Thomas Prescott Superpack (31 page)

Chapter 9

I guess you could say Harold Humphries dropped into my life rather unexpectedly.

Early Monday morning, the plumber showed up.
The plumber was not Harold Humphries. The plumber’s name was Theo. After about two hours of hard labor—seventy-five-dollar hours—Theo had fixed the brown water problem.

Minutes after Theo had left, I heard a distinct ringing.
It was a phone. I didn’t remember seeing a phone, but the ringing appeared to be coming from upstairs. I ran upstairs and into Lacy’s room. The ringing was coming from under her bed. I lifted up the bright flamingo pink bed skirt and extracted a bright flamingo pink phone.

I picked up the receiver and said rather timidly, “Hello.”

There was a slight pause at the other end, then in a shallow, hoarse whisper, a man said, “Bobby?”

This would be Harold.

I said, “No.
There is no Bobby at this number.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry.”

I’m not sure why I didn’t hang up.
To this day, I wonder what would have happened if I’d hung up that phone. Would he have called back?

The man—Harold, although he’d yet to give me his name—took five deep breaths, then asked, “Who’s this?”

I wouldn’t normally divulge my name to a complete stranger, but something about the voice drew it out of me.

I told him my name.

“Is that right?”
Old people like to say
Is that right
? At least my Grandpa Prescott had, once upon a time. And this was all I had to go by. If I remembered correctly, it was rhetorical.

I asked, “Who’s this?”
This would prove to be a grave mistake.

And so Harold Humphries told me who he
was.
In real time. Because Harold’s life was really, really long, and because Harold talked really, really slowly, this took a really, really long time.

I’d more or less stopped listening when he got up to the Battle of Bunker Hill.
Then he said, “I need some things.”

Um.

He said, “Grab a pen.”

Unfortunately for me, there was a bright pink pen adorned with a flamingo resting on Lacy’s bright pink nightstand.
I grabbed it.

Harold proceeded to rattle off a list of supplies he needed.
When he was done, I looked down at the list on my inside palm:
Maxim
, Sour Patch Kids, Red Bull, Macadamia Nuts, Big League Chew (Grape), Nestle Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, and three lotto tickets. In a nutshell, a bunch of nursing home contraband. What were they going to do—add a couple more years to his sentence?

I told him to give me an hour.

I made my way to the garage. There were three cars: my mom’s BMW coupe, my dad’s Lincoln Continental, and a Range Rover. I found a box of old towels and wiped the many layers of dust off each of the cars. My dad had bought the Lincoln just months before the crash and it still looked brand new, but I opted for the Range Rover.

I made a stop by the local grocery store and picked up Harold’s items.
Then it took me about twenty minutes to find the Willow Springs Retirement Community. The place was all stucco, with a bunch of trees that were not indigenous to the Seattle area, making it look like some sort of all-inclusive club. I think they were trying to trick these old folks into thinking they had come to die in Key West.

I found a parking spot and hopped out.
I had no idea what the visitor policy was at Willow Springs, so I’d dressed up a bit, tan slacks and a blue polo. A bit baggy seeing as they were my father’s. In addition, I was carrying an old briefcase which contained Harold’s nefarious items. 

I walked through the double doors and was struck by the stench of old.
Antiseptic meets dried apricots. Speaking of dried fruit, I told the prune at the front desk I was here to see Harold Humphries. She eyed the briefcase suspiciously. I had a feeling this wasn’t the first time old Harold had tried to pull one over on the headmistress.

I signed in, then was directed to the third building on the left after the fountain.
If I hit the hanging lanterns, I’d gone too far.

Was it just me or was this place starting to feel a little too much like Vegas?

I made it to Harold’s room and knocked. Two and half minutes later the door creaked open and Harold peeked out. Harold was probably 5’8” in his prime, but his height was now at a right angle. He had these huge ears—the size of tea saucers—and I imagine if he wasn’t bone deaf he could hear for miles. Not a single hair adorned his shiny scalp, which with the age spots looked remarkably like a globe. There was a big brown spot near his crown that could have passed for Australia. He had large glasses perched on a bulbous nose, lenses that gave the Hubble telescope a run for its money in thickness. The skin around his neck was loose and free-flowing, like his Adam’s apple was using it as a hammock. An oxygen tank rested in the front basket of his walker. All in all, I’d have to carbon-date Harold right around a thousand years old.

He took two deep inhales of oxygen and said, “Did you get my stuff?”

I held up the briefcase and said, “Right here.” I added, “I forgot the condoms.”

He smiled and invited me in.

I walked the small room while he inspected the contents of my briefcase.
The room was that of a typical college dorm. Small bed, TV, chair, minifridge, coffee table, small bath, bong in the corner. Just kidding. It was an oxygen tank. 

I surveyed Harold.
He had a huge chaw of Big League Chew in his mouth and was flipping through
Maxim
with quite possibly the biggest grin in the history of time. The TV was set on horse racing and I watched three races while Harold devoured the candy and the magazine.

Glipperfoot won the sixth race, but I had my money on Saddlebags.
Harold turned his attention to the races and correctly guessed the next four. Then he said, “Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour.”

The grand tour consisted of the library, a small room with about thirty novels, twenty of which were either W.E.B. Griffin or Nora Roberts.
The theater, a 32-inch TV with four rows of chairs and a meager VHS library of classics. The deli, which was home to fun portions of sandwiches, bananas, pudding, crackers, cookies, and other assorted goodies. (Harold loaded up his little basket with items, even forcing me to fill my pockets.) The billiard room, which, as far as I could tell, had never played home to any sort of billiard activity. And of course, the highlight of the tour, the common area. Filling the glorified living room were twenty people in all, broken up into three or four small groups, plus a couple stragglers. A group of six men sat on the couch watching television and bickering about this and that. Harold called them, “The CNN-iles.”

Witty.

I was introduced to a group of ladies at a table playing bridge. Two Iris’s, two Blanche’s, two Merl’s, and a Naomi. I think back in the day they must have had a name wheel that parents spun right after delivery.
Come on one dollar. I mean, come on Evelyn.

We came full circle an hour later.
If I thought I was done with Harold I was wrong. He told me to sit. I sat. He hit mute on the television and plopped down in his chair. This process took all of four minutes and I even took the liberty of diving into one of the half egg salad sandwiches in my pocket and a banana half.

He stared at me with those big eyes—about the size of a half dollar behind his half-inch-thick lenses—for a long while.
Then he said, “What I’m about to tell you I’ve never told anyone before. Never told any of my kids, neither of my wives, my priest, nobody.”

I nodded.

He said, “I might not be around much longer.” 

I guess Harold was coming to terms with his mortality.

“I mean, I probably only have a good ten years left.”

Then again, maybe not.
For the record, it wouldn’t have surprised me if Harold had ten breaths left.

 
He pulled a hankerchief out, blew his nose, neatly folded the handkerchief back up, packed it away, and said, “It was 1942. I’d just turned eighteen and against my father’s wishes, I enlisted in the war.”

He took a deep inhale on his oxygen tank.

“It was late March. I got up real early. Had to be at the train station by eight. Wrote a letter to my pa, said good-bye to Jessie, our cow, left all my candy out for my sisters, then took Pa’s truck.”

“You stole your dad’s truck?”

“Sure did. But I didn’t exactly steal it. Pa would get a ride into town the next day and pick it up from the train station. There was a train station not fifteen miles from our small farm. See, back then, you leased acreage from the owners. We leased seventy-five acres from the Kings. They were old money, had it coming out the wazoo. They lived about seven miles up the road. Big mansion up on a hill. Passed it every time you went into town. There was a lake on their land. A small lake. You could see it from the road. Sometimes around Christmas you would see some of the King kids playing on the lake.

“We didn’t have the best road into town.
After a good rain it would be almost impassable. But the road got better around the King place. It was gravel. Much smoother.”

He went on a small tangent about gravel and road conditions.
Then he caught himself. “But that’s besides the point. As I was driving past the lake I saw this dog. This big dog running across the lake. I slowed down. A girl at the edge of the lake was yelling at the dog. Slapping her legs and such. I’d seen her before. She was one of the Kings. Didn’t know her name at the time. But she was a pretty little thing, she was. Brown pigtails. Couldn’t have been more than fifteen at the time.”

He had this big smile on his face.
He patted my hand lightly and I could feel his smile crawl inside of me.

“I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
Then I see her start screaming. And I look for the dog. Couldn’t see him anywhere. Then I saw the break. He’d fallen through the ice.”

He took a deep breath and continued, “I pulled the car to the side of the road.
The girl was frantic. Screaming. I was two hundred yards away and I could hear her screams. I watched her for thirty seconds, then she did the unthinkable. She started onto the ice. I remember shaking my head and praying for her to go back. We’d had an unseasonably warm March—which is why the harvest would prove to be so good—and the lakes had started to thaw early.”

I saw where this was going.

“She slowly made it out onto the lake. She made it to the dog and I saw her reach down. But the dog probably weighed more than her. Then she fell. Just disappeared into the lake. I don’t know if the ice caved in around her or if she fell in the same hole as the dog, but she disappeared.”

He went quiet.
Had his eyes clenched tight. The lids of each eye kissing behind his mammoth lenses, looking like two sleeping millipedes. I knew he was back there. For the next few moments, Harold was eighteen again. Harold didn’t open his eyes for a couple minutes. Then it was five. Then it was ten. Then the snoring began.

I rummaged through Harold’s basket and ate another half sandwich and another half banana.
Then I had a pudding. Tapioca. Then I flipped through
Maxim
. I watched horse racing until I correctly guessed a winner. Hollabackgirl in the 10
th
.

Then I left.
 

Chapter 10

A major storm settled in over Seattle and it poured for the next seven days. Not that I was complaining. I had plenty to keep me occupied inside the house. My first project was the carpet. I ripped out the green shag and replaced it with a cinnamon spice. Next, was the kitchen tile. I went with a slate blue, which I must say, really brought out my eyes. The last project on my list was to paint. 

Today was the second Monday of December, the eighth.
I wanted to get the painting finished up by the weekend. But then I’d be all out of projects. What would I do then? Maybe I would go visit Lacy for a week. Or maybe I’d sign up for one of those singles cruises. Or, maybe I’d jump off the Seattle Bridge.

I made it to the Home Depot in downtown Seattle by noon.
There wasn’t much of a Monday crowd and I was out of there an hour later toting four gallons of Coffee Brown.

Speaking of which, I was craving a Pumpkin Spice latte.
I grabbed an umbrella from the trunk of my dad’s Lincoln and started walking. You don’t have to go far in Seattle to find a Starbucks and I found one within two blocks.

They were still making the Pumpkin Spice latte and I ordered a Pumpkin Cream Cheese muffin to complement the beverage.

Just opposite the Starbucks, there was a bus stop with all sorts of advertisements.
One in particular caught my eye. It was on the right wall of the enclosure. In fact, it took up the entire right wall. The top copy read, “Adam Gray and Associates.” Beneath it was a picture of Adam Gray holding a dictionary. Beneath that was the caption, “Guilty Isn’t in Our Vocabulary.”

Barf.
 

A number of infractions were listed about which you should contact the firm, up to and including, “DUI/DWI, Drug Crimes, Juvenile Crimes, Parole and Probation, Traffic Violations, White-Collar Crimes, Real Estate, Criminal Law Basics, and Domestic Violence.”
Some creative persons had added
, Sucking Some Dude Off, Fucking a Dog to Death, Lighting a Bitch on Fire, Shankng a Fool,
and
Pissing on a Kitten
.”

There was an address and small map at the bottom of the ad—200 Park Avenue—which put the building twenty-five blocks from my present location.

. . .

Two hundred Park Avenue is one of several buildings making up Park Avenue Plaza. Ten stories of teal plate glass and no doubt housing orthopedists, plastic surgeons, real estate agents, dentists, and probably even a couple competing law firms.

I pushed through the revolving doors and checked the building directory.
Adam Gray and Associates was located on the tenth floor. The penthouse. I rode the elevator and stepped off.

The tenth floor had walls a green color that reminded me of sweet pea risotto and plush carpeting a dark plum.
Very soothing. Directly across from the elevator was an impressive marble slab with “AGA” stenciled in silver and black. It might well have read, “Welcome to the Big Leagues,” or, “Almost Makes You Glad You’re in Trouble.”

I found Adam Gray’s office, which took up a third of the entire floor, and I pushed through the glass door.

 A large desk guarded double doors. An impressive blonde guarded the large desk. When I say blonde, I mean the platinum type, the kind that burns your retinas if you look directly at it for too long. She was wearing an operator-style headset, but I could make out the white cords of an iPod slithering their way up her neck. She had her head down, and as I approached I noticed she was busying herself with one of those Sudoku things. The marble nameplate on the desk read, “Julia.”

She didn’t look like a Julia.
She looked like a Tiffany. Or a Posh.  

Posh tapped her pencil rhythmically on the desk to whatever was on her playlist—I’m guessing The Pussycat Dolls—then scribbled in a number.
She then proceeded to flip her pencil over and aggressively erase her entry.

I mentally tabulated her SAT score at 700.

Posh was yet to notice my presence.
I took two steps forward, bellying up to the desk, my shadow falling over her. She glanced up, yanked out her earphones, and smiled.

I couldn’t help but notice Posh’s teeth were three shades too white, and it appeared she’d selected her nose out of a lineup.
She said, “Oh dear, you startled me. I didn’t notice you come in. Welcome to Adam Gray and Associates. How can I assist you?” No she didn’t actually say this.

She did say, “Where’d you come from?
You need a lawyer?” Lawyer came out
lawya.

Make that SAT score 70.

I said, “Is Adam in?”

“Uh, Mr. Gray is in court today.
Third day of the Proctor trial. Should wrap up on Thursday. He won’t be back for another hour.”

I nodded and said, “I’ll just hang out if that’s okay.”

She shrugged.

I added, “You don’t really strike me as a Julia.”

She looked at me like I’d just predicted her future.
You will go to the bathroom sometime between noon and six-ish.

She said, “How did you know?”

“I have a sixth sense for these things.”

“My name is Sunny.”

“And in Seattle, no less.”

She didn’t get it.
But maybe Sunny was her middle name. Maybe her first name was
Partly
.

She said, “They haven’t made me a nameplate yet.
This is my second week. Julia was the old receptionist. Her mom got really sick and she went to take care of her. I’m filling in until she gets back.” 

She shrugged and went back to her Sudoku.

I turned and explored Adam Gray’s waiting room. Two couches, charcoal, probably suede, were nestled around a giant flat screen.
The TV was set to a slide show, and I watched as a handful of Seattle’s more picturesque landscapes flashed across the screen: an overhead shot of Qwest stadium lit up at night. A panoramic shot of downtown, the Space Needle just off center. One of Elliot Bay, a seaplane just barely skimming the water. I watched the entire reel—probably about twenty pictures—until it started repeating.

I plopped down on the couch and picked up a
Forbes
magazine from the coffee table. It was their
100 Most Powerful People
in America
issue. Of course. I flipped it open. Number one was Bill Gates, naturally. Two, Warren Buffet. Three, Oprah. Four, Lebron James.

I flipped to the back.
Gray was number 97. Under his picture was the caption, “
The
Most Powerful Lawyer in America
.”

It went on to name some of his biggest cases.
He got his name defending a fraternity brother from Seattle-Pacific who had gone on to become CFO of Sun Microsystems. The accused was charged with vehicular homicide, and the jury returned a verdict of not guilty, for which Gray was rumored to have made upwards of seven million dollars in legal fees. He quickly became the must-have defender of the rich and famous.
Forbes
reported that in the last year alone he collected more than $13 million in legal fees, and his firm billed clients for more than $100 million. Gray owned eight properties, a multimillion-dollar Bainbridge Island estate (the one he’d been standing in front of on television), a high-rise condo in the heart of Seattle, a lake house up in Edmonds, a condo in downtown Vancouver, a cozy place in the San Juans, a villa in Tuscany, a place in Kauai, and a farm in Virginia, as well as a 32-foot yacht
,
the
Habeas Corpus
.

And get this, the guy did all his own research.
Didn’t trust paralegals or secretaries to do anything.

He was licensed to practice in Washington, California, New York, Massachusetts, and Florida, and it was rumored he was in the process of getting his barrister license in England.

The article also mentioned he was married to Governor Ellen Gray, who also happened to make the
Forbes
list. Only she was ranked a baker’s dozen higher than her husband. Or lower, in this case. I flipped to number 84. The caption read, “
Nothing Gray About Her
.”

The first thing that jumped out at me was Ellen’s salary: just over $160,000.
This was probably less than the interest Adam accrued on his fortune each month. I found this ironic. And slightly depressing. 

I skimmed the article.
It highlighted Ellen’s rise to power, as well as the many contributions she had made to the community. The article likened Ellen Gray to Princess Di not once, but twice. 

Adam Gray might be the most powerful lawyer in America, but when it came to his own household, he was second fiddle.
A regular Prince Charles.

After twenty minutes, I made my way back up to the desk and said to Sunny, “I’m just going to wait for Adam in his office.”
She looked at me suspiciously and I said, “Adam and I went to college together and I want to surprise him. We were frat brothers at Seattle Pacific. Man, was that guy crazy.” I tried to look distant, like I was conjuring up images of Adam drinking tequila from a coed’s naval. 

Sunny smiled.

I got the impression maybe she’d played coed herself.
Anyway, she took the bait and shrugged.