Dark Light

Today, these three properties alone would be worth sixty, seventy million dollars. There were more receipts for acreage he’d purchased, fifteen…no, twenty-three more bills of sale. All beach or bayfront, with the exception of twenty-six acres he bought in Orlando—June 1943—lakefront acreage, cost: $2,145.

The company still owned the parcel, had yet to develop it.

The old man had sold some of his holdings to capitalize his developments. But there was still a lot of raw land in the portfolio. Bern made a mental note to look next time he was at the home office in Appleton. He had every right to do it. In fact, the bozos at the home office might as well get used to him poking around. As long as the company remained solvent for two years—actually, twenty-three months and counting—fifty-one percent of the Florida land company would belong to Bern. Plus, he’d get back his personal assets, which he’d signed over, so he had a vested interest.

Which was no big deal. He hadn’t played long enough in the NFL to get part of that rich profit-sharing pension. His little piss-poor retirement savings from Gimpel’s, some Cadillac stock, combined, worth around fifteen thousand dollars. Shirley had a collection of Hummel figurines she claimed was worth fifty or sixty thousand—maybe true, if God dropped everything else and zapped Michael Jackson knickknack crazy—and they still had ten years left on their home mortgage.

Before moving to Florida, Bern wasn’t worth much. Stick it out another year, though, stay out of the Hoosier’s line of fire, and he’d be wealthier than a lot of quarterbacks who owned car dealerships and restaurants.

Nothing too hard about that. Right?

B ern picked up Mr. Mothball’s letter, the one enclosed with the bills of sale, not the cover letter. He knew right away it was trouble from the way it started.

Jesus, now what…

Bernard, This is confidential. If you can’t honor that, please review the enclosed envelope containing newspaper clippings which are representative of a file your grandfather kept…

Here we go.

I have disturbing news regarding the corporation’s Florida land company, your contractual employer. A woman claims to have promissory notes signed by your grandfather dating back to 1939. If authentic, they may cloud titles of real estate holdings worth many millions. Copies of bills of sale are enclosed…

Shit!

Bern threw the letter down, went to the fridge and got a Grolsch beer, green bottle, porcelain stopper. He opened the beer, poured it into a quart glass, and drank half of it, getting that cold hops taste from the bubbles.

He scowled at the letter as he finished the beer—Sonuvabitch!—then went to the fridge for another before returning to the desk.

…the woman’s name is Mildred C. Engle. She is the heir of Marlissa Dorn, who was an actress, and said to be one of the great beauties of her time. I received your phone message inquiring about a photo in your possession. It was taken of Ms. Dorn in 1938, prior to her arrival in the United States…

Perfect. He finds out the old bag’s name now, when he’s too upset to think about sex even with a young woman. Bern reached, retrieved the photo from a stack of papers, and looked at the woman’s face again, her smoldering eyes.

Marlissa Dorn, huh? She couldn’t have been much of an actress. He’d never heard of her. Which was probably why she was screwing the old man. Money.

He dropped the photo and continued reading.

No. Just the opposite was true…

From 1939 to 1944, while living in Florida, your grandfather and Ms. Dorn were friends, and hoped to marry. During this period, Ms. Dorn loaned your grandfather small sums of money to purchase real estate that only he, at the time, recognized as valuable. In the autumn of 1944, however, your grandfather discovered Ms. Dorn had been unfaithful, and he left Florida soon thereafter. He did not attempt to contact her until he returned to the United States in 1955, by then happily married to your grandmother…

So, the old man was screwing the movie queen—until he caught her screwing someone else. That, at least, was interesting. But did Jason have to lay out his grandfather’s life story before telling Bern how, exactly, he was getting it up the butt again, compliments of the old man?

Bern chugged the beer, slammed the glass down, and skipped ahead to the second page, skimming key passages.

…unaware of Ms. Dorn’s death, and we could find no record…most promissory notes contain a payoff date, but these were “interest only” notes, a kindness to your grandfather, it seemed at the time…

…statutes of limitations do not apply to undated notes…even without considerations of interest due, attorney fees in a case that will go on for years…Our company losses could be in the millions…

Sadly, we wouldn’t be in this position if your grandfather had not attempted to make amends for the unpaid debt prior to his death, and do what was just and ethical…

Okay, finally, Jason was getting to the important part. The little twerp always started with some outrageous lie before kicking you in the teeth—probably hoping to get a smile. The old man had never done anything just or ethical in his life.

…when your grandfather realized our acquisitions department had, coincidentally, purchased the estate where Ms. Dorn had once resided, he contacted her family anonymously, through this office. He offered her heirs free use of the beach home until the company sold or developed the property. It was a magnanimous gesture, made by a dying man who wanted to do the right thing…

Bought the property “coincidentally”?

That was a laugh. The acquisitions department consisted of only one person who had any say: Frederick Roth. If he bought the movie queen’s house, it was the gesture of a dying man who wanted to fuck her over because she’d fucked him over. Screwing her heirs was close enough—the old man’s way of tidying up accounts prior to moving along to his own corner of Hell, where he’d probably already been promoted to an executive position.

But how was he screwing them over, letting the movie queen’s family use the place for free? Bern continued reading.

A few weeks ago, Ms. Dorn’s heir, Mildred Engle, upon learning your grandfather’s identity, contacted me about the promissory notes. Instead of being grateful for his generosity, she threatened legal action. Ms. Engle wants compensation equal to the current value of properties purchased with Ms. Dorn’s money.

If Ms. Engle can produce the original promissory notes, many of the company’s titled assets will be clouded. I feel we should consider dissolving the company in advance, and thereby making our assets less vulnerable…

Dissolve the company.

Fuck!

Bern’s was hyperventilating, his heart pounding. Dissolve the company and he would lose his job, his inheritance, his savings, his car, his home in Wisconsin. Everything.

That ruthless, miserable bastard.

Forgiveness is for people who don’t have the balls for revenge—one of his grandfather’s favorite sayings. But Bern, hounded by his slob of a wife, had gone ahead and signed the contract anyway.

How could I be so goddamn dumb?

36

Bern spent a moment punishing himself by revisiting the old man’s traps in orderly succession: the offer of a job, a big salary, the contractual guarantee that he’d inherit fifty-one percent of the company if it remained solvent for two years after his grandfather’s death. The requirement that he and Shirley sign over their piss-poor savings to