"Don't lie," he chuckled, followed by a wet, racking cough. "You're thinking about the four million. But I called to tell you something. I lied on the medical disclosure. About the family history."
Arthur didn’t look at the lawyer. He looked at me. His eyes were milky with cataracts but sharp with a residual, biting intelligence. "I understand that I am selling you my expiration date," he said. His voice was a low rasp. "I get two million now. You pay the premiums until I’m gone. Then you get the full four."
I was twenty-nine, possessed a predatory line of credit, and was about to buy his death.
"I just wanted to thank you, Elias," he said, and I could hear the ghost of a smile in his voice. "The Tuscan air is magnificent. I think I’ll stay a while."
Viaticals involve terminally ill insureds; life settlements typically involve seniors with longer life expectancies.
"I’m dying, Elias. The doctors give me a week. Maybe two."