Part 21 (1/2)

”Not much of a crowd,” Joe said, looking at the tables with vacant seats.

”The Downtown a.s.sociation is in a state of flux. Seventy-five percent attendance is a rousing success.” Katz took a sip of water. ”Why today?”

”I a.s.sume you mean why did I come to the meeting after not attending for a year?” Joe said, fiddling for a cigarette in the inside pocket of his sport jacket.

”Forget about lighting up. Mama's got new rules-no ringing cell phones and no smoking. To answer your question, yes,” Katz said.

”I could use help with financial planning,” Joe said, drawing a skeptical look from Katz. There were several faces he didn't recognize. ”Which one's Hargrove?”

”The three piece suit sitting next to Barry Martinson.”

Owner of a haberdashery shop known for designer labels and astronomic prices, Martinson was the a.s.sociation president and also a force at the Westfield temple. Well over six feet, his swept back black hair highlighted with splashes of gray at the temples made him a dead ringer for the late actor Caesar Romero. Lester Hargrove was a rather nondescript, balding middle-aged man looking as if he stepped out of the 1930s with his blue pinstriped three-piece suit and watch bob.

”What's his deal?” Joe asked.

”Les is a tax attorney with a practice heavy in estate planning. He's lived and practiced in town since 1960, kind of quiet, stays to himself, a good guy,” Katz said, wiping his mouth. ”You better get something to eat before the meeting starts.”

Joe rose. ”You wouldn't be related to Harold Katz by any chance?”

Katz held his fork two inches from his mouth. ”Where's he from?”

”Brooklyn. He owned a deli in the 1930s.”

”Not to my knowledge. Where do you come up with this stuff?” Katz finished his last bite of ziti. ”You sure you didn't suffer a head injury in addition to your leg?”

”Just asking,” Joe said. He made his way to the buffet, surveying the choices of ziti, chicken Marsala, and sausages with peppers. Scooping a ladle of each onto his plate, Joe wondered if Carmine a.s.sembled the buffet from the previous night's leftovers.

Kim eased behind Joe. ”Joe, great to see you,” Martinson said, eyeing Joe's sport jacket. ”Kim, can you believe he's decided to grace our presence.”

”And I hope to see more of him,” Kim said, delivering a covert pinch to Joe's rear end.

”Joe,” Martinson said, cutting his chicken piece into four. ”You must know Lester Hargrove.”

Joe moved away from the buffet table, extending his hand toward Hargrove. ”Actually, I haven't had the pleasure.”

Hargrove, picking at his salad, was locked onto the screen of his laptop computer. He didn't move either to stand or shake hands. Wires ran from the laptop to a projector focused on the wall behind. ”I didn't catch your name.”

”Henderson, Joe Henderson.”

Hargrove stared at Joe. ”Ruth Ritchie told me you removed the papers from the bas.e.m.e.nt in the Swedge house.”

Martinson's ears perked up, looking first at Joe then at Hargrove. ”I did, and would appreciate a few minutes at the end of the meeting,” Joe said. Hargrove mumbled something Joe took for the word sure. Joe was sure of one thing- the tax attorney had the social skills of a twelve year old.

Mel Katz pounded the table laughing at one of Bud Kerrigan's jokes. The undertaker had snuck into Forno's through the service entrance in the alley behind the restaurant. ”Joe's a man of his word. He said that he would show, and by G.o.d he did,” Kerrigan said, squeezing Joe around the shoulders. ”I've got to grab a bite and scoot. I have a client waiting in destiny's transporter.”

”Ask Carmine for a doggy bag,” Joe quipped. He re-took the chair next to Mel, sliding the five-iron under the table. Joe relished the lasagna, dipping a piece of bread into the extra sauce he sc.r.a.pped from the pan. ”How's Kope and Naomi?” he asked Mel.

Mel shook his head. ”My aunt is holding her own, but my uncle is failing fast. His eyesight is worse. They're both eighty-one, I suppose it could be worse.”

”He didn't do too bad the last time we played golf,” Joe said.

”We've got to start the meeting,” Mel said, looking toward Barry Martinson pointing to his watch. Martinson gave the thumbs up. ”That was over a year ago, before you turned into a hermit.”

”I have to get off my b.u.t.t and get over for a visit,” Joe said.

”They'll be back in two days. Went to D.C. to visit my cousin,” Mel said, again signaling Martinson to begin the meeting.

Barry Martinson stood, ringing his water gla.s.s with a spoon. ”I'd like to introduce Lester Hargrove...”

”Excuse! Excuse!” Carmine Forno called, pus.h.i.+ng a cart with two trays of fluted champagne gla.s.ses onto the dance floor. He took two gla.s.ses from the tray, handing one to Joe. ”In honor of Lieutenant Joe coming back from the dead!” They clinked gla.s.ses, each downing the Asti Spumante. ”Everybody, helpa yourselves.”

Carmine shook hands with Joe, spun on his heels and returned to the kitchen. Toasts and a chorus of He's a Jolly Good Fellow He's a Jolly Good Fellow ended with Joe taking a bow. Martinson grasped the back of his chair. ”It is my pleasure to introduce Lester Hargrove. Lester is...” ended with Joe taking a bow. Martinson grasped the back of his chair. ”It is my pleasure to introduce Lester Hargrove. Lester is...”

”And they say that being an a.s.shole doesn't pay,” Joe said to Mel. ”They love me.”

”Thank you, Barry.” Hargrove cleared his throat three times. ”Estate planning should begin...”

Joe turned to Mel. ”Lester, the molester. I don't like the looks of him.”

”Shut up,” Mel whispered. ”I can't concentrate on what Hargrove is talking about.”

Knives and forks rattled in the background. The lights were dimmed. ”The graph on the left denotes the taxation rate in 1975. On the right is the current rate. It is easy...,” Hargrove droned on.

Joe checked his watch- twenty more minutes of h.e.l.l twenty more minutes of h.e.l.l. ”Kope and Naomi graduated from N.Y.U.,” he said to Mel. ”Do you know what year?”

”1941. No it was '42. My aunt was looking at her yearbook the last time I was over,” Mel said. ”The man is trying to give a presentation. Are you taking your medication?”

Hargrove's Power Point Power Point presentation slides flashed on the wall. A kaleidoscope of facts, figures, charts and pie grafts were highlighted by the tax attorney's laser pointer. Joe watched the heads bobbing, not knowing if it was the champaign or Hargrove's monotone. Mercifully, the lights were raised. The guest of honor answered several softball questions and received a polite round of applause. presentation slides flashed on the wall. A kaleidoscope of facts, figures, charts and pie grafts were highlighted by the tax attorney's laser pointer. Joe watched the heads bobbing, not knowing if it was the champaign or Hargrove's monotone. Mercifully, the lights were raised. The guest of honor answered several softball questions and received a polite round of applause.

”I need to talk to Hargrove,” Joe said.

”I'm going to scoot. If you're served, call me,” Mel was up an off.

Joe retrieved the five-iron, making his way between well-wishers to Hargrove who was dismantling the projector. ”Very informative, Mr. Hargrove,” Joe said. ”I wish I had this information years ago.”

Hargrove unplugged the projector. ”It's never too late to make a proper plan,” he said with satisfaction.

”Like Preston Swedge?” Joe asked with a faint smile.

Hargrove wound the wire from the laptop to the projector around his hand. Grimacing, he asked, ”What is it you're asking?”

Joe studied Hargrove's face. The counselor had a strange habit of scrunching his face. Joe couldn't decide if Hargrove was constipated or hadn't been laid in years. ”Preston began donating money to the Westfield temple in 1960 around the time of the Jewish high holidays. I'm curious to know why.”

Closing the laptop, Hargrove collected his notes. ”I was a neophyte in practice when Mr. Swedge walked into my office. I was glad for the work. He paid my fee. I didn't ask his motivation.”