The Straw Men Read Free Page B

been since they’d met him after moving from Northern California. I’d spoken to him on a couple of previous occasions, Christmas or Thanksgiving drinks at their house, but in my mind he was now simply one of a number of people with whom my acquaintance was about to draw to an abrupt close. This bred a curious mixture of both distance and a desire to prolong the contact, which I was unable to translate into much in the way of conversation.
    Thankfully, Davids took the lead as soon as the bowls of butternut and lichen soup arrived. He recapped the circumstances of my parents’ death, which in the absence of witnesses boiled down to a single fact. At approximately 11:05 on the previous Friday evening, after visiting friends to play bridge, their car had been involved in a head-on collision at the intersection of Benton and Ryle streets. The other vehicle was a stationary car, parked by the side of the road. The post-mortem revealed blood-alcohol levels consistent with maybe half a bottle of wine in my father, who had been the passenger, and a lot of cranberry juice in my mother. The road had been icy, the junction wasn’t too well lit, and another accident had taken place at the same spot just last year. That was that. It was just one of those things, unless I wanted to get involved in a fruitless civil litigation, which I didn’t. There was nothing else to say.
    Then Davids got down to business, which meant getting me to sign a large number of pieces of paper, thereby accepting ownership of the house and its contents, a few pieces of undeveloped land, and my father’s stock portfolio. A legion of tax matters pertaining to all of this were efficiently explained to me and then dispatched with further signatures. The IRS stuff went in one ear and out the other, and I gave none of the papers more than a cursory glance. My father had evidently trusted Davids, and Hopkins Senior hadn’t been a man to cast his respect around willy-nilly. Good enough for Dad was good enough for me.
    I was listening with less than half of my attention by the end of it, and actually enjoying the soup—now that I’d improved the recipe by adding a good deal of salt and pepper. I was watching the spoonfuls as they came up toward my mouth, savoring the taste in a studious, considered way, encouraging the flavor to occupy as much of my mind as possible. I only resurfaced when Davids mentioned UnRealty.
    He explained that my father’s business, through which he had successfully sold high-priced real estate, was being shut down. The value of its remaining assets would be forwarded to any account I cared to nominate, just as soon as the process was complete.
    “He wound up UnRealty?” I asked, lifting my head to look at the lawyer. “When?”
    “No.” Davids shook his head, wiping around his bowl with a piece of bread. “He gave instructions that this should take place upon his death.”
    “Regardless of what I might have to say?”
    He glanced out of the window, and rubbed his hands together in an economical little motion that dislodged a few crumbs from his fingers. “He was quite clear on the matter.”
    My soup had suddenly gone cold, and tasted like liquidized pond weed. I pushed the bowl away. I understoodnow why Davids had insisted that we go through the papers today, rather than in the period before the funeral. I collected up my copies of the papers and shoved them into the envelope Davids had provided.
    “Is that it?” My voice was quiet and clipped.
    “I think so. I’m sorry to have put you through this, Ward, but it’s better to get it over with.”
    He pulled a wallet from his jacket and glared at the check, as if not only distrusting the addition but taking a dim view of the waitress’s handwriting. His thumb hesitated over a charge card, pulled out some cash instead. I logged this as him electing not to allot the cost of lunch as a business expense.
    “You’ve been very kind,” I said. Davids dismissed this with a flip