The Bazaar of Bad Dreams

He sets off on the little path he has beaten over the years. He will check the dune on the other side, where the sand is beach-fine instead of stony and shelly, and then he will return to the kayak and drink his little jug of cold tea. He may doze awhile in the morning sun (he dozes often these days, supposes most nonagenarians do), and when he wakes (if he wakes), he’ll make the return trip. He tells himself that the dune will be just a smooth blank upslope of sand, as it is most days, but he knows better.

Goddam buzzard knew better, too.

He spends a long time on the sandy side, with his age-warped fingers clasped in a knot behind him. His back aches, his shoulders ache, his hips ache, his knees ache; most of all, his gut aches. But he pays these things no mind. Perhaps later, but not now.

He looks at the dune, and at what is written there.

Anthony Wayland arrives at Beecher’s Pelican Point estate bang on seven o’clock p.m., just as promised. One thing the Judge has always appreciated – both in the courtroom and out of it – is punctuality, and the boy is punctual. Judge Beecher reminds himself never to call Wayland boy to his face (although, this being the South, son is okay). Wayland wouldn’t understand that, when you’re ninety, any fellow under the age of sixty looks like a boy.

‘Thanks for coming,’ the Judge says, ushering Wayland into his study. It’s just the two of them; Curtis and Mrs Riley have long since gone to their homes in Nokomis Village. ‘You brought the necessary document?’

‘Yes indeed, Judge.’ Wayland opens his big square attorney’s briefcase and removes a thick document bound by a heavy clip. The pages aren’t vellum, as they would have been in the old days, but they are rich and heavy just the same. At the top of the first, in heavy and forbidding type (what the Judge has always thought of as graveyard type), are the words Last Will and Testament of HARVEY L. BEECHER.

‘You know, I’m kind of surprised you didn’t draft this document yourself. You’ve probably forgotten more Florida probate law than I’ve ever learned.’

‘That might be true,’ the Judge says in his driest tone. ‘At my age, folks tend to forget a great deal.’

Wayland flushes to the roots of his hair. ‘I didn’t mean—’

‘I know what you mean, son,’ the Judge says. ‘No offense taken. But since you ask … you know that old saying about how a man who serves as his own lawyer has a fool for a client?’

Wayland grins. ‘Heard it and used it plenty of times when I’m wearing my public defender hat and some sad-sack wife abuser or hit-and-runner tells me he plans to go the DIY route in court.’

‘I’m sure you have, but here’s the unabridged version: a lawyer who serves as his own lawyer has a great fool for a client. Goes for criminal, civil, and probate law. So shall we get down to business? Time is short.’ This is something he means in more ways than one.

They get down to business. Mrs Riley has left decaf coffee, which Wayland rejects in favor of a Co’-Cola. He makes copious notes as the Judge dictates the changes in his dry courtroom voice, adjusting old bequests and adding new ones. The major new one – four million dollars – is to the Sarasota County Beach and Wildlife Preservation Society. In order to qualify, they must successfully petition the state legislature to have a certain island just off the coast of Pelican Point declared forever wild.

‘They won’t have a problem getting that done,’ the Judge says. ‘You can handle the legal for them yourself. I’d prefer pro bono, but of course that’s up to you. One trip to Tallahassee should do it. It’s a little spit of a thing, nothing growing there but a few bushes. Governor Scott and his Tea Party cronies will be delighted.’

‘Why’s that, Judge?’

‘Because the next time Beach and Preservation comes to them, begging money, they can say, “Didn’t old Judge Beecher just give you four million? Get out of here, and don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.”’

Wayland agrees that this is probably just how it will go, and the two men move on to the smaller bequests.

‘Once I get a clean draft, we’ll need two witnesses, and a notary,’ Wayland says when they’ve finished.

‘I’ll get all that done with this draft here, just to be safe,’ the Judge says. ‘If anything happens to me in the interim, it should stand up. There’s no one to contest it; I’ve outlived them all.’

‘A wise precaution, Judge. It would be good to take care of it tonight. I don’t suppose your caretaker and housekeeper—’

‘Won’t be back until eight tomorrow,’ Beecher says, ‘but I’ll make it the first order of business. Harry Staines on Vamo Road’s a notary, and he’ll be glad to come over before he goes in to his office. He owes me a favor or six. You give that document to me, son. I’ll lock it in my safe.’