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“I’m getting to that,” Ben said. “Your grandfather made his money in the movie business in the sixties. Some Hollywood stuff—he didn’t make movies, he invested in them. Then, when those movies made money, he turned around and invested that money. The point is that there is money of his that’s been sitting in the stock market since 1965, and over time it’s paid dividends and reinvested. And along with the other money Graham dropped in the market, which in decades he never cashed out and spent, the bottom line is that you, Dev, are getting a fuckton of money when you get out of here in ten days.”
I stared at him. When he’d first told me I was in my grandfather’s will, I’d imagined inheriting some old guy’s crappy apartment, with his worn-out sweaters and sandal-sock combos that I’d have to throw out. “How much is a fuckton, exactly?”
“Depends,” Ben said. “Not all of it is liquid cash. There are bonds, and index funds, plus the estimated value of the LA house—”
“There’s an LA house?”
“There is, and there’s also a second house here in San Fran that he only used on vacations. LA was his base.”
I stared at him, taking this in. I was born in LA, and I’d spent my life there until my mother died. Apparently I’d lived in the same city as my grandfather, who knew who I was, but had never introduced himself to me. I pushed the thought away. “What kind of San Fran house?”
Ben cleared his throat. “The kind of house that’s in Diablo.”
My stomach dropped. Diablo was one of the richest areas in the state, if not the country. I’d never even been there. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Yeah, that was my reaction, too. But it’s true. He bought the Diablo house in 1971, and since then its value has quadrupled, by conservative estimates.”
I closed my eyes and ran a hand over my closed eyelids. None of this could possibly be real. “Ben,” I said. “Just give this to me as clear as you can. I’m a TV thief. There is no way I own a house in Diablo.”
“I know,” he said. “Dev, I told you. I checked this out. I went at this from every direction, legally, before I came here today. I spent a couple of weeks, actually. I tried to poke holes in it, see if there’s some way you can be screwed over. But there isn’t. Graham’s will is iron fucking clad, and you’re in it clear as day. The government gets their piece, the IRS gets their piece, everyone’s happy. It’s all legal. And when you put together the liquid assets plus the non-liquid ones like the houses, at today’s rates, the entire portfolio is worth just about a billion dollars.”
I stared at him for a long minute. Somewhere down the hall, someone shouted. Someone else laughed.
“You’re saying,” I said finally, “that I’m sitting in this piss-stinking prison for stealing some TV’s filled with Oxy, and I’m a billionaire?”
“Yeah,” Ben Hanratty said. “That’s what I’m saying.”
We were quiet again. I thought about getting out of here in ten days. I’d been counting the minutes, the hours, like every prisoner does. I’d planned to take a taxi and get a hamburger, a big one with cheese and a side of chili. A beer. I’d been planning to go back to Shady Oaks and find out if Olivia still lived across the way, if she’d agree to fuck me again. That had been the best sex I’d ever had, the best sex I was even capable of imagining. All I wanted, those first few hours out, was a hamburger and Olivia with her legs spread. If I was lucky.
Now I was going to Diablo.
Ben slid the papers across the desk to me. “We have some work to do,” he said, “to get this moving.”
There was one thing I’d always been good at, and that was rolling with changes. I’d dodged the foster system for two years. I’d dodged the cops for even longer than that, until my luck ran out. I didn’t give a fuck about changing my plans, because I never had any plans in the first place.
But maybe now, I could make some.
“Okay,” I said to Ben. “Tell me where I sign.”
Ten
Devon
Hanratty picked me up from prison the day I got out. He drove a five-year-old Civic that looked like it had been pounded into the pavement, hard. I had no idea what a lawyer would do every day that would make a car look like that. Then I remembered, with the weird dreamlike feeling I was getting used to, that I now would have no problem paying his bill.
“I sorted some things,” he said to me as we got on the road to Diablo. “Details and shit. Open that bag there.”
I saw a plastic shopping bag on the back seat and picked it up. The first thing I pulled out was a cell phone. “I already have one of these,” I said. They’d given it back to me when I was released, along with my watch, my wallet, and seventy bucks. The remnants of my old life.
“Now you have a new one, with a new number,” he said, not taking his eyes off the road. “It’s set up with a plan and whatever—I don’t know, I had my office assistant do it. You’ll also find some other things in there. A credit card that works, a bank card. All hooked up to your accounts. Some cash to get you going. And the keys to your new house.”
I swallowed. For a split second, I wanted him to turn the car back around so I could go hide in prison again. Then I said, “Where’s my Chevy?”
“In Diablo,” Ben said. “I’m sure the neighbors are impressed already. Your grandfather had a few cars too, parked in the garage. I think the keys are in the house.” When I pulled a piece of paper out of the bag, he glanced over and nodded. “Those are the codes for the security system. The name and phone number of the cleaning company. They come every other week, always have, even though your grandfather didn’t live there. I called them and checked them out. They’re legit.”
Jesus. I had all the makings of someone else’s life, stuffed into a plastic grocery bag. A life that was now, apparently, mine. And the first thing I thought was, If I get my car back, I can go find Olivia.
“You’re gonna need to talk to your banker,” Ben was saying. “There’s stuff to go over regarding your investments.”
