He did not have a gambling problem. He was certain of that because he had two friends who did and betting had wrecked them financially. He had watched them slide into a black hole playing risky games and wagering more than they could afford to lose. Simon didn’t earn a lot of money; therefore, he didn’t have much to lose. And after a decade of sports betting he had convinced himself that his wins were slightly more than his losses. He was too cautious to get into trouble. And too afraid of Paula. She knew nothing of his secret little hobby because Simon, and Chub, kept it all in cash.
Chub walked up behind the bar holding, as always, a bottle of beer. “Who you got?” he asked as he reached over for a quick handshake.
“Irvine plus seven,” Simon said. Chub knew exactly who he “got.” They had made the bet at ten that morning, on the phone. No texts or emails, nothing to leave a trail. Chub had been busted once by the Feds for bookmaking and came within a whisker of doing time, but a slick lawyer, not Simon, worked a deal and kept him out of jail. He went straight for twelve months, with ninety hours of community service, umpiring softball games, then eased back into the business.
“I like Cal Poly,” he said and took a swig from his bottle.
He worked both sides of the Vegas line and didn’t care which side his customers chose because he collected 10 percent on each bet. For Simon to win $500 with his Irvine bet, he had paid $550. The extra, the “juice,” went into Chub’s ever-deepening pockets.
Valerie called Chub from the other end of the bar. He offered his standard “Good luck,” and waddled away. As always, he wore a fancy tracksuit, this one bright red, with designer sneakers, as if he had just come from a long run. He had not. Someone had stuck him with “Chub” in the first grade and he had never been able to shake it, nor had he been able to shed excess weight as he grew up. Sadly, he was, at forty-five, still growing.
Simon usually stopped at two cocktails. He crunched the ice from the second one as Irvine choked down the stretch and lost by five. But they started the game with an extra seven, so Simon had a spring in his step as he left the pub. He waved at Chub across the room, and Chub waved back with a look that said, Nice win, I’ll get you next time.
The $500 Simon had just won was more than the legal fees he’d earned that day.
But tomorrow held such promise.
Chapter 4
The Starbucks anchored one corner of a strip mall at the edge of a suburb fifteen minutes from his office. It was busy when he arrived half an hour early to scope out the place and look for privacy. He sipped dark roast at four bucks a cup and moved quickly when a corner table opened up. He toyed with his laptop, same as all the other customers, and watched the endless line of cars creep through the drive-thru. Then he saw the old Lincoln turn a corner. Netty couldn’t find a spot and parked far away, straddling a yellow line. She drove like a ninety-year-old who’d been a lousy driver seventy years earlier. As she entered, he stood and waved and helped her to her seat. She seemed ill at ease and glanced around.
“Figures,” she said. “I’m the only senior here.”
“Would you like coffee or tea?”
“Just some water, please.”
Simon left and brought back a bottle of water. She ignored it and asked, “Can we really talk here? I mean, it’s not very private.”
The nearest person was ten feet away, hunched over a laptop with wires running to ears that were invisible under a red hoodie. “Oh, it’s very private. No one can hear a word we say because their ears are plugged.”
“These young people.”
“I know. Addicted to their phones and laptops. What’s the world coming to?”
“I guess.” She unscrewed the cap and drank some water.
Finally, Simon said, “We were going to talk about your will, the one prepared by Wally Thackerman.”
“Yes, I’m just not comfortable with it.”
“Did you bring it?”
She reached into a large handbag and retrieved an envelope. As she handed it to him she glanced around again.
“Please relax, Netty. These kids are totally self-absorbed and have no interest in anything we’re talking about.”
Simon wanted to rip open the envelope and scour the will for the scandalous language, but he managed to take his time and keep smiling at her. It was only four pages long, with the first paragraphs filled with the usual lawyerly crap that he himself charged people for. Then, the juicy part. It established the “Eleanor Korsak Barnett Memorial Trust” and placed all of the liquid assets in it. Her home was to be sold, along with everything else, and the cash added to the trust. All the fancy legal footwork would be done by, of course, the Honorable Wally Thackerman, who was not only the executor of her estate and the sole trustee of her trust, but also the lawyer self-appointed to handle everything. His fees were set at $750 an hour and Simon could almost visualize the thick, padded bills Wally would present to the court for interim payments.
Simon frowned, a grimace prompted by genuine disbelief, but also offered for dramatic effect because Netty was staring at him, waiting. “Is it that bad?” she whispered loudly, then covered her mouth and glanced around again. No one looked at her. No one knew she existed.
“Let me finish,” Simon said calmly with a fake smile, as if what he was reading was definitely outrageous but he alone could fix everything.
Moving beyond the hefty fees to come, the worst part was the power granted unto the trustee. In half a page of thick legalese, Wally gave himself the right to do virtually everything and anything with the trust. He could donate to “appropriate” charities and nonprofits, make loans to virtually anyone, hire consultants, appraisers, accountants, and tax experts to help “protect” the trust. After ten years of such shenanigans, he could, in the event any of the money was left, disburse it at his discretion and close the trust.
Simon worked on his poker face. He had to be careful. He could not outright condemn the will, because he was suddenly emboldened to prepare one very much like it. But, he had to criticize it enough to win her support and convince her that he could steer her assets in a safer direction.
“It doesn’t mention your two stepsons,” he observed, still frowning, reading glasses balanced on the tip of his nose.
“Nothing for them. I thought I told you that.”
“Yes, you did, but that could cause problems. If they receive nothing they might get upset and hire some more lawyers to attack the will.”
“But they’re not entitled to anything, right? That Wally character told me that a person, any person, can exclude a child from her or his will, at least in this state. It that right? And since they’re not really my children, they have no claim to my estate?”
“That’s correct. You can exclude everyone but a spouse.”
“Well, my spouse is dead and he left me everything. Not a dime for those two outlaw sons of his. Nothing. Cut, cut, cut.”
She did the cutting with a glow in her eyes, the first sign of possible meanness. Simon was pleased that she was already referring to her soon-to-be ex-lawyer as “that Wally character.” He read on, frowning intelligently. When he finished, he took a sip of coffee and said, “I don’t like this will.”
“I told you so.”
“It gives too much power to the attorney for your trust.”
“How can we fix it?”
“It’ll take a few hours but I’ll hop right on it. The obvious challenge here, Netty, is to find a place for the money. I want you to make a list of possible charities you’d like to help.”