Steven Womack: Dead Folks' blues

“Jeez, he did okay for himself, didn’t he?” Conrad made just over $250,000 last year.

“Keep reading,” Lonnie said. He could digest the data a lot faster than I could. He could go through a two-page report and pick out the important material in about thirty seconds.

I read on. There was a section on Public Records, which was empty. At least he hadn’t filed bankruptcy, and there were no current judgments against him. The next section started after another row of asterisks, then a series of columns headed: FIRM; CURRENT STATUS; RPTD-OPND; LIMIT P-D; HICR TERM; BAL; and 24-MONTH HISTORY.

“Aw, man, look at this,” I said, as the statement’s impact hit me like another shot to the gut from Bubba.

“These guys were in hock up the ya-ya,” Lonnie said. “See, their house had two mortgages. They’re one month behind on the primary and three months behind on the secondary.”

“Look, both their cars are leased,” I said.

“And see up here in this section,” Lonnie said, pointing. “They had a Mercedes repossessed last year.”

“Oh, hell, is that what that code means?”

“Yeah, it wasn’t one of mine, though. I didn’t pop it. I’d remember a car like that.”

I suddenly felt dizzy. “Man, I got to sit down. You mind?”

“Sure.” He pulled the chair away from the desk for me.

There it was, the Great American Success Story. No wonder there was tension in their marriage. It’s tough making medium six figures a year when you’re supporting a high six figures lifestyle.

“Look,” I said, “two MasterCards, three VISAs, American Express Gold, Optima, Diner’s Club, Carte Blanche.”

“All maxxed out or over their credit limits,” Lonnie commented, standing over my shoulder. “Look, they’re three months behind on that VISA, two on the other ones.”

“Where did it all go?” I asked, exasperated.

“Beats me. Maybe up their noses.”

“No, you toot up that kind of dough, people are going to notice. Man, I think it’s just fancy living. Vacations, cars, clothes, restaurants.”

“Look, that’s another mortgage, I’ll bet. Bank of Cookeville-that’s up by Center Hill Lake. Sixty-five grand outstanding. Man, it’s almost got to be a summer home or something. See, next column over. They’re four months behind on that one. I don’t know why the bank hasn’t already foreclosed.”

I stared down at the paper, seeing the letters and the numbers, but too much in shock to make much sense out of it.

“Check it out, man,” Lonnie continued, “Saks Fifth Avenue, Neiman-Marcus, Dillards, Castner’s, Lord amp; Taylor. Damn, man, what’d these two do? Fly up to New York every weekend to shop?”

“Down here at the bottom,” I said, pointing. “Look, a charge off.”

“Twenty-five hundred to Dominion Bank. And here, look. His student loan is even late. Now that’s some serious shit, man. You deadbeat a student loan, they go after you hard. They’ll pull your freaking income tax refund nowadays.”

“If he had one. The one thing I don’t see is an IRS lien.”

“It wouldn’t necessarily be there. I usually don’t see personal liens on these reports until after the IRS has come in and seized everything you own.”

“Then they list it afterward on your credit report?”

“Yeah. Keeps you from replacing all your stuff with something else. I tell you, fella, these two were on the edge of it.”

“Edge of what?”

“Collapse, man. Collapse.”

I scanned down to the end of the report, each printed line another nail in the financial coffin. How can anyone let themselves get in this kind of shape?” I wondered.

“We can get out the calculator,” Lonnie said, “but my guess is that between the credit limits, the mortgages, and the judgments, they owe somewhere around three-quarters of a big one.”

“No, don’t. I don’t want to know.” I let the paper fall out of my hand onto the floor, then wearily put my head down on the desk next to the computer. Lonnie leaned against the door frame, cradling the cup of coffee in his hands.

“Man, I know it’s tough,” he said. “But you gotta get straight about this. You’re either going to have your head in the right place, or your ass in the wrong one.”

I raised up and rubbed my burning eyes. “How could this happen? They were so bright, so successful.”

“Hey, you think they’re different from anybody else? I don’t want to get too political on you here, buddy, but it’s the legacy of the Reagan years. You got your billionaire stockbrokers in New York that went down the toilet when the bubble burst. What makes you think a doctor could get away with it? Fletcher was a pauper compared to Ivan Boesky.”

“I know, man. You’re right.”

“Of course, I’m right. And I tell you one other thing, bucko. She whacked him. As sure as I’m standing here wearing boxer shorts under my jeans, Rachel Fletcher killed her husband.”

I leaned back and stared at him as if he were an escaped lunatic. “You’re off there, Lonnie. It don’t make sense.”

“What the motherfather you talking about? Makes perfect sense.”

“No, Lonnie. It’d made perfect sense if he didn’t owe a nickel. But Conrad was in hock up to his eyebrows. What could Rachel inherit? I mean, what’s the benefit to her? A week ago, she had a husband who was pulling in two-hundred-grand a year. Now all she’s got is a house the mortgage company’s going to take within a matter of days, two leased cars she can’t afford, and a purse full of plastic a clerk in East Beehaysoos wouldn’t take.”

Outside, a rolling, burbling rumble came from the sky. I pivoted and looked through the thin gauzy curtain over the window. In the distance, a flash of lightning tickled the horizon, followed a few moments later by a hard thunderclap. Rain began falling, at first only light drizzles. Then, in a matter of seconds, the roof of the trailer rattled like BBs falling on sheet metal.

“If anything,” I said over the din of the rain, “Conrad’s death leaves her in worse shape than before. Now she hasn’t even got the income they had.”

“You’re forgetting one thing, Ace.”

“What’s that?”

“Life insurance.”

“Oh, right,” I said, suddenly angry with him. “Like I’m just going to walk over to Rachel’s and say ‘okay, babe, where’s the key to your lock box?’ I’m sure he had insurance, although God knows how he paid for it. I know his university policy won’t come anywhere near paying off those debts. There was probably barely enough to bury him.”

Lonnie stood still for a second, his face blank, expressionless. Finally, he said: “There’s one way to find out, my man. But this is one you really got to keep quiet about.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Insurance companies are like anybody else. They don’t want to do anything stupid. They got certain standards for certain occupations. You’re a freaking ditch digger carrying five mil worth of insurance on yourself, the insurance company’s going to want to know why you value yourself so highly. The scam used to be you buy a bunch of policies spread out over several companies.

“Not anymore,” he continued. “Now they got a computer. When you buy an insurance policy, the insurance companies run your Social through a database and see how many policies you’ve got with other companies.”

“Get out of here.…”

“I’m serious, man. You wouldn’t believe what you can find out. You got a modem, a phone number, a password. You go to a new doctor with a bad back, he’s going to run your name through the MTB, see if you’ve ever been involved in a malpractice suit. You got a track record for suing doctors, he’s going to tell you to hit the road, Jack. Go see a witchdoctor.”