Dead Men's Clothes

Dead Men’s Clothes

Well, it’s a pay day. Not much of one, but a pay day, nonetheless. The subject was in a home in Brooklyn, and that meant an hour’s drive there, an hour with him, the doctors and the nurses, and another hour back. Plus, tolls! The Parkway, Turnpike, Goethals and Verrazano Bridges. When it opened in 1964 the Verrazano toll was a dollar. When Callaghan goes over the span in a few days, that toll alone will be seven bucks.

“Robbery!” thought Callaghan.

Callaghan thumbed through the file on John Laroux, topped by Judge

Flanagan’s order appointing Callaghan as Laroux’s guardian ad litem. Callaghan wasn’t in court for the hearing, but he had been appointed by Flanagan at other times and knew Flanagan’s spiel by heart.

“I am appointing Michael Callaghan, Esq., as Mr. Laroux’s guardian ad litem, to represent the interests of the alleged incompetent,” intoned Judge Flannagan. “I am directing the parties: petitioner, Marina Curanov, seeking appointment as Mr. Laroux’s guardian; and Catherine Minogue, opposing that appointment, to cooperate with Mr. Callaghan in his investigation of the case. Mr. Callaghan is this court’s eyes and ears and his report will assist this court to determine if Mr. Laroux is competent, and whether the petitioner, Ms. Curanov, or the opponent, Ms. Minogue, should be appointed his guardian.”

Judge Flanagan’s order set down the matter for hearing in two weeks, and Callaghan was directed to submit his report seven days in advance. Like all lawyers, Callaghan was a master procrastinator, and now he had only four days to do his investigation, write the report, and send it in.

The file had a doctor’s report from the Curanov side, and one from Minogue’s, and, from those reports, it seemed clear to Callaghan that John Laroux was incompetent. Still, it was Callaghan’s job to confirm that fact in a personal interview with the subject and put his findings in his own report. He figured the job was good for a fee of $2,000. What bothered Callaghan was that there didn’t seem to be much money in Laroux’s estate, and he wondered what everyone was fighting over.

* * * *

Catherine Minogue came to Callaghan’s office for her interview. She explained that she was Laroux’s niece and was surprised when she answered the door of her New Jersey house three months ago to find a cab driver standing there with her uncle, John Laroux, in a wheelchair.

“He was confused,” said Minogue. “He said he ran away from Marina. He said she was abusing him, and that all she wanted was his money. Later I found out that he hadn’t lived with Marina since his stroke three years ago, and that he was in a nursing home. So, I sent him back. I visit him, and sometimes he’s clear; but most of the time he makes no sense.”

“From the file, and it doesn’t appear he has much money,” said Callaghan. “Don’t believe it!” said Minogue. “Everyone in the family knows John has money; we just don’t know where it is.”

She explained that John Laroux was a throwback to an earlier time, a character that enjoyed a dubious reputation as a conniver, swindler and crook. But no small-time crook. He operated in the 1950s from a tiny office in a swanky building on Broad Street in downtown Manhattan, and from there he bought and sold office buildings and rented office space to companies wanting to open offices in New York. In almost every case, the buyers and prospective tenants were foreign companies. The only trouble was Laroux didn’t own the buildings he sold or the office space he rented! He made sure the deposits he took in were small—maybe $5,000 to $50,000—but very early on in the transaction he came up with an excuse to kill the deal. He didn’t return the deposits. The buyers were faced with hiring expensive lawyers to get their deposits back or walking away and chalking it up to experience. Most walked.

Callaghan smiled a bit at the story.

“You know, Ms. Minogue, I worked in the oil and gas industry and spent a lot of time in Texas and Louisiana. Your uncle missed his calling. There were a lot of

‘promoters’ there selling oil and gas wells, mineral leases and other deals they didn’t own, to rich investors looking for tax shelters and write-offs. Your uncle would have done well.”

Minogue got defensive.

“He did do well,” she huffed. “He had a fine apartment, and a waterfront mansion on the Jersey Shore that he bought years ago that must be worth a fortune now. He sent me money on holidays, and not just five or ten dollars, but hundreds. ‘I have no use for small change,’ he always said. He bought a new Jaguar every year, even though they ran like crap and cost a fortune to repair”

“Yes,” said Callaghan, “but he must have gotten into trouble. You can’t pull off these schemes and not face the law and its consequences sometimes. In Louisiana they used to say, ‘He that sells what isn’t hizzin, buys it back or goes to prison.’ Your uncle must have gotten into trouble, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he went to jail a few times,” said Minogue, “but when he came out, he went right back to work.”

“So, you were close to your uncle?” asked Callaghan. “

“No. I hadn’t seen him for 10 years,” said Minogue. “I guess he didn’t have anyone else to turn to. He’s 81 now. He outlived his other relatives, and I think his good friend and business partner died even before that.”

“Then why do you want to be his guardian?” asked Callaghan.

“I don’t want Marina to be his guardian, that’s why! I’m his blood; she’s just his girlfriend. He’s sick—how he escaped the nursing home I’ll never know—and he can’t last long. I’m his closest living relative…” she paused, “…don’t get me wrong, I’ll take good care of him. But what’s his is mine when he dies, and I want to make sure there’s something there.”

* * * *

Marina Curanov lived in Brooklyn, close to the nursing home where she installed Laroux after his stroke three years ago. It was a tidy, two-story row house with a garage below. A new Mercedes was in the driveway. The garage door was open, and Callaghan could see a ’92 Jaguar sitting there.

She answered the door in a snug sweater and form-fitting slacks. She was about Callaghan’s age and, he suspected, more than his match if the sweater and slacks were tossed over a chair. He wondered how Laroux handled her.

She turned away as he was extending his hand.

“Come this way,” she said. She led him through the house to a sun porch table with four chairs. She sat across from Callaghan.

“I know you’re wondering why I’m with John Laroux,” said Marina. “The truth is, I care for him and have cared for him for nearly 10 years. He found me in a restaurant in Brooklyn, waiting tables, just after I arrived from Kiev. My sponsor said I had to work at the restaurant for a year, but John came back every day and after three weeks asked me to become his housekeeper. He rented this house for me and bought me clothes. Eight months later he moved his things here and has been here from time to time ever since, until the stroke.”

“How do you pay for all this?” asked Callaghan.

“I don’t know,” said Marina. “John never told me. All I know is that the rent gets paid and $3,000 is deposited in my checking account every month. When John was here, he gave me money whenever I asked for it. We lived very well. But the last years have been hard. I have enough to get by, but nothing for extras.”

“So, you don’t know where his bank money is,” said Callaghan. “What about other assets. Does he own any property?”

“He has some jewelry and personal things here in his room”

“May I see?” asked Callaghan.

Marina led Callaghan to a small bedroom in the back. Callaghan opened dresser drawers with monogrammed shirts, neatly folded. The jewelry box had cufflinks, a watch, and a gold ring with small diamonds. The ties in the closet were silk, and the suits were hand made. “From Hong Kong,” said Marina.

“What about real property. Real estate. Does he have any?” said Callaghan.

“He said he had a mansion on the Jersey shore. He never took me there. He said he had some trouble in the town and can’t go near the property,” she said. “He does have a temper, you know.”

“A mansion?” said Callaghan.

“Well, John is a conniver,” said Marina. “He is also a liar. Maybe the ‘mansion’ was just to impress me.”

She got up and moved one chair closer to Callaghan, and leaned forward, so that her breasts nearly brushed the tabletop.

“John needs me,” she purred. “I would do anything for him.”

* * * *

Callaghan’s appointment at the nursing home was for 2 o’clock. That was after nursing home doctor Ratner’s lunch, and before his patient rounds. Over the years, Callaghan developed the theory that a person’s name dictated that person’s career choice and personality. Ratner fit the theory. He was short and weasel-faced, with dark, slicked-back hair and black plastic glasses.

“Mr. Laroux will be brought out in a moment,” said the doctor. “He’s not well. His blood chemistry is all wrong, and that contributes to his increasing dementia. But I suppose you read my report and know all this.”

“Yes,” said Callaghan. “I assume recovery is unlikely.”

“More like impossible,” said Dr. Ratner.

“How is his bill paid?” asked Callaghan.

“Medicare and Medicaid. The taxpayers support Mr. Laroux.” Ratner leaned back on

his leather chair, and it creaked.

“Frankly, Mr. Callaghan, we don’t like Medicare patients. Ms. Curanov enrolled him

as private pay, but she told us later that she no longer had the money to pay the charges. She is not a relative and we could not compel her to guarantee payment. I had investigators look into Mr. Laroux’s finances but they couldn’t find anything.”

A nurse poked her head into Dr. Ratner’s office.

“He’s here,” she said.

* * * *

John Laroux was slumped in his wheelchair, wearing a black and red flannel shirt over sweatpants. There were food stains on his collar, and the odor of milk, sweat, urine and bleach rose up from his clothes.

Callaghan took a seat on a folding chair the nurse brought out, and extended a hand to

Laroux, but he did not seem to see it.

“Can he see?” Callaghan asked the nurse.

“Oh, he can see alright,” she giggled, “and hear, and feel and touch. There’s more life in him than he’s showing you, you better believe it.” She was a big African American woman, with a wonderful laugh. “Especially when I’m giving him a sponge bath.”

A little smile passed along Laroux’s face.

“He seemed to hear that,” said Callaghan.

Callaghan began his usual script.

“Mr. Laroux, my name is Michael Callaghan, I am an attorney, and I have been

appointed by the Court to protect your interests.” He didn’t see any need to explain to Laroux what a guardian ad litem was.

“I am going to ask a few questions, and I would appreciate it if you would respond verbally to those questions. Don’t just shake or nod your head.” Callaghan turned to the nurse.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Frances,” said the nurse.

“Your friend, Nurse Frances, is here and I want her to hear what you say.”

“She’s no friend of mine,” said Laroux, angrily. “Talk to Connie.”

“Who’s Connie?” asked Callaghan of the nurse.

“I sure don’t know,” she replied. “He mentions her sometimes, especially if he’s talking gibberish about business. She must have been his secretary, or something.”

Callaghan went on.

“Mr. Laroux, do you know today’s date?” Laroux moved his jaw like he was chewing.

“1982” he said.

“How about the season?” said Callaghan, “Summer, Fall, Winter or Spring?”

“Spring,” said Laroux. He was three months off.

“Who is the President?”

“Nixon, the bastard,” hissed Laroux. Bill Clinton will be disappointed, thought

Callaghan.

Callaghan took out a quarter and slipped it into Laroux’s twisted fingers.

“Do you know what that coin is,” he asked.

Laroux looked at it and rolled it around.

“I don’t deal with small change,” he said, and tossed the quarter back to Callaghan.

“Who is on the 10-dollar bill?” asked Callaghan.

“Hamilton, you fool!” exclaimed Laroux.

The subject of money seemed to animate him. He pivoted his chair so that he was closer to, and facing, Callaghan.

“Do you know how to get a good table at a restaurant?” he asked? “You go up to the host and when he asks if you have a reservation, you say ‘Yes, Hamilton.’ He looks at his list and says, ‘But I don’t have a Hamilton here.’ Then you take out a 10-spot, hand it to him, and say, ‘Yes, but I have a Hamilton here!”

Laroux laughed at his own joke. “Works every time!” Then a sad look came over him. “At least, it used to,” he said.

Laroux leaned in toward Callaghan and whispered,

“I don’t deal with money. Connie handles all the money. Connie is my best friend.” Callaghan turned to Nurse Frances.

“Does this ‘Connie’ ever come here?” asked Callaghan.

“No, no,” said Nurse Frances. “Only Miss Marina, and lately that other one, Ms.

Minogue. No one else for three years I been here.”

Callaghan had seen enough. Laroux surely needed a guardian, but Callaghan still wasn’t sure which of the two would really protect Laroux.

Callaghan rose.

“Well, thank you, Nurse Frances.” He looked at Laroux, who had drifted off to sleep.

“You know, Ms. Frances, he really needs to be changed. I think he may have soiled himself.”

Nurse Frances sighed. “Yes, he does it more and more. That’s usually something near the end, poor guy.”

“I will be going back to Miss Marina’s house to discuss the case further,” said

Callaghan. “Do you want me to send her over with a few changes of clothes? She has some beautiful things of his.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Callaghan,” said Nurse Frances. “The one thing we have here is men’s clothes. We get a new wardrobe every day. New patients roll in and the dead ones are taken away. Bums wear banker’s clothes, and bankers wear bum’s clothes. The patients don’t seem to care if the shirts match the pants, or if the size isn’t just right.” She laughed her wonderful laugh. “At least, they don’t complain to me.”

* * * *

Callaghan stopped at Ms. Curanov’s house on the way back. She had changed into a

cocktail dress.

“I’m going to dinner, and I’m late,” she said.

“I won’t take a minute,” said Callaghan. “Mr. Laroux mentioned someone named

Connie. Did he have a secretary or someone in the office named Connie?”

“Not that I know of,” said Marina. “No, John did not want witnesses knowing his business. He worked alone.”

“But he had a partner, didn’t he?” said Callaghan.

Marina smiled and shook her head. “No, that was all made up. He talked about a partner just to impress customers, or as an excuse to kill a deal. He told me it was just a name to put on the letterhead. He even had business cards made up and made the “partner” a VP.”

“But it was his dog.”

“His dog!” said Callaghan.

“Yes, that was the only other living thing in his office. He used to laugh about it.

He’d say, ‘My dog is my partner.”

* * * *

It was the next day that Callaghan stopped at the tax collector’s office in the Borough of Sea Bright, on the New Jersey shore. He explained that he suspected John Laroux, or one of his companies (Callaghan had a list of company names that Laroux had used) owned property in Sea Bright. The collector, a woman in her 60s with a sun burned beach complexion, perused the list.

“Nope,” she said, “it’s a small town, and I know most of the owners personally. They

stop in to pay taxes and get building permits, especially since the ’92 storm when we had a lot of houses damaged.”

Callaghan hadn’t noticed much damage.

“Was it bad?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, at the time. But we’re a tough bunch here, and most have re-built. Some haven’t. The Clark family sold and moved away, and the new owners have cleared the lot but haven’t started construction. The Barker house, right on the river—that also took some damage. Funny old Mr. Barker came in after the storm three years ago to ask about permits, but he never came back and then just stopped paying his taxes. We reached out to him, but he doesn’t live here full time, and all we had was a post office box, and no telephone number. It’s a pity. We had to sell tax sale certificates, and it just went to tax sale last Monday. Someone got a great deal. It’s probably worth $1 million, even with the damage, but it sold for just back taxes.”

She let out a sigh. “Poor Connie.”

Callaghan’s ears perked up. “Connie?”

“Yes,” said the collector, “Conrad Barker, the owner.” Callaghan let the name roll around in his head.

Conrad Barker.

Somewhere, a bank account with the name Conrad Barker, filled with stolen money, was paying the rent of a Russian girl in Brooklyn;

Conrad Barker. The owner of a mansion in NJ.

Conrad Barker. John Laroux’s partner.

Conrad Barker. John Laroux’s friend. Conrad Barker. John Laroux’s best friend.

Conrad Barker. Man’s best friend.

It was going to be one hell of a report.