Twist

He didn't believe for a second the story that his uncle's lawyer had given him, that for all his illusion of wealth, Charles Vancourt died not only broke, but in debt. He knew the old goat better than that, and as his only heir, he had a stake in proving that he was right. More than a stake, an urgency, unless being accosted in a parking lot by two unsmiling young men in body shirts and parachute pants, inquiring about repayment of one of his loans, was just a gag. If so, the bruise over his eye wasn't laughing.

He'd assured the thugs he'd have the money in five days, but so far he'd found nothing. All of the old man's bank books showed balances barely adequate to maintain an account. The stock portfolio reflected a series of losing investments. The real estate holdings showed nothing but devalued properties. Maybe when Charles Vancourt learned he was dying, he spent his remaining days moving his money around and covering the trail, but Denny knew it had not simply evaporated. And no matter what the legitimate losses might be, by Denny's calculation there should still be a balance of $45,000.

But where was it?

He had to take a break. Getting up and stretching, Denny went to the fridge and got the last brew. It was pretty easy to find, given the current state of his food supply. Downing half of it in one long chug, he then went over to the table onto which he had dumped the mail, without bothering to look at it.

On top was another of those letters he'd been getting for the past month from some dental office, probably offering him (and everyone else on whichever mailing list Dr. Smiley had purchased) a free cleaning. He had better things to do with his time than read junk mail, so this letter, like the ones that preceded it, went straight into the trash, unopened. He found an oversized envelope proclaiming: "You may have already won!" That was a laugh. The next two envelopes were utility bills, which he threw on the stack with all the others.

As Denny prepared to start the search again, his eye caught the one legacy from his uncle: sitting on a shelf were the old man's false teeth. A gruesome joke, made even worse when the lawyer read from the will: To my nephew and only surviving heir Dennis Vancourt, who was always trying to put the bite on me, I return the favor, with a smile. Har-de-har-har. What a wit.

With sudden fury, Denny grabbed the teeth and threw them against the wall, watching with satisfaction as they shattered into pieces, the gleaming white teeth scattering on the floor. He was sick and tired of looking at them. Spent now, but determined, he started in once again on the paperwork, a task that was interrupted only by the sound of the phone.

He thought about pretending that he was not home, just letting it ring. After all, no one would be calling except somebody who wanted something from him, which seemed to be everybody. But on the sixth ring he muttered, "Ah, hell," and decided to chance it. "Yeah?" he growled into the receiver.

"Uh, Mr. Vancourt?" a strange voice asked.

"Who is this?"