Paul Robertson - The Heir

“You know who you look like?” a voice said. I looked up. The waitress was waiting for my order.

“Who?”

“Jason Boyer, that millionaire.”

I smiled. “People have been saying that all weekend.”

After lunch I bought a newspaper. The state senate impeachment posse was in full pursuit of the governor. The editorial was a call for him to step down. There was a picture of me on the front cover. I wandered back toward the office. Two women on the sidewalk stared at me and whispered together.

It was spooking me. I didn’t like this feeling of being noticed and recognized. I thought about Fred and his handkerchief and his hand in the drawer. I thought about Clinton Grainger, unarmed.

I found a gun store.

I knew nothing about guns. I told the man I was working late more often and I didn’t like walking the streets at night. He told me what I wanted, an automatic pistol that he had in the back.

And there were waiting periods and background checks. I gave him my Jeff Benson driver’s license for the transaction. He studied it very carefully and decided he could trust me. He’d let me take the gun now, and he’d take care of the background checks later. He was so helpful.

I said I wanted to try it. He didn’t have a place-it took a lot of expense and licenses to run a shooting range, but maybe I could just put a couple bullets into a block of wood he had. The block had a lot of holes already and I added two more. It’s not hard to fire a gun.

I didn’t want to carry it in my pocket, so he showed me some holsters, the kind worn under a suit jacket. Of course, I’d need a concealed gun permit to use it. I told him I’d get the permit before I used the holster.

It was all easy to do, especially with such an accommodating salesperson. He smiled just like we were old friends as he handed me back the driver’s license, less the three hundred-dollar bills that had been clipped onto it. The bulge under my left arm hardly showed.

“I am not here,” I said to Pamela. “Completely not here.”

“Yes, sir.”

I closed my door. I could still back out. I could call Jacob and tell him to shred the papers. I could apologize to Fred. As long as I had the money, he’d be my friend no matter what I did.

As long as I had the money, Katie would be my loving wife.

“Katie, I’ve changed my mind. I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?”

“Oh, Jason! Of course! I love you, dear! We are keeping the house, aren’t we? And all the money?”

No, I couldn’t do it.

That brief moment of indecision was very short, about the length of time it would take a person in the lobby downstairs to see me come in from lunch, maybe make a short telephone call, and ride the next elevator up to the top floor. There was a commotion in the outer office.

My door opened. Pamela was trying to warn me on the intercom and also stop the intruder, but he was much bigger than she was.

“Jason Boyer.” he said. Shabby black suit stuffed with muscle and fat, greasy cheeks, ragged dark hair-most bouncers were better dressed.

I stood up. “Of course I am.”

“I’m serving you papers that your wife, Katherine Boyer, is suing for divorce.”

He had laid a large envelope on my desk. It would have been a cheap thrill to hit him, to punch him in the face, but it would have just made it all worse.

“Get out,” I said.

But he had more words to say. “By court order you are specifically prohibited from selling or liquidating any property-”

He paused for a split second, looking at my suit jacket. He’d spotted the holster. In his line of work, he had to be aware of things like that.

“I said get out.”

“By court order you are also required to surrender to Katherine Boyer the deed to your residence on Old Post Road. By court order you are required to transfer to the bank account listed in these papers an amount of no less than twenty million dollars for Katherine Boyer’s expenses while the divorce settlement is negotiated. By court order you are prohibited from any communication with the following people-Jacob Rosenberg, Nathan Kern, Stanley Morton, or any employees or agents of those individuals or organizations they are associated with. By court order-”

“Get out or I will kill you.”

He shrugged. There was a limit to his tenacity, and he’d said enough. He turned and walked out.

Pamela was beside herself.

“I’m so sorry, Jason. I couldn’t do anything.”

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”

I didn’t have time for the rage. I soothed Pamela and then called Jacob Rosenberg.

“What do the court orders say?” He was incredulous.

I read them again.

“Who’s the judge?”

“Walter Willis.”

“Okay, no problem,” he said. “That’s Harry Bright’s cousin. It’s twelve thirty… I’ll have them all struck down by one o’clock- except the first one about selling or liquidating. Your wife has a right to that injunction.”

“Find a judge who’ll cancel it anyway,” I said. “Are any of your cousins judges?”

“Two of my uncles are, actually, but they’re both in Boston. They couldn’t make it stick anyway. It would get immediately reinstated.”

“I was joking.”

Some amount of time passed. I only knew that because the sun was at a different angle than it had been. I could only think about Katie, and they were thoughts that couldn’t be put into words. Only that we’d each made our decision and we had not chosen each other.

“Jason,” Pamela said. “I’m sorry. Stan Morton just offered me five thousand dollars if I could get you to talk to him.”

“Take it,” I said.

“I didn’t mean… I just thought I should tell you how desperate he was.”

“Then we’ll split it. I’ll talk to him.” I picked up my phone.

“Stan.”

“Jason. Tell me this is not true. Your wife is filing for divorce?”

“It’s true.”

“No.”

This was how the fox would feel with the hounds everywhere. “I’m not allowed to talk to you anyway.”

“The court already overturned that order.”

Right. It was one thirty. “I said I’ll talk to you tomorrow. It sounds like you know everything anyway.”

“The world is going to know by this evening. What is going on?”

“I don’t know anymore.” And I hung up.

It was the dog’s day. Pamela was at the door again. “Jacob Rosen-berg is on hold.”

“Okay.”

I left him on hold while I put my head down in my hands. What had I been expecting anyway? That everyone would just smile and give me a hug? What was I doing here?

“This is Jason Boyer.”

“We’re stopped. There are five lawsuits against you so far.”

“What lawsuits?”

“By stockholders. They claim you’re devaluing their stock by your attacks on the governor. We can’t do anything with your stock until they’re thrown out.”

“Then get them thrown out.”

“It’ll take time, and I’ve only got so many people here.”

“If you need more people, get them.”

“Yes, sir. And your wife’s injunction against selling or liquidating is still in force. Whoever is advising her knows they have the trump card.”

“Do whatever it takes.”

I hung up. What had I been reading weeks ago? It had been Bleak House by Charles Dickens, where there are so many lawsuits over a dead man’s estate that the whole thing is eaten up by the lawyers’ fees. The villain in that book was a lawyer.

“I’m still not here,” I said to Pamela, “and I will be gone for a few minutes.”

Down twelve floors.

I’d missed the first part of the thug’s attack on my office, the part where he pushed past the secretary. So at Fred’s office, I reenacted it.