Chapter 4

Demons & Predators

“I don’t care. Just do something about it! I don’t want to hear about your problems!”

John Wilkes sighed and peered at the aggravated young man pacing his office back and forth like some demented lion at a Russian zoo ceaselessly walking the perimeter of his tiny cage. Brandon Cromwell was a brat. One of those yuppie golden boys who never had to work for anything in his entire life because he was too busy gagging on the silver spoon in his mouth. One of those obnoxious preppy rich kids who socialized his days away hanging out in exclusive clubs with other preppy rich kids, congratulating each other on being the Masters of the Universe. Never mind the people to whom they owed their inherited social status, their moms and dads - the social elite of the past. The old guard. It's not like these little pricks actually worked their way to the top. At least their parents had some class back then...

When was the last time Brandon had even seen Angus? As far as John knew it had been more than ten years… Now that the old man was dead the flies flocked to the cadaver. Make that just one fly; Brandon. Angus had surprisingly willed all his money to scholarship funds and charity organizations all over America. John had a pretty good idea why he had done so.  He hadn’t left his great grand nephew a single cent. John hid his smile in his glass of Lagavulin, the stuff his wife used to call his “amber demon”. Well, Marge… The demon’s still here with me and you’re not. Here’s to you kid, I miss you. He couldn’t help but take immense pleasure in the way Brandon had been shortchanged when he had been expecting millions. After all… He was the only living relative entitled to the Cromwell millions. It seems like Angus had disliked his young nephew as much as everybody else.

“Brandon, there is nothing I can do. Your uncle legally placed most of his money in funds well before he died, and he left explicit instructions for what was to be done with the rest of it after his death. The money has already been dispensed. It’s gone kid. Just like that.” He sipped his whisky again and realized how much he’d rather have Marge by his side again rather than forever drinking away the grief of losing of her. “Untouchable.”

Brandon fixed him with a predator stare worthy of that Russian lion. “Untouchable? You are supposed to be on my side, John! You are my goddamn lawyer now! Fix this! You think I’m just going to let some friggin’ retarded kids’ summer camp suck up my money? Damn them all to hell and back for all I care. They should all have been euthanized at birth and that way we wouldn’t be in this goddamn situation!”

Brandon Cromwell, the great philanthropist. Always looking out for his more unfortunate brothers wallowing in their own shit. John realized he really couldn’t stand this brat. On the other hand… This brat could become one of his more important clients if he played his cards right, ethically questionable as it may be, and as such demanded a certain amount of ass kissing. It’s not like he hadn’t done that before.  The legal profession came with its ups and down.

“That may be true, but it doesn’t help you,” he said.  “The money has been signed off in a legally binding document. His estate is being auctioned off for God knows what charity next weekend and there is nothing you can do about it. If there was, I…”

“So you say!” Brandon interrupted.  “I have friends in high places, John! We can turn this around. Void his last will somehow! Maybe say he was insane or duped or…”

John cut him off before he went off on a tangent again. “You forget that I was the lawyer witnessing that last will and that would shed a most unfortunate light on my reputation, especially since I am now your lawyer. Conflict of interest and all that…”

“See, that sounds like a personal problem to me, old man.”  Brandon’s voice had taken on an icy tone. “That does not concern me. You figure something out. In a way you are partly to blame for all of this. You should have stopped him.”

Stupid idiot… Angus had paid John well for his services and Brandon hadn’t been a client back then. As long as he was compensated what did he care where the money went? Now, however, he was presented with the delicate dilemma of Cromwell’s claim. Maybe he shouldn’t have taken him on as his client, but Brandon was starting to make a name for himself on Wall Street. Not for his financial abilities, what a joke, but for his connections.  You never know. You stick it out with this idiot and it could open up some lucrative doors down the line. New York’s a hell of a bigger market than Boston, that’s for sure.

“Stopped him how? And why? You weren’t exactly camped by his death bed for the last year. If I remember correctly you didn’t even attend the wake.”

“I had a business meeting,” Brandon hissed.  “Don’t fucking play games with me, John. This is way too serious.”

Business meeting my ass… Was that how they billed it down at Club Vice these days? Maybe to the stripper in his lap it was a ‘business meeting’. “OK, but what exactly do you want me to do then? I can’t go after the money for you. That option flew out the window the second old Angus signed his will. He died a sane man you know.  His family doctor will never testify to anything else in court. And I drew up the legal documents regarding his testament.  I did a pretty solid job too, if I may say so myself, however unfortunate that now is for you.”

Brandon shot him a dangerous look.  John felt he had gone a little too far. “The only thing I can think of,” he continued before he crossed too many lines, “is the old Cromwell estate in Willowe.  That was always in your family’s possession and it was not included in the last draft of the will. Angus drew up that document separately after we signed off on the original papers. He said he didn’t want to draw ‘unnecessary attention’ to the place again. But that’s it Brandon. That’s all I can think of.”

“The estate you say?” Brandon sighed. “That’s it? Willowe? That’s in the goddamn boondocks, right? What the hell is it anyway? A barn?”

John knew damn well that Brandon was aware of the dark history of the Cromwell family and knew exactly what had happened in Willowe, but he doubted very much he had ever actually seen the house. “The estate on Jacaranda Drive happens to be smack in the middle of the most exclusive residential area of rural New England, just outside Boston. You have the golf course right next door and there are convention spas popping up overnight. It’s loaded with people just like you.”  Whatever that is, he thought to himself. Damn spoiled waste of a generation… “It’s more than likely worth something and I could probably contest the will on that one point. It’s the only part of the will I was not involved in. That paper was witnessed by Dr. Lowell. We could try and go for that”

“What’s it worth?” Brandon looked interested, eager even.

“I don’t know really. I’m sure it’s really worn down after all these years. There has been no upkeep you know. No maintenance and…”

“Yeah yeah yeah… Whatever. Give me a figure.”

God, he really hated this kid. “I don’t know. Anything from half a mill to one and a half, depending on how much work you put into it.”

“Really?” Brandon said. “Tell me more.” He sat down in front of the big old mahogany desk and leaned back in the chair.

Usually John Wilkes called this particular turn of events the “hook in mouth” part. You get the client hooked on an “innocent” little idea and reel him in while charging him tons of money. This time the hook didn’t feel “right” though, and he knew somewhere deep inside that reeling in might be a mistake. Hooking Brandon was like catching a great white from a row boat, and by doing so he had no choice but to cram him in there and haul ass for the shore before he got bitten.

“Well…  It’s been neglected for over 40 years, but from what I understand it’s still standing.  It was built way back when things were built to last so I’m sure the foundation is fine. If you fix it up, maybe plow a couple of hundred of G’s into it… You still have the tainted name to deal with, you know.”

And there it was. The unspoken had been spoken. John Wilkes had been old McGraw’s lawyer for damn near 20 years and he had never ever heard Angus utter a word about the tragic events courtesy of his brother. Not until the business with the separate will for the Jacaranda Drive estate surfaced was John even reminded that Angus still occupied his mind with thoughts of the whole sad Willowe affair. Brandon had never mentioned it.

“Well, John… Thanks for bringing that old skeleton out of the closet again,” Brandon said, his voice a deadly calm. “I’m sure it’s well hung by now.”

“Hung or not, you still have to find somebody willing to buy the place despite its history. That shouldn’t present too much of a problem though, considering it happened such a long time ago. Hell… Charles Manson is a cultural phenomena these days. Come to think of it, I don’t think it will scare off the right buyer. Might even work as a kicker!”

Brandon closed his eyes, as if thinking really hard, and fell silent for a while. John swirled his malt around and looked at the clock. He had to be at The Lounge in two hours and Brandon didn’t seem any closer to leaving than when he first walked in the door.

“Also,” he continued when he saw that Brandon wasn’t picking up the ball, “there is the matter of the actual inheritor of the estate. That will have to be taken care of before we put this house up on any kind of market. We have to shoot the bear before we sell the pelt. kid.”

Brandon opened his eyes again and rubbed them with his palms. “Spare me your  proverbs, old man,” he said. “Tell me about this mysterious inheritor.”

Old man, huh? He’d never be too old to outsmart this kid any day of the week. “It’s an institution that is the recipient of the willed estate, not a person. The Ashforde Historical Society, if I don’t remember it incorrectly. Sounds grand and noble, right? Not at all…” John looked down at the documents on his desk and pushed his glasses back on his nose. “The institute was started by Jorn Westman in the 70’s and never aspired to be anything but a kind of gentleman’s club for the retired big shots of Willowe, if there indeed ever was such an animal. Old Westman later dies and his son, Kenneth, is now running the Society, which these days exists in name only. They don’t even have a location anymore, much less any members. According to Dr. Lowell, this Kenneth person has been on old McGraw’s case for years about the house, begging him to donate it for better purposes or whatever.”

He put the paper down and peered at Brandon who had once again closed his eyes, adopting the look of a knowing prince listening to his old fool advisor with all the regal patience in the world.

“You know," he continued, "that could be our angle; poor old frail Angus being harassed by some stranger digging up old family ghosts, making him feel threatened to give up the estate so as not to bring shame to his house again in the last days of his life. That and the fact that you, the only living relative – the grieving nephew - was left with nothing, could be strong cards to play. We can’t let any judge know you are selling the house though, which I assume you are?” No reply from Brandon, just a hand gesture to go on. “So we play the pity violin and cry about how the one thing that has been in the Cromwell family the longest has been stolen away from its rightful heir by trickery and deceit. We can do that…” John knew he could pull that off. Would be like stealing candy from a baby. He was going to make it sound harder though… “I will have to pull a lot of strings, Brandon. It’s probably going to take a while.” And I charge by the hour motherfucker, he thought to himself as he wished he could entertain the wolf grin he felt coming up inside.

“OK. You do that, John. Meanwhile I will look into the real estate market and see if I can dig up some prospective buyers. Maybe even a contractor or two.” He shot the old lawyer a sly glance. “And don’t worry… I won’t enquire loud enough to make any waves to rock our boat before the hearing. For we are in that same boat, John, aren’t we?”

Spooky kid. As if he had read his goddamn mind about the great white thing earlier. “Sure Brandon. Like brothers in arms.”

“Always remember that, old man” Brandon said with a razor smile. Then he turned his heel and walked out the door without another word, leaving John to reacquaint himself with his old friend, the amber demon, once again.

All of a sudden he didn’t really feel like going to The Lounge tonight.

- - -

Brandon hummed to himself on his way down the elevator, the Vicodin sense of perfect clarity wearing off. He rummaged around in his pocket for his pill case, expertly opened it with a snap of his fingers and popped another one. The meeting was most rewarding after all. John was an old kook but he sure had his head screwed on right. Not that it mattered much. He had only hired him so he could get something out of his old uncle Scrooge McAsshole anyway. The old lawyer was the only one who had had insight into the Cromwell affairs. The second this fucking Willowe house panned out it was bye bye ole’ man Wilkes.

Charity my ass! His uncle had given away all that money just to spite him… To mock him from the other side of the grave. Brandon ground his teeth as his thoughts brushed for a second on that fucking letter Angus had left behind for him in a sealed envelope. He had been so psyched to see the Cromwell sigil in the red wax, thinking that here was his little reward for the Christmas cards his secretary had sent the old bastard every year. At least he hoped she had, or was that the old aunt in Miami? Didn’t matter now. The letter had turned out to be nothing but his uncle’s last laugh dressed up as concern. “My dearest Brandon…” It had gone downhill from there. He had just skimmed it, looking for paragraphs about how much and what accounts, and had been absolutely furious to learn he was to get nothing. Nothing… He hadn’t honestly deep down inside really expected to inherit anything, considering the dislike he and his uncle had had for each other, but to actually see it in black and white made it kind of hit home all the way over the stadium and into the river.

In the letter the old man had instead ranted on about some “family curse” and other such old nonsensical crap from long ago Brandon could care less about. What his psycho uncle Samuel had done a million years ago had nothing to do with him today and by God he wasn’t about to hang on to old ghosts now that the last of them was finally dead.

He had trashed the letter without thinking twice. Maybe he should have kept it? It could have proved useful in the upcoming proceedings. Too late now.  He always was too rash in his actions and that would be his downfall one day. His mother had always told him that. Well, she was long gone and her money was now his… what little was left of it anyway. He had a tendency to live well above his means. A rich man’s mind and a poor man’s pocket and all that. More words of wisdom from dear ma. Only he wasn’t really poor… Yet… If he kept this lifestyle up he would be soon enough. Impressing Marcus and the others at the Club was starting to cost him a little more than he could afford. It was a big vicious jet set cycle of who could outdo whom and he was just stuck in it. Sink or swim, motherfucker. He straightened his tie in the elevator mirror. One of these days he might actually have to start working in that Wall Street office his mom had set him up in and then he’d be fucked. He didn’t know shit about making money, only how to spend it like it was going out of style. Damn… Sometimes he wished he was just as poor as all these other bastards in the street. All these dumbass welfare leeches that did nothing but scrub floors for food stamps, or whatever the hell they did. They had no worries or problems. Not like he did anyway… What the fuck did they know about constantly worrying about money. They could just go down to wherever you go to get your check and go home and make more filthy beggar babies.

By the time the doors opened to the marbled lobby Brandon was grinding his teeth. The old concierge held the smoked glass door open for him and flashed him a big smile. “Have a nice day, Mr. Cromwell.”

Brandon shot him a glare. “Fuck off, you fucking parasite.” What did he want? A fucking tip for doing his job? A round of applause? Goddamn leeches…

Brandon stepped out onto the busy sidewalk and elbowed his way into the waiting cab. He had calls to make.