5

“Sure you don’t want a cigar?”

It was the third time Tom had asked.

“All right.”

“Good man. Not often you get a chance to smoke a real Havana.”

While Tom had gone cigar shopping, Jack had found a liquor store where he’d bought a prepaid Bermuda calling card. He phoned Gia to let her know he hadn’t been lost at sea. She’d sounded relieved. All was fine back home, and Jack had promised to call her again in the morning. Then he’d called Joey.

So now Tom and he sat on the outside deck of Flanagan’s, poised over Front Street and overlooking the quiet harbor. The pub seemed authentically Irish—even had a dartboard—with dark wood, subdued lighting, and lots of regulars calling and waving to each other through the smoky air. Jack knew half a dozen places exactly like it back home. Well, not exactly. Smoky bars were now a thing of the past in New York.

The “authentic” came to a screeching halt with the Korean maitre d’.

Tom had said the fish chowder was a must, so Jack had ordered that and fish and chips. He was looking forward to eating something a little more substantial—and warmer—than a sandwich.

He bit a small piece off the butt end of the cigar and fired up the tip with Tom’s lighter. He’d smoked cigarettes for a few years as a teen but the allure of tobacco, especially cigars, had eluded him.

He took a deep draw and let it out slowly. Tom was watching him with an expectant look.

“Well?”

“Tastes like roofing material.”

It didn’t taste that bad, but it didn’t taste good either. What was all the fuss about Cuban cigars?

Tom sputtered. “B-but it’s-it’s a Montecristo!”

“I think you got gypped. It’s an El Shingelo.”

Tom muttered, “De gustibus,” then glared and fumed and puffed while Jack rested his cigar in the ashtray and hoped it would go out.

“Was Dad ever here?” Jack said.

Tom blew blue smoke and looked at him over the rim of his third vodka on the rocks.

“Bermuda? Yeah. I think it was back in your freshman year. Mom had an empty-nest thing going and so Dad brought her here. Don’t you remember?”

Jack shook his head. Something about that hovered on the edge of his memory, just out of reach. He’d done such a bang-up job of leaving his past behind for fifteen years that a lot of it had slipped away.

“Do you know if he liked it?”

Tom shrugged. “Never asked. But hey, what’s not to like?”

Jack nodded. Bermuda might be one of the only areas where he and Tom were in agreement.

He was sure his folks had loved it. How could they not? Even in its cold season, with the deciduous trees standing naked here and there among the palms, it looked like paradise.

On the rare occasions when Jack had thought of Bermuda at all, he’d considered it little more than a newlywed destination—pink-sand beaches and all the rest of the honeymoon hype. But the ride across the Great Sound had shown him a different island.

Tom signaled for another vodka. “Speaking of Dad, have you any idea of the size of his estate?”

Jack sipped his pint of Courage and shook his head. “Not a clue.”

“I got a peek at his finances last summer when I helped him add a codicil to his will.”

Jack pushed away a sudden vision of Tom fixing the terms so that it all went to him.

“What did he change?”

“Don’t worry. You’re still in it.”

Jack had already punched Tom. That remark deserved a head butt. But he sat quietly.

Finally Tom said, “It was after Kate’s death. A third of his estate had been slated for Kate. He’d never conceived of the possibility that she’d predecease him. He changed it so that Kate’s third would be split evenly between Kevin and Lizzie—trusts and all that. He’d already set up an insurance trust to protect the benefits from the inheritance tax.” He shook his head. “The old man knew finances and tax laws. Covered all his bases.”

Dad’s will… talking about it made Jack queasy. He felt ghoulish. He wanted off the subject.

“Well, he was an accountant after all.”

Tom looked Jack in the eye. “How many accountants do you know who’re worth three million bucks?”

Jack sat stiff and silent, stunned. “Three million? Dad? But how?”

“A major reason was Microsoft. He wasn’t in on the IPO, but he got in shortly after. You know how he was about computers—way ahead of the crowd. He saw the future and bought into it. He was also one of the first home-computer day traders.” Tom tapped his fist twice on the table. “Wish to hell he’d clued me in.”

“Would you have listened?”

Tom’s drink arrived. “Probably not. Moot point, anyway. With kids and family and living high, who had spare cash?”

“You must have a retirement account.”

He nodded. “Yeah, but I left that in the care of a reputed whiz kid who royally fucked it up. Shit, if I’d wanted it to crash and burn, I could have done that myself.” Tom stared into his drink. “What’re you going to do with your million?”

A million… the number whacked him across the back of the head like a blackjack. Dad had left him a million bucks.

“I… I’ll have to think about that. How about you?”

“By the time the estate’s settled—and it’ll be a while—I hope to be long gone.” He gave a disgusted grunt. “Otherwise I’ll be a rich jailbird. But even if I hung around I wouldn’t see much of it. With two rasorial ex-wives—the Skanks from Hell are both well practiced at deficit financing—and a third who spends like the Hilton sisters, and three kids with college funds, what do you think?”

Jack had a sudden idea. “Is there any way to split my share between your kids and Kate’s?”

Tom’s drink stopped halfway to his lips. He stared wide eyed and open mouthed.

“You’re shitting me.”

“Nope. Just made up my mind.”

“No, you’re out of your fucking mind.”

He couldn’t accept the money. Not that it wouldn’t give Gia and him a nice, fat financial cushion, but a man who doesn’t exist can’t inherit money.

“I have my reasons.”

“What? You don’t seem the superstitious type. You think it’s somehow tainted because Dad was murdered?”

That had never occurred to Jack, but he decided to run with it.

“Yeah. It’s blood money. I don’t want it.”

Tom shook his head. “Well, as much as I’d like to see the kids get an extra half a mil, it can’t be done.”

“Why not? You’re the executor, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, but I won’t be around. And an executor can’t change the terms of the will.”

“You could hang around long enough to find a way.”

“But it’s not necessary. Once you claim the money you can divvy it up any way you please.”

That was just the point—he couldn’t claim the money.

Another idea: “Okay, have me declared dead.”

“What?”

“Look, I disappeared more than seven years ago—twice that. Isn’t that enough to have me declared dead?”

“But you’re not.”

“I am—at least as far as officialdom is concerned.”

There—he’d said it. Hadn’t wanted to, but there was no other way. He didn’t want his inheritance moldering in some account when the other people in Dad’s will could use it.

Tom grinned and slapped the tabletop. “Knew it! I knew it!”

“Knew what?”

“You’re running around under a false identity. That’s why you couldn’t claim Dad’s body. And—of course! You can’t claim the inheritance for the same reason.” He leaned forward. “What’s the story? Who are you hiding from?”

“You know all you need to know, Tom. Back to the subject at hand: Can you have me declared dead?”

“But everybody at the wake and the funeral… they know you’re alive.”

“Yeah, but do they have to know I’ve been declared dead? Nobody knows how much they were slated to inherit in the first place. If you don’t tell and I don’t complain, who’s going to be the wiser?”

Tom leaned back. “I don’t know. It might be possible. I’ll hang around long enough to look into it.”

“Do that. And no funny stuff.”

Tom looked offended. “You think I’d gyp Kate’s kids?”

“After what you’ve told me? What do you think?”

“I’d never—”

“Good. Because if I ever find out you’ve shorted those kids, I’ll hunt you down and chop off your right hand.”

Tom started to laugh but it died aborning as he looked in Jack’s eyes.

“You—you’re kidding, right?”

Their food arrived then. Jack sniffed his fish and chips—fresh from the fryer, all hot, crisp, and greasy.

“Let’s eat.”