Deadly Pedigree - By Jimmy Fox Page 0,3
of mind, too, if he thought the office was blissfully cool, with that one pitiful air-conditioner.
“This is where they do the research, the research on the family?” the man asked finally.
“Yes, that’s correct. I’m Jonathan Nicholas Herald, and my business is genealogical research. People call me Nick, though I’ve been called worse–mostly by my ex-wife’s mother.”
The old man apparently didn’t catch the humor in Nick’s efforts to put him at ease. Maybe he couldn’t spare the breath to laugh.
“I do all the work myself,” Nick explained, trying to polish his image a bit. “I find it’s more efficient that way…would you like to sit down?” He cleared papers and books from a chair in front of his desk. “How about some coffee? It’s no trouble, really.”
The old man might very well be in the early stages of a heart attack. Great! Just what I need: OLD MAN FOUND DEAD IN GENEALOGIST’S OFFICE, SUSPICIOUS CIRCUSTANCES…another scandal to bust me out of another career.
“Thank you, no, no coffee. Just the chair. It is so hot on the stairs. You know, it is bad for my cough.” Having sunk with exhaustion into the offered chair, the old man coughed and made use of the silver flask from his coat for a few medicinal sips.
Nick was amused, but didn’t want to insult the old fellow by showing it. He remembered a great-uncle who had the same trick: a chronic, probably fake, cough to sneak in nips of whiskey.
“Maximilian Corban. Max. That’s me,” he began. “I am an old, sick man, alone in the world. I want that you should find someone who has my blood on–who has my blood in their veins. I am getting close to the end, and I want to go to my rest knowing there is someone who might say Kaddish for me.”
Not the way most people refer to their relations these days, Nick thought, this macabre emphasis on blood. But the old man’s native language was obviously not English. Relieved his visitor seemed to be recovering, Nick sat down at his desk. He didn’t have to ask what the Kaddish was; he had inexpertly stumbled through Judaism’s sacred prayer for the dead over a few departed family members and friends. Nick’s father was Jewish; and once, in those sunny days of youthful optimism before he had reached his present exalted level of skepticism, he had considered himself a believer in the undemanding Reform variety. But that time was as distant to him as a two-hundred-year-old census. Now, he no longer believed in very much that didn’t pay the rent.
“Well, Max, my services and fees are all laid out here on this sheet, along with the accrediting organizations I belong to, and a little bit about my academic qualifications. I’d be happy to work for you, if you find my terms acceptable.”
And I’d make a perfect heir, if you’re looking for someone to leave your estate to, Nick thought but did not say.
“This seems very high,” Corban complained. “What is this, brain surgery?”
“Genealogical research isn’t brain surgery, but it is a specialized field. I assure you, my work is worth it. You’ll notice that I’m a published genealogical author.”
This guy’s no dummy. He disarms you with pity, then pounces. Careful, don’t scare him off; you need this old fellow. Nick glanced at the drawer of bills as a reminder to remain civil. He concentrated on the businessman’s mantra: The customer is always right. The customer is always right…
Corban shook his head, fidgeted, seemed on the verge of leaving–if he even remembered where he was, which Nick doubted. He coughed, put up a shaking hand to beg a moment’s pause, and then brought the flask to his mouth. Apparently refreshed, he leaned forward with startling intenseness on his face.
Where had that come from? Nick felt irresistibly drawn forward, too, for he suddenly sensed that this old fellow had led an interesting life.
Nick was curious by nature, and he’d been in this business long enough to understand that oral history often revealed facts that written history missed. He unobtrusively foraged for a pencil and pad to take notes.
“Very well, young man,” Corban said. “We work something out, yes? But first, I will tell you how they bled my family tree dry. Hah! and they call us blood-suckers, even today.”
“I’m sorry, Max, but I don’t follow–”
“Listen; you will. My father and mother owned a nice little hotel on the Bodensee–you may know it as Lake Constance–on the German side. The wrong side.”
“You mean,