area.”
“Did you remember the drop cloths?” the old man said.
“Right!”
Gary ran into the kitchen and came back with a huge roll of thick clear plastic he used to cover the dining-room table. He expertly used an X-ACTO knife to slice it. Next, he dragged Mercer’s chair back—with Mercer still in it—and covered the floor with plastic. After everything was well protected, he moved Mercer back into position.
Mercer tried with all his strength to scream. He could hear his own voice inside his head, but no one else could.
“You’re probably wondering why you can’t move,” Gary said as he completed the inspection of his instruments, removed his jacket, and slipped on blue surgical scrubs. “Originally, I had planned to use suxamethonium chloride. Of course, the problem with that drug is its effects wear off in minutes. And I need you immobile for much longer.”
Gary went over to Mercer and felt around in his jacket pockets. He grabbed the car keys and smiled. “Dad, I’m just going to move his car into the garage. Be back in a sec.”
Mercer couldn’t believe it. His eyes pleaded with the old man, but Hershon just sat there, smiling like an idiot. He got up—much sprightlier now, Mercer noticed—and cleared aw
ay the coffee things. Had Mercer been played?
Gary returned minutes later and peered into Mercer’s pupils with a small flashlight. Next, he checked Mercer’s pulse and finished up the exam by listening to his heart with a stethoscope.
“The problem with other kinds of anesthesia is you become unconscious. Also, you tend not to feel any pain. This is not at all what we want. Fortunately, science comes to the rescue. A few months ago, my pharmaceutical rep told me about a new experimental drug. It completely paralyzes the patient—except for the breathing, of course—but keeps the patient conscious and fully aware of everything. It took some doing, but I was able to secure a sufficient quantity. This is what my father gave you.” He chuckled. “I bet you thought it was in the brandy. It wasn’t. It was in the coffee. My dad used the brandy to cover up the taste.”
Mercer could feel his heart racing with adrenaline, but could do nothing about it. He heard himself scream again, which came out as an almost imperceptible whimper.
“Don’t try to speak,” Gary said. “You’ll exhaust yourself. And I want you relaxed and rested when I operate.”
Gary plugged an extension cord into the wall and connected it to the surgical saw. He tested it in the light, the motor whirring efficiently like a dentist’s drill.
“My father and I did some research. Actually, I lied. We hired a private investigator who built up quite a file on you. Your real name is John Mercer. Both your parents are deceased, and you were never married nor do you have a sibling. You’re twenty-seven years old, and you have never, to anyone’s knowledge, made an honest living.
“Unfortunately, Mercer, I am unable to exact retribution for all your victims, but I can at least account for…twenty-one? Yes, twenty-one. It is some measure of justice. Especially where Uncle Sol is concerned.”
He knelt down and removed Mercer’s shoes and socks. Then he went into the kitchen to wash up, came back, and applied Betadine liberally to Mercer’s hands and feet. Mercer could feel the cold sensation of the reddish-brown liquid.
“I’ll apologize in advance—I don’t have a nurse,” Gary said. “So I might be a little slow stanching the bleeding. But I’ll do my best not to let you bleed out. I’ll begin with your fingers—one for each of your victims. Then, once I’ve bandaged those properly, I’ll continue with your toes.
Come As You Are Page 10
