money
involved. All we want is an accounting for the funds."
I
wondered how long it had been since the senior partner of the august
firm of McColl, Moody and Cole had been called to a meeting at a
client's office on a Saturday afternoon. His easy grace suggested
that this was a service that he regularly provided to his corporate
clients. I knew better. McColl, Moody and Cole specialized in asset
retention. They had so perfected the mechanics of the international
banking system as to make it nearly impossible for any governmental
body to keep track of the considerable sums with which they were
routinely entrusted. They didn't launder money; they had it
dry-cleaned.
From
Carl's, I'd headed home for a shower and a change of clothes. My
appointment to meet Marge at the Sundstrom office wasn't until one
o'clock. After steaming the nicotine out of my skin for a half hour
or so, I dressed in a pair of clean jeans, a burgundy chamois shirt,
and my dress Nikes. I made myself a couple of grilled cheese
sandwiches, washing them down with a Barq's root beer, and was in the
process of rounding up some random clothes to accompany my
Sunday-go-to-meeting outfit to the cleaners when the phone rang. It
was Marge.
"Finally,"
she huffed.
She
seemed to be waiting for either an apology or an explanation. "Are
you there?" she asked finally. "I'm here."
"I've
been trying to get a hold of you since yesterday evening."
"Here I am."
Her
dissatisfaction was palpable.
"We're
still on for this afternoon?" she said finally.
"One
o'clock," I confirmed.
"Howard
McColl will be there."
"The
great man himself?"
"In
the flesh."
"I
figured for sure he'd send a junior partner."
"Don't
think that worm didn't try," she said with obvious satisfaction.
"First he wanted to do lunch. Just the two of us of course.
Then, as soon as he realized that wasn't going to happen, he offered
to send everyone in the firm except the cleaning lady— and himself
of course—until we finally had a little chat regarding retainers.
Speaking of which, I've decided that I'd feel better about our
relationship if I gave you a retainer. How much would—"
"No
thanks," I interrupted quickly.
"If
we're going to have a business relationship—"
I
nipped this one in the bud.
"Because
then, sooner or later, you and I would be having our own little chat
about retainers, and I don't work well that way."
The
phone company was right; you could hear a pin drop.
"One
o'clock, then," she said after another strained silence. "See
you there."
I
dropped the bundle of clothes at the cleaners and tooled down over
the hill, arriving at the Sea Sundstrom offices on Western
Avenue about five minutes early. McColl was already ensconced in the
red leather chair closest to the desk, somehow managing to look
like he'd been born to occupy that particular seat. Patrician
presence, I supposed.
Marge
handled the introductions without rising. McColl stood reluctantly,
brushing my outstretched palm with a limp, dry hand. I dragged a
flowered wing chair across the room, settling for a spot on the other
end of the low polished table that served as a desk. This was the
president's office; the sign on the door said so. It was a woman's
room. Vaguely floral. Decorated with flair and care, functional but
flat-
"Your
rights are not in question, my dear," McColl said. "The
problem lies in the next of kin named by your—"
Something
in Marge's expression produced an instant edit.
"—in
Ms. Stark's next of kin."
"She
named some aunt in Wisconsin," Marge said.
"Who
does not and, as nearly as we are able to ascertain, has never lived
at the address of record. For that matter, we have thus far been
unable to procure even a single document confirming the existence of
this Miss Audrey Danielson, let alone secure a release."
"So
what's the problem then?" I interjected. "No aunt. No
money. No problem."
"Would
that it were that simple, Mr. Waterman."
McColl
pinned me with a pitying glance that suggested that
involved. All we want is an accounting for the funds."
I
wondered how long it had been since the senior partner of the august
firm of McColl, Moody and Cole had been called to a meeting at a
client's office on a Saturday afternoon. His easy grace suggested
that this was a service that he regularly provided to his corporate
clients. I knew better. McColl, Moody and Cole specialized in asset
retention. They had so perfected the mechanics of the international
banking system as to make it nearly impossible for any governmental
body to keep track of the considerable sums with which they were
routinely entrusted. They didn't launder money; they had it
dry-cleaned.
From
Carl's, I'd headed home for a shower and a change of clothes. My
appointment to meet Marge at the Sundstrom office wasn't until one
o'clock. After steaming the nicotine out of my skin for a half hour
or so, I dressed in a pair of clean jeans, a burgundy chamois shirt,
and my dress Nikes. I made myself a couple of grilled cheese
sandwiches, washing them down with a Barq's root beer, and was in the
process of rounding up some random clothes to accompany my
Sunday-go-to-meeting outfit to the cleaners when the phone rang. It
was Marge.
"Finally,"
she huffed.
She
seemed to be waiting for either an apology or an explanation. "Are
you there?" she asked finally. "I'm here."
"I've
been trying to get a hold of you since yesterday evening."
"Here I am."
Her
dissatisfaction was palpable.
"We're
still on for this afternoon?" she said finally.
"One
o'clock," I confirmed.
"Howard
McColl will be there."
"The
great man himself?"
"In
the flesh."
"I
figured for sure he'd send a junior partner."
"Don't
think that worm didn't try," she said with obvious satisfaction.
"First he wanted to do lunch. Just the two of us of course.
Then, as soon as he realized that wasn't going to happen, he offered
to send everyone in the firm except the cleaning lady— and himself
of course—until we finally had a little chat regarding retainers.
Speaking of which, I've decided that I'd feel better about our
relationship if I gave you a retainer. How much would—"
"No
thanks," I interrupted quickly.
"If
we're going to have a business relationship—"
I
nipped this one in the bud.
"Because
then, sooner or later, you and I would be having our own little chat
about retainers, and I don't work well that way."
The
phone company was right; you could hear a pin drop.
"One
o'clock, then," she said after another strained silence. "See
you there."
I
dropped the bundle of clothes at the cleaners and tooled down over
the hill, arriving at the Sea Sundstrom offices on Western
Avenue about five minutes early. McColl was already ensconced in the
red leather chair closest to the desk, somehow managing to look
like he'd been born to occupy that particular seat. Patrician
presence, I supposed.
Marge
handled the introductions without rising. McColl stood reluctantly,
brushing my outstretched palm with a limp, dry hand. I dragged a
flowered wing chair across the room, settling for a spot on the other
end of the low polished table that served as a desk. This was the
president's office; the sign on the door said so. It was a woman's
room. Vaguely floral. Decorated with flair and care, functional but
flat-
"Your
rights are not in question, my dear," McColl said. "The
problem lies in the next of kin named by your—"
Something
in Marge's expression produced an instant edit.
"—in
Ms. Stark's next of kin."
"She
named some aunt in Wisconsin," Marge said.
"Who
does not and, as nearly as we are able to ascertain, has never lived
at the address of record. For that matter, we have thus far been
unable to procure even a single document confirming the existence of
this Miss Audrey Danielson, let alone secure a release."
"So
what's the problem then?" I interjected. "No aunt. No
money. No problem."
"Would
that it were that simple, Mr. Waterman."
McColl
pinned me with a pitying glance that suggested that
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