Mordecaise savored this information like it was a tender morsel just off the grill smiling past the curious expression of his important asset - Pasqual Ortega. “3 brothers dead within a year of each other,” Mordecaise repeated into the cacophony of the “Croc.” It was that cheerful hour before the “sauce” had yet begun to corrode natural kindness in the hearts and mouths of its quaffing patrons. Pasqual could feel his mentor’s interest, though there was no physical indication that he’d heard a word, other than a quiet murmuring in the general direction of Pasqual. His phone began to vibrate on the table doing a shuffle toward the ashtray full of marijuana butts from the afternoon. “Hello, Leslea - thank you. Yeah it’s weird enough; can you talk¿ are you encrypted?” Knowing this precaution only slowed the “state’s surveillance, it did serve to dust the digital trail of amuture interlopers.
“I’m as quiet as I’ve means to be; never seen anything like this - 3 siblings dead within a year of each other; with the two brother’s estates intestate, then cascading to Domhall who is also apparently intestate, with ‘no known heirs’. Their estimated combined assets are over $12.9 million; I can almost hear the wolves howling in the background. What have you learned?”
Pasqual did not respond to her question, rather asking one instead, “Have you ordered death certificates for Reynaldo and Demsford?” She grunted affirmative. “Do you have a cause of death?” he asked not waiting for an answer.
Leslei was accustomed to Pasqual’s brusqueness, though he was particularly curt in this call. “I have calls into the local authorities; for Demsford who died in Aix en Provence, my French will suffice, but for Reynaldo who died in Hoi An Vietnam Google Translate will really require email communication to be effective, or an operative fluent in Vietnamese; I’ll let you know when I get that information.”
“See if the local police can help, they may have translators. Text me when you hear anything. Gotta go” Pasqual turned off his phone and looked back toward Mordecaise who’d been listening while jotting notes in his old school note pad. “Leslea got as far as she could; the bad news is they are both considered foreign decedents, so the estate filings will be at a snail’s pace; Demsford’s estate would have been going to Reynaldo - then to Domhall, who apparently was intestate; the good news is the three are foreign decedents, etc., etc.”
Pasqual waited for Mordecaise’ attention, rather than to interrupt . . . without looking up Mordecaise asked, “Were you able to arrange insurance and a bonded carrier for the Renoir in NYC?” After 6 years working together, Pasqual was accustomed to Mordecaise’ eidetic memory and tried to be prepared for questions before they were asked.
“Shipping with DHL/Special Handling Unit; additional indemnity with Prudential, Waiting for from/to and customs declarations from you; the forms are in the ‘outgoing’ file in your locker.” Mordecaise’ flip phone’ ring tone “Mephisto’s Waltz” signaled the rare occasion of an incoming call.
Mordecaise had already unfolded his lanky frame into long strides toward the front door against a rising client tide that had been swelling for the evening crescendo that was the “Croc’s” bread and butter; telephone nestled with attention into the crook of his towering figure, elbows akimbo dodging noggins unaware. Angela was aware as the painted redhead and her swain from the Excelsior in Punta Este dressed in matching crocodile skin boleros and knee high crocodile skin boots began to elbow their way toward the stage as indelicately as Mordecaise had gently exited. Angela turned to the voice in her ear, “The Cuban Rasta band canceled 45 minutes ago - These two are ‘Roja and Rojito’, please try and help them set up, it’s all we got for the night.” Guildern was receding toward the alcove with a handful of bills before Angela could reply while watching the restive crowd watching the red duet perch on the dais in their curiously appropriate attire.
The Red Dame nodded as Angela approached giving no indication that she remembered Angela from their exchange the day before at the Excelsior, though the pretty lad was still leering at Angela as he obsequiously attended to the slightest gesture from the painted lady. “Is there anything I can get you?” Angela inquired shifting stools and tables to fit with the slight instrumentals and equipment the couple had already commandeered. “Absinthe if you have it, Ouzo if you don’t - or just Bourbon neat if that’s the best you can do. He’ll drink water”, nodding to her paramour and his seemingly tattooed salacious smirk. The crowd like a grove of old growth trees had digested the gossip from the night before and began to twitch like a shiver of sharks with blood in the water.
What happened next will remain etched in what was left of Angela’s presumptions about the world and her ability to ‘know everything’: after the death of her child, the loss of her homeland, and her 1st love. Three chords into the opening set, the painted woman broke into a haunting spot on rendition of Lila Downs’ cover of Cuco Sánchez’ “La Cama de Piedra.” Angela stood rooted unable to turn away from the haunting sound of a mute room filled with the ache of a song; before the sound faded “La Cumbia del Mole” began to fill every empty space of that transfixed room, and thrummed with the congas of the more-than pretty lad. Guildern was as struck dumb as any block of rock that comprised the essence of very that very old, and aging room, but continued to prepare deposits from the till.
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As an elder woman born to the late 20th century, Leslea Corkturn was accustomed to being cutoff and so unfazed she focused her substantial attention back to the task at hand, focusing on the facts she possessed: 3 dead brothers worth millions; a colleague dodging direct inquiry; deaths under questionable circumstances associated with estates leading nowhere. She signed on to her VPN account and booked a ticket for Paris the next day, and texted Pasqual advising him of same, requesting additional instructions. “Landing at CDG, then MRS - will call when rested.” She commenced packing, while adding notes to her phone, bluetoothing them to her laptop which auto-loaded to her neon green thumbwheel and then deleted all previous threads; leaving a single lighter-sized record of her transactions + selected audio & visual recordings.
She was able to live out of a single carryon wheeled valise and kept a separate traveling wardrobe in the ready, so was packed and prepared for sleep within minutes of hanging up the phone. Leslea had studied fine art in her youth and was looking forward to seeing Aix-en-Provence again having spent a year in the city living at the International Student Dormitory working toward a PhD in Fine Art during her 30’s; this proved helpful in booking a room on short notice. Part of the Demsford Schmuck estate that Leslea was able to uncover was a small cottage, near the Bibemus Quarry. It was as good a place as any to begin an investigation into the death of the first of the Schmuck brothers - she hoped.
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“Yeah?” Mordecaise answered, listening closely while trying to decipher the incoming number from the 1,000s in his memory bank. “Monsieur, Lizt c'est Pierre à Marseille avec les informations que vous avez demandées,” hearing no reply, Pierre continued; “le défunt a succombé aux blessures d'un accident de moto il y a un peu plus d'un an. Les autorités ont localisé deux frères; un à Hoi An, au Vietnam; l'autre à Montevideo, en Uruguay, dont aucun n'a répondu à de vastes demandes de renseignements. La valeur estimée de la succession du défunt est de près de 3 millions USD.” Though they’d never met Pierre appreciated the fair-trade wage scale which Mordecaise adhered to religiously, and so waited some moments before he inquired, “¿avez-vous d'autres instructions?”
Not wishing to alert his able operative, Mordecaise spoke casually; non, c'est très utile; Je vous rappellerai si vous pouvez faire autre chose - une question d'assurance de routine. ¿Comment vont la femme et les enfants; Celeste est-elle complètement rétablie? signaling the demands of business, Mordecaise - responded buoyantly, “Bon, Bon - mais . ..” Pierre acknowledged their mutual demands, by hollering into the phone with a warm au revoir as the connection broke.
Laying down his phone, Mordecaise looked to Pasqual and asked, “Can Leslea travel¿ she is French fluent, oui? Pasqual was thinking about the 2nd brother Reynaldo realizing the city he died in was close to where his uncle Ernesto died during the Tet offensive of ’68 in Viet Nam. It was as close to revery as Pasqual got; he loved his uncle and felt again the dull ache when told of Tio Ernesto’s death.
jts 21/01/2021
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