Chapter 22
When Eleanor finally turned off the engine, her Lincoln was straddling two clearly marked parking spaces in a small lot just off Maple Street.
She got out and made her way slowly, somewhat reluctantly, to the row of buildings with awnings over the sidewalk next to Main Street.
She stopped at the door of Walter F. Thackerman, Attorney at Law, and seemed to hesitate. Then she pushed it and went inside.
Simon watched intently from a dark second-floor window across the street.
When the door closed behind her and she disappeared, he shut his eyes and wondered what might transpire over there in the next hour.
At times she was so easily influenced that he could see Wally getting under her skin and rattling her to the point of blurting out the truth.
Everything could blow up. He waited for the phone to ring, waited for Wally to call yelling and threatening.
Simon and Netty had tried to rehearse the day before but she couldn’t concentrate. The efforts convinced him that she was not that reliable.
Fran greeted her with unusual warmth. She declined coffee, tea, and water, and had little to say about the weather.
Because she could not dare to do so herself, Fran was hoping Eleanor would bring up the subject of Clyde Korsak’s rather memorable visit a few weeks earlier.
Fran had told the story to virtually anyone who would listen, and for a while it was a hot topic around town.
But with time, the story ran out of gas.
Wally warned her not to discuss the incident with their prized client.
Eleanor waited only a few minutes while Mr. Thackerman was “completing a conference call with a federal judge.” Fran stood and said, “Please follow me.” As they walked down the narrow hallway, Fran said in a whisper, “He’s been terribly busy since the shooting.” Eleanor gave her a blank look.
Wally met her at the door and led her to a cushioned chair near a coffee table. When Fran left, she stepped into the hallway, where she could hear every word. Wally wanted her to listen. They would debrief after Eleanor left and discuss her mental soundness.
The last will and testament she had typed for Ms. Barnett was signed last January.
Wally had instructed Fran to include the language gifting him $485,000, and his story was that the up-front money would serve as some sort of a retainer that he would whittle down in fees once the estate was up and running.
In her fifteen years with Wally, Fran had never seen such a clause, or a retainer, and she knew immediately it was a scam.
When he knew she was unconvinced, he offered to give her a cash bonus of $50,000, and that made Fran happy.
They had a marvelous time divvying up Eleanor’s estate before she even signed the will.
Wally decided to deal with the unpleasant matter first. “I’ve been puzzled by something, Eleanor.” She allowed Simon to call her Netty, but not Wally. “How did Clyde Korsak know that I’m your lawyer?”
“You’ve already asked me that.”
“Well, I’m asking again. I’m really curious.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I really don’t. That has puzzled me too, to be honest.”
“He’s never lived here, knows no one as far as I can tell. Yet, he somehow picked me as your lawyer. How’d that happen?”
“I just don’t know.”
“Well, did he ask who your lawyer is?”
“I don’t recall. He asked a lot of questions. I finally told him to leave the house. He was never invited in, to be honest. I’ve never liked him or his brother, Jerry.”
“Did he ask for money?”
“Of course. First, he wanted to borrow five thousand dollars. I said no. Then he got arrested and demanded twenty-five thousand to make his bail. I said no again. I don’t like these questions.”
Wally knew it was time to back off, but he had one more: “Do Clyde and Jerry know about the Coke and Wal-Mart stock?”
She took a deep breath and thought for a moment.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe. Many, many years ago, Harry and I were discussing the boys and how much trouble they were causing, and he said something suggesting that he had mistakenly told them about the stock.
But I can hardly remember our conversation and I do not know what he told them. It must have been twenty years ago.”
Wally took a sip of coffee and frowned as if it was time to get down to business. “Have you read our will, your will, lately?”
“No.” Which was partly true. The day before, at a coffee shop, Simon had pulled out the will and summarized it.
He showed her the long, dense paragraph where Wally had added the words “four-hundred-and-eighty-five thousand dollars.” It was to be paid to him “as soon as practical” upon probating the will.
To deflect attention away from the amount, Wally had chosen to use no numerals or dollar signs.
Simon was of the opinion that such greed and trickery would lead to serious problems with the bar association if anyone complained.
However, she and Simon had not read the entire will; thus, her answer was sort of true.
“Is there anything in your will you would like to change, or to discuss?”
Other than the money you’re raking off? “No, I don’t think so.” Simon had coached her to say as little as possible. Don’t volunteer, don’t agree to anything new, pretend as though everything is okay.
She didn’t like the pretending. Lawyers and their games!
She did have a trace of sympathy for the poor guy, though. What a shock it would be when he got to the courthouse with her “old” will, only to learn that Simon had just left after probating her “new” one.
Though it was not yet 11 A.M., Wally suggested they have lunch together, with Fran of course. He knew just the right place, a new sushi restaurant that opened early and was getting rave reviews.
Eleanor thanked him politely. She was caught off guard by the suggestion, but managed to decline with grace, said she had a bit of a stomach bug.
She and Simon had eaten there and had not been too impressed.
They wrapped things up in under thirty minutes. Eleanor thanked Wally for his time, and he thanked her as well. He walked her out of the office and onto the sidewalk, where Simon could see them from across the street.
With 30,000 people, Braxton’s exotic dining options were limited.
So far, their culinary adventure had led them to sampling dishes from Asia, Latin and South America, Europe, Afghanistan, and India.
Nine restaurants and Simon was looking forward to the end of the project.
His usual lunch was a cheap sandwich at his desk, often one he brought from home, back when he had a place he could call home.
When Netty called hinting about lunch, he wanted to discuss perhaps taking a break. He knew of no other ethnic places in or close to Braxton. There were thousands in D.C., but that was at least an hour away.
She said, “Let’s go back to Tan Lu’s. I think that’s my favorite.”
A victory lap was not something he had considered. “Sure, sounds great.”
It was a Vietnamese place with exceptional food, and it was usually packed by 12:15, six days a week.
They arrived at 11:30 and found a table.
Tan Lu’s did not bother with reservations.
The waitress was the teenage daughter of the owners, a star student who had been born in Braxton and was headed for college.
She took their orders for pho, the traditional noodle soup with fish and onions in a thick broth.
They started with a goi salad and ordered shrimp spring rolls as a side.
“And of course the ginger cookies,” Netty added with a laugh. The Saigon ginger cookies were so popular that the owners sold them by the box for carryout.
As she prattled on about playing cards with Doris and the girls, Simon was once again hit with the anxiety of being played for a fool.
Her assets had not been verified. She refused to show him her bank records and brokerage statements.
Was Simon so eager to believe her, and so covetous of her money, that he was willfully missing the red flags?
The waitress served them a plate of colorful raw vegetables with a cucumber dip, and she poured hot spiced tea from a small pot.
Netty said, “We haven’t talked about that mess in city court, have we Sy?”
He snapped out of his fog and replied, “No, but things are coming together. I’ve negotiated with the prosecutor and the city will basically dismiss everything but one speeding ticket.
Cost you about forty bucks and nothing will go on your permanent record.
I’ll go to court around the first of December and take care of it all. ”
“Do I have to go to court?”
“Oh no, Netty, I’ve arranged things so you don’t have to show up again.”
She sighed dramatically and looked as if she might tear up. “Oh, thank you, Sy. I absolutely despised being in that courtroom with all those other people.”
“The riffraff?”
“I didn’t say that. You know what I mean.”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
“Thanks for keeping me out of court, Sy.”
“Sure, that’s my job.” A job he apparently wasn’t getting paid for at the present time, though he had plans to recoup every single expense one day. “But slow down, Netty. Slow down and be careful. Follow the traffic signs. Another ticket and I may not be able to work my magic.”
Magic? Any lawyer on Main Street could manipulate traffic court the way Simon had.
The pho arrived with steam rising from the broth.
Both inhaled the aroma as they picked up their spoons.
They ate and talked about the usual topics, though Netty seemed less interested in his family.
Perhaps she had realized that an introduction to them was not going to happen.
Simon again feigned interest in her card club, her “poker club,” as the gals liked to call it.
It met once a week for a gin rummy tournament at their various homes.
They sipped sherry, ate chocolates, played gin rummy in teams and gambled a dollar a game, and sometimes watched a movie.
It was great fun and she wished Simon would join them. Simon was almost asleep.
For dessert, the cookies arrived on small plates with a side of warm honey for dipping.
Netty loved them and asked the waitress to share the recipe.
The mix was whole wheat flower, organic flour, chopped ginger, milk, and butter, and they were topped with sesame seeds and frosted brown sugar.
They were crunchy and somewhat messy to eat, but no one cared about the crumbs.
Netty ate four of them and chased them with a small cup of cà phê, an egg coffee with sweet condensed milk.
The bill was almost eighty dollars. Simon got the check.