“Another Jameson’s and water?” asked the waitress.
Gerry Colletti swirled the ice cubes in his near-empty glass, then decided that he’d had enough. “No, thanks. We’re about done here.”
He watched her ass move from side to side as she walked away, then turned his gaze toward the work papers on the table. Seated across from him was Bill Hanson, a man with the look and demeanor of an accountant on April 14, just coffee in his cup. Hanson was an actuary trained in the science of expressing the proverbial length of one’s lifeline in terms of mathematical probabilities. Once Gerry realized that he had to outlive the other named beneficiaries in order to inherit the entirety of Sally’s estate, he hired Hanson to provide a statistical analysis of how he might fare in the test of longevity that Sally’s will had created.
Gerry glanced at the charts and graphs one more time, then pushed them aside. “This all looks impressive, but I hate interpreting this stuff. Just explain it to me, will you, please?”
Hanson seemed disappointed, as if charts and graphs were his pride and joy. “You want the long or short version?”
“I want an answer to the question I hired you to analyze. We got six beneficiaries under Sally Fenning’s will. The one who lives the longest gets forty-six million dollars. So, let’s just apply the normal criteria that insurance companies use to evaluate the risks posed by any applicant for life insurance. Who’s going to live the longest?”
“I can’t tell you who is going to live the longest. All I can do is rank them according to the actuarial score I gave them.”
“And the score means what?”
“The higher the number, the higher the risk for the insurance company. Which, in your context, means the greater the likelihood of experiencing early death.”
“That means I want all these other jokers to have big numbers.”
“Exactly. Mind you, this is not as reliable as something I would put together in the case of an actual insurance application. Applicants are required to disclose all kinds of information relating to their family background and health. Here, I’ve used only what I’ve been able to dig up on these people.”
“I understand.”
“I’ve also thrown into the mix a few factors that I couldn’t legally consider in an insurance application. Things that, frankly, might get an insurance company sued.”
“But I’m not an insurance company, and anyone who’s stupid enough to sue me ought to have their head examined. Just give me what you’ve got.”
“Okay.” He cleared his throat, checking his notes. “The highest score goes to the prosecutor. High-stress job, smokes like a chimney, looks to be about forty pounds overweight. He’s fifty-eight and his father died of a heart attack at age fifty-five.”
“Beautiful. He could go at any time.”
Hanson shot him a curious look, seemingly uncomfortable.
Gerry asked, “What’s wrong with you?”
“I guess I’ve never done an analysis where my client is actually rooting for the big bony man with the black hood and sickle.”
“I’m not rooting. I just want you to tell it like it is.”
“I’m glad you said that. Because the second-highest score goes to you.”
“Me? I don’t even smoke.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Socially.”
“That aside, the biggest thing working against you is something I can take into consideration only because you’re a friend of mine and I know your lifestyle. Basically, you’re a horny divorce lawyer who hoses half the women who come through his door.”
“Say what?”
“Sorry, Gerry. You asked for my honest analysis. As many sexual partners as you’ve had and will continue to have, I put you at a high risk for HIV.”
“But I use condoms.”
“No, you don’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I saw those pictures that Lisa Bartow put on the Internet. You remember your old client Lisa, right? You sued her because she wouldn’t pay your bill, and so she retaliated by posting those photographs on the Web of you and her doing-”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I remember.”
“Funny, I never heard anything more about that dispute. I guess it settled, huh?”
Gerry wasn’t smiling. “For an accountant, you seem to think you’re one funny guy.”
“Just dealing with the facts.”
“Fine. So you got me in second place.”
“Right. Third is the ex-husband.”
“That’s ridiculous. How is it that both Miguel and me are at a higher risk for early death than that black guy, Tatum Knight.”
“Good point. In all fairness, I had trouble assigning any score at all to Mr. Knight. I don’t have any real reliable information on him. For example, family medical is real sketchy. His father is unknown.”
“What a surprise.”
“He was raised by an aunt. His mother was a druggie, and I haven’t been able to nail down whether she’s alive or dead.”
“Don’t waste your time pursuing it. For my purposes, I’ll just assume he’s the kind of guy who could get blown away next week holding up a liquor store.”
“You may be right about that.”
“So, bottom line is what?” asked Gerry.
“Hard to draw firm conclusions. Like I say, Tatum Knight is somewhat of a wild card. And then there’s that sixth beneficiary who didn’t show up for the reading of the will. Until you get me a Social Security number, I can’t pull any information to rank him.”
“Are you telling me I paid you to do a worthless analysis?”
“No. Purely from a statistical point of view, I don’t think it matters who the unknown is or what his score is.”
“Why do you say that?”
“In all probability, your biggest worry is still going to be the newspaper reporter.”
“Low score?”
“Very low. She just had her twenty-ninth birthday last month. A vegetarian. Runs marathons. Doesn’t smoke. And she has amazing family history. Her parents are in their seventies and still alive. Both sets of grandparents are also still living. The oldest is ninety-two. If I was going to bet on who was going to win the longevity race, I’d put my money on her.”
Gerry raised his glass and winked. “Don’t throw your money away, my friend.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing. Thanks for the help. I’ll call you if I need anything else.”
Gerry laid a twenty on the table to cover the bar bill. Hanson gathered up his reports, shook hands, and headed for the front exit to Miracle Mile. Gerry’s car was in the back parking lot, so he headed out alone for the rear exit, past the men’s room and the wood-carved sign with the old Irish drinking toast: “May you be in heaven one hour before the devil knows you’re dead.” The final stretch of hallway was the John Martin’s walk of fame, two walls lined with autographed black-and-white photographs of probably every local celebrity who had ever tasted beer, from Roy Black, famous criminal defense lawyer, to Dave Barry, funniest man alive. It soured Gerry’s stomach to see it. Nearly a full year had passed since Gerry had presented the owner with a framed and autographed eight-by-ten of himself.
Still not up there, you son of a bitch.
The smell of garbage greeted him as he opened the door and stepped into the back alley. A gray cat leaped from the Dumpster, then scurried up the iron fire escape.
The autumn night was unpleasantly warm. After midnight, and still it had felt cooler inside the smoke-filled pub. Gerry draped his sport coat over his shoulder and walked toward the parking lot. A weak street lamp illuminated the back of the pub and the rear entrances to several other businesses that had closed hours earlier. It was no darker than the dimly lit bar he’d just left, but the lighting was different, more yellow, and it took time for his eyes to adjust. He noticed that the striped wooden arm was up at the lot’s north exit. Apparently the parking attendant had abandoned all hope of collecting a toll from the handful of stragglers.