"The man loves you," he said.
I aimed a thousand watt smile at the guy. "I guess so!"
Jablonsky leaned back in his chair, hooking his thumbs in his belt. "So, Hannah, tell me. How would you feel about acquiring additional insurance?"
I wagged my head back and forth, my hoop earrings bouncing against my neck. "I don't think so, Gil. The premiums on the policy I already have are expensive enough."
A slow smile crept across his face. "It wouldn't cost you a thing."
"Now, Gil, I don't pretend to know very much about the life insurance business, but even / know you can't get insurance policies for nothing."
"Under special circumstances you can."
"I find that real hard to believe."
"It's easy. Let me explain." As he spoke, he ticked the points off on his fingers. "First, you apply for the policy. Then, we'll hold it for a couple of years, pay the premiums for you, and, after a suitable amount of time has passed-" He held out his hand as if something small and valuable were sitting on it. "We viaticate it for you."
I raised an eyebrow. "Why would I want to do that?"
"There'd be compensation," he said.
"Compensation? What sort of compensation?"
"For each policy you sign up for, we can pay you twelve thousand dollars."
I gasped. "You're kidding. Right?"
He shook his head. "I'm dead serious."
I continued to stare at him, slack-jawed. "Oh, wow!"
Jablonsky opened a file drawer, extracted several forms, and laid them one at a time-carefully, almost tenderly-on the desk in front of me. “Take a moment to look these over," he said.
I scooted my chair forward a few inches, to demonstrate how seriously I was considering his offer. I picked up the first application, attracted by its stylized logo and the words Victory Mutual Life Assurance Company printed in Goudy Old Style. The rest of the document was set in Times New Roman. If there's ever a demand for people who can identify typeface styles in their sleep, I'm your woman, and whatever their faults, I'd have the editorial work I did for Whitworth and Sullivan to thank for it.
Victory Mutual's application form had six pages, both sides, and was fastened together at the top. The other two applications were of similar length, but less attractively formatted. I studied them critically.
I'm sure the folks at Sun Securities of N.A. intended to symbolize rock-solid, strong-as-the-dollar security the way they scattered suns and obelisks all over the cover page, but if so, their art department had made a hash of it. The sunbursts were ragged and sickly yellow, hardly confidence-building. And I lost my way completely in Sun's maze of teeny-tiny print (New Zurica, sans serif, six points max). After several frustrating minutes, I put their application down.
The questions on the application from New Century Auto and Life were printed in fourteen point, light blue, GalexicaMono. What were they thinking? Easy on the eyes, maybe, but didn't New Century know that blue print doesn't photocopy well?
From the grunts and under-his-breath muttering, I assumed Jablonsky was busying himself with his e-mail. While he clacked away on his computer keyboard, I leafed through each application, reading carefully.
After fifteen minutes I spoke up. "Gil, this is so confusing! All these paragraphs and subparagraphs and words I don't understand? How can I possibly choose?"
He lifted his fingers from the keyboard, slowly, like a pianist after the last note of a sonata. "You don't have to choose," he said. "Perhaps I haven't been clear. I'm recommending that you apply for all of them."
A hot shot of adrenaline surged up my neck. My ears hummed. I'd read about it on the Internet, and there it was, up close and personaclass="underline" wet inking. My signature would be barely dry before Jablonsky turned these policies around.
I stared at Jablonsky, who stared back at me, unblinking, while I processed that information. Three applications times $12,000. That was $36,000. It was a luxury vacation. A sunroom with a hot tub. A previously owned 450SL parked outside my door.
"That's legal?" I asked.
Jablonsky loosened his tie. "Absolutely legal."
I picked up the application from Victory Mutual and flipped through the pages, skimming the text. "You know, this isn't going to work," I said. I turned the form in his direction and tapped page six with the pen he had given me. "In this block it asks if I've ever been advised of, treated for, or had any known indication of a whole lot of things. Like cancer." I looked up to judge his reaction. "And over here." I flipped to the next page. "Here it wants to know if any of my parents or siblings had cardiovascular disease. My mom died of congestive heart failure. I'm sorry to disappoint you, Gil," I said, closing the application, "but there's no way I could pass a physical examination."
"That's the beauty of it," Jablonsky oozed. "A physical isn't required for policies in amounts under $100,000."
"Oh." I stared at him, blinking rapidly. So that was the path he was leading me down! About time that I rattled his cage. I turned back to page one and waved the pen over the block labeled CLIENT. I deliberately hesitated, sucking thoughtfully on the pen's retractor button.
The man had stopped breathing, I swear. Before he could pass out from lack of oxygen, I wrote Ives in the first space, Hannah in the second, and A in the third, then proceeded rapidly through the application form, checking some boxes and leaving others blank. On page five I paused. "Wait a minute! It asks here if this life insurance is for the benefit of a viatical company, or if there are plans to viaticate it, or if it replaces a policy that was already viaticated."
Jablonsky tented his fingers. "I can't tell you how to fill out the form, Hannah, but I can tell you if you have a wrong answer."
"Okay." I checked no and moved on. Had I ever been accused of a felony? No. Was I a pilot? No. Had I ever been charged with drunken driving? Never. Do I enjoy skydiving? As if.
Inevitably I arrived back at page six: medical history. "It asks about cancer, Gil," I reminded him, "and breast disease. Should I check 'Yes'?"
Jablonsky smirked. "That's not a good answer."
I'd read about that, too. Clean sheeting. Swearing on an application that you're healthy when you're not.
The man had gone too far, too far even for Hannah-the-Dingbat. I felt sick to my stomach, thinking of Valerie sitting in Jablonsky's office, in the same chair I was, listening to the same sales pitch, maybe even filling out the same damn form. And look where it had gotten her.
"I'm sorry, Gil, but I just don't feel comfortable lying to an insurance company." I stood up, laying the pen on top of the Victory Mutual packet.
"No one will ever know."
"I'll know," I said.
Jablonsky shrugged. "Thirty-six thousand dollars?"
"It's tempting, really tempting." I scooped up my handbag. “Tell you what. Let me go home and think about it for a couple of days. Okay?"
"I'll look forward to seeing you, then. You won't be sorry." He held out his hand.
I didn't want to, but I shook it. It felt hot, and damp. Good. I'd made the outlaw sweat!
"Call me if you have any questions." He was talking to my back.
I waved vaguely, then hustled down the hall, wiping my hand on the front of my sweater as I went, stopping only long enough to say good-bye to Gail Parrish.
"See ya," she chirped.
"I hope so," I said, meaning it. June was prime sailing season on the Chesapeake Bay. The next time Connie and Dennis called looking for crew, maybe I'd suggest Gail.
All the way down in the elevator, though, I worried about the receptionist. Did she know what her boss was up to? If he got sent to the slammer, would she have to go, too?
Yet if Gail were in on it up to her charming, tip-tilted nose, if she were helping Jablonsky rake in money hand over fist, would she spend her leisure hours cat-sitting? Scrimping on the rent in order to buy a boat? I doubted it.