Parnell Hall - The Underground Man

“The bum?”

“Yeah, the bum. The street person. The man who looked like he rolled in the gutter before he came up here.”

Steve said nothing. His face remained positively neutral.

“Surely you remember him,” Jenson said dryly.

Steve sighed. “Mr. Jenson. I think I made my position clear. I have no intention of discussing any of my clients with you in any way. If you came for information, you’re in the wrong place. Now, if you want to talk, I will let you talk. If you want to keep making statements that are really questions, and trying to get a rise out of me, I suggest that you leave.”

Jenson nodded. “Sure, sure. You say that now. But once you understand the situation … All right. All right. You listen, I’ll tell you.”

Jenson stopped and leaned in confidentially. “The first thing you have to understand is that the man is sick. I don’t mean physically sick. Physically he’s strong as a horse. No, I mean mentally sick. The man has lost it. Gone off the deep end. So whatever he told you, you shouldn’t take it at face value.”

Steve closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. “Mr. Jenson,” he said. “We don’t seem to be getting anywhere. And I doubt if there is anywhere to get. In the interests of expediency, I am going to discuss this with you as if I knew what you were talking about. Which quite frankly I don’t. But setting that aside, and without admitting for a moment that I even know the man you’re talking about, let’s discuss him. This man-your uncle-Jack Walsh-what makes you think he’s not mentally competent?”

“Are you kidding?” Jenson said. “Just look at him. He sleeps in the subways. He lives like a bum.”

“Mr. Jenson, there are thousands of homeless people in New York City. Granted, some of them are mentally incompetent. But a large number of them are merely poor.”

“But he isn’t poor,” Jenson said. “That’s the whole point. The man’s worth millions.”

“Millions?”

“Yes, of course. Didn’t he tell you that?”

Steve frowned. “Again with the questions.” Steve rubbed his head. “Mr. Jenson, what makes you think your uncle consulted me?”

“I don’t think, I know.”

“How do you know?”

“I followed him here.”

“You followed him?”

“Yes.”

“Why were you following him?”

“To see where he went, of course. But, oh, you don’t mean that. You have to understand. None of us had seen him in weeks.”

“Us?”

“Yes. The family. His family.”

“And who might that be?”

Jenson frowned. “But surely you know that. If you don’t there’s no point. But you won’t let on, because you won’t tell me what he told you.”

“Who’s the family?” Steve rephrased his question.

“I don’t know why I should answer your questions when you won’t answer mine.”

“Any reason why you don’t want me to know who his family is?”

“None at all.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“I was just pointing out that it wasn’t fair.”

“I never claimed to be fair. You sought this interview. I told you it was going to be one-sided.”

Jenson glared at him for a moment. Then he shook his head. “All right, have it your way. The family. Let’s see. There’s me. My sister Rose-that’s Rose Tindel. Her husband, Jason Tindel. My cousin Pat, Pat Grayson. Her husband, Fred Grayson. My Aunt Claire, Claire Chesterton. She’s Uncle Jack’s niece.”

“Wait a minute. Your aunt is your uncle’s niece?”

“No, no. That does sound strange, doesn’t it. Jack Walsh is really my great-uncle, but I call him Uncle Jack. My mother was his brother’s daughter. They’re both dead now. So’s my father. I always think of him as Uncle Jack.”

“I see. So that’s the family?”

“Yes. Except for Jeremy. He’s eighteen. He’s Jack’s sister’s grandson. His parents were killed in a car accident when he was three. Aunt Rose brought him up.”

“All right,” Steve said. “And you say none of you had seen him for weeks?”

“That’s right.”

“And then today?”

“I saw him on the street.”

“Speak to him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Jenson waved his hand. “You don’t understand.”

“I’m trying to understand. You’re not giving me much help. Why wouldn’t you speak to your uncle? Why would you just follow him?”

“Because he wouldn’t speak to me.”

“Why not?”

“I told you. He’s strange.”

“So what was the point of following him?”

Jenson’s eyes flicked momentarily. “To see where he goes. What he’s up to. Which is why I’m here.”

Steve sighed. He thought for a moment. He turned to Tracy Garvin. “Miss Garvin. This man is not consulting me as a client. I don’t need notes of this interview. Besides, I think your presence is inhibiting him.”

Tracy’s face fell. She looked at Steve as if she couldn’t quite believe he’d said that.

“So,” Steve said, “why don’t you go call Mark Taylor. See if he’s turned up anything on the Halsburg case. If he has, coordinate with him and set everything up.”

Tracy stared at him. There was no Halsburg case. She blinked. Then nodded. “Yes, Mr. Winslow,” she said. She folded her notebook, got up, and went out the door.

Steve Winslow turned back to Jenson. “All right,” he said. “It’s just you and me here. We can stop beating around the bush. If you won’t quote me, I won’t quote you. What the hell’s going on?”

Jenson smiled. “You now admit Uncle Jack called on you?”

“I’ll admit anything you like. I can always deny it later. But say Uncle Jack was here. Why shouldn’t I listen to him, and what’s it to you?”

“That’s more like it,” Jenson said. “All right, let’s talk turkey. My uncle’s worth a lot of money. It’s his. All his. Made it himself. A self-made man. It’s a classic success story. Who was it-Horatio Alger, right? Anyway, that’s him. Made it in the stock market. Started with a hundred bucks, parlayed it into a small fortune. In his day, the man was a genius. Sharp as a tack. Now …” Jenson shrugged.

“What happened?”

“He got old. Senile. Lost it.”

“Just like that?”

Jenson’s eyes shifted. “No. It was gradual.”

“Nothing happened to trigger it?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.”

“No, his mind just started getting muddled.”

“When?”

“Within the last year.”

“Before that he was fine?”

“Yes.”

“And he had a home?”

Jenson nodded. “Now you’ve got it. That’s the whole point. He had a home. A life. A family.”

“Where was home?”

“He had a house in Long Island. Great Neck. Gorgeous house. Lived there thirty years. One day he up and sells it, goes and lives on the subway.” Jenson smiled and shrugged. “What more do I have to say?”

“How does that affect you?”

Jenson looked at him. “Are you kidding? I was living there. In the house. We all were. Suddenly he sells it out from under us. No word, no warning, we’re out on the street. You know what it’s like trying to get an apartment in the city these days? Forget it. Right now we got a bungalow in Teaneck, New Jersey. We’re all jammed into it and lucky to get it. Meanwhile he’s running around the subway system begging quarters with the winos. All the time, the man’s worth millions.”

“So,” Steve said, “what is it you want?”

“I told you what I want. Let’s swap some information. Maybe we can help each other.”

“How so?”

“Look. The man’s insane. You can’t accept employment from a man who’s mentally incompetent. The way I understand it, he’s not responsible for his actions, so anything he does wouldn’t be legally binding. So you start working for him, you could find yourself out on a limb.”