by Play Dead
“Okay, guilty. So what do you think?”
“About Switzerland? I think Corsel is right. I’ve got a few friends at the FBI’s office, but I doubt we’ll find out what happened to the account after it reached the Bank of Geneva.”
“But why would David do this?”
T.C. shrugged. “Maybe he wanted to have some money stored away in case the bottom fell out.”
“And not tell me about it?”
“Maybe he was going to and didn’t have a chance. You said he had the Heritage account recently. Maybe he made the transaction right before you eloped and decided a honeymoon was not the place to discuss finances.”
“Wait a second,” Laura began. She concentrated hard, trying to remember exactly. “David came here to get some cash right before we left for Australia.”
“Then that’s your answer, Laura. He made the transfer when he picked up the cash and just decided to tell you about it later.”
She shook her head. “Something is still not right. David could barely balance his checkbook.”
“That’s true, but—”
Laura stopped suddenly. “Hold on.”
“What?”
“Corsel said that David made the transfer over the phone, not in person. He mentioned that there was static on the line.”
“So?”
“Don’t you see?” Laura almost shouted. “That means that David must have transferred his money while we were in Australia.”
STAN sat up and watched the television. Nothing on. Fat Oprah (or was she skinny this week?) was talking to some group of slobs who sexually assault their plants or something like that. Stan wasn’t really listening. He was thinking. He needed to think up a score. A big one. And he needed to think of one in a hurry.
He was also thinking about the B Man.
The solution to his current money problems was obvious: get the money from David’s estate. But how? Everything was left to Laura. He could ask her for it, but that would arouse her suspicion. She might be a bit naive, but she was far from stupid. Plus Stan was sure that fucking T.C. was filling her head with all kinds of nonsense about the past. No, Stan decided, he could not ask her directly. He would have to make her offer the money to him.
But how?
Knuckles rapped on the door.
Terror ran through Stan. He had used a fake name when he registered. No one knew he was here. He closed his eyes as the knock came again. Maybe it was just the maid. Maybe it was—
“Open up, Stan. I want to talk to you.”
—the B Man.
Stan stood as though hypnotized. He was on the fourteenth floor, so a window escape was out. But what the hell? He and B Man went back a long way. B Man had never hurt him before. He knew Stan was good for the money, and once Stan explained that he had a chance of getting his hands on serious money, B Man would give him more time. Stan turned the knob and opened the door.
“B Man!” Stan greeted with a smile. “How the hell are you, man? You look great.”
The B Man stood in the doorway and smiled coolly. “Thanks, Stan. It’s nice to see you, too.”
Stan was always surprised by the B Man’s appearance. He hardly looked the part of a rough gangster. He had long, bleached blond hair, a year-round tan, and teeth that were white enough for a tooth-polish commercial. His height and weight were average, maybe even a little on the small side. Even more unusual, the B Man had an ivy league education and had lived for three years in Korea, where he had trained six hours a day in kung fu or some shit like that.
That was his specialty: hand-to-hand combat. You could put three bruisers twice his size against him and the B Man would slaughter them without breaking a sweat.
“Come in, B.”
“Thank you.” He stepped in and closed the door. His voice remained pleasant. “What are you doing in Boston, Stan?”
“I told you I was going to go to my brother’s funeral.”
“That was quite a while ago.”
“I know that, B Man, but I’m very close to scoring big.”
“I’ve heard that from you before.”
“No, really.”
B Man stood directly in front of Stan, their faces no more than six inches apart. “You wouldn’t be trying to avoid me, would you, Stan?”
“No way,” Stan argued. “I would never do that.”
B Man just stared.
“Wh-what brings you to Boston, B?”
B Man strolled around the room. “I have a little business here. One of my wrestlers is in town.”
“Roadhouse Rex?” Stan asked.
B Man nodded.
“Roadhouse is great,” Stan continued, trying to keep B Man’s attention on the gruesome wrestler and off himself. “He can take a dive like nobody’s business.”
“Roadhouse is the best,” B Man agreed with a hint of a smile. “You should see him backstage. His trunk is filled with blood capsules, phony casts for whatever ailment he plans on faking, you name it.” The B Man turned and moved toward Stan. “But we’re getting off the subject, aren’t we?”
“Off the subject?”
B Man just smiled. “Stan, have you been trying to hide from me?”
Stan swallowed. “You know me better than that, B Man. Like I said before, I told you I was coming to Boston.”
“True,” B Man agreed, “but you forgot to mention that you were going to use an alias.”
“I just needed a little time. You see, my brother—”
“I know all about your brother.”
“Well, he was loaded. I’m going to get some of his money.”
B Man laughed. “Who do you think you’re talking to? I know what you did to him. I was there, remember? Your brother would never leave you a cent.”
“I know that, B Man. I’m going to get the money from his widow.”
“That model?”
“Yeah, B Man. She’ll give me the money.”
“Fifty thousand dollars?”
“Right. No problem.”
B Man calmly walked toward the bed. “But, Stan, you’re already very late.”
“Just tack on interest.”
“Oh, I will. But you’re past that now.”
“Come on, B Man. You know I’m good for it.”
B Man shook his head slowly. “No, that’s where you’re wrong. I think you’re good for it. But I don’t know for sure. Perhaps a little incentive would help.”
“Incentive?”
There was no time for Stan to react. With frightening speed, B Man’s hand shot out. The blow landed in the center of Stan’s belly. The breath whooshed out of him. Stan fell to the ground, struggling to get oxygen back in his lungs.
B Man watched Stan writhe in pain. He calmly reached down and grabbed Stan’s right hand. For a minute or two, he held the hand and waited for Stan to begin catching his breath.
“I’m sorry about all this, Stan.”
“Please …”
B Man clamped his hand over Stan’s mouth. Then he pulled Stan’s middle finger back until it nearly touched his wrist. The finger snapped like a twig. Stan felt the jagged edges of the bone rip into his skin. His head swam.
“One week, Stan,” the B Man said quietly. He held Stan’s finger for another second and then gently placed the hand on the floor. The finger was already swelling, the bone nearly puncturing the skin. “Do you hear me?”
Stan managed a nod. The pain was staggering.
“And you’re not going to hide from me again, are you, Stan?”
He shook his head.
B Man smiled down at Stan. Then he raised his heel and slammed it with expert accuracy onto the broken finger. Again, B Man had to cover Stan’s mouth to muffle the scream.
“I guess we understand each other now,” B Man said matter-of-factly. He turned toward the mirror, fixed his hair, and then walked toward the door. “Always a pleasure to see you, Stan. You have one week to come up with the money. And now it’s sixty thousand dollars.”
LA
TER that night, Laura sat in Serita’s spare bedroom and looked out the window. What had happened? One moment the world had been perfect, and then she had been suddenly thrust into hell. What had she done? She hated the whole world right now. She hated everything about it. Sometimes, she even hated David for leaving her here alone when he knew that she could not survive without him.
Time limped by, but it did not heal any wounds. Every time she felt like she was getting stronger, she would drive past a playground with kids playing basketball, or see lovers holding hands by the Charles River, or see a family taking a Sunday drive in their station wagon, and then the wounds would reopen and gush fresh blood.
And nothing made sense anymore. Their new house had been broken into but nothing was stolen. David’s account had been mysteriously transferred to the Twilight Zone. Her father was acting peculiarly. And what was going on with T.C.? Since when has he been against using pressure tactics to get information?
Serita stepped in the room and turned on the light. “What are you doing, Laura?” she asked.
“The usual,” Laura answered. “I guess I just want to be alone.”
“You’ve been doing a lot of that recently. It’s starting to get on my nerves.”
“I’m going to move out tomorrow, Serita. I think it’s time I took care of myself.”
“Brave words, girl. So what are you going to do at your own place?”
Laura shrugged.
“If you’re just going to mope around, you might as well just stay here.” Serita tossed a newspaper onto Laura’s lap. “Read this.”
Laura glanced at the top of the page. “The financial section? I didn’t think business was your bit.”
“It’s not,” Serita agreed. “But I think you should read it.”
She did not have the strength. “Why don’t you just give me a quick rehash?”
“Okay, it’s like this. Svengali slipped two points yesterday. That means it has dropped over ten points in the last two weeks. The reason it keeps sliding is because there is speculation that you don’t have it anymore, that you’re not going back.”
“I really don’t care, Serita.”
“You listen to me. If you no longer give a shit about yourself, fine. But you have stockholders to protect, people who believed and invested in you. You can’t just abandon them.”
Laura did not say anything. Her eyes never left the window.
“What the hell is the matter with you, Laura?”
Laura turned her gaze toward her friend. “What’s the matter with me?” she repeated. “Don’t you read the papers? My husband is dead, Serita. Can’t you understand that? David is dead.”
“Of course, I understand. But you’re not dead, are you?” Serita crossed the room and sat on the chair next to her friend. “Let me tell you something,” she continued. “I remember everything there is to remember about you. I remember how you told me all about those snotty little kids who picked on you because you were ugly, but you survived and showed them what you were all about. And I remember how those assholes from all the big companies laughed when you first started Svengali. They kept trying to knock you down, remember? But you stood up to them, Laura, and again you survived when everyone else counted you out. And me? I just sat back and cheered you on. You fought to make that company what it is today. You fought hard. It’s your baby, Laura. Svengali is yours. Don’t just give it up. David wouldn’t want that. And he wouldn’t want you to give up on yourself like this.”
David. Just hearing his name again pricked Laura’s eyes with tears.
“Honey, I know it’s hard, but it’s time to live again before everything you have—everything you worked so hard for—falls apart.” Serita stood and looked down at her friend. “Besides, I happen to be your highest-paid model. If Svengali goes under, I’m going to lose an important customer. You wouldn’t want that.”
“Heaven forbid,” Laura replied with a hint of a smile. “You know something?”
“What?”
“You’re a good friend.”
“The best.”
Laura wrung her hands in her lap. “Serita?”
“I’m right here.”
“I don’t know what to do. I … I’m scared to go back.”
“I know, honey. I don’t want to push you. Take one step at a time.”
Laura nodded but the doubts and fears remained burrowed in her mind. With a long and painful sigh, she sat up and reached for the phone. She dialed the number of Svengali’s director of public relations.
“Hello?”
“This is Laura,” she said, her voice quaking. “Make an announcement that I will be back in the office tomorrow morning.”
“LINE five, Dr. Ayars.”
“Thank you.”
James Ayars picked up the receiver and pushed line five. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Out.”
“I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”
“I’m not at your beck and call.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“What do you want?” the voice asked.
“I was at the settling of David’s estate today,” James said.
“And?”
“Something rather odd came up about David’s finances.”
“So?”
Dr. James Ayars leaned forward. “I’m no longer convinced that David committed suicide.”
8
“ESTELLE!”
“Yes, Laura?”
“Where the hell are the designs on winter shoes? I asked for them ten minutes ago.”
“Right away.”
“And I want to see Marty Tribble now. This marketing scheme is for old ladies, for chrissake. I’m not trying to market the Bible Belt.”
“Will do.”
“And tell Hillary it’s going to be a long night. These skirt patterns are all wrong and we’re going to be here until we get them right.”
“Got it.”
“And send Sandy up in about an hour. I have an idea for a new product line.”
“Sandy. One hour.”
“And tell accounting I want to see a tabulation of all transactions that took place during my absence. Something is wrong with my figures.”
“Right. Anything else, Laura?”
“I’d kill for a cup of coffee.”
“A cup of coffee it is.” Estelle turned to leave and then stopped. “Laura?”
“Yes?”
“It’s nice to have you back.”
“Thanks, Estelle.”
Estelle left. Laura looked at her desk and shook her head. What a mess. She scanned the piles, wondering what she should tackle next. Distribution was screwed up. The winter fashions were in disarray, and they had to be finished up in the next couple of days.
Laura sat back. Had coming back to work been a good idea? She was not sure. Yes, it was a welcome distraction. It kept her mind occupied. But everything felt a little out of place to her, as though she were returning to her hometown after a long absence—familiar and yet foreign. If work was therapeutic, it would be a long, slow healing. Her hands still shook. Her heart still felt like it was being squeezed in a vise. But as Serita had told her, she would take one step at a time.
The phone buzzed.
“What is it, Estelle?”
“Visitor for you. A Mr. Stan Baskin.”
“Send him in.”
Estelle opened her door and ushered Stan in. He greeted Laura with a warm smile. “Good morning, kid. Nice to see you back at work.”
“This is a pleasant surprise, Stan. Sit down.”
“Are you sure I’m not interrupting?”
“Actually you are. But you are a most welcome interruption. I needed a break anyway.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.” Laura noticed that his right hand was all bandaged. “What happened to your hand?”
“Oh, this? I slammed a car door on it. I’ve always been the klutz of the family.”
“It looks painful
. Can I get you something?”
“No, it’s fine. Really.”
Laura stood from behind her desk and moved toward the chair next to Stan. “Why weren’t you at the lawyer’s office yesterday?”
Stan hesitated. “I appreciate your invitation, but it wasn’t my place.”
“You were his brother.”
“That might be true,” Stan allowed, “but I wouldn’t have felt right going. It was supposed to be for those David loved and cared for. I … I don’t fit into that category.”
“That’s not so,” Laura insisted. “Whatever happened between you two does not erase the fact that you’re his brother. Think of the childhood you shared with him. Nothing can take that away. You belonged there, Stan. You’re entitled to some of his estate.”
Stan slowly shook his head. “I threw that all away, Laura. I don’t want anything from David, except some- thing he can never give me: his forgiveness.”
“If he were alive, I know he’d forgive you.”
“I’m not so sure.” He paused. “Listen, Laura, I know you’re busy, so let me tell you what I came here for. I wanted to know if you’d have dinner with me tomorrow as a sort of bon voyage.”
“Bon voyage?”
He nodded. “I’m heading back to Michigan the next morning.”
“You’re leaving?” she asked. Over the past month, she had gotten used to having Stan around. He was part of the family now, David’s sole blood relative. She relied on him. “Why? I thought you liked Boston.”
“I do. I love it. But the mall deal fell through. I can’t raise the capital. And … I don’t know… . I feel like I don’t belong here—like I’m intruding on David’s family.”
“You’re not intruding.”
“Be that as it may, will you join me tomorrow night?”
Laura leaned back. She clasped her hands together and leaned them against the bridge of her nose. “Would you do me a favor, Stan?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t know if you know this or not, but David did not have a legal will. The letter of the law leaves his entire estate to me. I want you to have some of it.”
“Laura, I can’t.”
“I want you to build your mall with the basketball theme. How much do you think you need to get started?”
