Death Of A Dream Maker (29 page)

Seth scrutinized T.S. carefully. “Are you a
lawyer?”

“No.”

“Good. I'm sick of lawyers. Which is pretty funny,
considering that I am one.”

“My name is T. S. Hubbert. My aunt is Lillian
Hubbert.”

Seth looked up with renewed interest. “Well. You are
one lucky man right now, I'd say. My brother Jake tells me that
you're getting millions.”

T.S. shrugged. “Could my friend Herbert and I talk to
you about it? We have a booth over there by the window.”

“Talk about what?” he asked. “I'm sick of talking
about money. All my family wants to do is talk about money. No one
wants to talk about Uncle Max. No one seems to give a crap that
he's dead.”

“I do,” T.S. said with surprising ferocity. “I do,
and I can tell you right now that my aunt is absolutely
heartbroken.”

Seth raised his eyebrows and collected his drink
silently, following T.S. to the booth. At the far end of the bar,
the piano player took his seat. Music filled the air.

Herbert greeted Seth with a solemn nod of his head.
“My condolences on the death of your esteemed uncle,” he said. “I
am a friend of Mr. Hubbert here. He tells me your uncle was a very
great man. I'm sorry he is gone.”

“Thank you.” The young man slid in beside T.S. “I
miss him a lot. We used to talk at least once a week. He put me
through law school, you know. Bought me my apartment here. Behind
my parents' backs. After they disowned me. I think he was trying to
make up for their lack of... understanding. And he did. I loved him
for it.”

An uncomfortable silence followed. Herbert broke it.
“Perhaps it is a blessing to be disowned by a family such as yours.
I mean no disrespect to those you love, of course.”

Seth smiled grimly. “You have a point. It's funny.
There were only three people in my whole family I ever felt close
to. Uncle Max. He's dead. My brother Davy. He's dead, too. And my
sister, Karen. She's not dead, but she's not part of the family
either. Not anymore. She's joined me in exile.”

“Why is that?” T.S. asked. “What did she do?”

“Nothing so horrible as being a crime against nature,
as my own mother describes me.” Curiously, this admission seemed to
cheer him. He swallowed a gulp of his drink and grinned. “Good old
Uncle Max. He's made sure she'll never get her hands on any more of
his bucks. Good old Uncle Max.” He raised his glass in a toast.

“He left you a considerable sum,” T.S. pointed
out.

“I could say the same to you.”

T.S. acknowledged this reply with a nod. An older man
had taken the stage at the opposite end of the bar and was cradling
the microphone like a torch singer from the forties. T.S. did not
recognize the tune, but was immediately enchanted by the haunting
melody. “What show is that song from?” he asked curiously.

“That's from his show,” Seth explained. “He sings it
every chance he can get, hoping that one day someone will kick in
enough money to get it produced.” He looked at T.S. “What are you
going to do with Uncle Max's money anyway?”

T.S. had the uncomfortable feeling that this was not
going to be as easy as he had thought. For one thing, the kid was a
lawyer and managed to get in three questions for every one of his
own. For another, T.S. was acutely aware that his discomfort was
showing. Until he relaxed, he'd never get anywhere.

“I'm going to start by buying you a drink,” T.S.
decided. Alcohol, the great equalizer. He waved the waiter over and
ordered a double Dewar's and soda for himself and a fresh vodka
gimlet for Seth. Despite his better judgment, he even agreed when
Herbert insisted on trying a gimlet as well. Herbert seldom drank
and T.S. wondered if he could take it.

“Ever had one before?” Seth asked Herbert. “You have
to be careful. They're like martinis. Only they taste good.”

Herbert waved away his concern. “I am a cautious man.
I will be fine.” He stared back at the stage in interest. A new
performer stood in the spotlight, a tremendously fat man with a
sweet tenor voice. He began an Irish ballad, and its lingering
opening notes transformed the bar into an Irish pub.

“About your sister,” T.S. reminded Seth. Their drinks
arrived. Herbert's face lit up after one sip, declaring plainly
that vodka gimlets were yet another delicious treat undreamed of
during his days as a young lad in Singapore.

“Karen?” Seth sipped at his drink. “Look, I'm not in
the mood to talk about family. Can we talk about something
else?”

T.S. was silent. How could he win Seth's trust? “I'm
pretty surprised about being left so much money,” he finally said.
He'd work his way back to the Rosenblooms. “I don't feel as if I
deserve it.”

“Don't you?” Seth shrugged. “I wouldn't worry about
it. I'd take the money and run. Sometimes life hands you a bad
surprise, sometimes a good surprise. Don't argue. It will all even
up in the end.”

“But why didn't he leave it to you?” T.S. asked. “Or
to your sister?” He was keeping a careful eye on Herbert as he
spoke. Herbert had drained his gimlet and signaled for another. He
seemed transfixed by the stage nestled in the far corner of the
room and was gazing intently at the newest performer with a rapt
expression on his face.

“That's easy.” Seth grinned. “He knew it would ruin
us. Too much money leads to not enough initiative. That's a direct
quote. Uncle Max believed it, and how.”

“But he was willing to leave it to Davy.”

“He'd given up on Davy years ago and only wanted to
protect him,” Seth said. “It was the gambling that brought Davy
down, you know. Not women. Not drinking. The gambling. It's a
terrible thing to see—someone hooked like that, begging to borrow
money, eyes bright and hands trembling like some junkie looking for
a fast score. Uncle Max loved Davy but knew he couldn't change him.
Only Davy could change Davy. But Uncle Max wanted to make sure that
if he ever did reform, there would be money to support him. Setting
up the trust would have accomplished that.”

“You knew he had set up the trust?” T.S. asked.

“You could say that,” Seth said. “He asked my advice.
I told him to do it before he married Sabrina. She's never fooled
me.” He paused and smiled at T.S. “Not bad. You've got me talking
about the family again.”

T.S. was too distracted by Herbert's behavior to
reply. Herbert had slipped from his seat and inched to a stool near
the stage. A fresh vodka gimlet stood on the bar in front of him,
compliments of the bartender. Herbert's eyes gleamed strangely in
the glow from the spotlight emanating from the stage. He was
listening to the singer with his mouth half-open, silently mouthing
the words to a familiar Broadway tune. T.S. had seen that
expression before. Herbert had the New York City bug: he was
stagestruck. Big time.

“I can't blame your family for being angry about the
will,” T.S. said, focusing his attention on Seth once again. Maybe
if he talked long enough, Seth would come around.

“I can blame them and I do,” Seth replied. “Look,
Uncle Max gave us plenty while he was alive. No one in the family
is hurting for money and no one should complain. They should be
grateful for what they have and get on with their lives. It was
Uncle Max's money, and if he wanted to leave it to you and your
aunt, he had that right.”

“I'm impressed that you can say that,” T.S.
admitted.

“Uncle Max's influence,” Seth said cheerfully. He
paused. “It's nice to talk about him to someone who isn't busy
licking their wounds over being jilted in the will. Wish I could
meet your aunt. She must have been some kind of woman.”

“She is some kind of woman,” T.S. said.

“I wonder why Uncle Max didn't marry her?” Seth said.
“He loved her enough.”

“I wonder why she didn't marry him,” T.S.
replied.

“You've asked?”

“I've asked. And she's not telling.” T.S. checked on
Herbert one more time and willed himself to relax. So what if
Herbert wanted to hang out at the bar and drink? No harm in that.
If only he had Herbert's sense of adventure. Then he'd be able to
establish a better rapport with Seth. T.S. was sure that his own
discomfort showed.

“Who knows why any of us end up with who we end up
with?” Seth asked suddenly. “I sure can't figure out why I'm stuck
with Bobby. All he cares about is money.” He sighed. “I hate money.
I'm a lawyer who hates money. Is that a contradiction?” He laughed
mirthlessly and gulped at his drink.

“In that case, what are you planning to do with the
money Max left you?” T.S. asked. He finished his double scotch and,
finally, began to relax. He realized with surprise that he truly
liked Seth Rosenbloom. The young man was without pretense, had a
sense of humor, and was remarkably devoid of bitterness.

“I don't want to talk about my life,” Seth said
abruptly. “I promise you would not understand.”

T.S. did not answer. It was true. He did not
understand what forces had taken this young man so far from his
family, what had made him so different from the rest of the
Rosenblooms. But he wanted to try and he needed to extract more
information from him. Seth was an observer, T.S. could tell, and he
had spent many years watching his family. He would know the
secrets. But he was used to keeping secrets. T.S. had to find a way
to gain his confidence and get more information from him.

“You don't trust me,” T.S. said. Maybe the blunt
approach would work.

“Hey, you're okay.” Seth flashed him a wide grin and
T.S. was amazed at the transformation. He suddenly understood why
so many men had glanced down as they passed by their booth. If any
of the Rosenblooms came close to possessing Max's legendary
magnetism, it was Seth. Had Max been this beautiful, sure, sad, and
strong—all at the same time? No wonder Auntie Lil had fallen
hard.

“Tell me who do you think killed your uncle,” T.S.
asked persistently.

Seth's eyes filled abruptly with tears. He didn't
speak for a moment as he struggled to regain his composure. “I
don't know,” he finally said in a low voice.

Without warning, the piano player struck a series of
deep chords that resonated through the bar. T.S. jumped in
surprise, nearly knocking over his drink.

“Hey, look who's up next.” Seth pointed to the
stage.

Herbert was bowing to the pianist. He drained the
remainder of a gimlet as the musician finished his thundering
introduction. Herbert stepped up on the low stage and faced the
suddenly quiet audience. Beneath the spotlight, his pear-tinged
skin glowed as if it were gold. He hunched his shoulders forward
and clasped his hands together as he stepped to the microphone.
Then—to T.S.'s utter astonishment—Herbert
growled.

Oh, god. How many gimlets had he drained anyway?

But the audience recognized something that T.S. had
missed. Herbert growled again and a cheer erupted, inspiring
Herbert to growl even louder as the piano player jumped full force
into
If I Were King of the Forest.
Herbert
became
the
Cowardly Lion, his small body seeming to grow as he transformed
himself into the bashful beast. He pranced about the microphone,
batting at it with imaginary paws as he sang. He shivered and shook
and twitched an imaginary tail, strutting and purring in a
near-perfect imitation of Bert Lahr in
The Wizard of Oz.
The
bar patrons went wild with delight, their whistles and cheers
nearly drowning out Herbert's performance. Even the bartender
stopped to watch.

“He's great,” Seth said, marveling. “Where'd you find
him?”

T.S. was too dumbstruck to reply. Herbert had just
pounced —yes, actually pounced— halfway across the stage at the
piano player and was pretending to scratch the top of the baby
grand with lion claws.

As Herbert approached the final stanza, the crowd
joined in, roaring and singing with him. He finished to wild
acclaim, his hands straight over his head as he bowed theatrically
to the applauding patrons. Declining the shouts for an encore,
Herbert stepped from the stage and moved like a king through the
crowd, stopping to shake hands or bow modestly before he sailed
regally past his new fans.

He slid back into the booth with quiet dignity and
smiled at T.S. “Another round?” he inquired politely.

T.S. nodded numbly and for an instant wondered if he
had imagined it all.

Apparently not. Before they could order more drinks,
the bartender arrived with doubles all around and let them know
that more waited in the wings. Herbert had been a huge hit. His new
fans were fighting to buy them drinks. T.S. stared at the cluttered
table and realized that he would never understand a single human
being, much less the entire world.

“You were fantastic,” Seth told Herbert. “How did you
do that?”

Herbert smiled modestly. “It is my favorite movie,”
he explained. Without another word about his amazing performance,
Herbert looked Seth Rosenbloom straight in the eye. “You interest
me greatly, Mr. Rosenbloom,” he said. “I see in you traces of your
uncle. I can tell you are much like him. My dear friend Lillian
spoke of him to me quite often. Did you know that we are
investigating his death, my friend here and I?”

“Well...” Seth looked back at T.S. “No. I didn't. Not
really.” He sat back in the booth. “What kind of lawyer am I? I've
been sitting here answering questions and never thought to even ask
why you wanted to know all those things.”

“My friend Lillian will not rest until she knows who
killed Max,” Herbert explained. “You must help us. She does this
out of love. It is a love that has withstood decades of time and
dozens of disapproving people. Now their love has withstood even
death.” Herbert shook his head with certainty. “She will not stop
until she finds out the truth.”

Seth looked at Herbert and then at T.S. “What do you
want to know?” he asked.