Top Producer by Norb Vonnegut Page A

money and keep investors safe.”
     
During the countless Kelemen soirees, I observed Charlie’s knack for ferreting out information. He knew when husbands or wives were havingaffairs. He could detect subtle behavioral twitches, doubt in their speech, the way they fiddled their fingers. He knew who was struggling with their career, who was suffering from substance addiction, and who was hiding some deep, dark secret. Charlie knew the closet sexual preferences among New York’s beautiful people, even the kinky things that reached well beyond the straight-versus-gay question, spankings to wit. He knew who farted at black-tie parties, and he carried matches just for those occasions. He knew where emerging artists found their inspiration, be it Picasso or Monet, and he knew whether anyone had left home in too big a rush to brush. Charlie saw, felt, smelled, heard, and tasted everything.
     
He just knew stuff. I had no doubt that he brought the same powers of reconnoitering to investment decisions. Sometimes with a few glasses of wine under his belt, Charlie would take a long pull from his glass and say, “You can’t kid a kidder.”
     
     
 
     
“At least I think all our money went into the Kelemen Group,” Sam said. “Do we keep an account with SKC?”
     
“You’re kidding, right?” It was not one of my more ambassadorial questions.
     
“No, Grove,” she barked. “I’m not joking.” And for the first time in my life, I bore the chill wrath of those Siberian-husky eyes.
     
“Believe me, Sam. I tried to sign you up as clients. I thought you knew.”
     
“No.”
     
“I told Charlie to pull a few dollars out of the Kelemen Group. I’d put it into bonds, something safe. But he said it would screw up our friendship.”
     
“Charlie said that?” Sam asked in disbelief.
     
“I told him it would screw up our friendship if you didn’t invest with me.”
     
“What did he say?”
     
“Doesn’t matter. There’s no account at SKC. I let it drop.” In my profession it was important to know when to back off from friends.
     
Sam’s eyes softened, and trouble replaced the blue ice. “How long will it take to pull money out of the Kelemen Group?”
     
“It depends. Who’s the executor?”
     
“I don’t know.”
     
“What do you mean?” Money was my turf. My professional instincts were taking charge, chasing the overhang of sorrow.
     
“I’m not sure we had a will.”
     
My eyebrows arched, but I said nothing.
     
Sam noted the reaction. “What good was a will?” she stammered defensively. “We don’t have kids.” She bit her bottom lip, perhaps an unconscious mechanism to hold back tears.
     
Just as I feared. Kids are always the catalyst. They get parents off the dime.
     
“Without a will, it may take a while to pull your money out of the Kelemen Group.” I spoke softly but professionally. Now was no time for an emotional response. “The timing depends on ownership. If Charlie owned everything, the state courts will decide what to do with the assets.”
     
“I spoke with Ira yesterday.” Ira Popowski was New York’s most preeminent trust and estate attorney. For nine hundred dollars an hour, he counseled clients how to die with their affairs in order. His rates provided good reason to live longer.
     
“But you don’t have a will?” I objected, confused by the revelation.
     
“His firm filed the paperwork to create the Kelemen Group.”
     
“Gotcha.”
     
“He knows nothing about the operations, just that the company was an LLC. And it was in Charlie’s name. He offered to help.”
     
“Good, we may need him.” It was time to take charge. “Have you called the accountant yet?”
     
“Crain and Cravath audits the Kelemen Group. I left a message yesterday.”
     
The joys of small audit firms .
     
“Good start,” I said. “What about your personal accountant?”
     
“Like I said, Charlie handled everything.”
     
“You don’t know your