Bruce Wagner - Memorial

Before he left, he told her that a “trap” had been installed on the phone line, just in case “our ‘Mr Weyerhauser’ ” tried contacting her again. (He didn’t think that likely.) Agent Marone said she could make and receive calls as she normally did; she wouldn’t even know it was there. He also assured her that no one would be listening in on conversations. She was, of course, to alert him immediately should anyone from the gang get in touch.

SHE felt a little better, but couldn’t bring herself to think about having lost most of Ham’s legacy. He’d have been so upset with her. How stupid! One always expected this sort of disaster to happen to others — but there she was.

She went next door.

The grandkids were trying to play with Pahrump, but he cowered in a corner as if they were strangers. Cora said the veterinary people told her that wasn’t uncommon, given what her baby went through. She said that a special psychologist who knew the inner workings of the minds of dogs was going to make a housecall and maybe put Mr P on television. The grandchildren were so excited about the prospect, you would have thought it was Christmas! The world would finally see Pahrump for what he was — King Charles the 1st!

EARLY that evening, Agent Marone called. “Are you sitting down?” he said, warmly. There was a break in the case and they were about to make an arrest. He asked if he could drop by. “I have a little present for you.”

He came within the hour, accompanied by a woman in a blue business suit who worked at Wells. She smiled and presented Marj with a check for a hundred-thousand dollars. That was the amount the old woman’s money market account was insured for by the FDIC — and because of Agent Marone’s efforts, the bank had drastically shortened the reimbursement period, cutting through the red tape with a little-known statute that such funds might possibly be used to aid an ongoing federal investigation.

The agent winked at Marj and said, “We have our methods.”

She wiped away a tear and thanked both of them.

“This is marvelous.”

“A hundred thousand down, 450,000 to go,” he said, patting her arm.

But he’d said they were about to make an arrest…

“2 people matching the descriptions of ‘Bonita’ and our ‘Mr Weyerhauser’ were in your branch only hours ago, just as it was closing. Guess what they wanted to know: your current balance. Now, that was a gross misstep — and a clear indication the gang is getting sloppy.”

“My balance?”

She was befuddled.

“They told the clerk that you were ill, and they’d been granted POA — power of attorney.”

The woman in the business suit spoke up.

“They even presented documents to my branch manager — very authentic -looking documents — a fairly amazing thing to do considering the current climate of fraud directed toward the elderly.”

“It’s the equivalent of waving a red flag — and they know it.”

“I’ve been in this business many years and stranger things have happened, but this …well, it’s pretty close to flabbergasting. They were cool as cucumbers.”

“And this is one cucumber we’re going to slice and dice — with your help, Mrs Herlihy.”

“It’s like a Sherlock Holmes!” said Marj.

“We’ll make a Miss Marple out of you yet,” said the agent.

HE asked her to fly with him to Paris for the weekend.

They hadn’t discussed the pregnancy any further.

There were 3 pilots and 3 stewards, 2 master suites, and a full spa. The bathrooms had special black toilet paper from Spain.

She was a little under the weather, but the Ritz didn’t make her feel any worse. On both days, Lew had a full slate of meetings, except for when he insisted she come with him to the Marais to look at a 4 foot tall 122-lb Christian Bailly automata, a complex mechanical figure called the Bird Trainer, in the lineage of 18th century creations. It took 6 years to build. 6 years = $6,000,000. Joan thought everyone was kidding.

She liked spending time alone.

The Bentley — which for some reason had a sink in the back — shuttled her to anonymous vintage clothiers, hidden away in unlikely arrondissements. Lew kept the car in its own climate-controlled “condo,” and the driver-caretaker lived above. He could view his collection, including a Czech Tantra 87 and a 1933 Maybach Zeppelin, on a Webcam from wherever he was in the world. He told her the Maybach’s orange paint had been matched to a Moroccan ex girlfriend’s pubes. Joan said, “TMI, Lew,” and he laughed.

A boutique in the hotel sold 35-hundred dollar Japanese jeans (woven with platinum strands), a knee-length jacket made out of fetuses cut from ewes’ carcasses, and a 32,000 dollar cellphone. He wanted to buy them all, for kicks, but she said no 5 times. (When she returned to LA the jeans and phone were waiting for her at ARK. At least he didn’t send the coat.) Though he seemed to relish her spirited refusals, he absolutely would not let Joan turn down his offer of a Guerdon credit card. At that point, she caved. He is going to be the father of my child. She bought a 12,000€ belted Lagerfeld dress coat at Anouschka on Avenue du Coq (Catherine Deneuve was having lunch in the vestibule with an employee), a Goyard doctor’s satchel, an incongruous pythonskin ultra P&G bag, a Spaksmannsspjarir sweater with button-on collar, a tacky Andrew Gn coral print coat, a black Lurex Boudicca shirtdress, and a reworked 20s flapper gown from a husband-and-wife team who called themselves E2.

She walked on the street.

She hated the bustle — people stuffing their faces with food, on the fly. It was the same all over the world. She hated watching daughters or wives or mistresses attentively watching their fathers or husbands or lovers talk on cellphones: the men usually spoke with bizarre, heightened urgency, as if negotiating with abductors. Everything was so intensely grave and poppycockish, and she knew that if she could understand what was being said it’d be the most mundane thing imaginable.

She watched television back at the hotel. Larry King again, always a comfort. All Larry, all the time. This one was a BTK rerun. A cop was talking: “I always thought he had the misfortune, given his aspirations, to live in a small media market. He never got the attention of an LA or New York market because he lived in Wichita.” On the BBC, Condi Rice was telling an interviewer that she was a social scientist; Condi was weirdly comforting too. Sexy.

A soap came on. Some kind of Latin couple. The guy said, “I am not going to make love to you.” The girl said, “You are going to make love to me.” The guy said, “How can you prove you made love to me?” The girl said, “Why would you want to make love to me?” Nothing made sense. Maybe she wasn’t paying enough attention.

The ads were mostly tourist promos for other countries. She liked the slogans: MADRID ONLY HAPPENS IN MADRID. UGANDA — GIFTED BY NATURE. MALAYSIA TRULY ASIA. DO BUY IN DUBAI. (RWANDA IS FOR LOVERS.) A funny one was aimed at the Arab Emirates; people there were so parched that India was offering trendy new “monsoon mania holidays,” even though recent floods had killed thousands.

GOA — COME FEEL THE RAIN.

DARFUR — FEEL THE JANJAWEED.

Condi’s moment dissolved into a feature on Viktor Yushchenko, he of the toxin-ravaged face. One poll taken said the Ukrainians thought he was shit and things were now worse than before the revolution. But the poll that closed the news segment said 2/3s of the populace were “very happy.” Shit Happy Shit Happy Shit Happy.