Part 7 (1/2)
I paid the driver and gave him a generous tip, at least he thought it was, streaking away with a wave and a wide grin plastered on his ebony face.
The inside of my condo felt cold and damp, like an ancient tomb. It was an apt comparison. Until I'd met Madeleine I was entombed, and now I felt more isolated than ever. I fought the urge to go down to that friendly little blue-collar dive around the corner, realizing that giving into it was the first step down a long and torturous road-a road dotted with lonely drunken nights punctuated by ceaseless bouts of self-pity.
The thought of that, and of Captain Pierce's poignant story, took away all desire for alcohol.
s.h.i.+vering from more than just the cold, I turned up the heat, shambled over to the couch, and dropped into it, suddenly aware I wasn't a bit sleepy and that the night's endless hours stretched before me. I glanced at my computer, remembering that I'd been incommunicado for a number of days.
”Any messages, Millie?”
”Representatives from the five major networks called-three times. Your agent, Marty, also called twice, as well as an attorney for the estate of Harlan Astor.”
I sat up when I heard that last one. ”Play Marty's last message first.”
”Engaging surround sound,” Millie said.
The screen snapped on a moment later, revealing Marty looking uncharacteristically agitated.
”Trevor, are you there?” Marty appeared to be searching the screen for me. ”Trevor, if you're there, I want you to call me back right away. Mannheim Books is going nuts! Nuts, you hear me? They want the book p.r.o.nto, said they would b.u.mp their current print schedule for you. Trevor? G.o.dd.a.m.n it, you call me back! They want the book on the shelves in three weeks! I got them to triple the advance, and I've already got these suits from La-La land sniffing around the movie rights. You hit the jackpot, kid. Call me.”
Marty rang off and the screen turned black. I should have been ecstatic, delirious-but I felt only a great empty hole in my gut, as if everything had been scooped out. The original advance Marty negotiated was a solid six figures. If what he'd said was true, and I had no reason to doubt him, it would now be over 1.5 million. A little more than one quarter of one percent of what my late friend had spent on his Quixotic vision. Normally, I would have been doing cartwheels. Now, I couldn't care less. And writing the book was about the last thing I wanted to do.
”Do you wish to hear the other messages?” Millie said with infinite patience.
I shoved Marty from my mind; I would deal with him later.
”Play back the lawyer's message, Millie.”
”Executing.”
The black screen was replaced by the image of an attractive middle-aged woman wearing a navy power suit, paisley tie, horn-rimmed gla.s.ses, and a sober expression. ”This is a message for...” she bent her head down, as if consulting notes. ”...Mr. Trevor Hughes. Mr. Hughes, my name is Jane Hurdigger, and it is quite imperative that you call me immediately. I can be reached at 212-555-5150. If I'm not there, my computer will page me. Good day.”
”Shall I dial the number, Trevor?”
”Sure, and while you're at it, why don't you talk to her.”
Millie was silent. I don't know if it was confusion on her part or disapproval. Either way, it was up to me. ”Dial it, Millie,” I said. ”But turn off my camera.”
”Executing.”
The eleven digits rattled off in a flurry of musical tones and a moment later, I heard it ring. At the fifth ring, I was about to tell Millie to hang up when the screen faded up on the woman seated on an expensive sofa, the area next to her piled with legal pads and law books. It looked as if she took her work home, as well.
Behind her, I could see the New York skyline. She had to be on the fiftieth floor, judging from the view. And from what little I could see of her apartment's decor: an expensive mixture of Laura Ashley and Chippendale, the woman knew her way around the legal profession.
She frowned at the screen. ”h.e.l.lo, is anyone there?”
”Ms. Hurdigger, this is Trevor Hughes.”
”Is something wrong with your camera, Mr. Hughes?”
”No, I'm just out of the shower.”
I saw her flush at my lie, and that brought a smile to my lips. ”What can I do for you, Ms. Hurdigger?”
She became all business. ”Yes, I wanted to get in touch with you about Mr. Astor's will.”
”What about it?”
”You're in it, Mr. Hughes.”
This surprised the h.e.l.l out of me, and I was still churning that around in my brain when the attorney spoke again.
”Mr. Hughes, it really would be easier if we could see each other.”
”Millie, turn on the camera.”
The monitor snapped on and her expression relaxed. ”Ahh, that's better. Now, let me see....”
If she'd noticed I was fully dressed, she kept her reaction to herself.
”...Yes, here it is. Mr. Astor placed a new codicil to his will prior to his untimely demise. Simply put, Mr. Hughes, Mr. Astor has bequeathed you several of his New York properties, worth by our recent appraisals at about $400 million dollars.”
My expression must have baffled her, as did my silence, for she removed her gla.s.ses and frowned with concern. ”Are you all right, Mr. Hughes?”
”What are the properties?
”A block of town houses in Gramercy Park, I-”
”Sell them.”
The attorney looked startled. ”I'm sorry, Mr. Hughes, did you say-”
”Sell them, yes.”
”Mr. Hughes, those properties are in one of the most exclusive areas in Manhattan.”
”I know exactly where they are. Is there a problem with my selling them?”
”No, there shouldn't be. But they are income property. Mr. Astor realized at least $20 million a year from them. Are you sure you still wish to sell them?”
”Yes.”
”Very well, I will contact Mr. Astor's agent, though the sale may take a little time. The market is sluggish these days.”
”I'm not in a hurry. You'll stay in touch?”
”Of course, Mr. Hughes.”