Free Say Nice Things About Detroit by Scott Lasser Page A

said. He set the file on an empty portion of David’s desk. The other partners had been bringing by their detritus for two days, small issues that they didn’t want to deal with or for which they had too little time, all of it related to estate planning. David was still making phone calls west, seeing what business he could hang on to.
    â€œWhat is it?” David asked.
    â€œA will, of course. Client died recently. I’m the executor, but I’m going to suggest we have you named. This is allowed for. I don’t see any problems.”
    â€œOkay,” David said. “Thanks.”
    Smalls sat at David’s desk. “It’s actually a bit of a famous case.”
    David reached for the file. Opened it. And that’s when he saw Dirk’s name.
    â€œIt was all over the papers—”
    â€œI knew him,” David said.
    â€œHow?”
    David explained.
    â€œWell, then,” Smalls said. “I’m sure the family will be happy to deal with you.”
    David looked quickly through the will’s beneficiaries: Shelly and Michelle Burton and someone named Marlon Booker. Natalie was nowhere in the will. Carolyn, either.
    Shelly, the widow, got almost everything, which was a government pension, the house in Detroit, so probably not worth much, its contents, the cars (an Impala and the Mercedes, which was still at the crime lab), $250 K from a life insurance policy, and everything in a UBS brokerage account, less $200,000 for Michelle and $100,000 for Marlon Booker, identified as a family friend. All in all, it was pretty straightforward, a few hours’ work to separate assets and file the necessary documents with the court. David admired Dirk. Here was someone who had planned for the unthinkable.
    He decided to call Shelly Burton. He’d need to meet with her to introduce himself and get her okay to do the work. He would tell her he’d known Dirk, or at least had met him once. It was an odd thing, and he wanted it to be aboveboard, this, his first work in Michigan.
    â€¢ • •
    â€œ Y OUR MOTHER IS having an affair,” his father told him. David sat on the ancient family couch. His father had removed the plastic covers, thank God.
    â€œDad,” David said, “Mom’s incontinent. She’s in the Alzheimer’s ward of a nursing home.” An affair? The idea was preposterous.
    â€œI know that. I’m not saying they’re sleeping together. You don’t have to have sex to cheat.”
    David wondered if this was true. “Who is he?” he asked.
    â€œSome big galumph. Chester Jovanovich. A Jew-hater, I bet, even before he lost his mind.”
    The intensity on his father’s face suggested to David that the old man wanted something from him, Lord knew what. “Dad, are you jealous?”
    â€œHell yes, I’m jealous. You should see the way she takes care of him. Walks him around, combs his hair. She feeds him, for Chrissake.”
    â€œI see,” David said. It was a small miracle, really. Lately David feared that if he lost his mind, he might turn into the kind of selfish jerk he had always hated. He found it terrifying, not being able to control who you were.
    â€œWhat do you want me to do?” David asked.
    â€œWho said I want you to do anything?”
    â€œI guess I don’t get it, Dad. It sounds like a decent situation. Mom has something to do and Chester Whatevera­vich has someone besides the nurses to look after him. Does he have family?”
    â€œHe’s a Medicaid case, the lucky SOB”
    Apparently luck, like beauty, was in the eye of the beholder.
    â€œDon’t send me to that home,” his father said. “If the time comes, just grow a pair and shoot me instead.”
    â€¢ • •
    M IDDLE NOVEMBER, the time of somber light. It would stay like this for months, till mid-March or so, unbroken only for the odd clear winter’s day, when the temperature might