Chapter 1: The Next Step

A few days after my 23 rd birthday, I sat alone in my one-bedroom apartment, nursing my fourth bourbon and contemplating my next step. I'd spent the last several months out-processing my unit, filling out forms and pushing paperwork to finalize my transition from the 753 rd Intelligence Battalion back into civilian life.

There had been so many appointments to make, and so many loose ends to tie-up, that my last day almost caught me by surprise. I was suddenly left with tons of time and no direction. After fighting a faceless enemy for five years, I was looking for a change. I didn't want to fight anymore. Other than that, I was open to all options.

I suppose it was some form of providence that the knock on my door came when it did. I hadn't been expecting anyone as the last of my military friends had transferred elsewhere weeks ago. I went to the door and looked through the peephole to see a tan older gentleman wearing designer shades, a well-tailored suit, and an impeccable haircut. I opened the door and held it wide.

"Can I help you?" I asked. The man raised his eyebrows at me, a gesture that seemed to convey a mixture of curiosity and disbelief. In his right hand he held a yellow manila folder, the kind usually tied off with that little string, and it appeared to be stuffed with documents, or whatever one puts in those things. He raised his left hand toward me, not for a handshake but rather to point at me.

"Are you Duncan Courtney?" he asked, his thin lips curling into a smile. "I'm looking for a Duncan Courtney, but I think I must have the wrong man."

"I'm Duncan," I said, slightly annoyed that he was pointing at me. "And you are?"

"Oh, I apologize," he replied. "I simply assumed you would be much older, that's all. My name is Rufus Crisp, and I am an attorney in the employ ... well, former employ of Gerald Courtney III." He opened his hand for a shake, and I tentatively took it, my curiosity piqued.

"Doesn't ring a bell," I said. "What's this about?" I had never even heard of a Gerald Courtney before, despite the fact that we seemed to share a last name. "Am I in some sort of trouble?" There was no reason to assume so, but lawyers had always made me nervous. Bad childhood experiences.

"No sir," he quickly said, "Not that kind of an attorney. My client is recently deceased, and I'm the probate lawyer handling the affairs of his estate." He held up the manila folder and smiled. "This may surprise you Mr. Courtney, as you don't seem to know the deceased, but my client has named you in his last will and testament."

"Huh," I said. "There must be some mistake. I don't know any Gerald." I took another sip of the bourbon and felt the warm reassurance of mild inebriation.

"I know," Mr. Crisp continued, shaking the envelope. "Gerald specifically mentioned that you were not acquaintances. It actually took a few days to track you down. He left no address - just your name, your occupation as a soldier in the United States military, and that you were stationed right here in Pittsburgh."

He shuffled his feet on my porch while I stared at him dumbly. "Begging your pardon, sir, but there is quite a bit of information to discuss. Is this a good time?" He gestured behind me into the apartment.

"Oh shit, I'm sorry man. Yeah, come on in." I stood aside from the door and let him enter, closing the door behind him. My apartment was small and fairly Spartan, but I did have a small "dining room" table, and I motioned him towards it. He glanced around at my bare walls and rough accommodations.

"Cozy," he said. Har har har. I ignored the jab.

"So, this fella left me something?"

"Correct, Mr. Courtney." Crisp took a seat at the table and placed the manila folder on top. "As long as you have some sort of identification to ensure me that you are indeed Mr. Duncan Courtney, I will inform you of what you will receive from the other Mr. Courtney's estate."

"Sure." I pulled out my wallet and handed him my driver's license. "This Gerald. He and I related?"

He handed me back the ID and shrugged. "I apologize sir, but I really don't know. Gerald had no immediate family, and lived a fairly quiet life. He named you as his primary beneficiary. Some smaller items will be going to friends and colleagues - that sort of thing - but the bulk of my client's assets, including his home in Fox Chapel, his vehicles, and most of his possessions, now belong to you."

He quickly untied the manila folder and pulled out some documents.

"Wow," I said. "We talking a lot of money?"

"A substantial dollar value." He looked around at my IKEA furniture and clear white walls. "Relatively speaking, of course."

"Wow," I repeated. "And you're positive that I'm the right guy?"

"Rather sure, sir."

"This isn't some sort of joke, right? You're not from some hidden camera show or anything?"

"This isn't a joke, sir." He produced a pen from his jacket and placed it on top of the documents, sliding them across to my side of the table. "I'm going to need your signature on a few things, and there will be some follow-up appointments that you will need to attend, but if you're willing, we can go over your inheritance at this time."

He took out a pair of bifocals and perched them atop his schnoz. He asked again "Is this a good time?"

"Actually yeah," I said, scratching my head, a bit embarrassed that I had nothing else to do. "Now works." I picked up my empty glass. "But I'm gonna need another drink. You want a bourbon?"

He laughed and sat back in his chair, glancing at his watch first and then at the size of the stack of papers before me. "Soldiers..." he said, chuckling. "What the hell. Make mine neat."

The house Crisp mentioned was a four-bedroom, two-story townhouse on the outskirts of the city in a small housing development that had been built back in the 70's. It was a beautiful home, Crisp said, and it was large enough to accommodate a family with several children easily.

"For a single man," he noted, "it's almost too much. I don't understand why the old man liked to live in such a big place."

Crisp explained to me that Gerald Courtney had been the owner of a string of used bookstores that serviced Pittsburgh and the surrounding Three Rivers area. He had managed the business until 4 years ago, when he liquidated his shares of the company and retired to live the good life. He unfortunately did not have much time to enjoy his rewards as he was diagnosed with testicular cancer six months later.

"Dick cancer. That's what he called it," Crisp said with a grin. "He once told me that he always knew that one day his dick would be his undoing. Even towards the end, he was always cracking jokes. He really was a lovely person to be around." He looked at me somberly. "Shame you won't get to meet him."

As to how Gerald knew about me, we were both clueless. Courtney was only my birth name. My parents – the Courtneys - were both killed in a car crash when I was only a few months old and I had grown up as Duncan Kennedy, taking the name of the folks who had adopted me.

I never really saw eye-to-eye with the old-man though, and after a particularly violent encounter near the end of high school, I cut ties with him and changed my name back to "Courtney." It was possible that I was related to this Gerald, whoever he was, but I really had no idea about it either way.

"Some people – officials and such – may drop by the premises to assess it for tax purposes, but you can check on the home any time you want." Crisp reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small ring of keys, tossing it on the table. "I'll have my secretary email you the details. If you decide to sell it, come to me first. I know the area."

"Sounds good," I said, picking up the keys. There were three keys that appeared to be the size and shape of house keys and two others. One was a beat-up old-looking key with the Chevy logo on it, and the other was a plastic encompassed, laser-cut dongle for a Mercedes Benz. I almost got hard just looking at it.

"Your vehicles will be in the garage. I hope you can drive a stick."

"I certainly can," I said, triumphantly squeezing the keys into my palm. This was like Christmas, only I was getting all the stuff I actually wanted instead of knit sweaters. We went through all the documents, crossed all the t's and dotted the i's. I still thought someone was playing a prank on me so I made sure to carefully read everything I was signing ... well ... mostly. It was a lot of paperwork, and some of it was pretty heavy on the legalese.

After a half hour had passed, the paperwork was essentially completed, and the reality of the situation started to sink in. "I still can't believe this is happening," I said, "It's like something you'd see on the news: 'local man wins a 25 million dollar lottery or whatever.' It just feels too good to be true to inherit all of this from a stranger with no strings attached."

"Well, it's not 25 million, especially after taxes, but it's true," Crisp said, finishing his drink. "But, to be entirely honest with you, there is one string attached."

I immediately felt anxious, thinking back to all of the legal forms I had just signed. Did I miss something? He stacked the documents and folded them neatly into his briefcase.

"What do you mean?" I asked, perhaps a bit too aggressively. "I thought I read everything. What string?"

"Oh it's nothing official," he assured me, patting the briefcase. "Gerald never wanted to put anything on paper about it. And there is really no way to enforce your compliance in the matter..."

"What matter?"

"Gerald wanted you to live in the house for one week before selling it, if that's what you choose to do." Crisp stood up and straightened his jacket, before picking up his briefcase. "But as I said, there is really no way for me to force you to stay in the house, which is why I hadn't mentioned it. It was simply Gerald's wish that you spend a week in the house before any action is taken."

"That's all?" I said. "Seems a little bizarre, but whatever." Spending a few nights in the place didn't seem too much to ask. It was probably a hell of a lot nicer than my current digs in the first place. Unless...

"Wait," I said. "This guy Gerald was sane, right? Is the house full of trash or cats or something? He didn't have a murder-room in the basement, did he?"

"I visited the premises just this morning, Mr. Courtney, and I can assure you that it is perfectly clean and well appointed; no cats. It's a nice place. I couldn't see a young fella like you having any problem with it." He shrugged. "But it's your choice, of course." I walked him to the door, and held it open for him.

"I think I'm going to do it," I said, the bourbon talking. I knew that I should consider it further, but I really couldn't imagine finding anything serious enough to prevent me from sleeping a few nights there. During my last tour, I'd stayed in a dirt-lined underground ex-prison in Afghanistan for 9 months and slept like a baby.

"I mean, I'll check it out to be sure, but if this guy left me so much, the least I can do is honor such a simple request. I'll head over tomorrow."

Crisp shrugged again. "I really don't care, Mr. Courtney." He turned to shake my hand before smiling. "But I do wish you the best of luck. Any further concerns or questions can be addressed to my secretary, who will contact you shortly. There are a few tax issues to finalize. Good day, sir." He walked off towards his very black, very conspicuous Lincoln, and drove away.

I shut the door behind him and stood in silence for a moment. Well well, I thought, I guess now I'm rich. I was happy but too stunned for it to fully register. I didn't know what to do next. I walked over to my phone and started texting Danielle.

Pick you up from work tomorrow? We need to talk

Returning to my chair, I took up my rocks glass and swirled the remaining swig of bourbon around the bottom before raising it in a toast to myself. "To the next step," I said, and drained it.

I spent the following morning in medical appointments pertaining to my military separation, but thought of nothing but my supposed inheritance. I got in touch with Danielle - one of my remaining civilian friends in the area – and she agreed to hang out and maybe spend the night.

Dani and I had dated for about a year before we both decided that we were interested in different things. Instead of cutting ties, we kept in contact, and in a weird way, the break-up actually brought us closer together. We no longer argued over the future, and instead went to bars and movies, got drunk, and often ended up fucking.

We had fun, but our connection was very casual. It lacked any of the true highs and lows of a meaningful relationship. We were simply friends who occasionally shared a bed.

I pulled up across the street from where she worked and texted her that I had arrived. She was a waitress at "The Thaiwaiian," a Hawaiian and Thai fusion restaurant that appealed to foodies and eclectic artists with money. As a result of the upscale clientele, Danielle made a better living as a waitress than I had made as an analyst in the military.

But it had recently come under new management and the food had suffered as a result. From the outside, the place still looked flashy and inviting but from what Dani told me, the business was failing. It would be shutting down in a few months if nothing changed. She tried not to let it bother her, though.

She came out of the door a second later, and scanned the street for my beat-up Accord. I honked and she acknowledged me with a smile before running across the street to the passenger side. I sighed, happily watching her run.

Danielle was adorable. She wasn't anyone's supermodel, but she had a slim diminutive figure, voluptuous appointments, and a smile that made me want to keep her happy forever.

That's already a pretty attractive package in my book, and it only became better when you considered the ass toned by waiting on hipster bitches all day, the smooth skin that perhaps spent a bit too much time crisping in the sun, and the ridiculously wide innocent-seeming eyes of a cartoon vixen. I was also a sucker for dark-hair and hers was black and sleek like oiled midnight.

She wasn't built for running though, as her ample bosoms were quite disproportionate to her short stature. Being a tiny person at 5'2" had forced her to buy undersize clothing, and as a result I was often treated to the sight of her glorious double D's trying to bust out of tops that were clearly incapable of containing such epic cleavage. And so I watched her run...

"Hiya D," she said, opening the passenger side door and scooting her little butt onto the seat. "How's my favorite soldier boy feeling today?" She was wearing large goofy movie-star shades and a sleeveless black low-cut shirt that frankly made that shit pop.

"Slightly aroused to be completely honest." She gave me a little punch on the arm as I shifted in gear. "And it's ex-soldier now."

"Oh that's right! You finally got out! I'm so happy for you." She leaned across the chair and planted a quick kiss on my cheek, before digging her phone out of her purse. "Congratulations. I had forgotten that it was happening so soon."

"Yeah, feels like it snuck up on me. I guess from now on I'll have to trust my comrades with the defense of our fair nation." She snickered.