All Ears

By Peter F. Crowley

“Hello, is Rudy Mucci there?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Albert Moonstruker. It is a pleasure to talk with you.”

“Likewise,” said Rudy, an 83-year-old with paper-white hair. 

He glanced at the pictures of his triplet grandchildren, now 15, on a refrigerator magnet before opening the door and taking out a jug of apple juice.

“Have you heard of J.D. Forrester?”

Rudy checked the juice’s expiration date before pouring it into a glass, filling it half way. He took a gulp, refilled it and cleared his throat.

“I’m not aware of anyone by that name.”

“Well, J.D. Forrester passed away last week.”

“I’m sorry to hear that…who are you?”

“I’m Mr. Moonstuker, sir, an estate agent based in Zimbabwe.”

“I don’t want anything you’re selling. Sorry, I’ve got to go.”

“Mr. Mucci, please don’t hang up. I’m not selling anything. It is only information that I wish to provide on behalf of the now deceased J.D. Forrester.”

Rudy sighed and said, “Ok, go on.”

J.D. Forrester was the only child of the Hermilius Georgetown Forrester VII, who owned approximately one-eighth of present-day Zimbabwe under the British. You’ve heard of former President Robert Mugabe, I assume? Well, during his land reform, Forrester was clever enough to offer half of his estate to the government and even advocated for other white owners to give up their land. In return, Mugabe allowed Forrester to repurchase his land for far below the market price, a price that was equivalent to buying a dinner in Williamsburg, Virginia, which I believe is where you live?”

“It is.” 

“Anyhow, it suffices to say that Hermilius never lost his estate under the Mugabe regime.”

Rudy looked out the window and wondered if his Virginia Gazette had been delivered to the front lobby so he could do the crossword. And, he had better hurry, because he was supposed to meet Alice for lunch at a downtown sandwich shop. It was their second meeting – things were moving along nicely. After lunch, he would take a long nap and in the early evening he’d play bridge in the main dining area. He was considering whether to allow himself a second scotch this evening.

“Look, pal. I don’t know who Hermilius or J.D. Forrester are. I’ve really got to get going.”

“Please, sir. I’m only trying to give you some extra context, an illustration if you will, of the good news that I’m about to share with you.”

“What is it? Did I win the Mega Millions?” 

“Mr. Mucci,” Mr. Moonstruker said as he laughed politely, “no, sir. You are funny but this is not a laughing matter. I will tell you. When J.D. Forrester died, God rest her soul, she had no direct heirs. She had no children and was an only child. Her cousins had all either passed away or we were unable to locate them. It turns out that your wife, who I realize is sadly no longer with us, was second cousins of J.D. With no closer relations, the estate falls into your hands. It’s worth $3.47 billion in Zimbabwean dollars, which is roughly $10.8 million USD.”

Rudy’s mind shifted to his teeth, two of which fell out recently, and the dental costs without insurance. Then he thought of what his friend said about his assisted living place – kind of a shithole. The food was bland, the help rude and the rooms small. Meanwhile, his friend’s care home was like living in a luxury hotel. 

“How do I know that you’re not just trying to pull a fast one on me?”

“Mr. Mucci, please. Do not insult me. I have been an estate agent for nearly 30 years and there is nothing that I like more than notifying inheritors, especially those previously unaware of their impending fortune, of the good news. Feel free to look me up online if you like. Also, sir, do you really think that I could make all this up? I assure you, my imagination is not that good.”

“No, I believe you. I just have to ask these things because, you know, I don’t want to get fleeced.”

“I completely understand and I would likely do the same thing if I were in your situation. Bravo for you!”

“Thank you!”

“So, now, to move forward with the estate transition to your name, all that we need is your bank account number so that we can send you the money.”

“But it’s an estate, right? Not a sum of money.”

“Of course, Mr. Mucci. You’re very sharp! It is my fault that I have failed to convey one more important piece of information. We are willing to sell this estate for you. That way, you won’t have to be burdened with traveling halfway across the world to sell property in a country that you are unfamiliar with.”

“Oh…that’s very kind of you.”

“No sweat off of our backs. It is just a service that we provide.”

There was a long silence. Rudy scratched his lower lip with his thumb fingernail, a habit he had acquired of late. Alice would be very impressed when he told her that he had become a millionaire.

“Your bank account and routing numbers, sir. Whenever you are ready, please.”

Rudy cleared his throat and said, “Ok, here goes. Got a pen?”

“I’m all ears, sir.”

As a prolific author from the Boston area, Peter F. Crowley writes in various forms, including short fiction, op-eds, poetry and academic essays. His writing can be found in 34^th Parallel, Pif Magazine, Galway Review, Digging the Fat, Adelaide’s Short Story and Poetry Award anthologies (finalist in both) and The Opiate. He is the author of the poetry books Those Who Hold Up the Earth and Empire’s End, and the short fiction collection That Night and Other Stories.