“Thank you. I appreciate your trust, Netty.”

  “Which funeral home?”

  “Cupit & Moke, downtown. I guess they’re still around.”

  “Oh, they’re both dead, but their families run the funeral home. Mind if I take a look at the policy?”

  “Why? I’m not even sure if I can find it. Wasn’t planning on needing it anytime soon.” She cackled at her humor and Simon obliged with a fake laugh. He said, “And your plot is next to Harry’s?”

  “That’s right. Out in Eternal Springs, the cemetery. Nicest one around. I go visit once a month and take some flowers. Well, not every month, but most of the time.”

  “And the plot is paid for?”

  “Oh yes, as far as I know. Haven’t seen a bill in forever.”

  “I’m assuming the policy covers the standard mortuary services, casket, and so on.”

  “I’m sure it does. Harry’s casket was so handsome, made of oak, had to pay extra.”

  “Again, I’d like to see the policy,” Simon said. “There’s a trend nowadays away from traditional burials. Many of my clients are choosing cremation. Have you heard of this?”

  “I may have read something. Dottie Watson from the poker club passed two years ago and they cremated her, stuck her in a wall in a mausoleum. We thought her family was just trying to save some money.”

  “My wife and I have chosen cremation,” Simon said. “It’s easier, quicker, and much cheaper. Plus, it protects the environment. Think of the millions of people who’ve died and been embalmed and now those chemicals are leaking into the drinking water. It’s a looming environmental disaster.”

  Eleanor was about to take a sip of water and she froze, then set down her glass. Shocked, she said, “I never thought about that.”

  “It’s true. When a person dies, the morticians fill the body with all manner of chemicals, like formaldehyde, phenol, methanol, and glycerin, to preserve things only until the funeral. It’s ridiculous, really. About a million gallons of chemicals go into the ground each year. Over time, as the body decomposes, the chemicals start leaking out, regardless of what type of casket is used.”

  “Well, I never…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Cremation is the way to go and it’s definitely the trend, at least in this country. I’ll send you some magazine articles.”

  “No casket, nothing like that?”

  “Nothing like that. Your ashes are put in a cremation urn and it’s buried in a mausoleum or a columbarium.”

  “A what?”

  “Columbarium. It’s a structure that holds cremation urns.”

  With thoughts of decaying remains hanging in the air, the mandu arrived on a platter. They were small, round rice dumplings that smelled delicious. Netty said, “Let’s change the subject.”

  “Good idea.”

  Simon could do a passable job with chopsticks but Eleanor was too inexperienced. He suggested they stick to forks and she readily agreed. The eight small dumplings disappeared in minutes, just as the noodles and fried chicken were served. Eleanor had been lukewarm to the kabobs from Afghanistan and the spicy egg rolls from Thailand, but she devoured the crunchy fried chicken. And, in Simon’s opinion, she needed to eat. She was looking thin and frail, not sickly, but she could add a few pounds.

  The waiter was a young Korean American kid with a Jersey accent. As he cleared the table Simon asked, “What’s a delicious, authentic dessert?”

  “Coming right up,” he said, with confidence. “Coffee?”

  “Of course.”

  Eleanor asked for spiced tea.

  Five minutes later he was back with small plate of sesame honey bars. Eleanor took a bite of one, turned up her nose, and sipped tea.

  Simon asked, “Were we finished with the conversation about your arrangements?”

  “I don’t know. Were we? I’m not sure about this cremation thing. Could I still be buried next to Harry? He and I never talked much about resting peacefully in the same plot, side by side.” Her eyes watered again.

  Simon listened with a smile. He knew for certain that he and Paula would not spend eternity anywhere near each other. He said, “I’m sure you can be placed next to Harry.”

  She said, “But there won’t be a casket or anything. Just a little vase or box or—”

  “An urn. A cremation urn. There are thousands to choose from. It’s a much simpler way to go and also cheaper.”

  “Well, let me think about it.”

  “There’s no rush, Netty.”

  “I certainly hope not,” she said with a laugh that was too loud.

  Chapter 13

  On a perfect spring day in late May, Simon left the office at four with Matilda fighting the phone. He was grateful it was still ringing, though the racket meant there would be a stack of calls to return in the morning. For some unknown reason, his practice had hit a busy cycle after the latest lull and there were some nice fees. But the divorce was looming and would consume money he didn’t have. And the situation at Chub’s had not improved. Betting on NBA games was proving, once again, to be more challenging than the NCAA.

  He really wanted to play nine holes of golf for the first time in weeks, but soccer was calling. Janie’s under-10 team, Slash, had yet another game at the sports complex, a place he was learning to loathe. But he didn’t dare skip it because Janie would know before the start that he wasn’t there. Paula, of course, would arrive early, in part to prove she was the more diligent parent. Who cared? They weren’t fighting over custody.

  He found the field, one of a dozen, all with games raging, and saw Paula standing alone at one end.

  “What’s the score?” he asked as he stood beside her without looking at her.

  “One–zip. Janie scored a goal in the first thirty seconds. You missed it.”

  “Chalk up another one for you.”

  “She’s really quite good. Her coach wants her to play on a summer travel team.”

  Simon’s shoulders sagged a bit as he exhaled with frustration. “A travel team? There goes the summer. How many games?”

  “Dozens. Six weekend tournaments. Washington, Baltimore, Charlotte, Atlanta, can’t remember the rest.”

  “Great. And I suppose you’ve already said yes.”

  “No. She mentioned it for the first time this morning at breakfast.”

  “How much?”

  “Forty-two hundred.”

  “You must be kidding.”

  “Nope. Fancy uniforms, travel, tournament fees, the works. Plus, a paid coach.”

  “A paid coach? She’s nine years old, Paula.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  They had yet to look at one another. A month or so earlier they had sat together in the bleachers and a little chat grew somewhat testy. It was best if they stayed away from the other fans.

  He said, “And I’m sure Janie wants to spend her summer playing soccer.”

  “I think so. Her therapist says she wants to stay away from the house as much as possible.”

  “Her therapist?”

  “Yes. She’s had two sessions.”

  “Why didn’t I know this?”

  “You haven’t been home. I’m raising the kids now. Solo, it seems.”

  He wanted to start yelling and cursing loudly but figured that might disrupt the game and embarrass his daughter. Plus, it would only give Paula more ammunition. He had to stay cool at all times. He ground his teeth and made himself smile.

  “How much for the therapist?”

  “Two-fifty an hour.” Same rate as the Honorable Simon F. Latch, Attorney and Counselor at Law. He swallowed hard and asked, with as much sarcasm as possible, “Anybody else in the family seeing a shrink, other than you and Janie?”

  “Not at this time. I’m going to protect the children, Simon. Whatever it takes.”

  “As if I’m trying to harm them?”

  “The divorce will do enough damage.”

  “And the divorce is a mutual undertaking, right? We both want out and have agreed to get a divorce.”

  “The sooner the better.”

  The soccer ball bounced nearby, out of play, and Janie scooped it up for the inbounds. “Nice work, Janie! Atta girl!” Simon yelled intensely. Of course, his encouragement was not acknowledged. He glanced at Paula and she rolled her eyes in disgust. What a bitch. He couldn’t even cheer properly.

  Simon knew that the odds of Janie earning a single dollar playing soccer were about as slim as him winning billion-dollar verdicts against Big Pharma. But his dreams were over. Janie’s were only beginning.

  “Any comments about the property settlement agreement?” he asked, changing the subject to something other than soccer. Why did he pick the PSA?

  She sighed and glanced around to check on their privacy. “Is this really the place?”

  “No one’s listening. You want me to stop by the house and discuss it in front of the kids?”

  “Who prepared it?”

  “I did. I told you I would.”

  “Figures. I’ll feel better if I have my own lawyer to review the agreement. And I don’t trust any lawyer around here because you know them all.”

  “Of course I know them all. Sorta goes with being in the profession. And just because I know a lawyer doesn’t mean I trust him. In fact, I distrust at least half of the lawyers in town and don’t like most of them.”

  “I’ll find one.”

  “Great. And pay him or her five grand to nitpick a PSA that is straightforward, fair, and includes everything we’ve already agreed to?”

  “You’re raising your voice, Simon, please.”

  The game dragged on as Simon boiled and Paula seethed and both wanted to walk away but neither would be the first to leave. Janie would know instantly if one of them left. Late in the game she scored a third goal. Simon faked a cheer while wondering how much it might cost him. When the ball went out of bounds at the other end, he turned and walked away without another word.

  Chapter 14

  The following week, a rather belligerent gentleman, badly dressed and reeking of alcohol, made a noisy entrance into the reception area of the law office of Wally Thackerman, across Main Street from Simon’s building.

  Fran, the secretary, who had years of experience handling riffraff from the street, sized him up quickly and asked, “May I help you?”

  “I wanna see Wally Thackerman, the lawyer,” he demanded.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Aren’t you in charge of appointments? Sure you are, and if you were doing a half-ass job you’d know that I don’t have an appointment. And I’m not leaving either.”

  “Okay. May I have your name and the nature of your business.”

  “Name’s Clyde Korsak and my business ain’t none of your business.”

  “Well, be that as it may, Mr. Thackerman is with a client right now. I’ll be happy to make an appointment for tomorrow, say around three P.M.”

  “Oh how efficient. I’m not coming back tomorrow because I’m not leaving today. I’ll see the sonofabitch right now because I’m not going away.”

  Wally happened to be in his firm’s library, which was closer to the front than his office, and when he heard a loud, aggressive voice he inched forward to investigate. “Everything okay, Fran?” He was peeking around from the hallway.

  “You Thackerman?” the man snarled.

  “Well, yes, I’m Walter Thackerman. And who are you, sir?”

  “I’m Clyde Korsak, stepson of Eleanor Barnett, and we need to talk.”

  * * *

  Fran hurriedly made fresh coffee, not that Clyde wanted any, but it seemed necessary at the moment. Wally got him situated in the library, at the big table, and managed some small talk as they waited for the coffee.

  The man was frightening. He had reluctantly entered his fifties but was still clinging to his thirties, with long, thick, oily, badly dyed dark hair that fell to his shoulders, much like a washed-up 1980s rocker still touring the small venues. Gaudy tattoos covered both forearms, and some sort of green spider was crawling up his neck. He had patches of wrinkles around his red, puffy eyes, and layers across his forehead. Cheap trinkets hung around his wrists. Both ears were adorned with gold crosses. An ancient black leather jacket. Biker’s boots.

  Wally thought about calling the police before they sat down.

  Clyde said, “Momma says you’re giving her advice on her will and such.”

  Momma? When Wally counseled Eleanor Barnett he had certainly quizzed her about children, the usual questions. She had none. Wally could vaguely recall a reference to a child or two belonging to Harry Korsak, but there were no details.

  Rattled, Wally said, “Well, I, uh, sir, I don’t recall Eleanor saying anything about having children. I’m certain she said she has none.”

  “You’re a damned liar.”

  “I am not. You said you are a stepson?”

  “I am, me and my brother. Momma raised us, with Daddy’s help of course.” His red eyes glowed at Wally, who was becoming more unsettled.

  Clyde said, “Momma says you been working on a will and testament for her. That right?”

  Wally puffed up with ethical indignation and said, “Look, sir, I cannot discuss anything Ms. Barnett said to me. It’s confidential and privileged. She’s my client and I will not discuss her legal affairs.”

  Clyde seemed ready to explode just as Fran walked in with a pot of coffee, two mugs, and a chirpy “Here, gentlemen. Fresh coffee.”

  It was awkwardly poured and thoroughly ignored. She asked Wally, “Shall I take notes?”

  Great idea. She had never taken notes during a client conference, but this one called for different rules of engagement. Wally might need a witness, or worse, an able body to call 911. Fran sat at the end of the table with her pen ready. Clyde paid no attention to her.

  He demanded, “Did you write Momma a new will?”

  “Sir, divulging client information is grounds for disbarment. I could lose my law license.”

  Clyde laughed and sneered and said, “Well, aren’t you quite the little smart-ass? How about your teeth? Have you thought about losing some of your teeth? Coupla pints of blood.”

  Wally managed to deflect the threat, or at least pretended to. “She can tell you but I cannot. Have you asked her?”

  “Yeah, I did, but she don’t remember, says you put so much bullshit legal talk in the will that she’s not sure who gets what. I’m entitled to a chunk of that money because my Daddy made it. He had the brains, not that old bag.”

  For a split second, Wally made eye contact with Fran and delivered the message: Call the police. Fran tapped a key. Help was on the way, supposedly.

  From a pocket deep in his leather jacket, Clyde whipped out a pistol, a small, shiny black automatic, and he laid it on the table in front of him without commenting on it. No comments were needed. Wally looked at it and felt faint. Fran tapped the keys again and again.

  Oddly enough, she would recall that her first thought was somewhat comforting if purely selfish: he would shoot Wally first, and in doing so might give her a second or two to flee. But, she was immediately embarrassed by such an awful thought and told no one about it.

  Clyde said, “I want to see Momma’s will.”

  As calmly as possible, Wally said, “Put the gun away, Mr. Korsak, unless you want to go to prison.”

  “Ha! I’ve already been there. Prison ain’t no big deal.”

  “Put the gun away, sir.”

  “Daddy never told us how much money he made and he damned sure didn’t share it with us.”

  “Please put the gun away.”

  “Maybe I’m not finished with it. I want to see that will.”

  “It’s not here. I keep my clients’ wills in a vault at the bank.”

  “Oh, how clever. And now the banks are closed, right? So if I come back in the morning you will be happy to walk with me over to the bank and look at the will, right?”

  “Sure, if I get permission from Eleanor.”

  “Got an answer for everything don’t you?”

  Clyde reached for one of the coffee mugs and seemed ready to take a sip when he suddenly flung the coffee at Wally. The cup was full and the coffee was hot and it splashed across Wally’s white shirt and onto his face before he could react. He yelled “Oh shit!” and Clyde yelled “You little son of a bitch!” and Fran screamed “Stop that right now!” But Clyde lunged at Wally and slapped him hard across the nose with the back of his hand, knocking him out of his chair and onto the floor where he tried to scramble but Clyde was all over him flailing away. Both men were in their fifties but Clyde had been in far more fistfights than Wally. Clyde cursed and growled as he pummeled away and seemed determined to kill the lawyer with his bare hands when, suddenly, a shot rang out. It sounded like a cannon and both men froze.

  Fran had the pistol and was aiming at the ceiling, where the first bullet had gone.

  “Get out of here,” she yelled at Clyde, who slowly got to his feet, gawking at the gun. Wally crawled under the table and surfaced on the other side. His nose was bleeding profusely.

  “Get out of here,” she repeated and sort of waved the gun at the door.

  “Gimme the gun,” Clyde said, but less forcefully.

  “Oh, I’ll give it to you all right. You want one between your eyes or between your balls?”

  Clyde flinched instinctively.

  She said, “Leave now. I’ll give the gun to the police when they get here in just a minute. My son’s a cop.”

  He was not but it sounded authentic. Maybe Clyde thought it was true, and perhaps her son had taught her how to shoot a pistol. At any rate, it was time to get out, with everything intact.

  “I’ll be back,” he snarled like a bad actor and disappeared, slamming the front door behind him.