Skillful Death (74 page)

I’m taking down the calendar from the wall when I realize that I’m going to keep the office. It’s hard to get good office space in this part of town and I have a history in this building. I know all the security guards and I have a good feel for their security systems. I would be a fool to vacate. Once the trust is settled, I’ll have enough money to keep this place for a century. Might as well.

I’m still wearing the clothes from the Polish apartment prison. They’re comfortable enough, but they’re not quite right. The jeans say Levi’s, but the stitching is too yellow and the zipper keeps splitting in the center. I shave, take a shower, and then change into my spare office clothes. Now I’m starting to feel like I’m home. With one of Bud’s crisp hundred-dollar bills, I get pizza from the place up the street. Keep it, I say to the delivery man. He immediately digs in his pouch for one of those pens they use to detect counterfeit bills. Even when it passes the test, the guy gives me a look.

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I wake up on the cot in my office.

The second knock gets me to my feet. Fortunately, I’m still dressed.

“Just a second,” I say.

I open the door to the twins. I’ll keep referring to them as Ted and Leslie.

“Hey, guys,” I say. They’re dressed differently. The one on the left is wearing a polo shirt and jeans. The one on the right has a blue button-down and chinos. They wear their hair differently, too. These are great signs. Last time I saw them, they were still more or less identical.

“Hi,” polo shirt says.

“I’m sorry, I still don’t know which is who.”

“Ted,” polo shirt says. He points to his brother. “Leslie.”

Still only talking one at a time, which is not so good. I glance at my clock. It’s only seven. I move to the coffee maker.

“Coffee?”
 

Ted shakes his head.

“I heard that the Prize is shutting down,” Ted says.

“I wanted to stop by and make sure you were okay,” Leslie says.

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Just a change of heart on management’s part, you know? I guess the grind of searching just became too much. It was always ‘at the discretion of the committee,’ you know?”

“Sure,” Ted says.

When I turn my back to fill the machine with water, I can’t tell which one of them is speaking.

“Does that mean you’re out of a job?”

“I guess, technically, it does. I’ll find something else to do. No big deal. I’m not in any rush to run off to the next challenge or anything.”

I turn back to catch a glimpse of the brothers looking at each other.

“And your boss is okay? We saw that he’s giving away his whole fortune,” Leslie says.

Do you know what it sounds like when someone has rehearsed a conversation? I’ve gotten good at spotting them. Some people seem to do it all the time. They work out what they’ll say, what you’ll say, how they’ll respond, and then what you’ll come back with. You can hear it in their voice sometimes, but you can always hear it in their pauses. They’re not quite in the conversation.

It’s moments like these when I like to go off-script. Toss a little improv their way, and you can often get a sense of why the person has rehearsed their lines. Do they want something from me? Do they need to convey a troubling piece of information? Are they going to confront me about something I’ve done wrong?

Here’s my attempt to get an idea of what they want, “How’s your work with Dr. Inger going?”

She’s the therapist I sent the brothers to after they finally realized that they were two people living as one. She’s the one who got them this far. For a long time, they didn’t want to admit that they were seeing her every day. They didn’t even admit to recognizing the name.

“She’s good,” Ted says.

“Look, Malcolm, are you planning on hurting yourself?” Leslie asks.

“What?”

“We’re worried,” Ted says. “You’re doing a lot of self-destructive things.”

“Pardon me? Like what?”

“Like giving away all your money,” Leslie says.

“I haven’t… What? I didn’t give away anything.”

“It’s noble,” Ted says. “But billions of dollars? They’re saying that you’ve given away your whole fortune. Charity is noble, but you have to keep something for yourself.”

“That’s when we thought maybe you were planning on hurting yourself,” Leslie says.

He used “we.” That’s excellent. Normally with the twins it’s all “I.”

“You guys have it wrong,” I say. “I know you never met Bud, but there was an actual guy who was my boss. He was the guy with all the money. He gave it all away and he left me plenty, believe me. I didn’t give away anything.”

“The news said he was an actor,” Ted says.

“That’s an old story,” I say. “It was a hoax. Yes, there was an impersonator pretending to be Bud so he could get good rooms at casinos and such, but he was a fraud. There was a real Bud. Or
is
, there
is
a real Bud. He just decided to give away his money. It’s not so strange. Didn’t Warren Buffet give away most of his money a few years ago? It’s not unprecedented.”

“I don’t care if there’s a real guy out there or not, or if you’re the real guy,” Leslie says. “I just want to know that you are okay, that you’re not planning on doing something rash.”

“Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem,” Ted says.

“I told
you
that,” I say. “Remember? Remember when you stopped seeing Dr. Inger last year and you two were starting to meld back into one person? You got all suicidal and I talked you down. Do you remember? You don’t need to tell me about it.”

“Just because you helped me, doesn’t mean you don’t need help yourself,” Ted says. “Just tell me that you’re not planning on doing harm to yourself.”

The coffee’s not done brewing, but I jerk the pot from the machine and pour myself a cup. I’m almost out of creamer. You know what drives me nuts? The word “creamery.” People use it like a synonym for creamy. It’s literally the location of where cream is processed. It’s not an adjective describing the texture of something.
 

“Malcolm?” Leslie says.

“What?”

“You’re not planning anything, are you?” Ted asks.

“Bud was a real guy. I have proof,” I say. “I have papers signing over a trust from him to me. And I have a letter from him. He started a software company and he used to run a plumbing business in Tibet. He’s a real person.”

“I worked for that software company too, remember?” Ted asks. “You hired me. Remember?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I hired a lot of people. I was a project manager.”

“Come on, Malcolm. You managed the whole place,” Leslie says, “until you gave up daily operations to run this Prize.”

“Look,” I say, “I’m super touched that you guys care enough to come down here and check on me. I’m not suicidal. There is a real Bud, and it’s not me. I have enough money to get by, but I’m not responsible for giving away Bud’s billions. Are we cool?”

“I guess,” Leslie says.

“Okay,” Ted says.

“Great to see you guys. Take care,” I say, standing and holding out my hand. After a quick shake, they leave.

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Coffee and cold leftover pizza—I would have this for breakfast every day if I could. About halfway through, my stomach reminds me that I can’t have this every day. I stretch my feet up on the desk and hope that the new angle will slow the acid that’s creeping up my esophagus. It won’t, but at least it’s more comfortable.

I put a poker tournament on the TV and get back to work on my email.

About noon, I switch over and work on transcribing my notes. Hughes, or one of those guys, tracked down the apartment where Bud and I stayed in Belarus. He sends me a box with all the maps and, more importantly, the laptop with Bud’s story. A lot of it was online anyway. That machine contained my version of events after we left Vermont and a couple of Bud’s thoughts that I typed up. I’m trying to pull everything together into one big narrative.

I’d almost forgotten how much Bud dictated to me.
 

I’m working on this when the door opens. Franza doesn’t knock. She just lets herself in and closes the door behind her. She’s sitting in the chair across from me before I can greet her.

“Hello, Franza,” I say.

“Hey, Bud, you’re looking rugged,” she says, with a neutral expression.

“Malcolm,” I say. “My name isn’t Bud.”

“Yeah, I know, it’s an expression. Bud. Buddy. They’re just nicknames. Settle down.”

“Sorry.”

She glances away and uses her pinky nail to scrape the corner of her mouth. It’s like she’s letting my small apology solidify into something bigger.

“Is there something I can help you with? The Prize is closed. I’m afraid your aunt will have to turn elsewhere.”

“Dead. She’s dead,” Franza says.

“Oh,” I say. I wait for a second so she will know there’s no attitude conveyed with my condolences. “I’m so sorry.”

“S’okay,” she says. “Laurette was a fraud anyway.”

“Still, she was your aunt.”

“No, Laurette wasn’t my aunt. Susan’s my aunt. She’s fine. Laurette’s the one that’s gone.”

“So the woman I met…”

“Laurette was the spirit who inhabited Aunt Susan. Laurette died, so now we have Susan back. It’s a good thing. Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh. Good.”

“Yeah, it’s been much better. She doesn’t get as many clients in as she used to, so we’ve all been pitching in a little to help with the utilities and property taxes, but it’s not too bad. Those old ladies are sitting on a gold mine over there. If we can keep them out of assisted living and actually hold onto the house, we kids are going to have a nice little payoff eventually.”

“And how is Susan’s health? I remember she was older than her years because of Laurette?”

“Unfortunately, she hasn’t bounced back all the way. I think the spirits took something out of her.”

“You know, Franza, I was told that you were supplied information about me before my reading. That perhaps a bunch of Laurette’s predictions came from another group?”

“Yes, for sure. Laurette had the sight, but that’s not why I came and got you that day. They had a whole folder on you. They dropped it off with a stack of cash and gave us a deadline. I didn’t think it was a big deal. You saw right through it, didn’t you?”

“Pretty much.”

“You take money where you can get it, you know?”

That’s never been my philosophy, exactly. I usually try to find a job that interests me. I’ve been lucky enough to be good at jobs, and compensated accordingly. It’s not about the money for me.

“Sure,” I say. “Well, like I said, the Prize is closed.”

“I read about that. I also read that the guy who put up the money gave everything away to charity. Did he give away all your money, too? Is that why you don’t have the Prize anymore?”

“It was never my money. I was just the Prize’s main judge. So, no, he didn’t give away the money associated with the Prize.”

“What’s he going to do now? Susan said he’s dead. I guess a lot of people are saying that, but she said it weeks ago, before any of this talk about his charity. We were just sitting there, eating fried chicken, and she says ‘Malcolm’s boss is dead.’ Like it was a perfectly reasonable thing to say. Back when she had Laurette, she was always saying crazy stuff like that, but it’s been so long I almost dropped my drumstick. My girl, Emma, she thought Susan had a stroke. Isn’t that precious?”

“Huh.”

“That’s what made me think of you,” she says. “I came by that afternoon but you weren’t here and your office was all locked up.”

“And that stopped you?”

“No, of course not. I left you a note on your desk. Didn’t you get it?”

“No,” I say. I lift up some of the papers I have scattered there. It’s mostly mail that I’ve been opening and sorting so I can deal with it later. Like a magic trick, there’s a note I never noticed before. It’s from Franza. It just says that she stopped by. “Sorry. I didn’t see it.”

“That’s okay. I’m here now. Anyway, I came back because they had all that stuff about that guy giving away all his money. I thought maybe you would be cleaning out this place. Looks like I was right.” She’s looking at the big shredder bin in the corner. It’s about three-quarters full of discarded files. I could have requested a confidential shredder bin—the kind with the lock on it that goes into a secure van to be carted off to a secret shredding location—but it seemed unnecessary. At least it seemed unnecessary until Franza’s prying eyes arrived at my office. It seemed unnecessary until I saw the note on my desk and realized that the lock on my office door didn’t mean anything to her.

“Yeah, I’m getting rid of the notes I took about all the cases. Nothing interesting.”

“My brother-in-law’s nephew is looking for office space around here. What’s your rent?”

“I’m keeping the office,” I say. “I mean, the corporation is.” Somehow I think it might be better if Franza thinks I don’t command any money.

“You’re going to be working here still?”

“No. Maybe. I guess I haven’t decided yet. There’s a job for me if I choose to take it.” That’s a stretch, but it’s not an outright lie. I’ve thought of creating my own job to do in this office, I just haven’t decided what it is yet. Perhaps I will work as the curator of Bud’s memoir. I can finish polishing and rewriting his story.

“I don’t know what you’re lying about, but it’s something. I don’t have all of the touch, but I have enough.”

She’s touched. We agree.

“Speaking of the touch… Last time we talked, our conversation ended rather abruptly,” I say.

“Did it? I don’t remember.”

“It ended with you demanding payment for your aunt’s reading, and me declining.”

“You have to pay. It’s a known fact. If you get a reading from someone, you have to pay. If the client doesn’t pay, you upset the spirits and that could ruin a person’s entire livelihood. You shouldn’t have taken the reading if you didn’t want to pay.”

“And it still counts if the client is robbed?”

“Who was robbed? You might have been persuaded, but nobody was robbed.”