Slow Burn

Chapter Twenty-two

Roger Mackenna came armed with A.45 to the reading of the will.

He arrived at the prestigious law firm of Smith and Wesson twenty minutes before the scheduled appointment, but because it was the lunch hour and the area was filled with trendy, upscale bistros, he had to park three blocks from the square. He got out of the car, leaned against the door, and took one last drag of his cigarette. He'd smoked it down to the filter and could feel it burning his lips as he sucked the nicotine in. He tossed it away and immediately reached for another.

His head felt as though it were going to explode. He was in no condition to walk anywhere today, but he wasn't about to miss this appointment even if he had to crawl to get there.

He had no one but himself to blame for his misery. Upon hearing the glorious news that his uncle had finally died, he'd cried out with joy and then proceeded to get roaring drunk. His private celebration lasted well into the middle of the night.

Walking in the heat and humidity was making him nauseated. He finally reached the square and would have cut across the park, but it was crowded with office workers taking in the sun while they ate their packed lunches.

By the time he stopped in front of the attorney's office building he was exhausted, out of breath, and coated with a clammy sweat. He was anxious to get inside. Pulling the door open, he rushed in. He felt a blast of cold air brush his face a scant second before the alarm sounded. The noise was surprisingly dignified. It wasn't a loud, piercing siren, but a quiet and steady pulsating beep like a heart monitor.

Two armed guards rushed toward him from opposite corridors. Like a jackal, he snarled at them and tried to bluff his way past. The ploy didn't work, and he was given the choice of either leaving the premises or handing over his weapon.

He pulled the gun out of his vest pocket and gave it to the guard standing directly in front of him.

The man glanced down at the weapon, and said, "Is this loaded?"

"Of course it's loaded," Roger snapped. "Why would I carry an empty gun?"

"Did you realize you failed to put the safety on?" he asked as he lifted the gun to show Roger and then flipped the lever. "You wouldn't want this to go off accidentally, now would you?"

Roger didn't answer. The guard on his left drew his attention when he said, "Sir, do you have a permit to carry a concealed weapon?"

"I most certainly do," he answered indignantly. It was a lie. He'd gotten the gun from his brother Ewan for protection. Ewan kept an arsenal of weapons and didn't mind making a temporary loan. "I'll want that gun back when I leave."

They didn't ask his permission when they patted him down to make sure the gun was the only weapon he was carrying. Roger was outraged. He was a multimillionaire now and should not be treated this way.

"Do you know who I am?"

He assumed they didn't when neither one of them answered. They stepped out of the way and let him go forward.

He was fuming as he stormed across the tile floor toward the receptionist. He practically shouted his full name so the guards would be sure to hear.

The receptionist asked him to wait while she called upstairs to announce him.

"Mr. Smith's assistant, Terrance, will be right down to escort you to his offices," she said.

Roger didn't have to wait long. He looked up to the top of the winding staircase just as a young man appeared on the landing. He was elegantly dressed in a spotless dark suit, crisp white shirt, and tie. He neither introduced himself nor shook Roger's hand. He simply said, "Mr. MacKenna, if you'll follow me please."

He followed the assistant up the stairs and down a corridor and was shown into the attorney's spacious outer office. The carpet was thick, the furniture was plush, and the paintings on the walls appeared to be originals.

The place reeked of money, and Roger was impressed. Though he'd never met his uncle's attorney, he used his first name when he asked, "Where's Anderson?"

"Mr. Smith will be here momentarily. May I offer you something to drink while you wait?"

Roger ordered bourbon straight up, and as the assistant was leaving to fetch it, he called out, "And bring the bottle. My brothers and I will want to…" He caught himself before he said "celebrate" and substituted "toast our uncle."

Bryce was shown into the office a few minutes later. He spotted the tray on the coffee table and immediately helped himself to a drink. There was an ice bucket, but he didn't bother. He took a long gulp, expelled a sigh, and finally acknowledged his brother's presence.

They had not seen each other in over six months, and Roger was shocked at the change. The flesh seemed to hang from Bryce's body. A mannequin had more fat than his brother. His eyes had a yellow tinge to them, and his skin was pasty. Cirrhosis, Roger thought. Up close and personal.

"It's been a long time," Roger said.

"Yes," Bryce agreed. "When was that?"

"Uncle MacKenna's birthday bash."

"Ah, that's right."

"How are you feeling, Bryce?"

His brother immediately went on the defensive. "I'm feeling fine. Why would you ask me that? Don't I look fine?"

Was he daring him to tell the truth? "I heard…"

"What? What did you hear?"

"Vanessa mentioned you weren't feeling up to par."

"My wife doesn't know what the hell she's talking about."

Roger shrugged. If Bryce didn't want to admit his liver was going south, he wouldn't argue with him. "Has she moved out yet? Last time we talked you told me she was threatening to leave you."

Bryce poured another drink before answering. "Separate bedrooms, separate lives," he said. "But don't you worry about Vanessa. She hasn't been deprived. Somebody's been seeing to her needs for several months now. Oh, she doesn't think I know about him, but I can hear her on the phone late at night planning where they'll meet next. Can't say I blame her." He added, "It seems to work for us. The fact is, we're both too lazy to change anything, and if she left, she couldn't nag me to stop drinking, could she?"

"If she's still trying to get you to stop, she must still care about you."

"She loves me in her own sick, twisted way," he said. "What about you, Roger? How are you doing?"

"I've got big plans," he said. "Investments," he added with a nod and hoped that Bryce wouldn't want to know the details. He was making it up as he went along. "I'm going to make some changes in my life."

His brother didn't seem interested in hearing about his future. "Have you talked to Ewan lately?"

"I spoke to him briefly a while back," he said. He didn't mention that he'd met him in a bar to get a gun from him. Bryce was always so superior, and Roger knew his older brother would look down his nose at him if he heard about the gun, and an argument would be inevitable. Bryce was a drunk, but he was still snooty.

"What's he been up to?" he asked. He didn't really care. He was simply filling time until the attorney got the show on the road.

"He didn't volunteer any personal news."

"Is he still body building?"

"I didn't ask. I would assume so."

"Speak of the devil."

The brothers turned in unison as Ewan walked in. Bryce greeted him by raising his glass.

Roger thought Ewan looked more fit than ever. He sported a deep tan that came from his sun worshipping hours at the club. From the waist down, he was trim, but his chest and upper arms were huge. He was still lifting weights all right.

The youngest wasn't dressed appropriately, though. He wore khaki pants that appeared to have been purchased at one of those mall chains and a short-sleeve knit shirt that looked like it had been glued to his chest. Ewan had never wanted to grow up. He obviously had loved his college days so much, he continued to dress like a frat boy.

Roger wondered if he still played Jell-O shot games with his ju-venile buddies but didn't ask. The least little thing set Ewan off, and Roger wasn't in the mood to put up with his temper today.

Ewan managed to be civil for about thirty seconds. "Nice to see both of you again." And before Bryce or Roger had a chance to respond, Ewan wrinkled his nose and said, "Which one of you stinks?"

"That would be Roger," Bryce said.

Before Roger could protest, Bryce continued, "It's the nicotine oozing through your pores and the smoke all over your clothes. You really ought to give up that filthy habit."

And the gloves came off.

Vanessa walked into the middle of the fray. Dressed in a pale gray silk pantsuit, she was a statuesque woman who was accustomed to turning heads when she entered a room. She wore her raven black hair swept back into a chignon, as only a woman confident in her beauty could. "Isn't this a lovely family reunion," she said sarcastically. She quickly separated herself from the brothers, looked at her watch, and said, "We're all here. Where's the attorney?"

Bryce checked the time and said, "We've got ten more minutes until one."

She tried to open the door to the inner office. It was locked.

"Apparently he doesn't want us rifling through his files," she said.

"We shouldn't have to wait. This is outrageous," Roger muttered. "This outfit isn't going to be handling my share of the money, I promise you that."

"How much do you think there is?" Bryce asked.

"Millions," Roger answered.

"That doesn't answer the question. How many millions?" Ewan wanted to know.

"I'm guessing sixty million," Bryce said.

"That's a high estimate," Ewan said.

"Guessing is rather pointless," Vanessa interjected.

Ewan glared at her. "Why are you here?"

"You two have never gotten along, have you?" Roger said. He sounded like he'd just figured that out.

"That's soft-pedaling the truth," Ewan responded. "I detest her. Her holier-than-thou attitude. She's a snob, and I have no use for her."

"The feeling's mutual," she responded.

"I repeat, why are you here?" Ewan asked again.

"Bryce and I both received letters."

"And you couldn't ride with your husband?" he asked.

"I had a meeting with the art council. It was cultural, so of course you wouldn't understand."

Her condescension infuriated him. He turned to Bryce and said, "How in God's name do you stand her?"

Bryce smiled at his wife. "The question should be, how does she stand me?"

"Oh, please. Your self-loathing became tiresome years ago," Ewan scoffed.

Vanessa was saved from having to listen to any more of Ewan's sarcastic drivel when the door swung open and Anderson Smith, trailed by his assistant, swept into the room.

The attorney's manner was as smooth as alabaster. Without saying a word, he demanded attention, and he got it. He introduced himself and Terrance and shook hands with each one, starting with Vanessa.

He was an older gentleman and quite charismatic. She watched him work his magic on the brothers and was both fascinated and amused, for they were suddenly all on their best behavior.

Terrance unlocked the door, and one by one they filed into the inner sanctum.

Roger spotted the video equipment and asked, "What's all this for? Are we going to see a movie?"

"I wouldn't call it a movie," Anderson responded. "Please make yourselves comfortable. We'll begin in just a few minutes."

"Why can't we start now?" Ewan asked.

Anderson walked to the office door and was pulling it closed when he answered, "Not everyone is here yet."