Footsteps of the Hawk

file…?'

'You are a lawyer, Mr…ah…Rodriguez?' he asked, just this side of snide. If I'd told him my name was Anderson, he wouldn't have asked.

'No sir,' I replied. 'I apologize. I should have made that clear. I am a paralegal— I work for Raymond Fortunato.'

The weasel's face shifted. Not a lot, but I'd been looking for it. He was a mid–list ass–kisser— he did it on the way up, and he expected those below him in the political food chain to treat him the same way. But he wouldn't risk offending someone of Fortunato's weight.

'Will you excuse me a moment?' he asked. 'I need to make a phone call.'

'Certainly, sir,' I said, backing out of the room. I took a seat on the polished wood bench in the corridor, one hand stroking my status–appropriate attache case.

In less than five minutes, the weasel poked his head out of his den, motioned for me to come back.

'Here's the file,' he said, handing me three thick folders, holding about half a ream of paper each. 'There's a lot to go through, I know, so, if you want, you could use this empty room we have down the hall.'

'I would appreciate that,' I told him.

He led me to the room. It was bare except for a long wooden table and six matching chairs. I sat down at the table, thanked the weasel again, put on a pair of reading glasses and started to work.

'When you're done, just let me know,' the weasel said.

'Thank you, sir,' I replied.

As soon as he left the room, I put the reading glasses off to one side. I don't need them— the prescription is for someone with a radical astigmatism. I'd leave them behind…accidentally. It's the same thing I do with the matchbooks— if the weasel ever had to prove I was there, he'd whip out the reading glasses triumphantly…and they wouldn't fit.

Most of the papers were the kind of boilerplate legalese you expect from people who get paid by the hour or by the pound. I finally got to the meat: the guy who left all the money was Morton L. Capshaw, last listed address was on Park Avenue. There's a key to finding the cross streets for any avenue address in New York— what you do is take the number, cancel the last digit, divide by two, then add or subtract another number, depending on the avenue. For Park, it's a +34. Park Avenue runs all the way from Gramercy to Harlem. I did the math— Capshaw lived in the Seventies…big–bucks territory.

I kept reading. He died at Sloan Kettering, the cancer hospital. Age seventy–three when he cashed out. The trust fund was huge— more than seven million. The way it was set up, Piersall got the income only, not the principal. There was a long list after that, all next in line. I counted seven names. Once I sorted it out, it was easy to see what Capshaw had done. Piersall got the income from the trust for as long as he lived. When he died, the next name on the list took over. When they all died, the principal went to something called the Adelnaws Foundation. I read through the rest of it, but couldn't find anything more. The Adelnaws Foundation was a 501(c) (3) corporation— not–for–profit. Its stated purpose was 'social research'— you know, what the reverend told the cops he was doing in a whorehouse.

The trustee was a white–shoe law firm with a whole hive of WASPs on its letterhead. They were to pay the interest 'monthly, quarterly, or annually, at the election of the beneficiary,' and the instructions were to invest in 'prudent instruments, the goal being preservation of capital.' Commodities, options, and precious metals were specifically excluded from permissible investments.

I went back to the beneficiary tree again. Something about it…Yeah— none of them were named Capshaw. So that meant…Sure enough— I found what I was looking for in the last folder— a will contest. Capshaw's ex–wife, a sister, and a cousin all brought suit, challenging the will on grounds of 'undue influence' and 'lack of testamentary capacity.' Meaning, somebody got to the old man when he was dying, or he was out of his head when he made out the will.

But it was no go. Most of those things get settled out of court, but this one went to the wall. The relatives got zilch— they were completely shut out, even on appeal. The trustee law firm did a little better— they billed for $477,504.25, and the Surrogate allowed them every penny, pulling it right out of the principal.

I looked at the list of beneficiaries again— just the names, dates of birth, Social Security numbers— straight ID stuff. All the beneficiaries were approximately the same age— there wasn't ten years difference between the oldest and the youngest. The list was the only thing in the whole file that varied from the kind of air–pumped filler you find in any document lawyers get their hands on. I copied it onto my yellow legal pad, checked it again to be sure I had it right.

On my way out, I stopped by the weasel's office to thank him for his courtesy. He wasn't at his desk.

I carried the money I'd gotten from Fortunato over to Mama's. As I was crossing Lafayette Street, a tall slender Chinese girl shot by on Rollerblades, her long black hair flying behind her. She was a pro at it— had a backpack strapped on, a whistle on a chain around her neck, and black kneepads against a possible spill. A pair of business–dressed guys saw her too. One told the other the girl had another use for the kneepads. His pal laughed in appreciation. I figured the guy who made the crack was an expert— probably on his way to do the same thing to his boss.

Anytime I forget how bad I hate this place, somebody's always good enough to remind me.

When I handed Mama the money, she didn't react with her usual happiness as she extracted her cut. When Mama doesn't smile around money, it's a storm warning. I gave her a look, waiting for it to hit. But she just sipped her soup in silence. Patience is one of my few virtues, but I knew better than to try outwaiting Mama.

'What?' I asked.

'You like this woman?' she answered my question with one of her own.

'What woman?'

'Girl with wig. Police lady.'

'No,' I told Mama. 'I don't like her.'

'Why you work, then?'

'For money,' I responded, playing the one card that Mama always recognized as trump.

'This money?' Mama asked, holding up the bills I'd just handed her, a disgusted tone in her voice.

'Yeah.'

'Not much,' Mama said. 'You have money. From…last time, yes? I know.' She did know. Hell, she was holding most of it. 'Balance,' she continued, looking at me straight on. She held out her hands parallel to the tabletop, palms up, raising first one, then the other, imitating a scale.

'Yeah,' I told her. 'I'm impressed. You gamble all the time yourself,' I said, thinking of her endless fan–tan games and her love of lotteries.

'Gamble with money, sure,' she said, shrugging her shoulders to show that was of little consequence. 'Horses, cards, dice. Even buy a fighter, yes? All you lose is money. Always get more money.'

I knew what she was saying. Hell, any professional thief knows the odds. You measure risk against gain, and take your shot. A B&E in a slum neighborhood is easy— not much chance of the cops' even coming around, much less dusting for prints and all that techno–stuff. Only problem is, the score's going to be low. Try the same stunt on Park Avenue, you raise the chances of being caught— but the take is a lot better if you pull it off. And you don't just look at the score, you look at the penalty too. You stick up a grocery store, you're probably looking at some serious time Upstate. If you're lucky enough to get out of there alive, that is— every self–respecting bodeguero has a gun somewhere under the counter. But if you embezzle a million bucks out of some widow's estate, you're probably looking at probation and community service.

You have to pick out the right scores too. If I was going to rob someone in Grand Central Station, I'd stick up a beggar instead of a guy in a business suit. I asked a beggar there for change of a five once, and he pulled out a roll thick enough to choke a boa constrictor. All I'd probably get from the suit would be an ATM card.

'You think there should be more money?' I asked innocently.

'Not enough money for this,' Mama said, her tone serious, unrelenting. 'This woman is bad. Immaculata, she say that too.'