One Trillion Dollars Page 9

  “All they write about is the money,” Alberto said, looking at Repubblica. “Money and compound interest. It seems that they know nothing about the terms of the legacy.”

  Giovanna had set the table in the salon downstairs rather grandly as befitted this special day. There were cubed honey melon pieces and real Parma ham and champagne, all set out on a white linen tablecloth, and crystal glasses that sparkled in the sunlight were placed next upon the table. A warm breeze scented with lavender moved the curtains on the high windows. Footsteps sounded on the gravel outside. Benito was polishing the Rolls with a soft cloth. Then Alessandro appeared, a strong young guy, who helped in the kitchen and cellar. He had brought the newspapers earlier and ever since the Vacchis had been in an uproar.

  Except for the Padrone; he seemed to find the whole thing amusing. With a quiet smirk he stirred his cappuccino, as calm as the proverbial eye of the storm. “It was obvious that this would happen. They only found out sooner than we all thought.” He looked up to John with a smirk. “You may even outdo Lady Di in the press.”

  “Great!” John said. That’s all he needed!

  Eduardo, who had been standing to one side, talking into his cellphone, clapped it shut with a loud, “Ciao!” and came over. “No chance,” he said. “They have besieged the notary public’s office.”

  “The notary!?” his father said upset. “How in heaven’s name did they find out when and where?”

  “They must’ve phoned every notary public. And Nuncio buckled under the pressure.”

  “Porco cane! How could he tell anyone about our appointment …”

  “Nuncio said that a man called him a half hour ago and told him that he was inquiring for the Vacchi family to see if the appointment could be delayed for a half hour. They knew our name!”

  “What? That’s just …” Gregorio’s thin eyebrows went up. “That means that a whole pack of … oh no, the gate! Alessandro, Giuseppe! Quick, we must close the gate and lock it!” He hurried out to the foyer, his clapping hands reverberating throughout the chambers. “Giuseppe! Leave everything as it is and go! Presto!”

  Susan Winter read the newspapers every day. It was part of her job. The first one today, the Washington Post, she read over breakfast while sitting at the foldable table in her small kitchen. The second one, the New York Times, she read in the subway on her way to work, and at work she read three or four others, mostly international editions. What she read depended on what her current job demanded — and which lottery she had invested in. The past few days were not very lucky; all the money she got form the stranger was gone. Gambled away!

  When she brought in the newspapers on this particular morning and saw the headlines and the photo, she felt an ice cold shudder go down her back. So that’s what all this is about! She wasn’t even upset that she hadn’t figured it out on her own. No one could have guessed something like that. That such a notion was even possible never even crossed her mind. One trillion dollars! The number was printed inside a gray-colored box; a one with twelve zeros. One thousand billion! Fascinated by the entire thing, she read the article, which explained how the money grew over the past centuries through interest and compound interest. The article ended with the words; “It took you about a minute to read this article, and in that time John Fontanelli’s fortune has grown by eighty thousand dollars.”

  She forgot the coffee and forgot the donut. She just sat there with the paper across the table and stared at the wall before her. She asked herself what it was the stranger had wanted from John Fontanelli. What he would do with the documents she had given him.

  Susan Winter felt that her presence in the Dalloway Detective Agency was not really wanted, and that it would be only a matter of time before they determined she was of no value to them anymore. She worked as much as she could and never complained when she was forced to do unpaid overtime. She didn’t know what her boss really thought of her, and even if someone told her she would not believe it. Her boss actually thought of her as being a neurotic, moody, and unreliable person. But he placed a high value on the first-rate intuition that allowed her to see the motives and intentions of the agency’s surveillance targets. Her ability to make lightning judgments more than made up for her other rather negative characteristics, and he wouldn’t have fired her even if he was forced to reduce the staff by half.

  When she mentally went over the information contained in the second folder — the one with the investigative results of Fontanelli’s family — once more, she had one of those inspirations. Now she thought she knew what the stranger was up to. And if it was true then she could turn that knowledge into a lot of money; more money than she could ever imagine. Her luck had turned.

  She was so anxious about screwing things up that she had butterflies in her stomach on the way to work.

  The first team to arrive came in a Porsche, a man and a woman. The man had a camera shouldered, and the woman was armed with a microphone with the logo of a TV channel on it. They rang the bell at the gate. Benito walked over leisurely and told the reporters that the Vacchi family was not available for interview.

  A short while later a second team appeared, four men in a station wagon. They unloaded a bunch of gear: large tripods, cameras, recorders, umbrellas and folding chairs. They shook hands with the first team.

  John and the Vacchis were watching all this from behind a curtain in the library on the second floor. To them it looked like bitter rivals shaking hands before the race began. It was beginning to feel as if they were under siege.

  The tripods were set up, the cameras mounted on them, and large umbrellas put up to protect them and the gear from the sun.

  “If we can keep them here for a few days we’ll be able to let the villagers earn some nice extra money,” Alberto said.

  The number of reporters grew constantly. There were no more handshakes and no more friendly chats or waves, only an aggressive and quick staking of claims, fighting over the best spots, elbowing and angry words. A forest of tripods and cameras and microphones quickly sprouted around the property’s entrance.

  “We’re probably live on CNN by now,” Eduardo said.

  A helicopter appeared. For a moment it looked as if it might try to land in the yard. But it circled the premises a few times and then flew away.

  “I’m afraid that if we don’t start answering some questions they’ll be spreading rumors all over the world,” Gregorio said with a sour expression. “The TV stations and newspapers need to be filled with something, after all.”

  “I agree,” Alberto said with a nod. “We should hold a press conference.”

  “At least officially as the heir’s lawyers,” Cristoforo said. “What do you think, John?”

  “I don’t know. I’m feeling a bit sick,” John admitted. “I’ve never been through something like this. A press conference, I mean.”

  The Padrone smirked. “You think we have?”

  John had watched White House press conferences on TV, seen the president step up to the podium and read a statement, and then answer a thousand questions. It was always such a bore to watch. But the thought of having to stand in front of a forest of colorful microphones, with flashing lights, answering countless questions from a mob, was scary and exciting at once. Do your parents already know about the inheritance? Yes, he would answer. What will you do with all that money? He doesn’t know yet. A bunch of unimportant answers, but each word was written down exactly, recorded and filmed, as if what he had to say was a world-shaking event.

  “You’re a prominent person now,” Eduardo told him, making an effort to exude authority.

  They had all the furniture moved out of the salon. They built a barrier out of tables to the rear of the room, near a door through which they could escape if that proved necessary. Alessandro and Giuseppe stood ready to cover the retreat, and even looked like they wouldn’t mind getting into a scuffle with the reporters.

  The reporters came storming in like crazy Beatles fans finally allowed to m
eet their idols.

  “Why didn’t you just keep the money?” the reporters needled the Vacchis.

  “Such behavior,” Cristoforo Vacchi told the reporter coolly, “would not have been compatible with our moral and professional character.”

  That statement, by a lawyer no less, made the crowd break out in raucous laughter.

  Gregorio officially began the conference by explaining the origin of the money and the details of the testament. The Vacchis and John had agreed not to mention Giacomo Fontanelli’s vision, if they weren’t directly asked. And indeed, no one asked. The main interest was the clause bequeathing all the money to the youngest male on the particular date. What was so special about this date? Nothing, Gregorio said. They asked John if he thought it was right that he should be the one to inherit so much money. No, John told them, but that’s the way it is. Was it justified to exclude female heirs in this day and age? “No one would write such a clause these days,” John said, “but we’re talking about a testament that is five hundred years old.”

  His shirt was getting drenched, and sweat was running down his back. All the crap they wanted to know! If he was married, if he was going to donate money to the needy, what kind of sports he liked, where he intended to live, it seemed like the questions would never stop.

  Asked about his favorite food, he told them that he’d try to get used to caviar, but so far his mother’s tortellini still held that honor. Then Eduardo picked a delicate looking female reporter with fire-red hair.

  “Brenda Taylor, CNN,” she said, and John saw fire in her eyes, her voice, in every movement she made. “Mr. Fontanelli, are you happy to have become instantly wealthy?”

  The question hit him like a baseball bat to the face. Everyone was holding their breath, and it was so quiet that one could hear the proverbial pin drop. John stared at the halogen lamps and camera lenses and mikes and understood that the answer to this question would be carried to the farthest corners of the world, and that it would be an essential factor when people would what to think about him.

  “Well,” he began awkwardly, with a mind as blank as a whitewashed wall, “I’m not wealthy yet. The official transfer must still be accomplished and so forth. Then … we’ll see.”

  But that wasn’t a real answer, and he knew it just like everyone else knew it. She wasn’t satisfied either. The silence in the room seemed to roar at him. All eyes were on him and he knew they wanted more.

  “The sole purpose of such a fortune is not to bring happiness to the man who possesses it,” he suddenly heard himself say, with no idea where it came from or what it meant. “It is more of an obligation, and the only way to be happy is to meet that obligation.” He felt like an idiot. How could he say something so soppy? Did it even make any sense? He saw the half-opened mouths, pens on note pads unsure what to write next. Were they about to burst out laughing? Paint him as the biggest fool on the planet?

  But instead, someone unseen in the back of this room full of journalists began a slow clap. Others joined in. Soon, the whole crowd was clapping.

  Someone pat him on his back. “Wonderful! You did a fine job, John.” What? Wonderful? “That was a fine ending to the press conference, I’d say.”

  Who was it speaking? John was so totally confused he could not hear or see straight. The crowd began moving, pushing and shoving, everyone wanting to shake his hand.

  “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, thank you, thank you, that will be all.” Alberto, right?

  Then there was a door and the calm beyond it.

  Later on he was alone in his room lying on his bed with a wet washcloth on his forehead, staring at the ceiling. Just don’t think, he thought. The memories of the morning blurred into a vortex of lights and yelling. Don’t dare imagine this might be a daily occurrence. Here, at least, it was quiet. The terrace doors were closed. He couldn’t even hear the sea, nothing at all.

  He was dozing in a nice, numb state of mind, between drowsiness and sleep, until the phone buzzed him out of it. What? He sat half-way up, startled, elbows supporting his upper body as he stared at the phone next to his bed. That must’ve been a dream. It didn’t really ring. No one in the whole house would have disturbed him now.

  Then it rang again — an ugly, irritating buzz. He took the phone, held it to his ear, “Hello?”

  “Mr. Fontanelli?” a sympathetic, sonorous voice asked in a British accent.

  “Yes.” Did he recognize the voice?

  “John Salvatore Fontanelli? Are you in your room?”

  What was all that about? “Yes, dammit! Of course, I’m in my room! Who are you and what do you want?”

  “You don’t know me, but I hope that we’ll meet one day. For now I can’t even tell you my name. I just wanted to know if I had the right number.”

  “My phone number?” John didn’t understand a thing.

  “House phone twenty-three. I wanted to see if it was the one in your room. I will explain all this better another time. Oh, and another thing, please mention this phone call to no one, especially to any of the Vacchis. Trust me.”

  This guy was completely insane, right? “Why shouldn’t I?”

  The unknown stranger at the other end paused for a moment, breathed in and out. “Because you’re going to need help, Mr. Fontanelli,” he paused, “and I’m the one who can give it to you.”

  $6,000,000,000,000

  THERE WERE ALSO seats in Jeremy’s, but it just wasn’t the sort of place you sat down in. The fake leather seats felt as if someone had spilled some weird gravy on them and hadn’t bothered to wipe it up, so instead it had just dried up, and the dried gunk was flaking off bit by bit. You couldn’t see clearly anyway since the bar’s owner used only green and dark-yellow light bulbs and even then, not many of those. Up front there were tables with stools, but the regulars usually stood at the bar. You could see the TV better from there and catch whatever was going on in the game since the TV was always on the sports channel.

  Lino Fontanelli had a smooth, almost child-like face that made him look younger than he actually was. His hair looked like he used lots of grease, but he didn’t. In fact, he hated the way he looked.

  He went to Jeremy’s when he didn’t want to run into any of the other officers from McGuire Air Force Base, which was what he wanted most of the time. The beer here wasn’t any worse than anywhere else, the hamburgers a bit better, and he had some peace and quiet. He was in his usual spot, one of the two corners of the bar, where he could read the paper without anyone blocking his view of the TV.

  He had been reading a hell of a lot of papers over the past few days. There was hardly anything going on inside Jeremy’s. Sitting in one corner was a fat guy with his fat girlfriend, both eating fattening fries, maybe to preserve their attractiveness. At the other end of the bar sat an old gray-haired black man, who seemed to be a part of the inventory. He was talking with the bartender, who was wiping off glasses and nodding once in a while.

  At first, Lino didn’t notice the other man who entered the bar at some point. He stood at the bar a few places away from Lino and ordered a beer. Then the guy pulled one of the bar stools over and sat on it, he’d either never been to Jeremy’s before or he didn’t mind going home with streaks on his pants.

  When his beer was half empty and Lino started to read the sports page, the man leaned over and, pointing at the paper, asked “Did you see that, about the guy who inherited a trillion dollars?”

  Lino looked up to him grudgingly. The man had on a dark coat and held on to his glass with hands as hairy as a gorilla’s. “I guess everyone has,” he answered indifferently.

  “A trillion dollars! Holy shit! I don’t even think God has that much money, huh?”

  “No idea how much God has.”

  For a moment it looked like the man had said everything he had to say. He stared at the baseball game but without real interest. “I read that the guy has an older brother,” he babbled on again. “Boy, oh boy, I told myself, how does he feel now? He pr
obably wishes that he strangled that little bastard in his sleep when he had the chance. Well, I don’t have a brother, but I can imagine thinking something like that.”

  Lino lowered the newspaper and took a better look at the man. His face seemed sallow and pockmarked and looked like he enjoyed brawls as much as alcohol. His eyes looked devious.

  He noticed Lino looking at him. “Come on now, it’s only human, isn’t it? Besides, you don’t get punished for what you think, only what you do.”

  Lino had a lot of things going through his head when he realized that it was John that the media were endlessly going on about. His little brother John, the kid he always had to look out for when they were younger, the kid who nearly fell under a bus once, all those memories. Now he asked himself if it was just coincidence that this guy was bashing his ears about him.

  “Just try and imagine what a pile of money that must be. A trillion dollars. Until the day before yesterday I didn’t know that much money existed! Even those assholes in Washington only talk about billions. And this guy gets a trillion. Maybe I should look through my grandfather’s old papers to see if there’s a savings account from the fifteenth century. What do you think?”

  “Sure, you never know.”

  The guy pulled out a business card from a pocket and slid it over. “Bleeker,” he said, “Ralph Bleeker. You can call me Randy.”

  Lino picked it up. Printed on the card it said: Lawyer Specializing in Family and Inheritance Law. “What’s all this about?” he asked. “What do you want?”

  Randy Bleeker looked to the left and to the right making sure no one was listening. “Okay, I was only making a show. I didn’t want you to get up and leave right away. You know what I mean? I know that you’re the brother of John. And what do I want? Well, I guess you could say I want a job.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ll help you get a chunk of that money, and I get a share of your share.”