Final Arrangements (23 page)

Fishkin smiled. "It beats a birth date or
social security number. The thieves always guess those
somehow."

"They go through our garbage," Stretch said.
"It's amazing how much secret stuff is in the garbage. They also
get the numbers when they steal our cars or our wallets. A lot of
them have contacts they pay off at the DMV and other places. Or
else their cleaning ladies and pool people sell the information to
gang members. And they hack our computers. Did you know everybody's
home computer gets hacked about 10 times a month?"

Both Fishkin and Shannon stared at
Stretch.

"What can I say? I work with troubled youth
at my church."

"You wiggled out of that one," she said.
"Lester, do you have any guesses as to how my father accumulated
three million dollars? On an engineer's salary?"

"It could be done," Fishkin said. "If he was
thrifty and a saver."

"Or if he hit the lottery," she said.

"Or if he sold nuclear secrets to the
terrorists," Stretch said.

"Stretch!"

"Sorry."

"Dad was a chemical engineer," Shannon said.
"Well acquainted with nuclear processes. He was a regular at the
weapons lab in Livermore."

"Shall we read the will?" Fishkin asked.

"Please."

A half an hour later, it was over, and they
were back in the parking lot outside the building.

"Whew," Stretch said. "That was intense."

"I'm completely at a loss," Shannon said.
"Whoever would have imagined he'd leave it all to me? And not leave
his son Phil a thing except the new Suburban. Which he can't have
for another month yet until the State hands him back his license.
Stretch, do you realize that a day or so ago, I had a net worth of
about 80 grand, and now I'm worth close to seven million dollars?
I'm afraid. My brother might kill me. Or kill himself when he finds
out."

"But the will explained why," Stretch said.
"Phil was to receive no money, only the Suburban, if he'd had a
drink within twelve months preceding your father's death. Your
father was afraid that sudden wealth would push Phil into an orgy
of self-destruction."

"I could have told Fishkin that Phil hadn't
drank. Then he would have gotten half."

"No. That would have been a lie."

"But what if Phil tells Fishkin I'm
lying?"

"The will allows your word to be taken as the
truth in the matter."

"Phil will take me to court. He'll say Dad
wasn't of sound mind. He'll bring up the whole issue of our
arranged marriage as proof. It'll look like you and I conspired
against him."

"Fishkin will then rear his ugly head and
fight back. That's why these family law attorneys take on this kind
of low paying probate work. Because families feud after someone
dies, and when they do, lawyers rack up the bucks. By the way, what
did you think of the official notarized document containing the
details of our arranged marriage?"

"I thought it was totally archaic. Until now,
I still half-believed you made it up. Imagine such a thing in this
day and age. But I am also deeply moved by it for some strange
reason. It struck a chord in me in a place I never knew existed.
Could it be that the ancient peoples were correct in arranging
their marriages?"

Her phone rang.

"Shannon?" Minda, Phil's wife.

"Minda? Are you calling me from the
Philippines?"

"No. I'm home again. I didn't go to the
Philippines. I just told everybody that. I couldn't go."

"Where have you been?"

"Anaheim. I took the kids to Disneyland for a
couple of days."

"Is Phil with you?"

"No, Phil is out on a bender somewhere. The
house is a wreck. There are bottles everywhere. It looks like he
had a bunch of people here. I don't know where he is."

"Oh Lord, Minda."

"You better pray. Only God can save Phil
now."

"Minda ... we're laying Dad to rest this
afternoon at Forest Lawn. A small ceremony. It starts at 3
o'clock."

"Okay. I'll come and bring the kids."

"We'll send a car for you. A limo. Minda, I'm
worried for your safety."

"Don't be. My two brothers are here from the
Philippines. I had them fly over. They're going to stay with me
awhile until everything is straightened out."

"Phil will try and hurt them."

"No he won't. They know escrima."

"What's that?"

"Philippino stick fighting."

Shannon terminated the connection. "Well that
tears it," she said.

"Tears what?"

"Everything. Phil's wife is barricaded in her
condo in Encino with a couple of her brothers posting watch with
baseball bats. Phil is out on a drunk somewhere. With a year of
probation still to finish. Doing heaven only knows what. And with
whom."

"Lord, watch over Phil," Stretch prayed.

"Please, Stretch. This thing is beyond
prayers."

"Get a grip," he said. "Nothing is beyond
prayer. You're just at a low ebb or you wouldn't even be saying
such a thing."

"I feel terrible that Dad didn't leave
anything to his only son except a car. And now he may not even get
that. What if he gets arrested and they find out he's on probation?
Phil could wind up in prison."

"Look, your dad gave you the money because he
knows you're money smart. If you want to help Phil sober up and
after a proper amount of time, help him out financially, that's up
to you."

"I never thought of it that way," she said.
"Still, 3 million dollars is a lot of money. Enough for Phil to
kill me over. If I was dead, he'd inherit. Oh my gosh. Unless I was
married. Then all the money would go straight to you."

"You trust your own brother that little?"

"Stretch, this is going to sound horribly
terrible. But I'm wondering who I can trust? I hate to be this
honest, but you're right. The money has changed everything. Because
now I'm feeling paranoid about everybody in my life. Help me,
Stretch. Tell me something intelligent. Something wise."

"We need to eat something," Stretch said. "We
should have had something before we came here, like we planned. I'm
starving. Then it'll be time for the funeral."

"There's a Jack in the Box across the street.
Would onion rings and ketchup be inappropriate two hours before a
funeral?"

"Probably," he said. "But I'm game."

"We'll both eat them," she said. "In the
unlikely event we share another kiss later."

"Unlikely?"

"Worried?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I love you," he said. "I don't ever
want to lose you. And because I want another kiss." He placed his
long arm across her shoulders, steering the huge Mercedes with one
finger into the drive-through. "Four orders of extra large onion
rings," he said. "And lots of those little ketchups. And two large
root beers."

"I liked it better in the old days," Shannon
said. "When they had that giant clown to talk to."

"But their food was the worst. The buns were
cardboard. One of their cheeseburgers killed a kid in Oregon."

"I still liked it."

"That's because you were a kid then," he
replied. "Everything tastes better to a kid."

"I invited General Kremsky to the funeral,"
Shannon said.

"Do you think he'll come on such short
notice?"

"Maybe. He's in San Diego, probably hanging
out with his old Russian friends, but he has his own jet and
helicopter, so a trip to L.A. is no biggie for him. And I think he
has a lot of friends here."

Stretch pulled off Van Nuys Boulevard onto a
side street of older homes, mostly low-square footage stucco boxes
taken over by renters who favored chain link fences and pit bulls.
One home was host to a variety of older automobiles of uncertain
make, rusting on blocks in the front yard, their languishing
presence quietly violating at least a dozen city ordinances. They
watched in fascination as a large orange cat watched them from the
windowless rear deck of a yellow coupe.

The cell rang. Fishkin, the attorney. "I just
got off the phone with Merrill Lynch," he said. "Thought you'd like
to know your father came by his money honestly. He invested in oil
stocks for about 10 years in a company pension plan which matched
him 100%. Then in the early '80's, he dumped the entire thing into
the high tech sector, including Microsoft. He got out a few years
before the crash."

"Thanks, Mr. Fishkin," Shannon said, breaking
off and turning to Stretch. "Dad made his money in the market. The
man was a master of timing."

"Casting his bread upon the waters," Stretch
said.

"He was smart. I had no idea. In spite of my
talents, he never involved me in his finances."

"Best onion rings anywhere," Stretch said,
holding one aloft and admiring it from various angles. "Lord, bless
this food which we are truly thankful for, and may it nourish our
bodies."

"You're so tactful when you change the
subject. But don't make me laugh," Shannon said. "We'll lose a year
off our lives after the first greasy bite."

"Maybe not," he replied. "Food is food. At
the cellular level, at least. By the time it hits my bloodstream,
my corpuscles don't know if it was an onion ring or roast
pheasant."

"You're wrong. Your cells do know. And they
don't like what we're doing to them. Hurry up and open all those
little ketchups."

"You'll have to do it. They're too slippery
and my fingers are too big."

"You're a sexist."

"Only when it comes to food."

They made it to The Old North Church replica
by three o'clock, and were met, not by Paul Revere, but by an
usher, who steered them into the foyer where stood a guest book and
a stack of programs.

Beyond this, through an open set of double
doors, at the end of a center aisle, just past the wineglass
pulpit, in front of the steps leading to the communion table, was
the open casket, draped with an impressive spray of flowers, next
to which was a podium. A large wooden cross hung suspended from the
ceiling above the casket, it's emptiness suggesting that somewhere
beyond this room there was a place free from the ignominy of
death.

She collapsed without realizing she was doing
so, not understanding that the sight of the coffin could deal her
such a blow from a distance. That it had the power to do so forced
upon her once again the realization that she was not ready, nor
ever would be ready, to go through life without her father. The man
had been a quiet source of steady strength all her born days and
now that strength had departed.

Stretch, alert to her predicament, had made a
nice job of intercepting her fall to the point that she now found
herself lifted bodily in his arms, he lifting her lightly as though
she weighed nothing.

"Do you want to see him now?"

"Stretch ... I fell."

"It's okay. Do you want me to take you to see
him?"

"I ... yes. Don't put me down. Take me to
him. Wait. Where's my straw purse?"

"Hanging on your arm, right where you left
it."

"I'm out of it, aren't I?"

"You're doing great." It took but a few quick
strides from Stretch's long legs and she was snug in his arms, over
the coffin, looking down. And knew, in the manner of true knowing,
a manner not of words or feelings, but of the soul, that her father
was dead. Because what was lying in the coffin was no longer Joe
Ireland.

"What have they done to him? His face ...
it's so swollen."

"They did the best they could. Remember, the
County had him first."

"They should all be taken out and
hanged."

She hadn't realized what large hands her
father had. Not until this moment, when they were completely
stilled. Dad had used his hands well in life, and she realized it
was the first time she had ever seen them when they were not in
motion, not gesturing as he talked, or holding a fork, removing his
glasses or working with tools, or tickling her chin to bring her
out of an angry mood as a child.

"Let me down," she said. He did, and she
leaned forward.

"Oh God," she said. "The urn is here. Holding
my Mother's ashes." She bent and kissed her father's forehead and
her mother's urn. "Good-bye, Mom and Dad. I love you both."

Stretch reached into his pocket and pulled
out a small envelope, which he placed inside Joe's breast pocket,
before touching Joe's hand in farewell.

"What's that?"

"A final chess move. My white queen to his
king's bishop three for check."

"A black square. Oh! You know what I just
realized? We forgot to dress for this funeral. We have to go home
and change to black. You can't bury someone wearing yellow parrots.
I can't stand by his grave wearing this straw hat with the flower
on it."

"Forget it," he said. "Just this once, we
won't be standing on protocol. If it makes you feel any better,
your father gave me this shirt."

"He didn't."

"He did. He ordered it on the internet from
Hilo Hattie's just for me."

"Then take me outside. The walls are closing
in. The whole place smells like Carpet Fresh. I need to walk and
get some air before the service starts. No, wait. There's something
I have to do." Reaching into her straw purse, she extracted
Tedricka and placed the tiny stuffed animal in her father's
arms.

"So he'll take a piece of me with him," she
explained to Stretch.

Weather can be mercurial in L.A. in the late
Spring. In the short matter of minutes they'd been inside, great
dark clouds had cruised in through the mountain passes from the
overheated, smog-shrouded, inland empire of Riverside County,
turning the Valley foothills dark, and splattering flat, wet drops
everywhere, stopping the two of them on the steps of the church,
where they had a view of gardens, and a walkway which led to the
parking lot where the hearse in solitary dignitary sat, attended by
a uniformed attendant holding an umbrella.