“They actually called again.”
“Uh-huh.”
“They wanted to pick up the tapes they sent over.”
“You didn’t give them back any material?”
“No.”
“Good. Great. You played that perfectly. I can see that we’re going to excel. As a team. All right, Mr Herlihy, I’d like to have those—today. Will you be home?” Chess nodded. “I’ll send an intern from the office.”
“What about my friend? Maurie?”
“Maurie Levin.”
He uttered the name as if a dossier had already been compiled, and it made Chess slightly uneasy. He didn’t want to be a rat. For all his raving, he really only wanted restitution, not revenge.
“He’s been calling but I don’t feel like talking.”
“Nor should you. I wouldn’t recommend it, Mr Herlihy, but if you happen to have a conversation — keep it light — do not say you’ve spoken with an attorney. You’re going to doctors every day for your pain, that’s all anyone has to know.”
“What about his girlfriend? I mean, she was kind of in on it. But I don’t want her involved.”
Remar smiled as he slurped his latte.
“She’s been over a few times — just to visit. She feels bad about what happened.”
“That’s OK. But the same thing applies — keep it light. In case she’s doing a Mata Hari number!”
Chess didn’t exactly get the reference, but strenuously shook his head.
“She’s not.”
“I’m sure she’s very nice, Chester, but you never know. People get weird. He may have a bigger influence on her than you think. No talk of an attorney or pending actions—simply put, it’s none of their business. And it is business.” He patted his mouth with a pink napkin. “So: am I officially hired?”
“Yeah! Absolutely.”
“Terrific. I’ll send some papers for you to sign when the intern picks up the tape. Very standard.” He smiled. “And make sure it’s my intern, and not someone from FNF!”
They shook hands, but this time Remar used a gentler touch.
XXVIII.Marjorie
SHE woke up and the world was different.
She felt young — her body felt young. This would be, had already been, a year of great change.
They still delivered the Wall Street Journal and she hadn’t the heart to end the subscription because it was Ham’s favorite. She usually threw it out but today, Marj opened the paper to a full page ad for financial planning and investments.
Maybe your next retirement party won’t be your last.
Maybe all a gold watch tells you is the time.
Maybe bingo doesn’t appeal to you.
Maybe today is the day you wake up and say…
Hello future.
Yes.
She was a rich woman now.
As if to signal the auspiciousness of this time, her daughter stopped by. In a tenderly fractured moment, she thought that perhaps Mr Weyerhauser had contacted Joanie to ask her if she “knew.” Then Marj realized that of course he hadn’t, and of course she didn’t, it was probably a federal law not to inform loved ones until a specific time; and just an apt coincidence, felicitous, that Joanie was there, now, looking so beautiful, standing before her after so many weeks. It took everything she had not to tell her youngest of the astonishing sea change. (The old woman was planning to share the wealth, as any mother would.) She’d wait until Mr Weyerhauser gave the “all clear.”
Her head was in a whirl. She thought of going out on a limb and inviting Joan to the Taj Mahal in Agra, traveling like royalty on the Deccan Queen like Judy Davis and Dame Peggy. Her daughter was stubborn and finicky yet why wouldn’t she assent? The windfall might alter her view, not in the sense of greed, but in the spirit of sheer life’s-too-short celebration. Besides, for an architect, seeing that tomb was a busman’s holiday. Before she could work up the courage to ask, Joan got paged from her office and had to leave. She’d only been there half-an-hour but told her mother she would phone in the evening to make dinner plans. Marj decided to extend the invitation then, at an Indian restaurant: perfect.
The last few days it was hard to sleep, even with her trusty Halcion. Around midnight, she made herself chocolate pudding and a festive Baileys Irish Cream, then watched the hotel DVD a 3rd time. After the viewing, she still wasn’t tired, and pored over a historical book from which she used to read to the kids — captivated by the familiar tale of the Taj. (Her beloved hotel’s namesake.) The Mughal emperor built it as a monument to his wife who died in childbirth. It took 22 years to put up; each day, elephants laden with marble and precious stones formed 10-mile processions. When all was done, the emperor plucked out his architect’s eyes — or cut off his hands, depending on the version you were reading — so as never to be able to replicate such a thing of beauty. As if it were possible! Thank the Lord her Joanie wasn’t prey to such barbarities! There was some anecdotal confusion over the fate of the Taj Mahal hotel’s designer as well. Her father’s account had him jumping into the sea when he saw his dream built backward; others said he shot himself through the heart.
The most interesting detail about the monument in Agra was something she’d read long ago but forgotten: the emperor Shah Jahan intended to build a 2nd mausoleum, for himself, just across the river, made of black marble instead of white. (The memorials were to be linked by a black-and-white bridge.) What amazed Marj most was that this unbuilt crypt was often referred to as a “shadow” monument. Wasn’t that glorious? It must be divine providence, for shadow was the very word Lucas Weyerhauser (it gave her pleasure to say his name aloud, like an abracadabra to all countries she would one day visit) had invoked to describe the source of her newly minted Mega Millions.
The shadow drawings of Blind Sisters.
MR Weyerhauser was precise in his instructions.
She would go to Wells Fargo and obtain a money order for $11,492, made out to the State of New York. This would be a “marker” to secure her winnings, demonstrating to the State Attorney that she had been officially contacted and was in full agreement with the magnanimous terms of her godsend. (With Lucas’s help, she had already completed several pages of the calligraphic onionskin contract.) Before he left, he gave her an ornately beautiful cashier’s check, of a kind she had never seen: modern yet somehow reminiscent of 19th century currency. Like something out of the Wild West! It was embossed, covered over with all kinds of gold and delicately woven ink scrollings. Lucas said it was done that way to avoid counterfeiting, and the paper these sort of checks were written on alone cost in the proximity of a hundred dollars.
The draft was in the amount of $1,863,279.47. He said, with a gleam in his eye, that leaving it “wasn’t really kosher, but I know you won’t go out and splurge.” There were taxes to be paid before the monies could be collected, and though his bosses in New York were real sticklers about it, he often left these checks with his “sisters” anyway, because it was fun. (The 1st payment of what would be a total of 4 over the next 6 months.) It had become his “signature” to put them in the hands of the winners, prematurely; he had the feeling his bosses knew, but looked the other way because he was good at what he did and had been doing it a long while. Lucas understood how “damned exciting” the whole thing was and “if it were me, I’d want someone to do the same.”