Rough Trade

desk. A cursory look through the first drawer was enough to tell me that it contained the story of a man pushed to the very edge of ruin. All the files were neatly labeled and arrayed in chronological order. The checkbooks were reconciled to the penny. I found it heartbreaking to see the full scope of the disaster laid out in such an orderly fashion.
    I found records from five different banks, each with multiple accounts in the names of the various holding companies through which he conducted business. They were all shockingly overdrawn. Beau had also margined his stocks. Loan documents filed with the secretaries of state in Illinois and Wisconsin revealed heavy borrowing by Rendell using everything from NFL TV rights to athletic equipment as collateral. Although league rules set strict limits on how much could be borrowed against the team, they didn’t limit borrowing by the Stadium Corporation, which Beau also controlled, and the Monarchs had taken full advantage of the loophole. My heart leapt as I stumbled across a file containing a $2 million life insurance policy, but further examination revealed that it had already been completely borrowed against years ago. Even his credit cards were maxed out, and the dunning letters had acquired an ugly, hectoring tone.
    It wasn’t until I got to the bottom drawer that I found the gun—a dull gray Glock 9mm semiautomatic with its distinctive flat composite finish. I picked it up, the composition grip fitting snugly into the palm of my hand. I checked the magazine. It was loaded.
    I weighed the pistol in my hand and thought about Beau Rendell sitting where I sat now, filing the threatening letters from the bank. Had he thought about the gun? How could he have not? I opened my hand. The Glock lay across my palm. Perhaps I’d stumbled across another of Beau’s plans, the one he hadn’t shared with either Harald Feiss or his son, Jeff. I returned the gun to its place in the drawer and realized that I shouldn’t have been so surprised. Surely Beau Rendell would not have been the first man who’d contemplated ending his life rather than face public humiliation at the hands of a bank.
     

CHAPTER 7
     
     
    Afternoon ground on into evening in the strange cocktail-party torpor that so often follows a death. People arrived to pay their respects, utter platitudes, and console each other in hushed whispers-—even as they pressed for details of the tragedy. Jack McWhorter arrived with the second wave of mourners. Gravely handsome and solicitous, he quickly proceeded to fill in for Jeff at Chrissy’s side. Chrissy, for her part, seemed grateful for his presence, if only to escape the further well-meaning ministrations of Coach Bennato’s wife. It had started to snow, and the front hall quickly filled with boots. Outside the reporters trampled the front lawn into mud.
    The phone rang constantly, and I found myself answering it. Reporters called from all over the country wanting to confirm the details of Beau’s death and troll for quotes. In between, I spoke to the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel about the death notice and obituary, set up an appointment the next day at the funeral home for Chrissy and Jeff, and tried to stay on top of things at my office. Every few minutes someone appeared in the kitchen with a fruit basket or another casserole until the refrigerator was full and the counters overflowing.
    By dinnertime the visitors began drifting off, murmuring their farewells, their duty done. Even Harald Feiss, 'who’d worked the door like a host at a party, finally went home. For better or for worse Jeff slept through all of it. As Chrissy said good-bye to the last of the callers I hung up the phone and turned my attention to the gift baskets, trying to figure out which one contained the most chocolate. By the time I heard the front door slam and Chrissy’s exhausted sigh of relief, I had cracked open a box of Godivas and was setting up for a three-course meal—dark, milk, and truffles for dessert.
    Chrissy walked into the kitchen, slowly pulling off her earrings. I offered her the box, but she shook her head.
    “My feet hurt,” she said, pulling up a chair and kicking off her shoes, “and I’m sick of acting sad, and I’m tired of people telling me what a wonderful man my father-in-law was, and I can’t wait to get the hell out of this awful house.”
    “Where’s Jack?”
    “He left about an hour ago. I asked him to go back to my house and drive the baby-sitter