Alex felt incredulous. In his logical world, this made no sense. “Why now and not ten years ago?”
Whipple shrugged as though it wasn’t his place to wonder at such things. “Your grandfather was quite explicit. You weren’t to receive the items in question until after your own father should pass — of course I’m certain he didn’t expect his death to occur so soon.”
Alex had known his grandfather well. In many ways, he knew the older man much better than he had his father. Where his own father was impatient with his inability to achieve normality in society, his grandfather simply accepted him as he was. “Do you know what he left?”
“I’m afraid not. Your grandfather was explicit that the contents of this safe-deposit box should never, under any circumstances, ever be discovered by your father — and certainly not by me.” The lawyer lowered his head and winked. “You know how it can be.”
Alex gave him a practiced and reassuring nod, although he had no idea what the damned lawyer meant. “Sure. All right. What do you need me to sign?”
The two lawyers handed him several papers and he happily signed each one without reading it at all. His grandfather had entrusted this man with something he felt very strongly about, and the man had maintained this secret for nearly three decades. He was happy to trust him, even if he was a lawyer.
Whipple and Thompson signed next to his signature, checked that everything was in order. Then they both pushed to their feet and left. Only Whipple returned, carrying a single manila envelope. He handed it to Alex. “I hope you find whatever it was Mr. Goodson wanted you to find in there.”
“Sure,” Alex said. “I can’t imagine what that should be.” He tore the envelope open and found a single piece of paper with a set of numbers followed by a brass key. He looked up at the lawyer. “What’s this about?”
Whipple smiled patronizingly. “I’m sorry, you didn’t think I actually stored it with us all those years, did you?”
“If it’s not here, then where is it?”
“In a safe-deposit box, Wells Fargo Bank, 363 Broadway.”
Chapter Three
Alex caught the subway to Lower Manhattan. He then walked the three blocks to the address Whipple had given him. His face was set hard and impassive, hiding his inner turmoil. He had been quiet and reserved ever since the meeting with the lawyer. It didn’t make any sense whatsoever. His grandfather had been dead for nearly a decade and his father less than a week. Why should he be so worked up over his grandfather?
He knew the answer of course — his grandfather had made the time to see him and had been opposed to sending him to military boarding school at the age of five.
He stopped and glanced up at the large red and yellow Wells Fargo sign above the entrance. Brass surrounded glass walls and doors, revealing a mixture of old school and modern banking. Alex stepped inside.
Clean. Opulent. Legitimate. If there was such a thing as the smell of money — this place had it. A glance around the room, and he felt out of place.
Alex waited in a short queue to see a teller.
When his turn arrived, he stepped up and greeted the teller and gave her his safe-deposit box number. She asked him to take a seat on one of the leather couches provided, and that someone would meet him shortly to discuss the matter.
Alex thanked her and took a seat.
Five minutes later, the manager — a short and portly man with a moustache that reminded him of the banker from the board game, Monopoly — ran his eyes across Alex. There was a slight amount of recognition in the man’s face, followed by a broad smile.
Alex stood up. “I think you’re after me.”
“Mr. Goodson!” the bank manager embraced his hand warmly, like an old friend. “My name is Peter Doran. I was so very sorry to hear about the loss of your late father.”
“You knew my father?” Alex asked.
“No. I’m afraid I didn’t. But I had a close working relationship with your grandfather. He was quite explicit how he wanted to leave something for you and that it had to be after your father died. I wasn’t quite certain I would ever get to meet you, I’m retiring next week.”
“Congratulations.” Alex made a show of his white teeth as his lips formed the smile he thought the response required. “What are you going to do with your retirement?” he asked, as he had learned was the correct thing to do.
“I’d like to make time to do some of the things I should have done in the last forty years of my life. Read the books I like, make the time to spend with my grandchildren that I didn’t get to spend with my own kids, maybe even take my wife on a European vacation.” The bank manager met Alex’s eye with a polite smile. “Do you have kids?”
“No.”
“When you do, let me offer you some advice — make the time to be with them. You’ll never regret it, no matter how important you feel your work is.”
“Okay, I’ll do that,” Alex replied, with a practiced curve of his lips. “When I have children.”
There’s no way I’m ever having children, dirty, nasty little creatures that they are…
“I’m sorry, I digress,” the bank manager apologized. “Now. You must be curious what this is all about?”
He smiled patiently. “Yes. To be honest today was the first I’d ever heard about it.”
“Of course, of course, you’re right.” The banker opened the doors of a private elevator for him. “If it makes you feel any better, it pleases me to hear that. You see, that means your grandfather’s wishes were followed exactly as instructed.”
Alex walked behind the banker, stepping into an elevator. The banker explained the procedure while the lift descended what appeared to be several stories below ground. There, he would be left in the private depository on his own, where his key would grant him access to his grandfather’s safe-deposit box. Each box worked on a digitally managed, rotating system. Only Alex’s safe-deposit box would be accessible, despite the vault presumably storing hundreds of identical such boxes.
The banker held the doors and waited for him to step out of the elevator. “When you’re finished here, Mr. Goodson, simply press the up-button. Then I’ll return to show you the trust your grandfather left you.”
“My grandfather left me a trust?” Alex was skeptical of such a gift.
“Yes.” The old banker smiled. “And from what I understand, it’s large enough that you’re unlikely to spend it within your lifetime.”
Alex fixed his eyes on the banker. “He left me a lot of money?”
“Much more than I ever earned in my forty-five years at the bank.”
“My grandfather barely had a dime to his name, he died in a rented apartment in the Bronx. If there’s money here, you must be giving it to the wrong guy.”
“You are the correct recipient, Mr. Goodson, I can assure you. And concerning his wealth or lack of it, you’re very much mistaken.”
Alex gave up. Whatever his grandfather did or didn’t leave him, he would discover within due time. Talking to the kindly old banker served him no further purpose.
He sighed heavily. “All right. I’d better take a look at what my grandfather has left for me.”
The banker stepped into the elevator and nodded. “Of course, of course. Remember, just press this button when you have finished.”
Alex watched the steel elevator doors close. The entire elevator was built into the vault, so that as it rose, the platform disappeared into the ceiling above, making it overtly apparent that no one from the bank could have remained to spy on him. But Alex was cynical enough to suspect that there would be slyly concealed cameras to monitor the bank's interests, anyway.