Mr. Needlemier flipped the gold clasps on his briefcase. Horace gave a little jump at the sharp snapping sound.
“There is one other matter we should discuss, Alfred,” Mr.
Needlemier said. “As I mentioned, I am executor to Mr. Samson’s estate.” He pulled a legal-sized folder from the briefcase. He tapped it with his pudgy index finger. “Alfred, his will names you as sole beneficiary.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“That means you are due to inherit control over Samson Industries and his entire personal fortune valued at . . .” Mr. Needlemier glanced at the papers in the folder. “Yes, four hundred million dollars—give or take a million.”
3
A glass shattered and everybody jumped. Betty had come into the room with my water, and when Mr. Needlemier said “four hundred million dollars,” the glass slipped from her hand and smashed on the floor. She ran into the kitchen for a towel to clean up the water and broken glass.
All the color had drained from Horace’s face. He reminded me of a middle-aged Casper the Friendly Ghost.
“Naturally, as is usually the case in these matters, you are not due to gain control of the money until you reach the age of eighteen,” Mr. Needlemier said. “Until then a trustee will manage your inheritance.”
“A trustee?” I asked.
“Trustee,” Horace whispered.
“Someone to look over your financial concerns. A guardian of your interests, as it were.”
“Who’s the trustee?” I asked.
“Who? Yeah, who’s the who?” Horace whispered.
“Unfortunately, the will does not designate a trustee. That choice falls to me, as executor.”
“So who’s it gonna be?” Horace asked.
Just then Betty came back with a towel and a whisk broom, saying, “Oh, don’t you hate breaking a glass? You never can get all the little pieces and when they get in your foot—”
“So let’s stop the pussyfooting around, Mr. Needlehiemer,” Horace said. “Who’s the trustee?”
Mr. Needlemier stared at Horace for a second. “I haven’t decided.”
“You haven’t decided?”
Mr. Needlemier shook his head. “That is one of the reasons I’m here.” He turned back to me. “I want to know Alfred’s wishes.”
“Alfred’s wishes?” Horace asked. “Alfred’s wishes! You’re telling me you’re gonna let a kid—and, forgive me here, Al, but a kid with not much wattage in the brains department— decide who manages four hundred million dollars?”
“Actually,” Mr. Needlemier said, “the figure is closer to a billion dollars, if you include the assets of Samson Industries.”
Horace’s mouth came open but no sound came out, as if the word “billion” had sucked all the air out of him.
“I’ll have to think about it,” I said.
“Of course,” Mr. Needlemier said. “It’s a great deal to think about.”
Horace got some of his breath back and whispered hoarsely, “I’ll help him. Alfred. Think about it. Al’ll need my help with that. The thinking.”
“Alfred means the world to us!” Betty called from the kitchen doorway.
“I was saving the news for a big surprise,” Horace told Mr. Needlemier. “But I guess this is a red-letter day for big surprises. See, Betty’s right; the kid means the world to us and funny thing is, Mr. Needlemanner, we’ve talked to our lawyer to get the ball rolling.”
“What ball?” I asked.