Free Death Wish by Brian Garfield

just now when you came in. Nemserman. Son of a bitch really got his tail caught in a crack, didn’t he.”
    â€œHas he been bugging you?”
    â€œHe calls every day or two, wanting to know how soon you’ll be back in harness. He told me to convey his sympathies, by the way.”
    Paul wondered if that was true. He doubted it; Nemserman lacked that brand of consideration. Probably Sam had made it up on the spur of the moment because it was something that ought to be said.
    Dundee said, “I talked to him yesterday—Sam was out when he called. He must’ve been calling from some bookie joint—the background noise was unbelievable.”
    â€œWhat’d he have to say?”
    â€œNumber one, when was Paul Benjamin going to quit sitting on his ass and get back to work. I’m quoting more or less verbatim. Number two, he seems to have learned a lesson—temporarily anyway—from getting stung on that unearned income he thought was a capital gain. He instructed his broker to double-check back with him for six-month spans every time he takes a notion to sell a block of stock. Number three, he said this problem has brought to mind another difficulty and he wanted to discuss it.”
    â€œAnd did he?”
    â€œWell, yes. I don’t mean to get sly with your clients, Paul—I’ve put all of them off, I’m not trying to steal your people away from you. But Nemserman’s been hot under the collar for the past week. I finally broke down and gave him the advice he was looking for.”
    â€œAdvice about what?”
    â€œWell, he’s got a suitcase full of blue-chips he’s had for a thousand years. I mean he’s been holding some of the damn things since Roosevelt’s first administration.”
    â€œFranklin,” Sam Kreutzer said drily, “or Teddy?”
    Dundee said, “If he sells the things now, of course, he’ll have to pay a whopping capital gains tax on the increment. Some of those things have gone up in the past forty years, counting splits and stock dividends, from ten dollars to six hundred dollars. He was desperate to find a way to avoid paying out all that loot.”
    â€œWhat’d you tell him?”
    â€œTold him to establish some trusts and sink the stocks into the trusts. Then just hang on to them. If he keeps them until he dies they’ll pass on to his heirs, and the heirs can sell it without paying capital gains tax. And if he puts the stocks in trust for his heirs, it’ll help get around some of the estate taxes.”
    Dundee was talking too much and too fast. Paul tried to set him at ease. “That’s exactly what I’d have told him, Bill. Don’t worry about it. I don’t think he’ll take your advice anyway, but at least he won’t be able to complain later that we fouled him up.”
    Sam Kreutzer said, “Why won’t he do it?”
    â€œFar as I know he’s only got two heirs—a sister and a nephew—and he hates their guts.”
    â€œThen why doesn’t he set up a charitable foundation?”
    â€œI’ve been trying to talk him into that for years. He keeps saying he’ll get around to it. He never will. Hasn’t got a charitable bone in his body.”
    â€œSo he’ll leave it all to two people he hates, and let the Government grab most of it on inheritance taxes. Well, I doubt he gives a damn what happens to it after he’s dead. It’s all monopoly money to guys like Nemserman. It’s the way they keep score in the games they play. Once Nemserman dies and the game ends, who cares what happens to the chips?”
    Dundee said, “I wish I could afford to look at it that way.”
    Paul settled into a chair. “Maybe he’s right. There are times I’m convinced there’s nothing more to existence in this world than a black desert where blind people pick up rocks and grope around to kill one another.”
    He