The List Page 6

  “I’ll let you speak to Mr. Diegal.” The clerk put Renny on hold before he could fire another salvo.

  Renny fumed. He was getting the runaround from the Swiss bank— no one would tell him what the balance of his account was. This was what they did to the Jews. Now it was his turn to be robbed of his inheritance. He would find the Swiss equivalent of F. Lee Bailey and make the bank officials quake in their feathered hats.

  “This is Mr. Diegal, I have pulled up the information on the account.”

  “I want some answers,” Renny demanded.

  “Mr. Broffman told me you have the bank account letter and that your father is deceased.”

  “That’s correct. I’m the beneficiary of this account under his will,” Renny added.

  “The individual who set up this account specified that it be subject to dual-number access, much like a joint account in an American bank for Mr. A and Mr. B.”

  “Of course.” Renny knew about joint accounts. “But with joint accounts either party has unrestricted access to the monies deposited.”

  “Unfortunately, that is not the case with this type of account. However, though we cannot waive the joint access requirement, there is a procedure that will allow us to give you the name of the other individual or entity designated on the account. You could then contact them.”

  Knowing something would be better than nothing, Renny responded, “What would be necessary to do that?”

  “I will fax you the forms. We need to verify the genuineness of your bank letter. Once this is established, our confidentiality guidelines allow us to reveal the name of the joint account holder to you. What is your fax number?”

  “I’m in the U.S.A., Charlotte, North Carolina.” Renny gave him the fax number for his office.

  “Just a minute—” The line was silent for a few seconds. “Fortunately, we have a representative who can assist you at a Bank of America office in Charlotte.” Renny grabbed a pen and wrote down the name and address. The main Bank of America building was only a block south of his office in uptown Charlotte. “I will fax you the information you need before the end of the day.”

  “Thank you. I want this straightened out as soon as possible.”

  “Certainly.”

  Renny tried to immerse himself in his work. After a couple of hours, his supervising partner, Barnette Heywood, called him into his office for a midmorning meeting. Mr. Heywood had achieved partner status the last year of his eligibility primarily because another associate in his class at the firm was killed in an automobile accident. Heywood’s responsibilities never increased beyond overseeing a couple of young associates, and his professional frustration made him a difficult taskmaster.

  “Renny,” the short, balding lawyer barked as soon as Renny sat down, “I need you to give me a memo on current congressional initiatives that may affect our bank clients. We may need to mobilize some lobbying pressure.”

  Renny saw a vast haystack of federal government records looming before him, and he had no idea where the needle might be hidden. “Anything particular you want me to focus on?”

  “That’s your job—to give me focus. I have to prepare a quarterly newsletter for our retainer clients, and I want to give them up-to-date information.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I need the memo by five o’clock Thursday.”

  Renny had logged on to the legal research network and was trying to unravel the labyrinth of House and Senate subcommittees that might be talking about banking when his secretary interrupted him. “Morris Hogan on line two.”

  Renny leaned back in his chair and picked up the phone. “Hey, Morris, how are you?”

  “Fine for Monday. How is the life of the rich and famous?”

  “Since I’m neither, I can’t comment.”

  “Can you meet me at Yogi’s?”

  Renny looked at his watch. “Sure, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  Morris Hogan, a big, blond-haired Duke graduate, worked as an investment adviser in the trust department of First Union, one of the larger banks in Charlotte. He and Renny became friends before Renny went to law school, and they maintained contact during the next three years. When Renny landed the job in Charlotte, Morris was the first person he called with the news. The two young men spent a lot of time together, eating, playing tennis, and arguing the respective merits of the Duke and U.N.C. Chapel Hill basketball teams.

  It seemed to Renny and Morris that every fourth person in Charlotte worked for a bank, and they often wondered who within a twenty-five-mile radius of Charlotte engaged in productive labor. Morris’s theory was that most of the money in the United States was counterfeit, printed at shopping center print shops and laundered through grocery stores. His proof was the redesigned hundred. He once held a crisp new bill up to Renny’s nose and presented his case: “Now tell me, does this look like legal tender for all debts, public and private, or mediocre play money? Would Ben Franklin consent to such a ludicrous likeness? Why, he would rather be struck by lightning!”

  Renny pulled into the restaurant parking lot and found an open space next to Morris’s Ford Explorer. Yogi’s served a major-league meal for lunch. No quiche of the day or asparagus salad feminized the menu. Hungry businessmen and construction workers could order a half-pound burger with enough fries and onion rings to lay down a serious oil slick in the largest stomach.

  Morris was waiting in one of the “cells,” a restaurant booth designed to look like a jail cell. Peanut shells littered the floor, a practice encouraged by the management to give credence to its antiestablishment mystique.

  “I just ordered you a spinach salad with avocado dressing,” Morris quipped. “How was the trip to Charleston?”

  “It was OK, but there’s more hassle to my father’s estate than I expected.” Renny decided not to mention the terms of the will.

  Morris inspected his friend’s face. “Yeah, you do look like you’ve been negotiating with a group of terrorists. What’s up?”

  “Nothing much. Heywood assigned me an impossible project, but that’s to be expected.” Renny paused then asked tentatively, “Do you know much about Swiss bank accounts?”

  “Some. Secret havens for money made by selling drugs, weapons, and contraband. You’re not planning on selling arms to Iraq, are you?” Morris said, raising his eyebrows in mock suspense.

  “Not even a firecracker.”

  Morris scratched his chin. “I get it. Did your father have an overseas account?”

  “Good deduction. He did, and I can’t find out what is in it.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “It was a joint account, and I have to get permission from the other party to do anything.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You do have a problem. What are you going to do?”

  “The bank is going to send me some paperwork that may let me find out who else is on the account.”

  “I wouldn’t know anything else to do.”

  “Actually, I was hoping you could do a little research for me—find out how Swiss bank accounts work … ?”

  Morris grinned. “What are friends for? Sure, I’ll look into it. But you owe me.”

  The waiter brought their order, and they ate in silence for a few minutes. Morris spoke first, “Have you decided what you are going to do once your father’s estate is finalized?”

  Renny swallowed a big bite of burger and answered, “I really don’t know. My father’s death was so unexpected; I’m not sure what to do.”

  “Will you keep working at the firm?”

  Renny shrugged. “At least till I do this project for Heywood.”

  “It’s not such an awful dilemma. Most people would happily trade problems with you.”

  “My landlady says money sometimes causes problems.”

  Morris rolled his eyes. “Name one.”

  Renny thought. “High taxes?”

  “Right. Give me the money, and I’ll be hap
py to pay the taxes on it.”

  “OK, OK.” Renny wiped up a spot of ketchup with his last onion ring.

  “In case you ever have too much money, my phone number is in the yellow pages under ‘Friends Who Need Money.’ Since you’re feeling so depressed about your money today, I’ll buy your lunch.”

  Renny grinned. “Thanks. Why don’t you use one of those fake hundreds?”

  Renny took the Banc Suisse forms home and filled them out that evening at his kitchen table. A copy of the original letter needed to be certified before a Banc Suisse representative. The next day he set up an appointment and met with with a Bank of America employee, a middle-aged gentleman who asked no questions and accurately reflected the detached approach of his Swiss counterparts. After checking the forms, he inspected the Banc Suisse letter, ran his thumb over the gold seal, and certified the copy as true and correct. He suggested that Renny send the information to the bank via overnight courier so that it would arrive in Geneva before the close of business Thursday evening. Renny was going to work until noon Friday, and he hoped this would enable him to hear a response before leaving for Georgetown.

  At 11:30 A.M. Friday, Renny got a call. “Mr. Jacobson, this is Hermann Diegal at Banc Suisse. We received the paperwork and certified letter on the account. Everything appears to be in order.”

  “Good. Who else is on it?”

  “The joint party on the account is the Covenant List of South Carolina, Limited, Desmond LaRochette, director.”

  Renny whistled softly under his breath. “I should’ve known.”

  “I trust this is helpful to you.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it will be.”

  “If I can be of further assistance, please contact me.”

  “Sure, thank you very much.”

  “Good day.”

  Renny set the receiver gently in its cradle. This List was tighter than he thought. Not only did it control the corpus, but it also had its finger on distribution. His father didn’t have unrestricted ownership of the Swiss bank account. Why not? It was not typical for his father to relinquish control voluntarily. Therefore, the restrictions must have preceded his father’s time. But why? How could this money be of help to anyone if the List held the trump card? He replayed his father’s words, “Far more valuable than the combined value of the rest of my estate.” But how? If these men were nice old guys, perhaps they would let Renny withdraw a million or two or ten.

  Barely acknowledging a greeting from two fellow workers as he headed for the front door, Renny left the office in a preoccupied haze. This knot was not going to be unraveled until he had the end of the string in his hand. That end was in Georgetown.

  5

  Yes, to smell pork.

  THE MERCHANT OF VENICE, ACT 1, SCENE 3

  Usually Renny traveled light, and he rarely dressed up unless he had to. For this trip, however, he took his best suit. For all he knew, the members of the List wore tuxedos and sat around in leather chairs, smoking cigars and sipping brandy after dinner.

  Georgetown was north along the coast from Charleston. Renny retraced his route of the previous weekend but, based on his renewed interest in his ancestry, decided to take a brief detour through Moncks Corner, South Carolina, his mother’s hometown. Located an hour inland from the ocean, Moncks Corner was one of the first places settled when the early pioneers left the coast and began to move westward. Now it was a sleepy town in an out-of-the-way corner of the state.

  Renny’s maternal grandmother had died years before his birth, but his mother’s father, Nathaniel Candler, a pharmacist in Moncks Corner, was in good health up to the day he suffered a fatal stroke when Renny was seven years old.

  Renny knew that his mother loved her hometown and felt more at rest there than anywhere else. The community was peaceful, sleepy, or dead—Renny wasn’t sure where to draw the line.

  Just inside the city limits he pulled into a convenience store for gas. While filling up the tank, he heard a loud flapping sound. Turning, he saw a big red Dodge pickup with a flat tire limping into the parking area beside the store. The left front tire was shredded, and only a few pieces of battered rubber and steel remained on the rim. The truck rolled to a stop, and the sole occupant, a dark-haired young woman, went into the store.

  The truck had Michigan license plates, and when Renny went inside to pay for his gas, its driver was handing a phone book back to the clerk.

  “Thanks. Do you have a phone so I can call the tire store?” she asked.

  The clerk shook her head. “I’m sorry, it’s not working.”

  Feeling chivalrous, Renny broke into the conversation. “You could use my car phone, if you like. I’m parked out at the pumps.”

  The woman faced Renny, sized him up with her clear blue eyes for a second, and said, “Thanks, that would help me a lot. Let me write the number down on a piece of paper.”

  Renny held the door open for her. “Is that your husband’s truck?”

  “No, it was my father’s. It’s exactly like the truck that went up into the tornado at the end of the movie Twister,” she said, smiling.

  “Yeah, it was a shame about that truck,” Renny answered. “Just a second, and I’ll be back with the phone.”

  Renny kicked himself as he walked to the car. What a stupid thing to say! It was a toy truck in the movie; special effects could do almost anything. He might as well have said, “What happened to Peter Rabbit in Mr. MacGregor’s garden sure was sad, wasn’t it?”

  As he started his car and pulled forward, Renny had a clear view of the damsel in distress. She was medium height with an oval face framed by fairly short dark hair in loose, casual curls. He guessed she was mid to late twenties, not a Barbie type, but with a figure that looked nice in her white shorts and loose-fitting blue shirt. She was only slightly tanned, consistent with Renny’s perception that people in Michigan lived most of the year in snowbound isolation, coming out occasionally to shovel snow or ride snowmobiles across frozen lakes. Parking next to the truck, he unplugged his car phone and was met by a bright smile, blue eyes, and an outstretched hand.

  “I’m Jo Johnston,” she said. “I really appreciate you taking time to help me.”

  “Renny Jacobson. It’s no problem at all. Let me call the store for you. Do you have a full-size spare?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “But it’s flat, too. I didn’t check it before leaving on this trip”

  Renny knelt beside the truck, wrote down the size of the tire, and called the store. Holding the phone, he asked, “Do you have any road hazard insurance? You shouldn’t drive another block on the wheel rim. It would be better to tow the truck from here to the store.”

  “Yes, I have a policy with Road Rescue,” she answered.

  “Do you tow for Road Rescue?” Renny turned his attention back to the phone. “Great, we’ll wait for you here.” Renny gave the location of the convenience store.

  “Thanks for your help,” she said when Renny hung up.

  “I’ll wait here with you until the tow truck comes,” he offered.

  “I don’t want to hold you up any longer.”

  “I’m not in any hurry. My mother grew up in Moncks Corner, and I was going to drive around town for a while before heading down to the coast.”

  “What’s your name again?” she asked.

  “Renny. And you’re Jo, right?”

  “Yes. J-o,” she said, spelling out the two-letter name.

  In a few minutes the tow truck came into view and stopped with a belch of black smoke. The driver, a middle-aged man with a well-developed beer belly that threatened to pop the bottom three buttons of his shirt, slid out and walked over to Renny. A large brown dog hung his head out the passenger-side window of the truck.

  “Did you call for a wrecker?” he asked, taking a half-chewed cigar out of his mouth and spitting a few pieces of stray tobacco onto the ground.

  “Yes. It’s my truck,” Jo answered.

  The driver looked at Jo and looked at
the truck. “I’ll hook it up. Do you want to ride with me and Hercules?”

  Renny spoke up before Jo could answer. “We’ll just follow you in my car.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Renny and Jo stepped back. “Are you sure I’m not holding you up?” she asked as the wrecker driver crawled under her truck.

  Renny grinned. “I don’t mind, unless of course you wanted to hold Hercules in your lap.”

  As they followed the tow truck through the town’s central square to the tire store, Renny pointed out the location of his grandfather’s pharmacy, now a ladies’ clothing store.

  “He died when I was in second grade. My mother said the drugstore was an institution in the town. My grandfather sold everything from thermometers to red wagons.”

  “What was he like?”

  “He lived here before nationwide drugstore chains drove most locally owned pharmacies out of business. In those days the small-town pharmacist had a respected place in the community. He let most folks get the medicine they needed for their children even when they were behind in paying their bills.”

  “Sounds like a pretty neat gentleman.”

  “I guess he was. He was a very religious person, a little extreme, you know. I remember watching him pray out loud, asking God to heal a woman who came in for a prescription.” Renny shook his head. “It seems to me that divine healing would have cut into business.” Renny turned the air conditioner up a notch. “I guess it’s never this hot and humid in Michigan.”

  “Not like this. It makes me wish I was back in my igloo.”

  “I knew it!” Renny laughed. “I always suspected people up North lived in igloos. I bet you have a huge, shaggy coat trimmed with fur.”

  “Of course, but it’s only cold in winter. During summer the weather is wonderful. Did you grow up near here?” Jo asked.

  “No, my folks moved to Charleston years ago. I live in Charlotte now and work for a law firm. How about you?”

  “I’ve spent all my life in East Lansing. I went to Michigan State and work as an operating room nurse in the cardiac wing of a local hospital.”