Uncles Fortune... With A Twist, chapter 1
Denny went over the paperwork, line by line. It must have been the tenth time. He was losing patience. No matter how many times he examined the books and statements, all the numbers remained defiantly unchanged, and that proverbial something that he must have been overlooking remained as well hidden as a body in the Nevada desert. Huddled next to a dim lamp in his grubby single apartment, he rubbed his aching eyes and swore. This was getting him nowhere.
But then, nowhere was where he'd spent most of his life.
Ever since the funeral of his Uncle Charles, a man he had thoroughly disliked when he was alive, Denny had done nothing but search through the estate paperwork, looking for evidence of the fortune he knew his uncle possessed. One did not live in a mansion in Bel Air and buy a new Jaguar every year without having money, and lots of it. No way, Jose.
He didn't believe for a second the story that his uncle's lawyer had given him, that for all his illusion of wealth, Charles Vancourt died not only broke, but in debt. He knew the old goat better than that, and as his only heir, he had a stake in proving that he was right. More than a stake, an urgency, unless being accosted in a parking lot by two unsmiling young men in body shirts and parachute pants, inquiring about repayment of one of his loans, was just a gag. If so, the bruise over his eye wasn't laughing.
He'd assured the thugs he'd have the money in five days, but so far he'd found nothing. All of the old man's bank books showed balances barely adequate to maintain an account. The stock portfolio reflected a series of losing investments. The real estate holdings showed nothing but devalued properties. Maybe when Charles Vancourt learned he was dying, he spent his remaining days moving his money around and covering the trail, but Denny knew it had not simply evaporated. And no matter what the legitimate losses might be, by Denny's calculation there should still be a balance of $45,000.
But where was it?
He had to take a break. Getting up and stretching, Denny went to the fridge and got the last brew. It was pretty easy to find, given the current state of his food supply. Downing half of it in one long chug, he then went over to the table onto which he had dumped the mail, without bothering to look at it.
On top was another of those letters he'd been getting for the past month from some dental office, probably offering him (and everyone else on whichever mailing list Dr. Smiley had purchased) a free cleaning. He had better things to do with his time than read junk mail, so this letter, like the ones that preceded it, went straight into the trash, unopened. He found an oversized envelope proclaiming: "You may have already won!" That was a laugh. The next two envelopes were utility bills, which he threw on the stack with all the others.
As Denny prepared to start the search again, his eye caught the one legacy from his uncle: sitting on a shelf were the old man's false teeth. A gruesome joke, made even worse when the lawyer read from the will: To my nephew and only surviving heir Dennis Vancourt, who was always trying to put the bite on me, I return the favor, with a smile. Har-de-har-har. What a wit.
With sudden fury, Denny grabbed the teeth and threw them against the wall, watching with satisfaction as they shattered into pieces, the gleaming white teeth scattering on the floor. He was sick and tired of looking at them. Spent now, but determined, he started in once again on the paperwork, a task that was interrupted only by the sound of the phone.
He thought about pretending that he was not home, just letting it ring. After all, no one would be calling except somebody who wanted something from him, which seemed to be everybody. But on the sixth ring he muttered, "Ah, hell," and decided to chance it. "Yeah?" he growled into the receiver.
"Uh, Mr. Vancourt?" a strange voice asked.
"Who is this?"
"My name is Dr. Gilbert Trujillo. I'm a dentist."
"Don't tell me you're the joker that's been sending me letters?"
"Well, I have been writing to you, but I haven't received any reply."
"Okay, here's my reply: my teeth are fine. Now leave me alone."
"Don't hang up, Mr. Vancourt," the voice pleaded. "I got your number from Robert Hanford, your uncle's attorney. I'm calling about an unpaid bill. Charles Vancourt came to see me about a six months before his unfortunate demise, and..."
"Look, I don't know you, and I don't know anything about any unpaid bills," Denny said. Mentally, he added: Except for my own.
"But Mr. Hanford made it clear that as Charles Vancourt's heir, you were ultimately responsible for his outstanding debts."
"Well, wasn't that nice of him," Denny sneered. He'd have to remember to properly thank Hanford the next time he saw him. Maybe with a roll of quarters in his fist.
"Frankly," Trujillo went on, "it never dawned on me that he would not be able to pay his bill, given the nature of the work I did for him."
"Yeah, well, life's just full of little surprises, isn't it?" Denny said, and tried to hang up, but the man at the other end kept talking. Denny was about to shout something back and slam down the phone when a statement from the man captured his full attention. "Wait, wait, wait, gimme that again," he shouted into the phone, "You made what for my uncle?"
Denny listened intently as the dentist repeated himself, shaking his head in disbelief. Then he dropped the phone and covered his face with his hands. Distantly, he could hear the dentist's voice calling: "Mr. Vancourt, are you still there?" But Denny's only response was a moan. He moaned even louder when he imagined his uncle grinning at him from six feet under.
With solid platinum dentures.
But then, nowhere was where he'd spent most of his life.
Ever since the funeral of his Uncle Charles, a man he had thoroughly disliked when he was alive, Denny had done nothing but search through the estate paperwork, looking for evidence of the fortune he knew his uncle possessed. One did not live in a mansion in Bel Air and buy a new Jaguar every year without having money, and lots of it. No way, Jose.
He didn't believe for a second the story that his uncle's lawyer had given him, that for all his illusion of wealth, Charles Vancourt died not only broke, but in debt. He knew the old goat better than that, and as his only heir, he had a stake in proving that he was right. More than a stake, an urgency, unless being accosted in a parking lot by two unsmiling young men in body shirts and parachute pants, inquiring about repayment of one of his loans, was just a gag. If so, the bruise over his eye wasn't laughing.
He'd assured the thugs he'd have the money in five days, but so far he'd found nothing. All of the old man's bank books showed balances barely adequate to maintain an account. The stock portfolio reflected a series of losing investments. The real estate holdings showed nothing but devalued properties. Maybe when Charles Vancourt learned he was dying, he spent his remaining days moving his money around and covering the trail, but Denny knew it had not simply evaporated. And no matter what the legitimate losses might be, by Denny's calculation there should still be a balance of $45,000.
But where was it?
He had to take a break. Getting up and stretching, Denny went to the fridge and got the last brew. It was pretty easy to find, given the current state of his food supply. Downing half of it in one long chug, he then went over to the table onto which he had dumped the mail, without bothering to look at it.
On top was another of those letters he'd been getting for the past month from some dental office, probably offering him (and everyone else on whichever mailing list Dr. Smiley had purchased) a free cleaning. He had better things to do with his time than read junk mail, so this letter, like the ones that preceded it, went straight into the trash, unopened. He found an oversized envelope proclaiming: "You may have already won!" That was a laugh. The next two envelopes were utility bills, which he threw on the stack with all the others.
As Denny prepared to start the search again, his eye caught the one legacy from his uncle: sitting on a shelf were the old man's false teeth. A gruesome joke, made even worse when the lawyer read from the will: To my nephew and only surviving heir Dennis Vancourt, who was always trying to put the bite on me, I return the favor, with a smile. Har-de-har-har. What a wit.
With sudden fury, Denny grabbed the teeth and threw them against the wall, watching with satisfaction as they shattered into pieces, the gleaming white teeth scattering on the floor. He was sick and tired of looking at them. Spent now, but determined, he started in once again on the paperwork, a task that was interrupted only by the sound of the phone.
He thought about pretending that he was not home, just letting it ring. After all, no one would be calling except somebody who wanted something from him, which seemed to be everybody. But on the sixth ring he muttered, "Ah, hell," and decided to chance it. "Yeah?" he growled into the receiver.
"Uh, Mr. Vancourt?" a strange voice asked.
"Who is this?"
"My name is Dr. Gilbert Trujillo. I'm a dentist."
"Don't tell me you're the joker that's been sending me letters?"
"Well, I have been writing to you, but I haven't received any reply."
"Okay, here's my reply: my teeth are fine. Now leave me alone."
"Don't hang up, Mr. Vancourt," the voice pleaded. "I got your number from Robert Hanford, your uncle's attorney. I'm calling about an unpaid bill. Charles Vancourt came to see me about a six months before his unfortunate demise, and..."
"Look, I don't know you, and I don't know anything about any unpaid bills," Denny said. Mentally, he added: Except for my own.
"But Mr. Hanford made it clear that as Charles Vancourt's heir, you were ultimately responsible for his outstanding debts."
"Well, wasn't that nice of him," Denny sneered. He'd have to remember to properly thank Hanford the next time he saw him. Maybe with a roll of quarters in his fist.
"Frankly," Trujillo went on, "it never dawned on me that he would not be able to pay his bill, given the nature of the work I did for him."
"Yeah, well, life's just full of little surprises, isn't it?" Denny said, and tried to hang up, but the man at the other end kept talking. Denny was about to shout something back and slam down the phone when a statement from the man captured his full attention. "Wait, wait, wait, gimme that again," he shouted into the phone, "You made what for my uncle?"
Denny listened intently as the dentist repeated himself, shaking his head in disbelief. Then he dropped the phone and covered his face with his hands. Distantly, he could hear the dentist's voice calling: "Mr. Vancourt, are you still there?" But Denny's only response was a moan. He moaned even louder when he imagined his uncle grinning at him from six feet under.
With solid platinum dentures.
