Big Numbers by Jack Getze Page B

shouldn’t I believe he’d try to murder me again?
    “Okay,” I say.
    “That was an accident with the car, Austin.” Bastard reads minds.
    “I know.”
    “Good. So are you up for a fishing adventure with Mr. Vic and me?”
    “Sure.”
    “Probably next Saturday. I’ll let you know.”
    He reaches for my papers. “Now, let’s see what you have here. A transfer form?”
    “Just need your signature at the bottom.”
    “Two million going out of the Burns’ account, huh?”
    “Yup.”
    On the wall behind Rags are three Currier & Ives prints. Bloodhounds, foxes, English riders in long red coats and black leather boots. I’ve heard Rags say his British ancestors were landed gentry. I think that means his great-great-grandfather was a stable boy who’d earned dibs on a corner of the horse barn.
    “I see the assets are staying with us,” Rags says. “Who’s this Kelly Rockland?”
    “Kelly’s the redhead Gerry came in with, the one you talked to on the telephone.”
    “I thought that was his wife?”
    “He always told me she was his wife, but she’s not.”
    Rags sticks out his lower lip. “Odd. And now that he’s dying, he wants to give his little sweetie a present of two million in bonds?”
    “That’s what he wants,” I say.
    Rags wouldn’t be going through this if it was any other salesman. He would have signed it, passed it back. But no. It’s me, Austin Carr, and he’s going to study the names, addresses, and account numbers like he’s eying naked girls in Playboy.
    “What does his real wife think?” Rags asks.
    “Doesn’t have one.”
    His eyes are still on the form. Maybe he’s trying to memorize it. “How about his kids?”
    “He’s leaving the bulk of his estate to them—a boy and a girl I think. Both doctors. They’re not going to be upset about two million.”
    “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Rags says.
    “Gerry’s probably worth twenty million, all the businesses he owns. The legal fees on his estate will be a million.”
    “People are funny about money,” Rags says. “At the very least, the kids are going to be curious.”
    “Let them be curious. This is what the client wants, Rags. And it’s his damned money.”
    I shouldn’t have cursed. Rags doesn’t like it when I curse. Maybe it’s that English aristocratic blood. A muscle in his jaw begins to flutter.
    “This form isn’t complete,” he says. “You didn’t fill out this one part properly…the reason for the transfer.”
    My own jaw tenses. My back teeth rub. My ass and backbone are still sore from the pounding his Jaguar gave me. I could take a swing real easy, bust up that neat little Brad Pitt jaw.
    “There’s a reason listed,” I say.
    Rags shakes his head, no. “‘Estate planning’ is not a complete enough reason, Carr. What’s required here is for the client to tell us exactly why he wants these assets transferred.”
    “Estate planning is exactly enough. Ask compliance.”
    “I have to sign this thing, put my name and career on the line for it. Go back to Burns, get a reason, bring the new form and signature to me.”
    I stand up. “I’m not going to do that, Rags. There’s no reason in hell to do that. This form is complete, signed, and legal. Estate planning is a lawful reason. Again I ask you to check with compliance. It’s the way we’ve done it for seven years.”
    “Sit down, Carr. And you will get a new form signed, or there’s no transfer.”
    I remain standing. “You are the world’s biggest asshole, Rags. The biggest and the dumbest.”
    A red cloud forms beneath the skin of his neck and climbs to Rags’ ears. It’s so cartoonish, so vibrant a red, I expect steam to geyser from his ears.
    “I’ve had it with you, Carr. You’re fired. Right now. This fucking minute. Clean out your desk.”
    “Clean out your ass,” I say.
    I rip the transfer form from his hand and stride out of Rags’ office.
    My golfing buddy Mr. Vic will straighten this turkey out