Where Are You Now?

52

T rue to his word, Derek Olsen arrived at Elliott Wallace’s office promptly at ten A.M. His gait stiff, his suit cleaned and pressed, but shiny with age, his remaining tufts of white hair plastered down on his skull, there was a certain buoyancy about him. Elliott Wallace observed him and correctly interpreted that Olsen, if he followed his plan to liquidate all his holdings, was looking forward to telling his nephew Steve, his buildings manager, Howie, and anyone else he could think of, to go jump in a lake.

A cordial smile on his face, Wallace urged Olsen to take a chair. “I know you won’t refuse a cup of tea, Derek.”

“Last time, it tasted like dishwater. Tell your secretary I want four lumps of sugar and heavy cream, Elliott.”

“Of course.”

Olsen barely waited for Elliott to instruct his secretary before he said with a satisfied smile, “You and your advice. Remember you said I should get rid of those three broken-down town houses that have been closed for years?”

Elliott Wallace knew what was coming. “Derek, you’ve been paying taxes and insurance on those dumps for years. Of course real estate has gone up, but if you wish I will show you that if you had sold them and bought the stocks I recommended, you’d be ahead.”

“No, I wouldn’t! I knew that someday they’d tear down those buildings on the corner of 104th Street and developers would want my place.”

“The developers seem to have managed without it. They already broke ground for those condominium apartments.”

“The same firm came back to me. I close on the sale this afternoon.”

“Congratulations,” Wallace said sincerely. “But I do hope you remember that I’ve made you quite a lot of money investing on your behalf.”

“Except for that hedge fund.”

“Except for the hedge fund, I agree, but that was quite a while ago.”

Olsen’s tea and Elliott’s coffee arrived. “This is good,” Olsen said, after taking a wary sip. “The way I like it. Now let’s talk. I want to sell everything. I want to establish a trust fund. You can run it. I want it to be used for parks in New York, parks with lots of trees. This city has too many big buildings.”

“That’s very generous of you. Are you planning to leave anything to your nephew or anyone else?”

“I’ll leave Steve fifty thousand dollars. Let him get a new set of drums or a guitar. He can’t look at me over a dinner plate without trying to figure how much longer I’ll last. I heard from a couple of my building supers that he announced he’ll be taking over Howie’s job as my overall manager. He buys me a fountain pen and takes me to dinner, and because I show good feelings to him, he thinks he can take over my business. Him and his gigs. Every time he stops getting jobs at those club dumps, he invents a new name for himself and his loser band, finds the latest kind of weird outfit, and hires a broken-down PR agent. If it wasn’t for his mother, my sister, God rest her, I’d have given him the bum’s rush years ago.”

“I know he’s been a disappointment to you, Derek.” Elliott tried to maintain his compassionate expression.

“Disappointment! Hah! By the way, I want to leave Howie Altman fifty thousand dollars, too.”

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate it. Does he know your plans?”

“No. He’s been getting pushy, too. I can tell he has the nerve to think he’s entitled to a big inheritance from me. Don’t misunderstand. He’s done a good job, and I thank you for recommending him when that other guy didn’t work out.”

Elliott nodded, acknowledging the thanks. “One of my other clients was selling a building and mentioned his availability.”

“Well, he’ll soon be available again. But he’s not blood, and he doesn’t understand that when you have good workers like the Kramers, you don’t squeeze them out of an extra bedroom or two.”

“George Rodenburg is still your lawyer, isn’t he?”

“Of course. Why would I change?”

“What I meant was that I’ll talk to him about setting up the foundation. You say you’re closing on the 104th Street property this afternoon. Do you want me there?”

“Rodenburg will handle it. The offer’s been on the table for years. It’s only the dollars that are different.”

Olsen got up to go. “I was born on Tremont Avenue in the Bronx. It was a nice neighborhood then. I have pictures of my sister and me sitting on the steps of one of those little apartment buildings, the kind I own now. I drove up there last week. It’s pretty bad. There’s a corner lot near where we lived. It’s a mess, weeds and beer cans and garbage. While I’m still alive, I want to see it become a park.” A beatific smile crossed his face as he turned to the door. “Good-bye, Elliott.”

Elliott Wallace walked his client through the reception room, down the corridor to the elevator, returned to his private office, and for the first time in his adult life, went to the bar refrigerator and, at eleven A.M., poured himself a straight scotch.