matter to Nate. After four months, he didn’t care what was happening at the Capitol or on Wall Street or in the Middle East.
“When?” he asked.
“Late morning.”
“After my workout?”
“Of course.”
Nothing interfered with the workout, a two-hour orgy of sweat and grunting and yelling with a sadistic personal trainer, a sharply toned female Nate secretly adored.
He was resting in his suite, eating a blood orange and watching the valley again, when Josh arrived.
“You look great,” Josh said. “How much weight have you lost?”
“Fourteen pounds,” Nate said, patting his flat stomach.
“Very lean. Maybe I should spend some time here.”
“I highly recommend it. The food is completely fat-free, taste-free, prepared by a chef with an accent. The portions cover half a saucer, couple of bites and you’re done. Lunch and dinner take about seven minutes if you chew slowly.”
“For a thousand bucks a day you expect great food.”
“Did you bring me some cookies or something, Josh? Some Chips Ahoy or Oreos? Surely you hid something in your briefcase.”
“Sorry, Nate. I’m clean.”
“Some Doritos or M&M’s?”
“Sorry.”
Nate took a bite of his orange. They were sitting next to each other, enjoying the view. Minutes passed.
“How you doing?” Josh asked.
“I need to get out of here, Josh. I’m becoming a robot.”
“Your doc says another week or so.”
“Great. Then what?”
“We’ll see.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we’ll see.”
“Come on, Josh.”
“We’ll take our time, and see what happens.”
“Can I come back to the firm, Josh? Talk to me.”
“Not so fast, Nate. You have enemies.”
“Who doesn’t? But hell, it’s your firm. Those guys will go along with whatever you say.”
“You have a couple of problems.”
“I have a thousand problems. But you can’t kick me out.”
“The bankruptcy we can work through. The indictment is not so easy.”
No, it was not so easy, and Nate couldn’t simply dismiss it. From 1992 to 1995, he had failed to report about sixty thousand dollars in other income.
He tossed the orange peel in a wastebasket, and said, “So what am I supposed to do? Sit around the house all day?”
“If you’re lucky.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Josh had to be delicate. His friend was emerging from a black hole. Shocks and surprises had to be avoided.
“Do you think I’m going to prison?” Nate asked.
“Troy Phelan died,” Josh said, and it took Nate a second to change course.
“Oh, Mr. Phelan,” he said.
Nate had had his own little wing in the firm. It was at the end of a long hallway, on the sixth floor, and he and another lawyer and three paralegals and a half-dozen secretaries worked on suing doctors and cared little about the rest of the firm. He certainly knew who Troy Phelan was, but he’d never touched his legal work. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“So you haven’t heard?”
“I hear nothing here. When did he die?”
“Four days ago. Jumped from a window.”
“Without a parachute?”
“Bingo.”
“Couldn’t fly.”
“No. He didn’t try. I saw it happen. He had just signed two wills—the first prepared by me; the second, and last, handwritten by himself. Then he bolted and jumped.”
“You saw it?”
“Yes.”
“Wow. Musta been a crazy bastard.”
There was a trace of humor in Nate’s voice. Nearly four months earlier, he’d been found by a maid in a motel room, his stomach full of pills and rum.
“He left everything to an illegitimate daughter I’d never heard of.”
“Is she married? What does she look like?”
“I want you to go find her.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“She’s lost?”
“We don’t know where she is.”
“How much did he—”
“Somewhere around eleven billion, before taxes.”
“Does she know it?”
“No. She doesn’t even know he’s dead.”
“Does she know Troy’s her father?”
“I don’t know what she
“When?” he asked.
“Late morning.”
“After my workout?”
“Of course.”
Nothing interfered with the workout, a two-hour orgy of sweat and grunting and yelling with a sadistic personal trainer, a sharply toned female Nate secretly adored.
He was resting in his suite, eating a blood orange and watching the valley again, when Josh arrived.
“You look great,” Josh said. “How much weight have you lost?”
“Fourteen pounds,” Nate said, patting his flat stomach.
“Very lean. Maybe I should spend some time here.”
“I highly recommend it. The food is completely fat-free, taste-free, prepared by a chef with an accent. The portions cover half a saucer, couple of bites and you’re done. Lunch and dinner take about seven minutes if you chew slowly.”
“For a thousand bucks a day you expect great food.”
“Did you bring me some cookies or something, Josh? Some Chips Ahoy or Oreos? Surely you hid something in your briefcase.”
“Sorry, Nate. I’m clean.”
“Some Doritos or M&M’s?”
“Sorry.”
Nate took a bite of his orange. They were sitting next to each other, enjoying the view. Minutes passed.
“How you doing?” Josh asked.
“I need to get out of here, Josh. I’m becoming a robot.”
“Your doc says another week or so.”
“Great. Then what?”
“We’ll see.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we’ll see.”
“Come on, Josh.”
“We’ll take our time, and see what happens.”
“Can I come back to the firm, Josh? Talk to me.”
“Not so fast, Nate. You have enemies.”
“Who doesn’t? But hell, it’s your firm. Those guys will go along with whatever you say.”
“You have a couple of problems.”
“I have a thousand problems. But you can’t kick me out.”
“The bankruptcy we can work through. The indictment is not so easy.”
No, it was not so easy, and Nate couldn’t simply dismiss it. From 1992 to 1995, he had failed to report about sixty thousand dollars in other income.
He tossed the orange peel in a wastebasket, and said, “So what am I supposed to do? Sit around the house all day?”
“If you’re lucky.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Josh had to be delicate. His friend was emerging from a black hole. Shocks and surprises had to be avoided.
“Do you think I’m going to prison?” Nate asked.
“Troy Phelan died,” Josh said, and it took Nate a second to change course.
“Oh, Mr. Phelan,” he said.
Nate had had his own little wing in the firm. It was at the end of a long hallway, on the sixth floor, and he and another lawyer and three paralegals and a half-dozen secretaries worked on suing doctors and cared little about the rest of the firm. He certainly knew who Troy Phelan was, but he’d never touched his legal work. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“So you haven’t heard?”
“I hear nothing here. When did he die?”
“Four days ago. Jumped from a window.”
“Without a parachute?”
“Bingo.”
“Couldn’t fly.”
“No. He didn’t try. I saw it happen. He had just signed two wills—the first prepared by me; the second, and last, handwritten by himself. Then he bolted and jumped.”
“You saw it?”
“Yes.”
“Wow. Musta been a crazy bastard.”
There was a trace of humor in Nate’s voice. Nearly four months earlier, he’d been found by a maid in a motel room, his stomach full of pills and rum.
“He left everything to an illegitimate daughter I’d never heard of.”
“Is she married? What does she look like?”
“I want you to go find her.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“She’s lost?”
“We don’t know where she is.”
“How much did he—”
“Somewhere around eleven billion, before taxes.”
“Does she know it?”
“No. She doesn’t even know he’s dead.”
“Does she know Troy’s her father?”
“I don’t know what she