“Viatical transactions,” he said. “It’s an interesting phrase.”
“I don’t know what it means.”
“I looked up the word in the dictionary once. It means travel-related. A viaticum is a stipend given to a traveler.”
I asked him to spell it and said, “That’s just one letter away from the name of the firm. They call themselves Viaticom.”
He nodded. “Sounds a little less like Dog Latin and a good deal more high-tech. More appealing for the investors.”
“Investors?”
“Viatical transactions are a new vehicle for investment, and firms like your Viaticom are part of a new industry. If you thumb through gay publications like The Advocate and New York Native you’ll find their ads, and I suppose they advertise as well in financial publications.”
“What are they selling?”
“They don’t actually sell anything,” he said.
“They act as middlemen in the transaction.”
“What kind of transaction?”
He sat back in his chair, folded his hands. “Say you’ve been diagnosed,” he said. “And the disease has reached the point where you can no longer work, so your income has stopped. And even with insurance your medical expenses keep eating away at your savings. Your only asset is an insurance policy that’s going to pay somebody a hundred thousand dollars as soon as you’re dead. And you’re gay, so you don’t have a wife or kids who need the money, and your lover died a year ago, and the money’s going to go to your aunt in Spokane, and she’s a nice old thing but you’re more concerned with being able to pay the light bill and buy the cat some of the smoked oysters she’s crazy about than enriching Aunt Gretchen’s golden years.”
“So you cash in the policy.”
He shook his head. “The insurance companies are bastards,” he said. “Some of them won’t give you a dime more than the cash surrender value, which is nothing compared to the policy’s face amount. Others nowadays will pay more to redeem a policy when it’s undeniably evident that the insured doesn’t have long to live, but even then it’s a rotten deal. You get a much more generous offer from companies like Viaticom.”
I asked him how it worked. A facilitator of viatical transactions, he explained, would bring together two interested parties, an AIDS patient whose illness had progressed medically to the point where a maximum survival time could be estimated with some degree of precision, and an investor who wanted a better return on his money than he could get from banks or government bonds, and about the same degree of security.
Typically, the investor would be sure of an annual return of around twenty to twenty-five percent on his money. It was like a zero-coupon bond in that all the money came at the end, when the insured party died and the insurance carrier paid off. Unlike a bond, of course, the term wasn’t fixed. The AIDS sufferer could live longer than predicted, which would lessen the per annum return somewhat. Or, on the other hand, he could pop off before the ink was dry on the agreement, thus providing the investor with a much faster payoff on his investment.
And there was always the investor’s nightmare. “The lure of the cure,” Carl drawled. “Imagine betting the kids’ college funds on the lifespan of some poor set designer, and then one day medical science tells you your kids’ll have their doctorates long before he’s done crying over his Judy Garland records.” He rolled his eyes. “Except it won’t happen that way, even if we get that long-awaited medical miracle. You might develop a vaccine to prevent future cases, you might come up with a magic bullet to knock out or arrest the virus, but how are you going to breathe life into a completely devastated immune system? Oh, doctors keep gradually extending the survival time, and that’s all factored into the equation. But those of us who are accepted as parties to viatical transactions are past the point of no return. The kids can go to college after all. The investment’s safe.”
“Some investment,” I said.
“Strikes you as ghoulish, doesn’t it?”
“I just can’t imagine writing out a check and then sitting back and waiting for some stranger to die so I can collect.”
“I know what you mean. There have been articles written about this, you know, and not just in the gay press.”
“I must have missed them. The man I spoke with did say something about negative publicity.”
“Some writers think it’s just awful,” he said. “Reprehensible to profit from the misfortunes of others, blah blah blah. Horrible to think of anyone making money from AIDS. Well, honey, what do you think the drug companies are doing? What do you think the researchers are doing?” He held up a hand. “Don’t tell me there’s a difference. I know that. I also know it’s not people with AIDS who get upset about viatical transactions, because for us it’s a godsend.”
“Really.”
“Absolutely. Matt, once you’ve been diagnosed with full-blown AIDS you damn well know you’re dying, and this many years into the epidemic you’ve got a fairly good idea what else the future holds. If somebody in Texas makes it possible for you to live decently and comfortably in the time you’ve got left, how are you going to think of him? As a bloodsucker or as a benefactor?”
“I see what you mean. But—”
“But even so you can’t help seeing one party as a buzzard and the other as roadkill. It’s a natural reaction. One company even set up a sort of pool, like a mutual fund for viatical transactions. Instead of an individual buying a single policy, the investment funds are combined and the risk is spread out over a whole portfolio of policies.”
“The risk of longevity.”
He nodded. He toyed with a stapler on his desk, and I remembered his dead lover’s pipes and wondered what he’d done with them, and when. “But most policies are assigned to individual investors,” he said. “I think the paperwork must be a lot simpler that way. And there’s no great need to spread the risk, because there’s not really very much risk to spread. ‘Viaticum, money given to a traveler.’ Everyone’s a traveler, you know. And, sooner or later, everybody makes the trip.”
Back at the Chase branch, Nancy Chang went over Byron Leopold’s records again, working backward from the date when he’d deposited the Viaticom check. Every three months there was a check drawn to the order of Illinois Sentinel Life. The checks had stopped two months before he got the Viaticom check.
“He transferred ownership of the policy,” I said, “so he stopped paying the premiums, and that became the responsibility of the other party to the transaction.”
“And when he died—”
“The insurance company would have paid the money directly to the beneficiary. But who is he and how much did they pay him?”
“‘Always the beautiful answer that asks the more beautiful question,’” she said, and laughed at my evident puzzlement, “e.e. Cummings. Though I suppose it would be more appropriate to quote Wallace Stevens, wouldn’t it?”
“Did he have something to say about questions and answers?”
“I’m not sure what he had to say,” she said, “because I could never tell what he was getting at. But he worked all his life as an executive with an insurance company. And at the same time he was one of the leading American poets of his time. Can you imagine?”
I knew I was going to be spending some time on the phone, and I decided I might as well make free calls from my hotel room. If I could work pro bono, so could the phone company.
I called Illinois Sentinel Life, headquartered in Springfield, and got shunted around from one person to another. I didn’t get the feeling that any of the men or women I spoke to were among the leading American poets of our time, but how could I be sure?