Rough Trade

his face I found myself wondering if there was enough alcohol in the world to soften the blow of what he was going through.
    What are you doing here?” he asked unpleasantly, spying me over the top of his glass.
    “I came as soon as I heard.”
    “Business must not be too good if you have to drive all the way to Milwaukee trying to drum up clients.”
    “Listen, Harald. You were Beau’s good friend. I’m Chrissy’s. Let’s just leave it at that. Sometimes at a time like this, things get said that people later wish they could take back.”
    “So, with your vast experience, you’re lecturing me on behavior?” he demanded sarcastically.
    “Harald, take my word for it,” I replied in my most conciliatory tone. “It is not my intention to say anything that would hurt or offend you, especially not today.”
    Feiss, apparently mollified, reached for the bottle and refilled his glass. I suspected that he was the same kind of alcoholic as my father, the kind who drank constantly but was seldom drunk.
    “Chrissy and I were talking earlier, and she said that you handled all of Beau’s affairs, including his estate planning.”
    “Yes, I did.”
    “So how did he leave things?”
    “Everything goes to Jeff.”
    “Absolutely everything?”
    “Yes. Everything.”
    “Who’s the executor?”
    “Jeff.”
    I was grateful that it wasn’t Feiss, but I tried not to show it. “So how did he leave it? Is there an in vivo trust in effect or any other mechanism that would limit tax liability?”
    “Originally there was, but we were forced to dissolve it as a condition of the loan agreement with First Milwaukee. Gus Wallenberg insisted that if he was going to lend Beau the money, the Monarchs’ assets not be sheltered in a trust.”
    “You mean he wanted to make sure that the bank had a clean shot at the assets if Beau couldn’t make his payments.”
    “You’d have to ask Wallenberg. I don’t know what his thinking was, I only know what’s in the agreement.”
    “But you do know what Beau was thinking. You were his closest confidant. He may have kept secrets from Jeff, but he didn’t keep any from you. So what I want to know is what was he planning to do to keep the bank off his back?”
    “He was about to sign a deal to move the team into a new stadium in the suburbs.”
    “How close was he?”
    “The developer was in the process of drawing up the contracts. As soon as they were signed, Beau would have gotten the check.”
    “How big a check?”
    “Enough to satisfy the bank.”
    “I assume the developer would be willing to deal with Jeff”
    “The question is will Jeff be willing to deal with them?”
    “I’m sure at this point Jeff just wants to keep all of his options open.”
    “That’s not what it sounded like this morning.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “You haven’t heard about the scene this morning?”
    “Are you talking about Jeff’s behavior when he found out about his father’s death?”
    “No. I’m talking about the shouting match he had with Beau just before he died.”
    Great, I thought to myself. And the hits just keep right on coming. Out loud I asked, “What did they fight about?”
    “The bank, moving the team. Gus Wallenberg was on his way down to the stadium to talk about the financing for the new stadium. Jeff wanted his dad to show Wallenberg L.A.’s offer in order to put pressure on the bank.”
    “And did he?”
    “By the time Wallenberg showed up, Beau was already at the bottom of the stairs.”
    “So do you know whether Jeff got his father to agree to try to negotiate with the bank for more time?”
    “You’ll have to ask Jeff, but I can tell you from the way that it sounded, I’m pretty sure they didn’t agree about anything. Where is Jeff, by the way? I haven’t seen him.”
    “He’s upstairs, asleep. He took a sleeping pill so I’m sure he’ll be out for a while.”
    “Good.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “Because when he wakes up, he’s going to have to deal with the fact that the very last thing he probably told his father was that he could take his football team and shove it right up his ass.”
     
    * * *
     
    The police showed up while Harald Feiss was standing on the front lawn, bathed in klieg lights, issuing a statement on behalf of the family that no one had authorized—not Jeff, who was still deep in pharmacologically induced slumber, nor Chrissy, who was standing beside me silently: fuming as we watched from an upstairs window.