Chapter 8 - The Ledger on Carondelet
The law offices of Peter Ruiz occupied the second floor of a Greek Revival townhouse on Carondelet Street, where the ceiling fans turned with the sluggish, dignified pace of a city that refused to be hurried by the twentieth century. The air smelled of damp sheepskin bindings, floor oil, and stale chicory coffee.
Peter Ruiz was sixty-four years old, with thin white hair parted on the left and eyes that had seen forty years of probate disputes, riverboat bankruptcies, and the quiet, untraceable settlements that kept the Orsini name off the front pages of the morning press.
At nine o'clock on a Tuesday morning, Ruiz sat behind his roll-top desk, adjusting his gold-rimmed spectacles as Carmine Orsini walked into the room without knocking.
Benny Romano remained in the outer hallway, leaning his shoulder against the frosted glass of the entrance door, his heavy woolen coat unbuttoned just enough to reveal the leather holster tucked beneath his left arm.
Ruiz stood up immediately, buttoning his linen jacket with fingers that possessed a slight, habitual tremor.
"Carmine," the attorney said, his voice dropping into that quiet, deferential register he used when the conversation was not going to be recorded in the firm’s leather daybooks. "I received the draft from the Hibernia trust officers at dawn. The transfer from the Vance escrow is complete. Two million four hundred thousand, clear of municipal liens and federal tax attachments."
Carmine did not sit in the client’s armchair. He walked to the corner of the office where a high, narrow cedar bookcase held thirty years of green cloth-bound ledgers stamped with the initials of the Orsini family trusts.
"And the medical facility in Houston?" Carmine asked.
"Dr. Chen at the Methodist Hospital confirmed the bed," Ruiz said, shuffling a set of three typewritten telegraph forms on his blotter. "A private transport car has been attached to the Sunset Limited departing Union Passenger Terminal on Thursday evening at six. Emmett Fontaine will be accompanied by two pulmonary specialists and a private registered nurse."
Carmine turned back to the desk. "Who signed the admission papers?"
Ruiz cleared his throat, his eyes darting toward the frosted door before settling on Carmine’s waistcoat. "Under the statutory guardianship provisions of the state of Louisiana, the primary next of kin must execute the custodial consent. Eleanor signed them yesterday afternoon in the presence of my notary."
Carmine reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a single sheet of heavy parchment, folded twice. He laid it flat on the roll-top desk.
"Add this to the trust agreement," Carmine said.
Ruiz picked up the parchment, his spectacles sliding down the bridge of his nose as he read the four handwritten lines:
“In the event of the death, incapacity, or legal disqualification of the trustee, the sole and unrestricted administration of all real, personal, and maritime assets belonging to the Fontaine Estate shall vest irrevocably in Eleanor Fontaine, without bond, without judicial oversight, and without right of challenge by any Orsini heir, corporate subsidiary, or municipal authority.”
Ruiz stared at the handwriting. The ink was dark, permanent iron-gall, signed with the heavy, forward-leaning stroke of Carmine’s personal signature.
"Carmine," Ruiz whispered, his voice cracking with professional alarm. "This is an absolute surrender of equitable interest. If you execute this codicil, your board of directors at the shipping syndicate will have zero leverage over the Magazine Street parcels. If there is a dispute regarding the riverfront easement—"
"There is no dispute," Carmine said, his voice level and cold as a steel sounding rod.
"Your uncle Vincent—"
"My uncle Vincent lives in a villa in Palermo and receives four thousand dollars a month on the condition that he never buys a steamship ticket to New Orleans," Carmine said. "If Vincent has an opinion on Magazine Street, he can write it on a postcard and mail it to the bottom of the Gulf."
Ruiz swallowed. He reached for his ebony dip-pen, inked the nib in the brass well, and applied his signature as witnessing notary beneath the seal.
"It is done," Ruiz said, blowing gently across the wet ink. "The trust is sealed under the highest judicial protections of the parish."
Carmine took the document, folded it, and slid it back into his pocket.
"And the girl's name?" Carmine asked.
"The petition for the restoration of her legal surname was granted by Judge Morial at eight-thirty this morning," Ruiz replied, picking up a stamped certificate with an embossed red seal. "Nell Brisco no longer exists in the civil records of this state. She is Eleanor Marie Fontaine. Legitimate daughter of Emmett Fontaine, granddaughter of Guillaume Fontaine."
Carmine took the certificate.
His thumb traced the raised seal—the pelican in her piety, the motto of the state, the clean, dark letters of her true name.
"Good," Carmine said, turning toward the door. "Now burn the housekeeping file, Peter. The one that says she washed my linen for nine dollars a week."
Ruiz looked up from his desk, a faint, ancient sadness softening the corners of his mouth. "The file was burned three days ago, Carmine. The moment you asked Dennis Vidor about the four-by-four timber."
Carmine paused at the door, his hand resting on the brass latch.
May you like
"You're getting old, Peter," Carmine said softly.
"I am, Carmine," the old lawyer said. "And for the first time in twenty years, I think this family might live long enough to see me buried in consecrated ground."
