The Good Deed

by Doug Walker

  “So the deal was sealed?”

  “Almost. After the first night she told me her dream was to tour the villages of the Dogon people, a strange tribe, actually a series of tribes, and the largest attraction in Mali. Much more interesting than Timbuktu. So I said OK again and we spent a few days in Dogon country. Then I saw her on the plane to Dakar. She seemed happy as a clam at high tide.”

  “The bittersweet end of a relationship.”

  “I suppose. We do exchange e-mails. Nothing serious.”

  “I can imagine at your age.” Bella finished her coffee and rose to her feet. I assumed the interview was over. “I’d like to show you your room.”

  “My room?” This certainly was a surprise.

  “Why, yes. You’re retired and have no agenda. I need your help. So why not stay here?”

  After a moment’s confusion, I replied. “Why not.”

  Following Bella through a short hall, we entered a large bedroom, obviously not a guest room, but judging by the trimmings and appointments it was the sleeping quarters for the lady of the condo. She gestured to the large bed and remarked, “That’s king sized. You feel like a king?”

  Stifling a laugh, I said I felt like a moron in wonderland. “What’s coming down?”

  “Time slips away. We might as well sleep together. I’ve felt drawn to you. You don’t seem to be dazzled by money.”

  “That’s true,” I agreed. “My needs are small and I have adequate funds. And we do seem to be compatible. I could use the old hackneyed phrase, this is so sudden.”

  She grinned. “Then it’s decided. Enough of this mushy talk. Let’s get down to brass tacks. Woody’s business empire is extensive and he’s known as a standout racist. A few of his friends and associates are little better than rich scoundrels. I simply can’t deal with them. I need you to stand between me and the business empire. You’ll have full authority.”

  I needed to sit down. The immensity, the staggering task she mentioned. The empire was not millions, but billions, and more than a few. Flopping into a chair in almost a daze, I finally said, “I’d like to give it a go. It sounds like fun.”

  Later I retrieved my sad little traveling bag from the hotel and found a drawer in the bedroom she had emptied for me.

  That night over dinner I told her details of my latest African adventure. A jungle hammock had been of great value with its roof overhead to guard against the rain and its side netting to repel roving female mosquitoes thirsting for blood to nourish their young. Then there was the beer and the jungle juice. And finally I said that if anyone in the area had a means of transportation and a need to dispose of a large dead body, it could be conveniently dropped in a very active volcano where the bubbling lava was all consuming.

  Then I mentioned that my Parisian dream of becoming a post-post impressionist might go up in smoke because ambition for wealth is the enemy of artistic excellence according to Len Battista Alberti. I did have a knack for odd bits of knowledge.

  “Are you ambitious?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you have any artistic talent?”

  “No.”

  “I think you’re safe.”

  “Possibly. But we are all prisoners of hope.”

  “Anybody can be nobody,” was her cryptic response.

  Soon after that we retired and tested our compatibility. In the weeks ahead I would learn that Bella was not a racist, and leaned to the left. Together we would plot to right the wrongs of the past.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  And those weeks ahead were busy ones with much time spent with accountants and lawyers attempting to get a layman’s grip on the Harris billions. Most of the time was spent in Paris, but more than once I took the train for the short trip to London. It seemed certain that I would have to spend some time in the States, although I resisted.

  Things were going well, but there was a feeling like a Strauss waltz, delightfully upbeat on the surface, but always with an undertone of sadness. It was Bella, a wonderful woman, but there were times when her strength seemed drained and she did not feel fit enough to go to the theater or to dinner.

  I enjoyed cooking and would putter around making meals now and then, although we had a cook who came in five days a week. Odd things were my specialty, such as Bagna Cauda, a hot anchovy porridge used as a dip for vegetables. Of course in Paris, nothing is bad. All foods are available at the height of perfection.

  Also, at Bella’s insistence, a French tutor would come three times a week, and I was actually learning the language.

  Then another bombshell: Bella suggested that we marry. “I have no objections,” said I. “We’re living together. My life is filled with happiness. But it probably wouldn’t be legal. Woody has never been found. He could pop up (not very likely, I said to myself) and you’re still married. There must be some French law against bigamy.”

  “Of course, but we should do it anyway. We could have a wedding, invite a few friends, champagne toasts, honeymoon in Timbuktu.”

  “Ah yes, the honeymoon suite at the Jungle Jim beneath the torrid desert sands. Ok, they won’t toss me into the Bastille. You’ll be the culprit.”

  “With a score of lawyers on retainer, I’ll take that chance.”

  So the deed was done. The honeymoon was in Lyon, the gastronomic center of France. Pleasant it is to be able to throw all those Euros around at five star eateries.

  At three or four a.m., I would sometimes wake up and ponder as I lay sprawled in the king-sized bed in the heart of Paris on the Ile de la Cité: Who am I? What am I doing here? A character out of MacBeth or Hamlet, I deliberately killed Woody, total premeditation and all, and have married his wife and am handling his fortune. I should be a candidate for the guillotine. Am I missing anything? It did help to learn that Woody had inherited wealth, not earned it. It also helped to find my conscience had little interest in these events. After all, everyone has something to hide. I should have been a priest. Perhaps later I would seek the monastic life.

  But at the moment, marital passion and high finance called. Woody had not been a rocket scientist and had fallen in with questionable companions. One half-baked deal had him in with two others intent on building a new casino in Las Vegas. He had poured in a hundred million greenbacks with no results thus far.

  Picking up a lawyer in London, we flew to Las Vegas and chatted with the two partners. The one that resembled Moe quipped, “We need more dough.” Curly seemed to agree.

  “How much total has gone into the project?” I asked.

  “One hundred million,” Curly said.

  “That’s only the Harris money,” said I.

  “Of course,” Moe said. “It’s the Harris money. We’re on the ground here doing the dirty work.”

  “What dirty work has transpired?”

  “The old building’s been demolished. Let’s take a look.”

  We drove to the site, a rather large lot, and there clearly was no building, just a tangle of debris. “You want Harris money to clear the land, build and furnish a casino, perhaps hire a staff and get the project off the ground?”

  “Exactly,” said Moe. “You see we have plans. Part of the early millions were spent on architectural design. The theme will be Tsarist Russia.”

  “That’s original,” quipped I. “I will have to mull this over with my counsel.” I jabbed a thumb toward my lawyer companion. “We do own the land, don’t we?”

  “Free and clear,” said Curly.

  “That’s welcome news.” We shook hands all around and I promised to get back to them soon. They were all smiles. I wondered how much payment for their time they were getting from the Harris millions.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Back in Paris the sky was falling. Bella was sick, very sick. She couldn’t keep food down and she was pale. Her voice was small and shaky. Round-the-clock nurses had been added to our household.

  Embracing her, I found myself trembling. “Be brave, darling,” she whispered. “I
should have told you. My cancer was in remission. It’s a particularly malignant variety. This time I think it’s back for good.”

  “Good God!”

  “Yes, good God and dear God,” she whispered. “I’m glad I met you, Andy. You’ve been a blessing to me at the end of my life.”

  “Good God,” I repeated, dumbfounded.

  “Cheer up and mix us a drink.”

  I looked around at the nurse. “Is it OK?” I managed to ask with my poor French.

  “Anything goes.”

  I understood. No hope. I usually didn’t drink martinis, but I mixed a pitcher. They were her favorites. Obviously, Bella wasn’t up for stemware, so I portioned them out in teacups. “Mud in your eye,” I said, hoisting my cup.

  She drank, then whispered, “How about ‘Lightfoot lads and rose lipped maidens’?”

  “A fine old toast,” I replied, again sipping while drinking in the irony of that verse. She had a second drink, then drifted off to sleep.

  “I was damn lucky to get here while she’s still alive,” I said to the nurse.

  “Yes, you were.” She spoke decent English. “She said not to call you. She didn’t want a death watch.” Bella’s frail face was pale and blended into the white sheets. She was such a splendid person. I sat with her through the night, dozing now and then. She woke with daylight, forced a faint smile and squeezed my hand. She wanted neither food nor drink.

  The doctor came and checked her vital signs, then merely shook his head. He sat with me through the morning, and she expired about noon. Sobs shook my body, things were so confused. First Woody by my own hand, now Bella, the entire Harris family. Perhaps guilt will follow.

  But no conscience, only grief. Bella was immune from all harm. Or was she? Can posthumous events harm us? Some say death cannot be evil because we do not think of the nonexistence before our birth as harmful, or even worth a fleeting thought. But what do we know? If we do not exist, what harm can come to us? Desire also dies with the body. These thoughts flashed through my head in my grief. My grief arrived as if a light switch had been thrown, and its depths surprised me.

  Perhaps it was my age. The bloom of youth gone, confidence eroded, I was but a lonely hunter on a barren hill. An old poem came to mind: Death is the road, Life is the traveler, The soul is the guide.

  Why I remembered it I knoweth not. Never had I thoroughly understood it. Perhaps now I could puzzle it out. In the days ahead I arranged the cremation, scheduled and presided over a memorial service, scattered the ashes into the Seine, just a few steps from our door. Then I sought seclusion.

  But the world intruded. The bills that were normally taken from our account, or paid by our accountant, were not paid. In fact the accountant was not paid, nor anyone else to whom money was owed. The total assets had been frozen. Of course I had my own money and could get by, but in a less lavish style.

  Checking our legal firm and our lead attorney, Jean Paul Lafitte, I found a probate court date had been set. It puzzle me why Lafitte hadn’t called me about the matter, but oh well, I was in no shape to complain.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The Day arrived and we duly assembled before the bench.

  Lafitte, who I assumed was representing me, made a long speech in French which did not sit well with me. My French was not good, but I believe I understood the direction he was going. I asked if anyone in the courtroom spoke English and a bailiff volunteered that he did. At that point I requested him to ask the judge if an interpreter might be brought in so I could understand the proceedings. The judge at first said that I apparently had no standing in the proceedings, but I insisted that I did and he relented, calling a recess in order to find an interpreter.

  To my amazement I learned my attorney, my supposed attorney, had stated that Bella and I were not legally married and that his law firm would assume control of the estate. He called me no more than a gigolo and a fortune seeker.

  In response, I said that Bella and I cared very much for one another, that she had sent detectives to Africa in search of her late husband and, as a final attempt, enlisted my help in finding him. Therefore, I felt due diligence had been accomplished and that he must certainly have somehow perished in that wild country.

  “And you were once a suspect in his death,” Lafitte accused.

  “Me and anyone else who happened to be in Mali. It was I who helped pull him from the flames and the subsequent explosion of the crashed airplane.”

  “But your marriage is illegal. Harris is presumed to be alive and Bella could be charged with bigamy. My law firm has long looked after the estate and can continue to do so.”

  “Truth to tell,” I responded, “Bella and I sometime ago laid out plans for the estate. And we were acting on that plan. It entails giving large sums of money to needy causes around the globe. Already the estate has given away between fifty and a hundred million dollars. There is a list of continuing philanthropy, plus causes that arise due to climate, catastrophe and so forth.”

  “Is this true?” the judge asked Lafitte.

  “It is, Your Honor, but it is but a fraction of the estate.”

  “Yet a generous gesture,” the judge said.

  “But the man is an imposter,” Lafitte insisted.

  “There is a will,” I told the court.

  The judge gave me a long look, then turned to Lafitte. “You are the attorney. Is there a will?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “How do you respond?” the judge questioned me.

  “What do you say about a cockroach? Bella and I took the will to Lafitte’s office the day it was written. He was out, but we gave it to his personal secretary and she said she would pass it on the moment he returned.”

  “Not true,” Lafitte snapped.

  “Who wrote the will?” the judge asked.

  “An attorney in our condo complex. I had the feeling that Bella did not trust Lafitte totally. She was very careful about that will. In fact she had misgivings about turning it over to his personal secretary. She claimed the secretary was more than a secretary, not that that is unusual, or illegal, in this open-minded country.”

  “Are you accusing Lafitte of hiding, or destroying the will?” The judge was grimly serious in his questioning.

  “I make no accusations. I merely recount what has happened.” At that point I pulled the will from my inside suit coat pocket. “Here is the will, Your Honor. May I approach the bench and pass it on?”

  As I handed it to the judge, Lafitte charged, “No doubt a fraud. Forgery is not beneath this American. We all know their reputation for criminal activity.”

  With a gesture, the judge silenced Lafitte as he looked over the will. “It appears to be genuine and original, not a copy.”

  “At least five original wills were produced, your Honor. One, of course, went to Lafitte’s office. I kept the one in your hand. One was filed at City Hall. And the attorney who drew the will kept another. It might be interesting to have Lafitte’s private secretary testify under oath and see if she would perjure herself.”

  The judge smiled for the first time. “What do you think of that idea, Lafitte?”

  “It’s silly talk. The jabbering of an American fool.”

  “For the record, Mr. Lafitte,” I responded, “You and your firm are fired as of this moment. Since there is a court record of these proceedings, I’m requesting that you turn all records and papers having to do with the estate over to my accountant. Time is of the essence, so be quick about it.”

  “I would tend to agree with that,” the judge said. “For the present, I find for Mr. Blake and order the accounts to be unfrozen so that he can proceed with disbursing money as he sees fit, including a final payment to your firm, Lafitte. And let me add that I would like to look over that final bill. I hope to see the lawyer who drew this will before the court at the next hearing.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  In a few days the judge made a final ruling in my favor and I set to work to set th
e estate in order. The French accounting firm was top notch and I enlisted another I had used in the States. Also, most of the disbursements of money were made through an English banking firm in London.

  There was no getting around the complications. But the various offices acted as checks and balances, one watching the other.

  I called the London lawyer and asked him to contact Curly and Moe in Las Vegas and offer them fifty million dollars for a free and clear, cloudless, title to the property the Harris estate had invested a hundred million in.

  The reply was immediate. They wanted a hundred million. After all, they had somehow acquired the dilapidated building that had been razed. The lawyer was told to stand firm with fifty million.

  In the weeks after Las Vegas, an idea had been churning in my head. Another good deed? Possibly, but this one legit. Las Vegas was growing and housing was out of sight. Already there had been moves by contractors to build complicated plats across the state line in Arizona. This would involve quite a drive for those who worked in Las Vegas.

  My plan, or plot, while still in the egg stage, would be totally green, conserving, conserving, conserving. The money was there, but I needed the land. Curly and Moe would give me the excuse to visit Las Vegas. To purchase enough land would be a stealthy operation without spilling the beans and thus skyrocketing the cost.

  So I packed my satchel and made my getaway. Nevada and Arizona, here I come!

  Curly and Moe were in a jovial mood, thinking I had come with a satchel packed with Euros. Fifty million, stated I, is lots and lots of bananas.

  “But what about our sweat equity?” Moe asked.

  “Yes,” agreed Curly. “Our investment in this prize winning project.”

  “Fifty million,” I countered. “Or I walk away and you can ferret out another pigeon.”

  “Pigeons are a rare breed,” Moe said. “Show us the fifty million.”

  “Show me a clear title, with all rights intact. No quibbling, no fighting. A tree is known by its fruit.” The tree statement seemed to stump them, no pun intended. Curly gave me the fish eye, but they agreed to come up with a clear title within the week. And I agreed to find a solid, honest law firm to handle the deal.