Nine

28

The Law Offices of Blaine, Willner, and Blaine

Century City, California

Wednesday, May 21, 1:08 P.M.

“Yes, Mr. Whitfield,” the lawyer said. Mr. Blaine-at fifty-eight, the younger Mr. Blaine-tried hard for patience. “I have long thought you should have a will. I’ve been urging that from the day we settled your grandmother’s estate. But to act so hastily-”

“Look, I’ve got like a really busy day ahead of me, okay? You are making me really late. Can you write this fucking will now, or not? If not-”

“I can, of course,” Blaine said, thinking of the surcharge he was going to add to this young fool’s invoice. He had already rescheduled two other clients to see his wealthiest and most impulsive one.

“Okay, so here’s the thing,” Frederick said. “My grandmother hated my dad, right?”

“I don’t know if I would say-”

“Well, she did. And that just shows that my grandmother was one fucking smart old lady, because my dad is a turd.”

Mr. Blaine pursed his lips. He recalled the outrageous behavior Frederick Whitfield III had exhibited when he learned that his mother had not left him a penny, the things he had said to Mr. Blaine, the attempts he had made to overset the will Mr. Blaine had drawn up in favor of old lady Whitfield’s grandson. “I agree,” he said at last.

Mr. Blaine thought Frederick had seemed a little nervous, but at that, his client smiled charmingly.

“Great-because, like, I’ve been thinking-I could get killed.”

“What?”

“I mean,” he said quickly, “in a car accident, or like, on an African safari, or something-you never know, right? And I don’t want my dad to get my grandmother’s money after you and Grandmother worked so hard to keep it from him. So I’m making a will. But I’ve got to get this done today. Right now.”

“Why?”

“Dude! I just told you!”

“No, I mean, why today?”

There was the slightest hesitation before he said, “Because I’m going to travel to the South Pacific and go sailing with someone, and we leave this afternoon.”

Mr. Blaine thought this was not the whole truth, or perhaps even part of it. But he knew Frederick Whitfield IV well enough to realize that his best course of action at this point was to call in his secretary-who was also his second wife-to hear Mr. Whitfield dictate his will.

When she arrived, Mr. Blaine said, “Now, Mr. Whitfield, let’s carefully consider how you want to leave your estate.”

“Fuck all of that,” he said. “I’m leaving it all to my boyakina.”

“Your what?”

“Boyakina. You’re too old to understand that, my man, so don’t even bother. But I’ve thought about this-a whole lot. Like, all the way down here from Malibu. Everett and my other friends, they’re already so fucking rich, they wouldn’t even notice the difference, right?”

Mr. Blaine had once met Mr. Corey and thought him a bigger-to use his client’s expression-turd even than Frederick Whitfield III. He therefore didn’t bother to remark that only an institutionalized catatonic wouldn’t notice being made richer by the size of Mr. Whitfield’s fortune.

His secretary cleared her throat and said, “Pardon me, Mr. Whitfield, could you spell the name boyakina for me?”

Frederick grinned. He spelled it, then said, “But that’s not her name. Her name is Vanessa. Vanessa Przbyslaw. P-r-z-b-y-s-l-a-w.” He gave them the address he had noted when he left for the airport that morning. “I don’t have the zip code, but here’s her phone number.”

“And is she some relation of yours?” Blaine asked.

“No-man, don’t you get it?”

“I understand that you don’t want your parents-”

“Or any of the others. Grandmother would have loved Vanessa.”

Mr. Whitfield seemed to believe this quite strongly. Although Mr. Blaine doubted much of what Mr. Whitfield said to him on any given occasion, he began to believe that his regard for Ms. Przbyslaw was genuine. Mr. Blaine glanced at his wife, who nodded encouragement.

And so they made out the will, which was simple enough. Mr. Whitfield wrote a personal note to include with it.

“When you return from the South Pacific,” Mr. Blaine said, once the document was signed and witnessed, “please come to see me again. Although I’m pleased you have a will, I don’t think such an important matter should be handled in quite this way, sir.”

“Will my parents be able to fight this one?”

Blaine stood a little straighter. “Not successfully.”

“That’s why I came here. Look, I gotta get out of here, but thanks. Just mail my copies to me, okay? I don’t want to lose them on the boat. And if everything works out okay, maybe I’ll come back and you can bore the shit out of me with all your lawyer talk. But if I don’t, you be good to Vanessa and look out for her, because her old man is a turd, too.”

When he left, Mr. Blaine put the will in his safe. He heard the click of the lock on his office door and turned to see his wife smiling at him.

“When he came in, I canceled your other appointments for this afternoon. Come here, my boyakina.”