there anyone you could suggest I speak to? Someone who might know something?”
“We’ll ask the troops,” Press said.
The carpet in Press’s office was massive and worn. A ray of sun sliced through the room and lit the wood of his desk in comforting amber tones.
“How many clients was he dealing with?” Harry asked.
“Well,” Press said, “most of his workload had gone to others. Natural scheme of things. He still did the Thorncliffes, Teddy and Ella. By the end, most of the larger accounts had been moved over. Dale was half-time, not even. As you know.”
Harry didn’t know. He didn’t know how much time his father had been spending at the office. He didn’t know how Dale spent his days. Or his nights.
Harry smiled. “I wonder if I can get some help with those boxes.”
“Boxes,” Press repeated.
“My father’s effects.”
“We’ll get someone to carry them out for you.”
Press and August held their expressions of sympathy for a longish moment more. Harry was curious to see what they would be replaced by. He met August’s mournful gaze. How far had his cancer advanced? His face was an ancient rune, and Harry imagined that if he could decipher his expression it would tell him something revelatory. Harry looked over at Press, who glanced quickly at August, his eyes the only thing that moved. Harry finally stood up, shook hands and left them both.
When he got home, he went through his father’s files. He followed numbers through prescribed mazes, hoping to see Dale taking shape, like the faint outline of the Virgin Mary on the wall of a Mexican restaurant that got half a page in the paper: a sign, a miracle.
SIX
H ARRY MET E RIN FOR LUNCH AT A RANCIA . She was wearing a vaguely Japanese collection of expensive knitwear, autumn tones that blended and flowed. Her dark hair was short. She was forty-eight years old. She carried the killing gene, handed down from Felicia, that gift of verbal dissection, a few deft lines that left lasting wounds. Her two daughters had it too, a trait that followed the feminine bloodline. Erin’s face also held traces of their mother, the bright eyes that photographed so well. She surveyed the restaurant and waved to a woman who looked, more or less, like herself.
When Harry told her about his meeting with Dick Ebbetts and the possibility that their father had been swindled, she just shrugged.
“They’re a bunch of thugs,” she said. “I’m not surprised.” She stared at the woman she’d waved to as if she wasn’t sure she actually knew her.
“But someone may have that money,” Harry said.
“Maybe. Maybe Dick was wrong and Dad just didn’t get out in time. Maybe money didn’t look the same to him anymore, Harry. You’re near the end, you can let loose a bit. He’s old, feeling impotent, he takes a flyer. Anyway, how the hell would Dick Ebbetts know what Dad was trading on his personal account? It seems odd.”
“You don’t think it’s odd that Dad’s estate was worth less than $20,000?”
“Remember Charlie Evans?”
“The Jaguar.” When they were kids, a neighbour had gone into the garage with a bottle of bourbon, closed the door and sat in his Jag with the engine running. The rumour was he’d lost all his money on the market.
“God, I wonder whatever happened to that family.” His sister picked up her wineglass by the stem. “Why did you go to Dick Ebbetts? He’s such an awful man. Twyla Spence told me he spends half his income on prostitutes. No one pays a hundred grand for the missionary position.”
His sister’s witch-like intuition and eerie store of information unnerved Harry. “How would Twyla Spence know—”
“Why didn’t you go to Prescott, or August?”
“I did. But I went to Dick first to get the lay of the land.”
“So what does Dick think?”
“Who knows. These guys make their living being opaque. I don’t really trust Dick, but I don’t trust Press or August either.”
“It would be a stretch for
“We’ll ask the troops,” Press said.
The carpet in Press’s office was massive and worn. A ray of sun sliced through the room and lit the wood of his desk in comforting amber tones.
“How many clients was he dealing with?” Harry asked.
“Well,” Press said, “most of his workload had gone to others. Natural scheme of things. He still did the Thorncliffes, Teddy and Ella. By the end, most of the larger accounts had been moved over. Dale was half-time, not even. As you know.”
Harry didn’t know. He didn’t know how much time his father had been spending at the office. He didn’t know how Dale spent his days. Or his nights.
Harry smiled. “I wonder if I can get some help with those boxes.”
“Boxes,” Press repeated.
“My father’s effects.”
“We’ll get someone to carry them out for you.”
Press and August held their expressions of sympathy for a longish moment more. Harry was curious to see what they would be replaced by. He met August’s mournful gaze. How far had his cancer advanced? His face was an ancient rune, and Harry imagined that if he could decipher his expression it would tell him something revelatory. Harry looked over at Press, who glanced quickly at August, his eyes the only thing that moved. Harry finally stood up, shook hands and left them both.
When he got home, he went through his father’s files. He followed numbers through prescribed mazes, hoping to see Dale taking shape, like the faint outline of the Virgin Mary on the wall of a Mexican restaurant that got half a page in the paper: a sign, a miracle.
SIX
H ARRY MET E RIN FOR LUNCH AT A RANCIA . She was wearing a vaguely Japanese collection of expensive knitwear, autumn tones that blended and flowed. Her dark hair was short. She was forty-eight years old. She carried the killing gene, handed down from Felicia, that gift of verbal dissection, a few deft lines that left lasting wounds. Her two daughters had it too, a trait that followed the feminine bloodline. Erin’s face also held traces of their mother, the bright eyes that photographed so well. She surveyed the restaurant and waved to a woman who looked, more or less, like herself.
When Harry told her about his meeting with Dick Ebbetts and the possibility that their father had been swindled, she just shrugged.
“They’re a bunch of thugs,” she said. “I’m not surprised.” She stared at the woman she’d waved to as if she wasn’t sure she actually knew her.
“But someone may have that money,” Harry said.
“Maybe. Maybe Dick was wrong and Dad just didn’t get out in time. Maybe money didn’t look the same to him anymore, Harry. You’re near the end, you can let loose a bit. He’s old, feeling impotent, he takes a flyer. Anyway, how the hell would Dick Ebbetts know what Dad was trading on his personal account? It seems odd.”
“You don’t think it’s odd that Dad’s estate was worth less than $20,000?”
“Remember Charlie Evans?”
“The Jaguar.” When they were kids, a neighbour had gone into the garage with a bottle of bourbon, closed the door and sat in his Jag with the engine running. The rumour was he’d lost all his money on the market.
“God, I wonder whatever happened to that family.” His sister picked up her wineglass by the stem. “Why did you go to Dick Ebbetts? He’s such an awful man. Twyla Spence told me he spends half his income on prostitutes. No one pays a hundred grand for the missionary position.”
His sister’s witch-like intuition and eerie store of information unnerved Harry. “How would Twyla Spence know—”
“Why didn’t you go to Prescott, or August?”
“I did. But I went to Dick first to get the lay of the land.”
“So what does Dick think?”
“Who knows. These guys make their living being opaque. I don’t really trust Dick, but I don’t trust Press or August either.”
“It would be a stretch for
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