Harry, sitting across the table from me, has just turned white.
“Your fee,” says Bruce. He does a few more calculations. “If I figure correctly, should be somewhere in the neighborhood of thirteen million, seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Now that’s the stuff we know about, current claim,” he says. “That doesn’t include the other three thousand taxpayers they know about but are still working to tally up. If you extrapolate knowing what we know from the first two thousand,” he says. “Figure another four hundred million in revenue to the government, at twenty-two and a half percent that’s another ninety million for your client, nine million to you. So the total ballpark figure is, say. . let’s round it off, say three hundred and thirty-seven million dollars. That’s your client’s take. Your fee, thirty-three million, seven.” He looks up at us. “Now that’s the most you’re going to get. You can make it easy on yourself by getting in their faces and then backing off a little, take a little less. At some point they’ll cave and say ‘good.’ ”
“Did you just say thirty-three million, seven hundred thousand dollars?” says Harry.
“That’s what I said. And the good thing about all of this,” says Bruce, “is that the money to pay the back taxes and penalties is already in the bank. There’s no need for the IRS to discount any of it. So don’t let them tell you they did. Everybody’s getting a windfall here. You, them. This is money the government didn’t know existed. Everybody but the taxpayer.”
We sit there for a moment and catch our breath. “Bruce, I want to thank you for coming by.”
“You guys don’t look happy,” he says.
“We’re OK, I think it comes as a bit of a shock. I’ll have to talk to Betz, make sure he understands what he’s giving up. Check the statutes, make sure were not running afoul of anything. Assuming it’s OK, it’s gonna take a while to get used to the concept.”
“What concept is that?” says Bruce.
“Having money.” When it happens this suddenly it’s hard to get your head around it. Like winning the lottery.
He starts to collect his stuff, puts the computer in his bag, and gathers his papers.
“I’ll call you in a few days, as soon as we pull together a draft of the agreement. There’s a lot to think about.”
Bruce gets up, shakes my hand.
“Good to see you again.” Bruce looks at Harry, who is just sitting at the table, stunned.
“Yeah. Good to see you.” It’s the first time I have ever seen him speechless. He blinks a couple of times before finally collecting himself enough to turn and look at Bruce, who is almost out the door.
“Are you sure about this?” says Harry. “To me, I don’t know, but it sounds like a Ponzi scheme.”
“It depends how hard you want to push them,” says Bruce. “I wouldn’t get too hard-core unless you want to fend off audits for the rest of your life. On the other hand, you will have the money to pay me if that happens.” He smiles at us. “All I can say is, that’s the ballpark you’re playing in.”
“Somebody gimme some Cracker Jacks,” says Harry. Not even the slightest grin on his face. My partner, the ultimate contrarian, pessimist even among the doomsayers, may have just won the lottery. He has yet to see a dime, but the thought alone shatters everything he knows about the world and human nature.
Bruce laughs, heads out the door, and closes it behind him.
“Cheer up,” I tell Harry. “That’s the bad news. The good news is we probably won’t live long enough to see any of it.”
FIFTY-FOUR
I’m hammering away on the computer in my office, working on the draft agreement for Betz, when Sally, our receptionist, raps on my door and opens it.
“What is it?”
“Package for you,” she says. “Courier service just delivered it.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see the FedEx letter pack.
“I would have given it to Mr. Hinds, but he’s gone.”
“Harry had to take care of something up near Mission Bay.” In point of fact, he is picking up Alex and Herman. He will deliver Ives to the Marine Station at Miramar and introduce him to Betz, then take Herman home, where he can get some sleep.
“What’s in the package?”
“I don’t know. Do you want me to open it?”
“Please, if you don’t mind.” I’m in the middle of a thought on the agreement. I don’t want to lose the threads.
She pulls the perforated tab on the letter pack and opens it. “Looks like some kind of a list. ‘Defense Contractors Gala.’ There’s a note. ‘Dear Mr. Madriani. Sorry to be so tardy on this, but I called your office and left a message and no one called back.’ ”
“Who’s it from?”
“Let me see. A Mr. Rufus A. Becket.”
I stop typing, turn in my chair, and say, “Let me see it.”
She hands me the letter pack and the sheaf of papers with it. I drop the envelope on the desk. The note is neatly typed on stiff heavy stock stationery embossed at the top with the letters “RAB.” Behind the single page note is the guest list from the party at Becket’s house, the list I had asked for nearly a month ago when I first visited Becket at his house.
I read the note. He apologizes for being so late. The fact is, I never expected him to give me the list. But as I read the note I discover the reason why he did. His assistant, whose name is George, returned from vacation earlier in the week. George, it seems, remembers the events the night Alex passed out at the party.
I scan Becket’s note. “At the bottom of the list you will see several names penned in ink. Among them are three individuals who were not originally invited to the event. However, because some of the other guests knew them, we included them and invited them to join us at the last minute. According to George it was one of these gentlemen and his two friends who took charge of the young man you were talking about when he fell ill. The man’s name who took charge was Joseph Ying.”
I set the note aside and flip to the last page of the guest list. There, written in ink, longhand, are eight or ten names. One of them at the top, in a fine measured cursive script, is the name Joseph Ying with an address listed in Hong Kong.
I turn back to the note. “If you require further assistance you may wish to talk to George personally. The number where he may be reached is. .”
I pick up the phone and dial the number. On the second ring it’s answered. “Hello, this is George Connor, how can I help you?”
“Mr. Connor. You don’t know me but I’m acquainted with your employer, Mr. Becket. My name is Paul Madriani. I’m an attorney. . ”
“Ah, yes,” he says. “Mr. Becket informed me that you might be calling. It’s about the party that night.”
“That’s correct. Mr. Becket sent me the guest list with a note. He says you had some involvement with a young man who got sick at the party who may have passed out.”
“I did indeed,” he says. “That young man was in very bad shape. In fact, by the time they got him to the car I would say he was unconscious.”
“Who is ‘they’?” I ask.
“The three gentlemen who helped him. They were late to the party. In fact, at the time I thought perhaps that the four of them were together, the young man and the other three. But Mr. Becket advises me that this may not have been the case. Perhaps because of what you told him.”
“Would you recognize the young man again if you saw him or if I were to produce a photograph?”
“I believe so. But I doubt that that would be necessary.”