1 The Reluctant Dick - The Case of the Not-So-Fair Trader (12 page)

The mail was waiting for me when we got home from the mall on Saturday afternoon. Amidst the junk, catalogs, offers to invest all the extra money I have un-invested is an envelope, letter-sized, almost square. I almost threw it away along with a timeshare offer in Boca and the chance to upgrade my computer to light
ning i
nternet speed. The envelope had been postmarked on Thursday at the main station downtown, meaning it could have come from almost anywhere in the city.
It was a
ddressed to Richard Sherlock, no Mr. and no IL, just my street address and zip-code, handwritten as if by Care when she was five, and no return address, a postal no-no.

There was one page inside, an eight by eleven, twenty-pound piece of flimsy bond paper, the kind used by Kinko’s for its cheapest service. The message was printed by a computer
. W
ho uses a typewriter in the technology age? It was folded into thirds, and folded in half. The message
had no date, name, or address
; this was no piece of business mail. The writing was on the top third of the page, a succinct note of brief instruction:

Don’t tell any buddy about this. Call 312 555-5675 request Diane Monday.

Always nice to get personal mail.

There is some Disney musical blaring out of the TV, as I sit between my daughters and place the note and envelope in my lap.

“What is it, Dad?” Kelly asks.

“A letter.”

My daughter looks at me as if I’m weird. “Nobody writes letters anymore.”

“What do they do?”

“Text, email, Twitter, whatever.”

I reread the note. It was written by a woman. Mid-twenties to early thirties, once a lousy student and not employed where she would use her brain over her brawn, grammatical skills a dead giveaway. She is petite. No one big writes that small, even with the opposite hand. She has some, but little, knowledge of the computer, just enough to write and print this note. She couldn’t figure out how to computerize and address the envelope. I suspect she is not married, since the envelope is the kind sold with a greeting card
. A
married woman would never have one without the other laying around. She was nervous when she wrote and mailed the letter, due to the uneven first two folds into thirds
,
and then trying to make up for it with the last attempt to fold the page perfectly in half.

I pull the phone to me, dial the reverse directory, hear the command and punch in the 312 number on the letter. “The address of the number you have requested is unlisted, please try another number.” I figured as much. I will assume that Monday is not Diane’s last name and hang up the phone. I carefully place the page back in its envelope, place it on a stack of stuff I know I’ll clean around, and ask the girls, “Tuna casserole for dinner?”

“Oh, gross.”

My kid weekend ended much the way it began: boring.

I get home after dropping off the kids at about nine. I retrieve the letter and dial 312 555-5675.

If you were to dial my number and I wasn’t available to answer the telephone, a lady would tell you I wasn’t around, but “Please leave a message at the sound of the tone.”

The exact same lady said the exact same words to me after five rings. This must be one heck of a busy woman.

“My name is Richard and I want to request Diane Monday.” I say into the receiver.

My phone rings five minutes later.

“Hello.”

“You called 555-5675.” The male voice was deep, quick, and to the point.

“Yes.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to request Diane Monday.”

“Is this your home number?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your home address?”

I fill in the blank.

“I’ll call you back in five minutes,” he says and hangs up.

I wait and in exactly five minutes, the phone rings.

“Hello.”

“I’m Nick.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“What time would you like to see Diane?”

“You pick.”

“One hour or two?”

“One should be plenty.”

At this point I have a pretty good idea what this is all about
,
and not because I’ve done this before.

“In or out?”

“In.”

“Four o’clock.” Nick’s voice picks up in tempo.  “El
even thirty-eight North State. T
he name of the building is One State Street. Go to the front desk, tell the concierge you are Richard Sherlock and want forty-one-fourteen. He’ll call, and then buzz you in. Go to the second bank of elevators, not the first
. Y
ou don’t want to be looking stupid wandering around the wrong elevator bank.”

“I can handle that.”

“Knock on the door, your hour starts at four,” he hesitates, “you want anything special?”

“No, I’m kind of a non-special kind of a guy.”

“It’s four hundred, cash
. W
e don’t take credit cards.”

“Fine.”

“Where did you hear about us?” he asks.

“Ah,” I hesitate.

“You see us on the n
et?” he says. “Escorts R us dot com?”

“No.”

“In the
Reader
?”

The
Reader
is a Chicago alternative weekly newspaper, which carries “Adult Entertainment” advertising. “No.”

Nick must have a sheet to record the value of his advertising dollar. “Then where did you hear about us?”

“Fan mail from some flounder.”

Nick laughs, a fellow flying squirrel fan. “See you Monday.”

“Thanks,” I said, “can’t wait.”

I hang up the phone and turn on the computer. It takes forever to come on and get to the open space where I type in www.EscortsRus.com. A disclaimer comes on the screen. Is this absurd or what? I click, swear my age is over twenty-one, hit “Okay” and am sent to the menu page. What a menu. Halfway down the page are two women I last saw in church.

Off goes the computer. I pick up the phone and dial. She picks up on the sixth ring. “What?”

“I need you to bring an advance with you tomorrow morning.”

“What?” Tiffany’s voice is weak.

“Tiffany, are you okay?”

“I’m tired,” she says, “I’ve been flushing my system all day. I’m sick of eating bran cereal.”

“I need some cash.”

“Daddy hates giving out advances. What’s it for?”

“A prostitute.”

“Oh, Mister Sherlock, if you’re that hard up, I could fix you up with one of my friends,” she stops, quickly retracts, “I mean one of my friend’s mothers.”

“It has to do with the case.”

“I’ve heard a lot of excuses, Mister Sherlock.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re not meeting her on some street corner, are you?”

“No.”

“Well, I guess that’s some kind of positive.”

“I’ll need four-hundred bucks, plus tip.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Hey, nothing’s cheap.”

“Promise me you’ll use protection.”

“I promise.”

11

Bored of trade

Tiffany is waiting outside Conway Waddy’s door as I arrive.

“Did you bring the four hundred?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“The ATM I went to was out of money,” Tiffany says. “Can you believe that?”

“You go to the bank while I do this.”

“And miss the reading of the will? You have got to be kidding, Mister Sherlock. Daddy said it is going to be a blast.”

“Tiffany…”

“Don’t worry; I’ll have the money by this afternoon when you go see your ho.”

We walk inside and go directly into the conference room where all the players are present and accounted for. Brewster and Doris have taken the two seats at the head of the rectangular table, as if to say,
we’re first in line
. Clayton, who said he didn’t care if he got a dime, sits on the opposite side of the table, briefcase in front of him, Blackberry in his ear, spouting instructions to an unseen subordinate. Christina sits next to where she figures Conway will read the will, since there are stacks of paper, being lined up by a paralegal, three f
ee
t across the desk. I’m surprised wallets are not sitting open on the table waiting to be filled.

There is enough tension in the room to power a generator. The principals fidget, their eyes pretending to read
,
or they stare at their fingernails. No one is speaking. No eye contact made. Each must be imagining they are the only one at the table. I try to picture this family living in the same house together; what a sitcom that would be.

Norbert stands in the far corner of the room next to the coffee service, sampling the Danish. He is the only one who acknowledges my presence with a wave and a burp.

Conway Waddy enters the room, reading glasses precariously balanced at the end of his nose. He carries a plastic file folder with numerous colored tabs sticking out of the side. Before sitting he hikes his pants, adjusts his suspenders, and unbuttons his suit coat. “Welcome,” he says. “I’m glad you all could be here.”

I can’t believe anyone in this crowd cares about pleasantries at this point; it’s more like
s
hut up and show me the money.

Conway opens the folder to the first tab and beg
ins to read. “Alvin J. Augustus
of Kenilworth Illinois… being of sound mind, sound body…” and blah, blah, blah boilerplate of what everyone in the room knows and could care less about.

“Can we cut through the legal eagle crap?” Clayton asks during a slight pause in Conway’s rendition.

“No,” Christina says. “He has to put it all on the record for it to be legally binding.”

“It’s a reading of the will, my dear,” Doris drips in sarcasm, “not a Supreme Court decision on gay marriage.”

“Come on,
get on with it
,
” Brewster says. “I want to catch post time at Arlington.”

The bickering Bickersons.

“By the way, dear,” Doris asks Christina calmly, “that girlfriend of yours, are you her bitch or is she yours?”

“It takes one to know one, Step-mommy.”

“Can we eliminate the comments, please?” Conway intervenes.

“She started it,” Christina says.

“Did not,” Doris snaps back.

Tiffany pokes me. “I love this stuff.”

This is just like my house on a kid weekend.

“You should be thankful she’s gay, Doris,” Clayton says. “If she was married with kids, that’s more people to have their hands in the pot.”

“May I continue?” Conway asks.

“Yes, hurry up,” Brewster answers.

Norbert looks over to me and shakes his head.

“The assets are as follows: home in Kenilworth, appraised at a current value of four-point-two million.”

“That’s all?” Clayton says it, but anyone would have asked this question.

“Current housing values have decreased substantially across the area,” Conway explains, then quickly continues. “The current outstanding mortgage is four-point-three million at seven-point-three percent.”

Conway couldn’t have stopped the conversation in the room any quicker than if he farted. The family is stunned.

Doris recovers first. “We’ve been in the house more than ten years. We bought it for less than a million. I remember when the mortgage was paid off.”

“The first mortgage was retired,” Conway says, “but since numerous equity loans have been taken out on the property.”

“I didn’t see any of that money
,
” Doris says in defense.

“Then where the hell is it?” Clayton asks.

Conway shrugs his big shoulders.

“You’re telling us the house is worth less than the mortgage?” Brewster asks.

“Underwater?” Clayton adds.

“Yes.” Conway points to the next section on the page and reads. “Augustus Enterprises Incorporated, which is the holding company, is currently valued at sixteen-point-nine million dollars...”

There is a collective sigh in the room.

“…with liabilities to the corporation totaling sixteen-point-three million dollars.”

All breathing in the room stops. Doris’ mouth drops open despite her Botox-frozen jaw. Clayton fumbles his Blackberry. Brewster scratches his privates. Christina’s hand covers her mouth as if she had witnessed the first killing in a cheap horror film.

“There’s more.” Conway continues, attempting to be as lawyerly as possible. “Two seats on the Board of Trade have existing contracts to be sold, all stocks, bonds and securities are in the process of being liquidated and placed in receivership for outstanding debt.”