James Siegel - Epitaph

"I don't live at 1629 Collins Drive."

"No, of course not. But you did, didn't you, at one time?"

"I don't live at Collins Drive," she said again. "What inheritance?"

"Oh," he said, sounding very disappointed, which, actually, he was. "Perhaps there's been a mistake. You weren't contacted by our representative-a Mr. Jean Goldblum?"

"Never heard of him."

"And you never lived at 1629 Collins Drive?"

"No."

"Then there has been a mistake. I'm sorry for bothering you."

"What inheritance was that-"

He hung up, then put a line through her name. Different addresses, different people. Well, he thought, what had he expected?

He tried the other three as well. Two of them were home, one wasn't, but the two that were home weren't the two he wanted. One of them wanted to know if this was his cousin Bob, prankster Bob, the other one sounded nearly catatonic and wouldn't have cared if he'd just been told he'd won the lottery. Both had never lived where the file indicated they did, both had never heard from representative Goldblum.

A blank. Yet Jean had gone to Florida and Jean had found something there. Rejuvenated, Weeks had said. And there they were, a check under each name, a red check too, red to match the file, to indicate he was coming into the home stretch. But where exactly was he coming from?

It seemed like irony itself, as if irony had said ho hum let's go pay a visit on old William, when later that night, sitting before his rather shaky rabbit-eared TV which tended to sputter and reduce its picture to a single line across the screen, a commercial for Florida came on.

This time the picture held, this time the only sputtering was his. A dreary-looking man on a dreary-looking street on a dreary-looking summer day. A crowded subway ride, a sweltering walk through human traffic, followed by him slinking into the house as if he'd just been raped, or as if he'd committed one. Then, sparkling blue waters, oiled-up girls on pastel lounges, on water skis, on view, and the man, no longer dreary-looking, but looking pretty good indeed, looking like someone who's just screwed the Playmate of the Month and doesn't care who knows it. When you need it bad, someone sang, we've got it good.

Yes, William thought. You could say I need it bad. You could say that.

And now, suddenly, it seemed to him that he'd reached the moment of truth. In the old days, Julie-or Sandra or Lillian or Miss Whoever (whichever underpaid, overworked minion happened to have the bad fortune to be employed as their Three Eyes secretary at that particular time)-would always buzz them exactly five minutes after a client walked in. It took five minutes to know if a client was legitimate or just crazy, to know if he or she could pay you or couldn't (craziness and poverty both being sins, though not equal ones, poverty taking precedence). In five minutes they'd answer Julie or Lillian or whoever's call, and either tell the client that they'd have to get back to them-urgent business and such-or tell their secretary to get lost-how many times do I have to tell you not to bother me when I'm with a client. Three Eyes secretaries took a lot of abuse then. This five-minute system had been Santini's idea-William had gone along with it only reluctantly, because being less perceptive than Jean, and less brutal than Santini-who opened every interview by stating his fee-he found he often needed more than five minutes to tell whether a client was legitimate or not, and even then he often lacked the heart to refuse them.

But sometimes, that's what he did.

And now, he felt as if the five minutes were up and Julie was waiting on the line. The client was sitting across from him, but the client was dead, so it wouldn't matter if he told him that he'd have to get back to him, would it? He could show this client the door and not feel a thing.

But that, of course, wasn't exactly true, or at least, not true anymore. This client really needed him, sure, but while Jean might be the client, Jean might not be. What needed him was him. He was the client. Okay, he knew it sounded silly. He knew after years of playing the wallflower, he had no business trying to get back out on the dance floor. It's not like they were still doing the rhumba out there either. Or even the boogaloo. He knew he was liable to trip over his two left feet. On the other hand he knew if he said goodbye to this client, if he said sorry, have to get back to you, if he showed this client out, he'd be slamming the door on you know who. Again. And for good.

We didn't much like each other, he'd said to Weeks, but we covered for each other.

So maybe now he had to cover for himself, do himself a professional courtesy.

Which meant, crazy as it seemed, that he just might have to take a trip. Either that, or take a sedative. Or at the very least, take a night to sleep on it.

That's what he'd do-he'd sleep on it.

The only problem was, he couldn't. He tried counting sheep. Then he tried counting glasses of Jim Beam. Then he tried drinking glasses of Jim Beam. No dice. Now that he had the old heart pumping, it was proving difficult to shut down. He'd forgotten how annoying the old heart could be, how it wanted what it wanted and fongul to everything else.

Now what. The first ghostly light of morning was already wafting through his venetian blinds. The first traffic horns were already crowing. When he opened his refrigerator he stared point-blank at an absolutely empty container of OJ.

Now if that wasn't a sign, what was? Oh well-he supposed he'd just have to go down to Florida to get another one.

Okay. He had several thousand dollars put away in the bank. Burial money, he'd thought. He had a life insurance policy, and his monthly Social Security, and a little stock that sometimes paid dividends and sometimes didn't.

He had a theory that wasn't half bad.

He had a file red as blood.

He had a reason. He had a cause.

He had a screwed-up shoulder.

He had a recently addled brain.

All things being equal though, he had a chance.

He didn't know what planes to Florida cost these days, he didn't know what planes to anywhere cost these days, but he could find out. Sure he could-he had a phone, didn't he? Perhaps there were midweek specials, perhaps there were senior citizen rates. Maybe he'd just hitch a ride there.

We've got it good.

Okay. Let's hope so.

He wrote a note for Mr. Brickman asking him not to worry when he knocked on his door and received no answer, that he shouldn't break it down or call the police or summon the firemen, that it wouldn't be because he'd dropped dead but because he'd stepped out. Visiting relatives in Florida, he wrote. Only Mr. Brickman wasn't at the park feeding pigeons, when he slid the note under his door. He was on the other side of the door, and he read the note with William standing there. What relatives? he asked, but didn't wait for William to answer. Instead he asked him if he wouldn't mind stopping by Boca Raton and looking in on his friend Lizzie, who seemed to be doing fine down there but had proved difficult to get hold of. I'm going to Miami, William told him, not Boca Raton, and Mr. Brickman said thanks for telling me and closed the door. From Mr. Leonati he borrowed a suitcase, brown, with stickers from nearly everywhere under the sun plastered across its worn surface like unusually colorful masking tape. Florida, William answered when Mr. Leonati asked him where he was going. To visit relatives.

Coral Gardens, Disney World, Universal Studios, and Sea World, Mr. Leonati told him, then wrote them down on a piece of paper. The must-sees.

William said he didn't know if he'd have the time, but if he did, he'd be sure to look them over.

Watch your wallet, Mr. Leonati admonished him as he lugged the suitcase out the door. Watch your wallet.