"Look, Jonas," she said coldly, "I'm being nice about it.
Under the Nevada law, I'm entitled to one-third your father's estate, will or no will.
I could break the probate of the will just like that if I wanted to.
And even if I couldn't, I could tie you up in court for five years.
What would happen to all your plans then?" I stared at her silently. "If you don't believe me, why don't you ask your lawyer friend downstairs?" she added.
"You already checked?" I guessed.
"Damn right I did!" she snapped.
"Judge Haskell called me as soon as he got back to his office!"
I drew in my breath.
I should have known the old bastard wouldn't let go that easy.
"I haven't got that kind of money," I said. "Neither has the company."
"I know that," she said.
"But I’m willing to be reasonable about it. I’ll take fifty thousand the day after the funeral and your note endorsed by the company for ten thousand a year for the nest five years."
I didn't need a lawyer to tell me she'd had good advice.
"O.K.," I said, starting for the door. "Come on downstairs. I’ll have McAllister prepare the papers."
She smiled again. "I couldn't do that."
"Why not?" I demanded.
"I'm in mourning," she said.
"How would it look for the widow of Jonas Cord to come downstairs to transact business?" She went back to her vanity table and sat down. "When the papers are ready, send them up."
9.
IT WAS FIVE O'CLOCK WHEN WE GOT OUT OF THE TAXI in front of the bank building in downtown Los Angeles.
We went through the door and walked back to the executive offices in the rear of the bank. McAllister led me through another door marked private. It was a reception room. A secretary looked up.
"Mr. McAllister." She smiled. "We thought you were in Nevada."
"I was," he replied. "Is Mr. Moroni in?"
"Let me check," she said.
"Sometimes he has a habit of leaving the office without telling me."
She disappeared through another door.
I looked at McAllister.
"That's the kind of secretary I want.
She's got brains and a nice pair of boobs to go with them."
He smiled.
"A girl like that gets seventy-five, eighty dollars a week.
They don't come cheap."
"Yuh gotta pay for anything that's good," I said.
The secretary appeared in the doorway, smiling at us.
"Mr. Moroni will see you now, Mr. McAllister."
I followed him into the inner office.
It was large, with dark, wood-paneled walls. There was a big desk spang in the middle of it and a small man with iron-gray hair and shrewd dark eyes sitting behind it.
He got up as we came into the room.
"Mr. Moroni," McAllister said, "this is Jonas Cord."
Moroni put out his hand. I took it.
It wasn't the usual soft banker's hand.
This one was hard and callused and the grip was strong.
There were many years of labor contained in that hand and most of them had not been behind a desk.
"It's good to meet you, Mr. Cord," he said with a faint trace of an Italian accent.
"My pleasure, sir," I said respectfully.
He waved us to the chairs in front of his desk and we sat down. McAllister came right to the point.
When he had finished, Moroni leaned forward across his desk and looked at me.
"I’m sorry to hear about your loss," he said. "From everything I've heard, he was a very unusual man."
I nodded. "He was, sir."