Bruce Wagner - Memorial

“Oh, great.”

“What I mean is, your mother is very sharp. From the conversations I’ve had with Ruddy, she was circumspect; you can’t imagine how skillful these men and women are at establishing trust. That’s what they do. But she is definitely of sound mind, and didn’t just give her money away. I know that sounds hard to believe when we’re staring at the results, but it’s important for you to keep in mind.”

“I appreciate what you’re trying to say, Mrs—”

“Mulcahy. And it’s Ms —but Cynthia, please.”

“I appreciate it. She’s not senile. OK. She’s alone and vulnerable, and I probably have something to do with that.”

“Don’t go there, Joan.”

“But the money’s gone nonetheless. And it’s a lot.”

“I know. Look: everything that can be done is being done. Are you going to postpone your trip?”

“I don’t know. I need to think.”

“OK. If you do go, when will you be back?”

“I was just going for a few days, but I’ll cut it short. I can actually be back late tonight. It’s a presentation,” she added needlessly.

“All right. Why don’t you give me your email and cellphone number. You left it for Agent Marone?”

“Yes. But not my email.”

“I’m sure he’ll call within the next few hours. I don’t think there’s much you can actually do by being here, Joan, aside from hand-holding — which she definitely needs. The poor woman hasn’t had an easy time. There’s a lot of shame attached to this type of thing when it happens. I wish I could say I hadn’t been through it with other clients.”

“You’ve seen it before.”

“More than I wish! Many, many of our customers. And it isn’t just widows and widowers: it’s married couples, folks in their 50s, we’re generally talking about savvy, well-educated people. Baby-boomers! They become mesmerized —the groups preying on them are like — well, they’re just so seductive. Whether or not you postpone your trip is completely up to you, but you should take comfort that the agent in charge of your mother’s case is extremely competent. We’re keeping a close watch on Marjorie’s account. I am, personally. If you’re back tonight or tomorrow morning, I don’t see much difference. It’s your call. It’s an emotional call.”

“Do I need to get a lawyer?”

“Absolutely. Why don’t you come see me the minute you touch down — with or without your mom. I’m here all week. The Pico-Robertson branch. That’s Marjorie’s home branch. We can discuss all your options and I can give you a list of people — attorneys — you might want to get in touch with.”

Joan called her mother and said she’d spoken to the lady at the bank and had also left word with the FBI agent. She was leaving at 3 to give the final presentation of the Memorial, but would be in constant touch. When she broached the possibility of returning on the same night, Marj would hear nothing of it, which only made her feel worse, accentuating the offer’s hollow ring. (After speaking to the Wells Fargo woman she had pretty much settled on staying in Napa until the following afternoon, to get closure on whatever the hell was going on.) She patiently waited for her mom to get a pen and write down Joan’s cell number, asking her to repeat it back. She told her to keep the Nokia turned on as well (the old woman didn’t have the heart to say she’d forgotten her own mobile number — thank God Joan didn’t ask her to recite it — but didn’t think it made any difference, as long as she had it charged and ready), and not to leave the house or answer the door. If anything “seemed ‘funny,’ ” Joan said, “I want you to call 911 immediately, and then call the agent, and then Cora, and then me —in that order. OK, Mom?” Her daughter said it sounded like everyone was doing what they could, and not to worry. It wasn’t that much money in the scheme of things (the fuck it wasn’t)… you have your health, your children, and your house free and clear. These things happen to people of all ages. It’s a pandemic. (She hated parroting the woman from the bank and hated herself for wanting to soften things before they hung up. She had years of experience hanging up on her mother.) She tried to end on a cheerful note by bringing up the hundred-thousand dollars that Cynthia said had been deposited back in her account. They spoke another 5 minutes, but Joan was on autopilot, her head already in Napa.

AS the Town Car ferried her to Van Nuys she put on her warpaint, strategizing how to surf the cauldron of india ink that abutted and slapped the great and perilous cliffs of Losers Coast.

She decided not to refer to the baby unless Lew Freiberg brought it up. She would promise an abortion if that was what he required — a stone lie, yet one that might buy her time. All Joan wanted was a fair shake at winning the Mem: if securing the commission, publicly, came down to an order to scrape the womb, she would give notarized assurance. (In her heart she felt he would never tell her to do such a thing but she had to prepare for the worst). The prime imperative, as they say, was for ARK’s design, her design, to be inseminated into every media outlet that mattered, up, down, and sideways. She wanted to win a prestigious foreign prize. She wanted to be profiled, a smoldering headshot in the sidebars of middlebrow magazines that sit in doctors’ offices: Time, Newsweek, what have you. She wanted the whole international elitist enchilada. She wanted to be recognized then move on. Let Lew Freiberg try to pull the Mem plug late-term — but she wouldn’t, she would have that child. And if Joan Herlihy couldn’t have her commission, why then she’d just build a baby, like her brother said, because time was running out, all around.

What could be a more intelligent design?

THE Dog Whisperer came with his camera crew, and went for walks with Nip.

The sorcerer worked his calm-assertive magic: the Friar was easier to live with, and his wounds were healing nicely because he no longer reopened them out of compulsive, neurotic behavior. He didn’t cry or throw up anymore when he heard loud noises in the middle of the night. Once in a while he growled during meals but Ray knew what to do. Having established dominance, the old man could now replenish the bowl during a feed without incident.

Ghulpa was another story. He joked to Señor Millan that his girlfriend (he didn’t say “roommate” anymore) might need a little training on the side. She’d become a handful, even for the cousins. She was nauseous most of the time, and in general discomfort. It wasn’t her fault; being pregnant at that age had to be tough. More than anything, BG hated being confined to bed. The only thing that cheered her was news from the lawyers about the money, the sum of which kept threatening to arrive any day now; Ray knew she’d feel a whole heck of a lot better once she could hold the check in her pretty little hand. He told her that after she dropped the kid (she hated when he used that phrase, and he said it just to get a rise), they’d take a trip somewhere — the Grand Canyon or Yosemite. Big Gulp frowned like an angry god: she would never take her baby camping, nor waste money on “frivolities.” She was a tough nut, and he loved her more each day. She wanted to put money down on a house and leave the rest in the bank, where it could accumulate interest for the baby’s education. All right. Good deal. BG even wanted to buy insurance so “if something happens,” the child’s future would be secure. Everything was pragmatic, and well thought out. Very Indian. She even spent hours budgeting wardrobe, year by year. She was convinced they were going to have a “boychild.”