“You’re saying your brother stole it?”
“I’m saying, why not? I wouldn’t put it past him. He stole everything else.”
“But what good would that do? Even if he snitched a copy, the attorney probably kept the original. Once Guy was gone, he had no way of knowing your father wasn’t going to turn around and make another will just like it. Or write a third will altogether. From what Donovan’s told me, your father was good at talking tough and not so good when it came to follow-through.”
He shook his head and his expression was patronizing. “True enough. That’s why I’m going back through all of Dad’s personal papers. It’s not that we want to deny Guy any monies he may be entitled to, but this is bullshit in my opinion. He collected his share once. Dad had the second will drawn up with every intention of eliminating Guy’s claim. That’s why he gave him the cash to begin with-to pay him off in full. I heard him allude to it many times over the years. As far as he was concerned, the ten grand he gave my brother was the end of it.”
“Well, I wish I could help, but this is really not my turf. Tasha’s the expert. I suggest you sit down and talk to her.”
“What about my father’s deal with Guy?” he went on argumentatively. “It was a verbal agreement, but doesn’t that count for anything?”
“Hey, you’re asking the wrong person. I have no idea. No one knows where Guy is, let alone what kind of bargain he made the day he left.”
His smile flickered and I could see him curb a desire to continue arguing the point. “You’re right, of course,” he said. “So what can I tell you about Guy?”
“Let’s start with the obvious. Did he say anything to you about his plans before he left?”
“I’m afraid Guy wasn’t in the habit of discussing anything with me.”
I shifted the subject slightly. “Could he have headed up to San Francisco? Donovan says he was into drugs in those days and the Haight might have been a draw.”
“It’s always possible. If that’s where he went, he never said a word to me. I should probably warn you, the two of us weren’t close. I don’t mean to seem uncooperative, but I don’t have much to offer in the way of information.”
“Did you ever hear him mention a possible career? Did he have any personal passions?”
Bennet’s smile was thin. “He made a career out of doing as little as possible. His passion was getting into trouble, making life miserable for everyone else.”
“What about his employment? What kind of jobs did he have?”
“None significant. When he was still in his teens, he worked in a pizza place until he got caught skimming cash. He also got a job doing telephone sales. That lasted two days. I don’t remember his ever doing much else until he started working for Dad. He pumped gas for a while so I suppose he might have become a career gas station attendant. ”
“What kind of car did he drive?”
“He drove the family Chevy until he was involved in a hit-and-run accident and his license was suspended. After that, Dad refused to let him use any of the family vehicles.”
“Do you know if his license was ever reinstated?”
“If it wasn’t, he probably drove without. He never cared much about life’s petty little rules and regulations.”
“Did he have any hobbies?”
“Not unless you count smoking dope and getting laid.”
“What about his personal interests? Did he hunt, or fish? Did he skydive?” I was floundering, casting about in an attempt to develop a sense of direction.”
Bennet shook his head. “He was a vegetarian. He said nothing should ever have to die so that he could eat. He was petrified of heights so I doubt he ever jumped out of airplanes or climbed mountains or bungee-jumped.”
“Well at least we can eliminate that,” I said. “Did he have medical problems?”
“Medical problems? Like what?”
“I don’t know. I’m just trying to find ways to get a bead on him. Was he diabetic? Did he have allergies or any chronic illnesses?”
“Oh I see what you’re getting at. No. As far as I know, his health was good-for someone so heavily into drink and drugs.”
“Donovan says he had one good friend. Somebody named Paul?”
“You’re talking about Paul Trasatti. I can give you his telephone number. He hasn’t gone anywhere.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
He recited the number off the top of his head and I made a quick note in the little spiral-bound notebook I carry.”
I tried to think about the areas I hadn’t covered yet. “Was he a draft dodger? Did he protest the was in Vietnam?”
“He didn’t have to. The army wouldn’t take him. He had bad feet. Lucky him. He never gave a shit about politics. He never even voted as far as I know.”
“What about religion? Did he do Yoga? Meditate? Chant? Walk on hot coals?” This was like pulling teeth.
He shook his head again. “None of the above.”
“What about bank accounts?”
“Nope. At least he didn’t have any back then.”
“Did he own any stocks or bonds?”
Bennet shook his head again. He was beginning to seem amused at my persistence, which I found irritating.
“He must have cared about something,” I said.
“He was a fuckup, pure and simple. He never lifted a finder for anyone except himself. Typical narcissist. The girls couldn’t get enough of him. You figure it out.”
“Look, Bennet. I understand your hostility, but I can do without the editorializing. You must have cared about him once.”
“Of course,” he said blandly, averting his gaze. “But that was before he became such a pain in the ass to all of us. Besides, he’s been gone for years. I suppose at some level I have some kind of family feeling, but it’s hard to sustain given his long absence.”
“Once he left, none of you ever heard from him?”
His eyes came back to mine. “I can only speak for myself. He never called me or wrote. If he was in touch with anyone else, I wasn’t told about it. Maybe Paul knows something.”
“What sort of work does he do?”
“He’s a rare-book dealer. He buys and sells autographs, letters, manuscripts. Things like that.” He closed his mouth and smiled faintly, volunteering nothing unless I asked point-blank.
I wasn’t getting anywhere and it was probably time to move on. “What about Jack? Could Guy have confided in him?”
“You can ask him yourself. He’s right out there,” Bennet said. He gestured toward the windows and I followed his gaze. I caught a glimpse of Jack as he crossed the back lawn, heading away from the house toward a slope to the left. The rear of the property picked up just enough sun to foster a mix of coarse, patchy grasses, some of which were dormant at this time of year. He had a couple of golf clubs tucked carelessly under one arm and he carried a bucket and a net in a blue plastic frame.
By the time we caught up with him and Bennet had introduced us, Jack was using a sand wedge to smack golf balls at the net he’d set up twenty yards away. Bennet withdrew and left me to watch Jack practice his chipping shots. He’d swing and I could hear the thin whistle as the club cut through the air. There’d be a whack and the ball would arc toward the net, with an nerring accuracy. Occasionally, a shot would hit the grass nearby, landing with a short bounce, but most of the time he nailed the target he was aiming for.
He wore a visor with PEBBLE BEACH imprinted on the rim. His hair was light brown, a shock of it protruding from the Velcro-secured opening at the back. He wore chinos and a golf shirt with the emblem for St. Andrew’s stitched on the front like a badge. He was leaner than his two brothers and his face and arms were tanned. I could see him measure the trajectory of the ball as it sailed through the air. He said, “I hope this doesn’t seem rude, but I’ve got a tournament coming up.”
I murmured politely, not wanting to break his concentration.
Whistle. Whack. “You’ve been hired to find Guy,” he said when the ball landed. He frowned to himself and adjusted his stance. “How’s it coming?”
I smiled briefly. “So far all I have are his date of birth and his Social Security number.”
“Why did Donovan tell you to talk to me?”
“Why wouldn’t I talk to you?”
He ignored me for the moment. I watched as he walked out to the net and leaned down, gathering the countless balls which he tossed in his plastic bucket. He came back to the spot where I was standing and started all over again. His swing looked exactly the same-time after time, without variation. Swing, whack, in the net. He’d put the next ball down. Swing, whack, in the net. He shook his head at one shot, responding to my comment belatedly. “Donovan doesn’t have much use for me. He’s a Puritan at heart. It’s all work, work, work with him. You have to be productive-get the job done. All that rah-rah-rah stuff. As far as he’s concerned, golf isn’t worthy of serious consideration unless it nets you an annual income of half a million bucks.” He paused to look at me, leaning lightly on his golf club, as if it were a cane. “I don’t have any idea where Guy went, if that’s what you’re here to ask. I was finishing my senior year at Wake Forest, so I heard about it by phone. Dad called and said he’d told Guy to hit the road. They’d had a quarrel about something and off he went.”