Dead Men’s Clothes

Well, at least it was a payday. Not much of one probably, but a payday, nonetheless. The subject was in a home on Ocean Parkway in Brooklyn, and that meant not less than an hour to drive there, an hour with him, the doctors and the nurses, and another hour back. Plus tolls. The Parkway, Turnpike, Goethals and Verrazano Bridges. When it opened 31 years ago, in 1964, the Verrazano toll was a dollar, roundtrip. When a New Jersey lawyer like Callaghan goes over the span in a few days, that toll alone will be seven bucks.

“Robbery,” thought Callaghan.

It’s not like he had a choice. The Brooklyn electric ferry closed down in 1964 on the same day the Verrazano Bridge opened, and Callaghan’s car didn’t float.

Callaghan thumbed through the sparse file on John Laroux, topped by Judge

Flanagan’s order of June 16, 1995, appointing Callaghan as Laroux’s guardian ad litem.

Callaghan wasn’t in court for the competency hearing, but he had been appointed by Flanagan at other times—it is not illegal for the Irish to stick together—and knew Flanagan’s spiel by heart.

“I am appointing Michael Callaghan, Esq., as Mr. Laroux’s guardian ad litem, to represent the interests of the alleged incompetent,” intoned Judge Flannagan. “I am directing the petitioner, and those opposing her appointment as guardian of the person and property of Mr. Laroux, to cooperate with Mr. Callaghan in his investigation of the case. Mr. Callaghan is this court’s eyes and ears, and his report will assist this court in determining whether or not Mr. Laroux is incompetent, and whether the petitioner, Ms. Curanov, or the opponent, Ms. Minogue, should be appointed his guardian.”

Judge Flanagan’s order set the matter down for hearing July 30, and Callaghan was directed to submit his report seven days in advance of that date. Like all lawyers, Callaghan was a master procrastinator, and now he had only four days to do his investigation, write the report, and send it in.

The file had a doctor’s report from the Curanov side, and one from Minogue’s, and, from those reports, it seemed pretty clear to Callaghan that John Laroux was now incompetent. Still, it was Callaghan’s job to confirm that fact in a personal interview with the subject and put his findings in his own report. The court would allow him to bill at the rate of $150 an hour, and he figured the job was good for $1,500 to $2,000, including a court appearance. What bothered Callaghan was that there didn’t seem to be much money in

Laroux’s estate, and he wondered what Curanov and Minogue were fighting over.

* * * *

Catherine Minogue came to Callaghan’s office for her interview. She explained that she was Laroux’s niece and was surprised when she answered the door of her New Jersey house three months ago to find a black cab driver standing there, and her uncle, John Laroux, at the bottom of the stoop in a wheelchair.

“He wasn’t really with it, he was confused,” said Ms. Minogue. “he said he ran away from Marina. He said she was no good, that she was abusing him, and that all she wanted was his money. Later I found out that he hadn’t lived with Marina since his stroke three years ago, and that he was in a nursing home. So, I sent him back. I visit him, and sometimes he’s clear; but most of the time he makes no sense.”

“I looked at the file, and it doesn’t appear he has very much money,” said Callaghan. “Don’t believe everything you see,” said Ms. Minogue. “Everyone in the family knows Uncle John has money; we just don’t know where it is.”

Catherine Minogue explained that John Laroux was a throwback to an earlier time, a Damon Runyon character that once enjoyed a dubious reputation as a conniver, swindler and crook. But no small-time crook. He operated in the 1950s and 60s from a tiny office in a swanky building near Fraunces Tavern on Broad Street in downtown Manhattan, and from there he bought and sold New York City office buildings and rented office space to companies wanting to open offices in New York. In almost every case, the buyers and prospective tenants were foreign companies looking to move here. The only trouble was,

Laroux didn’t own the buildings he sold or the office space he rented! He made sure the deposits he took in were small, at least by New York City standards—maybe $5,000 to $50,000, depending upon how high a floor the rental space was said to be, or how well located the building he was selling was supposed to be--and very early on in the transaction came up with one excuse or another to kill the deal. He didn’t return the deposits. The buyers were faced with hiring Wall Street lawyers at Wall Street rates to get their deposits back or walking away and chalking it up to experience. Most walked.

Callaghan smiled a bit at the story.

“You know, Ms. Minogue, I used to work in the oil and gas business and I spent a lot of time in Texas and Louisiana. Your uncle missed his calling. There were a lot of

‘promoters’ there selling oil and gas wells, mineral leases and other deals they didn’t own, many times to high-net-worth investors looking for tax shelters and write-offs. Your uncle would have done well.”

Ms. Minogue got defensive.

“He did do well,” she huffed. “He had a fine apartment on the East Side, and waterfront property on the Jersey shore that he bought years ago that must be worth a fortune now. He sent me money at birthdays and Christmas, and not just five or ten dollars, but hundreds. ‘I have no use for small change,’ he always said. He bought a new Jaguar every year, even though they ran like crap, were always in the shop, and cost a fortune to repair.”

“Yes,” said Callaghan, “but he must have gotten into trouble. You can’t keep pulling these schemes and not have to face the law and its consequences. In Louisiana they used to say, ‘He that sells what isn’t hizzin, buys it back or goes to prison.’ Your uncle must have gotten into trouble along the way, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, he went to jail a few times,” said Ms. Minogue, “but when he came out, he went right back to work.”

“So, you were close to your uncle?” asked Callaghan. “I mean, it was you he sought out for help.”

“I hadn’t seen him in 10 years before he showed up at my door,” said Minogue. “I guess he just didn’t have anyone else to turn to. He’s 81 now. He outlived his other relatives, and I think his good friend and business partner died even before that, so I’m told.”

“Then why do you want to be his guardian?” asked Callaghan.

“I don’t want Marina to be his guardian, that’s why. I’m his blood; she’s just his girlfriend, although a long-time one. If she finds out where his money is, it will disappear.

He’s sick—how he got out of the nursing home I’ll never know—and he can’t last long. I’m his closest living relative…” she paused, “…don’t get me wrong, I’ll take good care of him.

But what’s his is mine when he dies, and I want to make sure there’s something there.”

* * * *

Marina Curanov lived in Brooklyn, close to the Green Meadows Nursing Home

where she had installed Laroux after his stroke three years ago. It was a tidy, two-story brick row house with a garage below. A new Mercedes was in the driveway. The garage door was open, and Callaghan could see the rear end of a ’92 Jaguar sitting there.

She answered the door in a snug fitting sweater and equally figure-filled slacks. She was about Callaghan’s age—mid 40s—and, he suspected, more than his match if the sweater and slacks were tossed over a chair. He wondered how Laroux handled her.

She turned away as he was extending his hand.

“Please come this way,” she said. She led him through the living room, dining room and kitchen, to a table with four chairs in a small sun porch that overlooked the back yard.

She sat across from Callaghan.

“I know you’re wondering ‘Why is this woman with John Laroux’,” said Marina. “The truth is, I care for him, and have cared for him for nearly 10 years. He found me in a restaurant in Brighton Beach, waiting tables, just after I arrived from the Soviet Union, from Kiev. My sponsor said I had to work at the restaurant for a year, but John came back every day and after three weeks asked me to become his housekeeper, and help him. There was some trouble, but John took care of it. He rented this house for me and bought me clothes. Eight months later he moved his things here and has been here from time to time ever since, until the stroke.”

“How do you pay for all this?” asked Callaghan.

“I don’t know,” said Marina. “John never told me. All I know is that the rent gets paid automatically, and $2,000 is deposited in my checking account every month. When John was here with me he gave me money, cash, whenever I asked or he felt like it. We lived very well. But the last years have been hard. I have enough to get by, but nothing for extras.”

“So, you don’t know where his bank money is,” said Callaghan. “What about other assets. Does he own any property?”

“He has some jewelry and personal things here in his room”

“May I see?” asked Callaghan.

Marina led Callaghan to a small bedroom in the back. Callaghan opened the dresser drawers filled with monogrammed shirts, neatly folded. The jewelry box had cufflinks, a watch, and a gold ring with small diamonds. The ties in the closet were silk and the suits were hand made. “From Hong Kong,” said Marina.

“What about real property. Real estate. Does he have any?” said Callaghan.

“He said he had a mansion on the Jersey shore, in Sea Bright, I think. He never took me there. He said he owed money to someone, got sued, and gave the other fellow a long lease on the property as part of the settlement of the lawsuit. There was even some violence between them and there was a restraining order against John, and he couldn’t go near the property,” she said. “He does have a temper, you know.”

“A mansion?” said Callaghan.

“Well, John is a conniver,” said Marina. “He is also a liar. Maybe the ‘mansion’ was just to impress me.”

She got up and moved one chair closer to Callaghan, and leaned forward, so that her breasts nearly brushed the tabletop.

“John needs me,” she purred. “I would do anything for him.”

* * * *

Callaghan’s appointment at Green Meadows was for 2 o’clock. That was after nursing home doctor Ratner’s lunch, and before his patient rounds. Over the years, Callaghan had developed the theory that a person’s name dictated that person’s career choice and personality. So, when he was in basic training in the army, his drill sergeant was Sgt. Leroy Dread. He knew a urologist named Pittle, and a dentist named Terra. His commanding officer was Major Obregon and, although “Obregon” is not a word, what could a person with that name be if not a Major in the army?

Ratner was short and weasel-faced, with dark, slicked back hair and black plastic framed glasses.

“Mr. Laroux will be brought out in a moment,” said the doctor. “He’s not well, and he has not been eating. His blood chemistry is all wrong, and that contributes to his increasing dementia. But I suppose you read my report and know all this.”

“Yes,” said Callaghan. “and I assume recovery is unlikely.”

“More like impossible,” said Dr. Ratner.

“How is his bill paid?” asked Callaghan.

“Medicare and Medicaid. The taxpayers support Mr. Laroux.” Ratner leaned back on

his leather chair, and it creaked.

“Frankly, Mr. Callaghan, we don’t like Medicare patients. Ms. Curanov enrolled him

as private pay, but she told us later that she no longer had the money to pay the charges. She is not a relative and we could not compel her to guarantee payment, so we had no choice. I had investigators look into Mr. Laroux’s finances but, to my surprise, they could not find anything.”

A nurse poked her head into Dr. Ratner’s office.

“He’s here,” she said.

* * * *

John Laroux was slumped in his wheelchair, wearing a black and red flannel shirt over sweatpants. There were food stains on his collar and a faint whiff of a combination of milk, sweat, urine and bleach rose up from his clothes.

Callaghan took a seat on a folding chair the nurse brought out, and extended a hand to Laroux, but he did not seem to see it, and did not accept the handshake offer.

“Can he see?” Callaghan asked the nurse.

“Oh, he can see alright,” she giggled, “and hear, and feel and touch. There’s more life in him than he’s showing you, you better believe it.” She was a big African American woman, with a wonderful laugh. “Especially when I’m giving him a sponge bath.”

A little smile passed along Laroux’s face.

“He seemed to hear that,” said Callaghan.

Callaghan began his usual script.

“Mr. Laroux, my name is Michael Callaghan, I am an attorney, and I have been

appointed by the Superior Court of New Jersey to protect your interests.” He didn’t see any need to explain to Laroux what a guardian ad litem was.

“I am going to ask you a few questions, and I would appreciate it if you would respond verbally to those questions. Don’t just shake or nod your head.” Callaghan turned to the nurse.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Frances,” said the nurse.

“Your good friend, Nurse Frances, is here and I want her to hear what you say.”

“She’s no friend of mine,” said Laroux, angrily. “Talk to Connie.”

Callaghan looked at Nurse Frances.

“Who’s Connie?” asked Callaghan of the nurse.

“I sure don’t know,” she replied. “He mentions her every once in a while, especially if he’s talking gibberish about business. It’s ‘Connie this,’ and ‘Connie that.’ She must have been his secretary, or something.”

Callaghan went on.

“Mr. Laroux, do you know today’s date?”

Laroux moved his jaw like he was chewing.

“1982” he said.

“How about the season?” said Callaghan, “Summer, fall, winter or spring?”

“Spring,” said Laroux. He was three months off.

“Who is President of these United States?”

“Nixon, the bastard,” hissed Laroux. Bill Clinton will be disappointed, thought

Callaghan.

Callaghan took a quarter from his pocket and slipped it into Laroux’s twisted fingers.

“Do you know what that coin is,” he asked.

Laroux looked at it and rolled it around.

“I don’t deal with small change,” he said, and tossed the quarter back to Callaghan.

“Who is on the 10-dollar bill?” asked Callaghan.

“Hamilton, you fool!” exclaimed Laroux.

The subject of money seemed to animate him. He put his hand on one of the wheels of his chair and pivoted the chair so that he was closer to, and facing, Callaghan.

“Do you know how to get a good table at a restaurant?” he asked but didn’t wait for Callaghan’s reply. “You go up to the host and when he asks if you have a reservation, you say ‘Yes, Hamilton.’ He looks at his list and says, ‘But I don’t have a Hamilton here.’ Then you take out a 10-spot, hand it to him, and say, ‘Yes, but I have a Hamilton here.’”

Laroux laughed at his own joke. “Works every time!” He paused, and a sad look came over him. “At least, it used to,” he said.

Laroux leaned in toward Callaghan and whispered,

“I don’t deal with money. Connie handles all the money. Connie is my best friend.” Callaghan turned to Nurse Frances.

“Does he have visitors; does this ‘Connie’ ever come here?” asked Callaghan.

“No, no,” said Nurse Frances. “Only Miss Marina, and lately that other one, Ms.

Minogue. No one else for three years I been here.”

Callaghan had seen enough. Laroux surely needed a guardian, but Callaghan still wasn’t sure which of the two would really protect Laroux. He thought, it may be that the

State will have to step in.

Callaghan rose.

“Well, thank you, Nurse Frances.” He looked at Laroux, who had drifted off to sleep.

“You know, Ms. Frances, he really needs to be changed. I think he may have soiled himself.”

Nurse Frances sighed. “Yes, he does it more and more,” she said. “That’s usually something near the end, poor guy.”

“I will be going back to Miss Marina’s house to discuss the case further,” said

Callaghan. “Do you want me to send her over with a few changes of clothes? She has some beautiful things of his.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Callaghan,” said Nurse Frances. “The one thing we have here is men’s clothes. We get a new wardrobe almost every other day. New patients roll in, the dead ones are taken away. Bums wear banker’s clothes, and bankers wear bum’s clothes. Whatever is salvageable, we store in the attic, where it’s dry, and take what we need when we need it. The patients don’t seem to care if the shirts match the pants, or if the size isn’t just right.” She laughed her wonderful laugh. “At least, they don’t complain to me.”

* * * *

Callaghan stopped at Ms. Curanov’s house on the way back. She had changed into a cocktail dress.

“I’m going to dinner, and I’m late,” she said.

“I won’t take a minute,” said Callaghan. “Mr. Laroux mentioned someone named

Connie. Did he have a secretary or someone in the office named Connie?”

“Not that I know of; no, I’m sure he didn’t,” said Marina. “John did not want anyone knowing his business. He didn’t want any witnesses who could go against him. He pretty much worked alone.”

“But he had a partner, didn’t he?” said Callaghan.

Marina smiled and shook her head. “No, that was all made up. That was before I met him. He talked about having a partner just to impress customers, or to use that person as an excuse to kill a deal. He told me it was just a name to put on the letterhead. He even had business cards made up and made the “partner” a VP. But it was his dog.”

“His dog!” said Callaghan.

“Yes, that was the only other living thing in his office. He used to laugh about it.

He’d say, ‘My dog is my partner.’”

* * * *

It was the next day that Callaghan stopped at the tax collector’s office in the Borough of Sea Bright, on the New Jersey shore. He explained that he suspected John Laroux, or a company created by him—Callaghan had brought a list of company names that Laroux had used—owned property in Sea Bright. The collector, an amiable woman in her 60s with a sun and wind burned beach complexion, perused the list.

“Nope,” she said, “it’s a small town, and I know most of the owners personally. They

stop in all the time to pay taxes and get building permits at the construction office next door, especially since the ’92 storm when we had a lot of houses damaged.”

Callaghan hadn’t noticed much damage coming in.

“Was it bad?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, at the time. But we’re a tough bunch here, and most have re-built. Some haven’t. The Leonards sold and moved away, and the new owners have cleared the lot but haven’t started construction. The Barker house—that one is right on the river—that also took some damage. Funny old Mr. Barker came in right after the storm three years ago to ask about permits, but he never came back and then he just stopped paying the taxes. We reached out to him, but he doesn’t live here full time, and all we had was a post office box, and no telephone number. It’s a pity. We had to sell tax sale certificates, and it just went to tax sale last Monday. Somebody got a great deal. It’s probably worth $1 million, even with the damage, and no mortgage, and it went for just back taxes.”

She let out a sigh. “Poor Connie.”

Callaghan’s ears perked up. “Connie?”

“Yes,” said the collector, “Conrad Barker, the owner.”

Callaghan let the name roll around in his head.

Conrad Barker.

Somewhere, a bank account with the name Conrad Barker, and a big balance of stolen money, was being drawn down monthly to pay the rent and expenses of a Russian girl and a row house in Brooklyn;

Conrad Barker. The record owner of a mansion in Sea Bright, New Jersey;

Conrad Barker. John Laroux’s partner;

Conrad Barker. John Laroux’s friend;

Conrad Barker. John Laroux’s best friend;

Conrad Barker. Man’s best friend.

It was going to be one hell of a report.