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I’d rather you didn’t. But how do I tell you no?
“It’s a long ride back and forth to Frankfurt.”
“Good. That will give us more time to be together.”
“I left my luggage in the car,” Castillo said.
“Frau Schröder, we’ll leave the keys to Herr Gossinger’s rental car with the guard,” Otto ordered. “Have someone turn it in.”
Otto’s car was a black Mercedes S600, the big one, with a V-12 engine. It belonged, Castillo knew, to one of the companies. That way, it was considered essential transportation for an employee, deductible as a business expense, and not regarded as part of Otto’s taxable income.
In the six days Fernando Castillo had been in Germany to meet and take his grandson home, he had seen enough of Otto Görner, who had been running the company since Hermann Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger and his son Wilhelm— Castillo’s grandfather and uncle—had died on the autobahn, to make the snap judgment that he should remain in charge for the time being.
Grandpa told Carlos years later—when he’d gone home on Christmas leave during his final year at West Point and was about to turn twenty-one—that he’d, of course, had Otto investigated as quickly as he could. Grandpa said he trusted his snap character judgments only until he could get some facts to back them up.
Otto had apparently stood up under that expensive close scrutiny because he had been running everything ever since.
The estate had been complicated. Hermann von und zu Gossinger had intended to leave das Haus im Wald and twenty-five percent of his other assets to his daughter. The rest of his estate, less some bequests to faithful employees and Saint Johan’s Church, was to go to his son.
But it was determined that Wilhelm had died first in that black Mercedes—and the implications thereof had not yet been decided by the courts when Erika von und zu Gossinger had died.
“Typical Germanic gross absurdity, Carlos,” Grandpa had told him. “Everybody knew everything was going to come to you; you were everybody’s only living heir. Your uncle had neither wife nor children. That meant his estate would ultimately go to his nearest living relatives, your grandfather and your mother. Her will left everything to you.
“If your grandfather had died first in that wreck, his estate would have been distributed according to the provisions of his will. But since your uncle was dead, his inheritance would have gone to your mother. But if your uncle died first, then his assets would be shared between his nearest living relatives, his father and your mother. But since his father was dead, it would go to your mother—who had already named you as her sole heir. It took fifty lawyers, five years, God only knows how many judges, and a hell of a lot of money to split those legal hairs, even though it didn’t matter a damn what any of the courts decided. The bottom line was that you were going to get it all when you turned twenty-one. And that happens on February the thirteenth.”
“What am I going to do with it?” Carlos had asked.
“If you’re smart, you’ll continue what I set up with Otto Görner. He gets a good salary, a lot of perks—including use of that house in Bad Hersfeld, a car, and an expense account our American IRS wouldn’t let me or you get away with, plus a percentage of the profits. He’s a hard worker, and honest, and about as smart as they come. I’ll continue to keep an eye on things for you if you’d like.”
And he had, so long as he had lived.
Now the family’s law firm kept an eye on things in Germany, and Fernando, who had taken a law degree after Desert Storm at Grandpa’s advice, kept an eye on them.
Frau Helena Görner was a blonde Bavarian, but she didn’t look as if she belonged in a dirndl with her hair braided into pigtails. She was a svelte blonde—which made Castillo think of Patricia Wilson—who dressed in what Castillo thought of as Neiman Marcus, or maybe Bonwit Teller, clothing.
When he went into the foyer of das Haus im Wald, and she kissed—or made smacking noises in close proximity to—his cheek, she smelled of expensive perfume.
He had no idea what she really thought of him, and often wondered if she was pleased, displeased, or didn’t give much of a damn that he was godfather to her second son, Hermann Wilhelm, who had been named after both his grandfather and uncle.
She was ten—maybe more—years younger than Otto. They had married when Castillo had been in his junior year in high school, and Otto—ever the businessman—had combined their honeymoon trip to America with a business confere
nce with Fernando Castillo in San Antonio.
Abuela had liked her, and been receptive to the idea that his—and, of course, Fernando’s—spending their summer vacation in Germany would be a good idea.
Abuela had told him, as he and Fernando were getting on the airplane to go to Germany, that Helena had told her that Otto had told her he had several times offered marriage to Erika von und zu Gossinger but that she had refused. And that Otto had always looked on Karl as a son.
“If we knew you were coming, Karl,” Helena said, “I could have prepared something. Some of your old friends from Saint Johan’s or something.”
Which is another reason I didn’t tell Otto I was coming.
“Maybe the next time,” Castillo said. “But thanks anyway, Helena.”
“Karl just came to see us and our rug rats,” Otto said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“That’s what Fernando calls his children,” Otto said, visibly pleased with himself.
