Brokenhearted in Bakersfield

 

41 - CY SQUEEL III

Lars accompanied Brother Hickpacker and me as we all promenaded into the law offices of my Great Granny’s legal counsel.  We was met at the door by Cy Squeel III (who, Brother Hickpacker had confided to me, was supposed to be quicker’n a stabbed rat).  I felt uneasy as Mr. Squeel ushered us in.  “So good of you to come,” the lawyer stifled a laugh, which I considered an inappropriate demonstration under the current circumstances.

He handed out fancy embossed business cards:

Cy Squeel III, Esq.
Solicitor-for-Hire, Will Travel
SQUEEL, SQUEEL & MOORE
P.O. Box 666
Ulele, CA 96966
Tel. 1-800-555-3825

“As you already know, I’m Cy Squeel, Miss Kartone’s personal attorney.

“My father was Miss Kartone’s personal attorney before me, as was his father before him.  Actually, my grandfather was Mr. Oskarlic’s next-door neighbor when the unfortunate accident sadly took his life and left Miss Kartone so well situated.”  The lawyer seemed privately amused.  “You could almost say Fanny Kartone was my family’s business.”

Mr. Squeel motioned for us all to take a seat.  He offered a handshake to Brother Hickpacker, “And you might be?”

Brother Hickpacker switched the cigar to his other hand, “I am Brother Hiram P. Hickpacker, advisor to the late Miss Kartone in matters of the spirit.”  Brother Hickpacker gestured in my general direction as he added, “And this is the late Miss Kartone’s grieving next-of-kin.”

Lars abruptly jumped up, “Dey ain’t nobodies!”

Everyone sat in stunned silence as Fanny’s ex-houseboy ranted, “I jam Lars for Gott’s sake!  Lars!  I jam da ol lady’s fateful aide an irrigation specialist, what chee menshones on page two, paragraph 15 in da will when chee’s gibbing me da million dollars!”

Mr. Squeel managed to settle Lars down and sit him back between Brother Hickpacker and me.  Then, just as the lawyer went to shut the heavy steel doors to his office, an ancient little man in a blue suit scurried in.  Mr. Squeel and the ancient little man seemed to recognize each other as they nodded knowingly and spoke in first names.

“Cy.”

“Roy.”

The man named Roy slipped silently to the dark couch against the back wall.

Mr. Squeel began the proceedings.  “Now, as you are all no doubt aware, Miss Kartone held a humongous portion of the shares of Ulele National Gas Works.  She also had investments in various corporations, real estate holdings, gems, show business memorabilia and, all in all, I can legally attest, she was worth in the realm of $500 million at the time of her passing.”

Three gasps cut into the lawyerly spiel.

“Ahem,” Mr. Squeel cleared his throat to bring the gathering back to order.

“Amen,” Brother Hickpacker murmured in agreement.

Mr. Squeel peered up over the top of his thick glasses and began, “And so let us begin without further ado.”

Fanny’s attorney looked down at the documents in front of him:

“I, Fanny Luscious Kartone, being of sound mind and blah, blah, blah, and so forth, blah, blah, blah, and on to page two.  Aha, here it is.  Mr. Toondershaaft is quite correct in his assertion that he is mentioned on the second page of Miss Kartone’s will.  It reads…” he looked up at us, “and I am quoting here…” he looked back down, “To my trusted manservant and houseboy, Lars Toondershaaft, I bequeath the sum of $1,000,000 upon presentation of proper identification.”

Mr. Squeel peeked up over the top of his thick glasses in the direction of Lars.

“Der, jou see?”  Lars smugly folded his arms.

Mr. Squeel smiled and softly added, “That’s right, the million bucks is yours as soon as you can produce some proper identification, like a driver’s license, Social Security card, or a green card perhaps?”

Lars looked confused.

Mr. Squeel grinned indulgently, “Oh, it’s really quite simple.  You see, all you have to do is provide me with anything that will confirm, beyond any reasonable shadow of a doubt, that you are indeed the same Lars Toondershaaft named in Miss Kartone’s last will and testament.”

Lars looked like justice denied.  “But chee call all her Larses Lars!  I’m da las Lars, so I win da beeg prizes!”

Sweat gushed from Fanny’s former health aide as he gripped his chair tightly, turning brown knuckles to a pale shade of white.  Suddenly he cut loose with an earsplitting, “Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeiiiiiiiiiiiiiiyiyiyiyiyiyiyiyiyiyiyiyi!”

The lawyer seemed amused.  “I’m terribly sorry,” he purred, “you may be ‘a Lars’ but you are not ‘the Lars’ mentioned in this will.”

I put fingers in my ears in case Lars commenced to loudly protest again.

Mr. Squeel patiently continued, “I happen to know in fact that the original ‘Lars’ named in Miss Kartone’s will died from exhaustion in 1946.  But, thank you for playing.”

Lars began shouting what sounded like another angry dose of speaking in tongues.  While everyone hurried to cover their ears, Lars stomped out in a trail of sobs and tears.