To say that Fred tagged the pitch would be an understatement. The softball exploded from his aluminum bat like the shell of a howitzer. A metallic clang shattered the neighborhood’s silence with the perfect blend of body torque, bat velocity, and an enlarged sweet spot. The projectile shot at my head. It whizzed through the air at fifty miles per hour. The speed seemed more like two hundred miles per hour given the short distance between us.
I hit the deck. Butt first in a heap. The blast missed my head by inches.
Fred looked at me, his expression uncertain yet satisfied. “Good pitch,” he commended. I chuckled at first. But my uneasy relief gave way to belly laughs as Fred snickered.
Betty had been watching from the window. She flew out the front door, her panic palpable. “Are you okay?”
“Nothing that a cheeseburger and a glass of wine won’t fix.”
“I told you to be careful,” she scolded playfully, realizing no one was hurt. “Fifteen minutes more,” she added, and scooted back into the house.
“Okay, tiger,” I said to Fred, “let’s see you try that again.”
He waggled his bat with big-league swagger. Fred missed a few pitches. But mostly he connected. Pop flies rained across the yard like fungoes during fielding practice. I caught a few, had no chance at most, and remembered for fifteen glorious minutes the joys that accompany summer softball. Pride
being what it is, I hoped Betty did not watch all my errors through the kitchen window.
Our impromptu game of swat and fetch the softball proved the perfect prelude to lunch. I was starved. Betty piled mushrooms, fried Vidalia onions, and fat slices of crispy bacon on top of the burgers. She laced pickles throughout the pile and used Muenster cheese to glue everything together. Bright red tomatoes, which will never see the inside of any burger I eat, garnished the plate right where they belonged. When Betty served strong coffee and chocolate-covered potato chips for dessert, I was happier than a dog with two tails.
Afterward, Betty had an agenda all her own. “Fred, why don’t you play video games,” she said. “Grove and I will take care of the dishes.” The boy disappeared into the other room, clearly delighted to avoid the chores. She turned deadly serious. “Grove, I need your help.”
“But
I
called
you
,” I replied, confused by her comment.
“Yeah. Yeah. You’re here because of Sam. I think you can help both of us.”
Danger, Will Robinson.
People tussled all the time over money. Sam and Betty might clash one day for reasons not yet apparent. Instinctively, I flipped into top producer mode and started to probe, went on the offensive. “Sam said you invested with Charlie?”
“He had the Midas touch,” Betty replied, flashing her 150-watt smile. “Where else could I get returns over twenty percent and stay safe?”
Twenty percent returns are never safe.
“Charlie knew how to make money,” I acknowledged, avoiding the temptation to debate financial risk. “How much did you invest?”
“I don’t have much money,” she said, almost apologetically. “Not like your clients, Grove. My interior design business pays the bills, but sometimes jobs are slow. That’s why we live in New Paltz rather than New York City.”
Betty had not answered my question. She fiddled with a pearl earring, suddenly uncomfortable with our discussion. It was classic money angst. Outside a fifty-mile radius of Wall Street, polite company veered away from discussions about “how much.”
“It’s your money,” I countered, trying to put Betty at ease. “You earned
it. And I know you’re saving for Fred. That makes it a fortune.” Planning for children with special needs was always a challenge. I hoped my reference had not crossed a line.
“Thanks, Grove,” she sighed. “It was two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I had complained to Charlie about my mutual funds. The returns were pathetic.”
“And he offered to invest your money?”
“He waived his minimums,” Betty said, sounding matter-of-fact. “The Kelemen Group has a one million minimum, you know.”
Charlie was a rock star of sales.
Betty was the client. She almost sounded thankful my best friend was managing her money. It should have been the other way around.
“Charlie was a good guy,” I said, mentally chastising myself for the cynicism, remembering my six-month stay with the Kelemens. “You know what he did for me.”
“We all have our Charlie stories,” Betty empathized. “Several years ago, Sam and Charlie commissioned me to decorate their house. That job saved my business.”
The Kelemens’ town house defined opulence—aged tapestries from Europe, the finest rugs from Turkey, and antique furniture from Asia. Their vibrant palette contrasted with the more soothing colors of Betty’s home. “They spared no expense.”
“Charlie picked out the paintings, but I did everything else. It was a huge job. He didn’t even care about my fees.” Her eyes moistened. “It was like he sponsored me.”
“That was Charlie, our man from the Medici.”
“I sold my funds the moment he offered to help, wrote a check that day.”
Too bad she didn’t wire the money. I could have gotten banking details for the Kelemen Group.
“I was taking control,” she continued, “doing the right thing for Fred.”
“You’re a good mom.”
“Oh, please,” she demurred, shrugging off the praise.
“By any chance did you ever get an annual report for the fund?”
Audited statements, with a schedule of Charlie’s hedge funds, would be enough to get started. The list would guide Ira Popowski for his work with state-appointed executors. Together, they could start the tedious process of
redeeming investments. The list would also give me a head start on the auditors. When they called back, I could ask whether Charlie had made any changes to his roster of managers.
“I keep my statements,” Betty replied. “But I probably tossed anything over a quarter-inch thick.”
“Nice filing system,” I laughed.
“I’m not kidding,” she countered. “Before Charlie, my broker buried me with paperwork.”
“Tell me about it. Our compliance is a nightmare at SKC. What did the Kelemen Group send?”
“Quarterly statements. One page.”
“Sweet.”
“Let me check my files,” she offered, and started to stand. “Maybe I kept the annual report.”
“Tell me something first.”
“Grove, you sound so serious.” She sat and quickly filled my wineglass as though to accentuate the point. Maybe it was self-defense.
“I’m curious about your call to Sam.”
Betty smiled her dental blizzard.
“Why did you phone the day after the funeral?” I immediately regretted the question, artless, a touch confrontational. “I’m not trying to be combative. I just want to understand. Sam said you sounded uneasy.”
“I was. I still feel like a jerk for calling so soon.”
“Forget it. The Kelemen Group has obligations to its investors. Believe me, Sam understands completely.”
“I know how things are in small companies,” Betty remarked.
“You run one yourself.”
“Right. There’s not much backup. Sam probably needs to sort things out for the Kelemen Group.” Betty traced a line on the table with her finger. “And I need to make sure my investment is in order.”
“Absolutely,” I agreed, choosing my next words carefully. “Sam is tending to the Kelemen Group.” That was true. “Unfortunately, Charlie never brought her into the business. And now she’s building her knowledge about the corporate affairs from scratch.” Also true. “I’m sorting things out with the auditors and her estate attorney.” More true than not, but worth a trip to confession.
“I feel so much better, Grove.”
And I need to see Monsignor Byrd pronto.
My intent had been to show confidence, outward calm while gathering facts. It had been unnecessary to overstate my progress or inflate the meaning of Popowski’s words, “I’m in.”
“About those financial statements.”
“Oh, right. Let me check,” she replied, rising from the table. She noticed my glass, still half full, and asked, “Is the wine okay?”
“Perfect. It’s just that I have to drive back to New York City.”
“I know two hundred and fifty thousand is not much money in your world,” Betty said as I rose. “But it’s everything to Fred.” She sounded hesitant, doubtful about her right to talk finance with a top producer.
“Stop. It’s real money.”
“I’ll be right back,” she said, and disappeared to find the paperwork.
I cleared the remaining dishes from lunch. The white wainscoting from the sunroom continued into a large, inviting kitchen filled with white appliances. The cupboards, with their see-through glass panels, were finished in antique white. Everyday wear and tear had created a patina that said
aged elegance
. Evelyn would have loved Betty’s home. Finn would have loved the yard.
Betty reappeared and handed me a quarterly statement. “My home office is a disaster. Let me keep looking for the annual report. I’ll call you.”
“If you find it, great. If not, no big deal.” I glanced at the sheet for a moment. Her $250,000 had grown to over $300,000.
Nice.
“Grove,” Betty said, summoning my attention, “there’s one other thing.”
“Which is?”
“Charlie agreed to be Fred’s guardian if anything happened to me. I need to find someone else now.”
For the slightest instant it seemed Betty was asking me to take the job. She had several sisters, though, and I decided the request would be far too impulsive. Down’s syndrome raised the stakes. Betty would be more careful.
“I’ll help any way possible. Where’s Fred?”
Several minutes later, after a hug and a handshake good-bye, I left New Paltz feeling queasy. The sour sensation had nothing to do with indigestion. My best friend, Mr. Detail, had failed his wife. Strike one. Now he had left a single mom feeling anxious about her son’s welfare. Strike two.
Ease up
.
Liquidating the Kelemen Group will fix everything.
Yeah, right. The image of Betty and Fred waving good-bye haunted me all the way back to New York City. The stakes had grown beyond Sam Kelemen’s six hundred dollars and Frank Kurtz’s instructions to mind my own business.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
At the frightful hour of five A.M. on Sunday, I focused on a more immediate issue than Charlie Kelemen’s big mess. My problem was “bed suck.” That’s a cycling expression. It occurs when warm racks yank riders back under the covers and refuse to let us train. Right then and there, a swathe of luxuriant sheets was beckoning me to stay.
Only today, I was neither training nor about to succumb. Our club sponsored races every other Sunday during the summer, seven loops around the Central Park oval for a total of forty-three miles. The starting guns always sounded at six A.M. sharp.
We had a race. There was something exhilarating about the torturous cramps and spectacular crashes. Trash-talking among testosterone-laden rivals made racing a must. That Sunday I arrived at the starting line wide-awake with twenty minutes to spare.
It took the elite cyclists, the human lungs on steroids, less than two hours to kick my ass. My results were statistically good, tenth in the field of 124 cyclists. But a furious paceline had drained everything during the first 42.5 miles. I had no gas in the tank to contest the mad dash at the end. It pissed me off. I always wanted to win.
After the race I grabbed a twenty-ounce coffee and a slab of cinnamon
crumb cake from Starbucks. The coffee and crumb cake were appetizers, barely enough to carry me through a steamy shower in my fifth-floor condominium. Given the hard riding, I had but one mission. Stuff my face with home fries, smoky sausages, cheesy three-egg omelets, and stacks of banana pancakes all in one sitting. There was a bacchanalian food orgy of 9,600 calories just ahead. It had the makings of a perfect day.
I was mistaken.
Jorge, the building’s tip magnet and doorman of perpetual good cheer, buzzed my apartment before I could hop into the shower. “Mr. Grove, there are two policemen here to see you.”
“You’re kidding,” I replied, thinking Sunday was an odd time for them to visit. No one had called, either.
“They showed me their badges.” He sounded antsy, like he was pleading for me to bail him out.
“Send them up.”
Moments later a pork-butt fist pummeled my front door and shattered the morning’s tranquility. The thunderous knocks angered me. They were hardly necessary given Jorge’s advance warning.
“Wait a minute,” I hollered on the way to the door.
One of the officers stood six-four and weighed at least 275 pounds. His size shut me up fast. He looked like 9,600 calories all day, every day. The other policeman resembled an upright ferret with deep-set eyes. The two wore rumpled sport coats, their shirt collars open and Windsor knots flying half mast. It was not yet nine o’clock on a Sunday morning, but both men looked exhausted. They flashed their police badges in unison, a kick line of “cop cred.”
The leviathan, curly brown hair, blue eyes, and ruddy face, announced, “I’m Detective Michael Fitzsimmons, and this is Officer Mummert. We’re with the Boston Police Department.” He spoke with a classic Boston accent, broad vowels and
r
’s on sabbatical. His torso bulged, a weight lifter’s non-neck and a barrel chest capable of holding a few scuba tanks inside.
