Tatiana and the Russian Wolves. Stephen Evans JordanЧитать онлайн книгу.
Marina District is at the very north of San Francisco on the approach to the Golden Gate. As San Francisco neighborhoods went, it wasn’t too foggy; and what fog there was usually cleared by the late morning only to return around sunset. The salt air was bracing, and one of the neighborhood’s extras was falling asleep with the windows opened while listening to the doleful fog horns on the Bay.
A recent addition to the City, the Marina had been built on a landfill and was flat, unlike most of San Francisco. Many of the streets were broad, but parking was scarce, and there weren’t many trees. The neighborhood had a small-town feel: Merchants often called their customers by name, residents patronized local restaurants and taverns, and I nodded to familiar-looking people.
I slept until noon and woke up with a throbbing hangover. The refrigerator was empty; I had to go shopping and phoned Sally Roth. The Roths had been my downstairs tenants for the past four years. Their household included Bert, Sally’s husband, their twin daughters, and, Arnie, a black-and-tan dachshund devoted to the twins. Sally was a psychologist overwhelmed by recent motherhood; Bert was an advertising executive.
Three years earlier, after the twins were born, Sally decided that they needed a second car, and my car’s repairs had reached the point of diminishing returns. The Roths and I bought a used Ford station wagon. I had first call during the weekends, Sally during the week. I was unloading the groceries when I saw Robert de Montreville approaching.
Robert said, “Didn’t I make an appointment with you yesterday?”
“I’m surprised you remembered. You shouldn’t have driven home.”
“I know, I know. Thank God, I didn’t find any dents this morning.” We took the last of the groceries upstairs to my flat. Robert looked around. “Gosh, this is nice. One of my relatives might have decorated his Parisian townhouse like this. You see, the de Montrevilles are a cadet family from the old dukes of Anjou.”
I clicked my heels and bowed.
“What did your family do in Russia?” he asked.
“My father’s family were army people. Some hair of the dog?”
“That was a mighty big dog,” Robert said, checking his watch. “Something light: gin on the rocks, Tanqueray if you’ve got it.”
I showed him an unopened bottle. “The fridge is empty, but the liquor cabinet is full.”
“Got your priorities right,” Robert said. “Yesterday, I started pounding down the gin before that funeral, or memorial, or whatever they call those things.” He gulped the gin and shivered. “When my turn comes, it’s going to be cocktails, endless cocktails.” He shook the ice cubes at me. “Join me? Your hangover looks as bad as mine.”
I made him another drink and poured myself a beer that I pulled from a grocery bag. “Yesterday, you told me that you needed some financial advice?”
“I’m selling my stores to my employees.”
“Taking your capital out with a leveraged buyout?” I swallowed a mouthful of beer and wasn’t too sure if it would stay down.
“Right,” he said. “Townie Morgan buys his booze from me. He’s an affable guy, and we’ve always gabbed about this and that. I told him what I was doing with the stores and why. You see, I’ve got AIDS.”
“I’m sorry, Robert. Drew told me. He has it too.”
After an uneasy pause, Robert said, “You see, that’s why I’m selling the stores. Make sense to you?”
“Yes. Do you have medical insurance?”
“I don’t think it’s going to cover all that I’m in for. A couple of days later, Chip, Townie’s son, comes in and tells me about condos he’s developing over in Marin County. Chip went on about working through him to avoid estate taxes and defer the medical expenses I’ll be facing.”
“Where will your estate go?”
“Chip asked me that too. When I told Chip that what’s left of my estate would go to relatives, he lost interest. So I assume that Chip was hoping that my lover, if I had one, would get my estate. Tax shelters, I know something about those. But condo investments to avoid estate taxes and defer medical expenses? Doesn’t that sound fishy to you?”
“I don’t understand it, but I don’t know much about real estate financing or estate planning. Anyway, why are you telling me this?”
“I like Fiona; she’s been an excellent customer. But yesterday I was too loaded to talk to her. And I heard somewhere that Townie and Chip are Fiona’s relatives, so I thought she’d want to know if they might be up to something. You know, Fiona puts a lot of stock in her…her…”
“Social standing?” I suggested.
“Right. A relative running a scam wouldn’t look so hot if it hit the papers, would it?”
“Townie and Chip are distant relatives, but I’ll certainly tell Fiona what you told me. Freshen your drink?” The beer was staying put and was addressing my parched mouth; the headache had settled behind my eyes.
“One for the gutter,” he said, handing me his glass. “I was going to tell Drew, but I know Drew and Fiona don’t along. Actually, you’re Fiona’s favorite son.”
I topped up his drink and poured another beer. “When I was a boy, Fiona was a great help to my mother and me.”
“That’s what I heard.” Robert made quick work of the drink and got up to leave.
I walked Robert to his car. Shaking hands good-bye, he said, “Au revoir, mon ami. Et bonne chance.”
I answered with the typical reply. “Vous aussi.”
“I ran out of luck when they told me I had AIDS.”
“I’m sorry, Robert. Don’t know what to say.” We shook hands.
I looked up Morgan and Morgan Construction in the phone book and drove downtown to the address. Saturday afternoon, the building was closed, and I double-parked and looked through the glass doors at the office directory. Townsend C. F. Morgan was the president. Under the company’s operating departments, I found “Fremont Developers, Chandler T. F. Morgan, Principal—Chip no doubt. Monday I would find out who handled the Morgan and Morgan account at the bank.
CHAPTER 10
MONDAY, DECEMBER 8, 1986
SAN FRANCISCO
Universal Bank’s world headquarters, a sixty-storied whitish building designed to blend into San Francisco’s overall Mediterranean ambiance, was surrounded by a plaza named after the bank’s founder. The plaza looked down onto Montgomery Street, which ran through the center of the Financial District. In keeping with its stature, the Universal Building dominated San Francisco’s skyline.
The International Department spread over four floors, and I worked in the European Division on the twentieth. The division included four sections based on Europe’s principal language groups; I was the vice president in charge of Eastern Europe. There were eight of us in my group, and I reported to the Senior Vice President, European Division Executive. When I arrived that morning, he invited me for coffee and an update on the new Moscow representative.
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