My Dad Escaped Taxes, but Not Death

My dad didn’t teach me to fix cars; he taught me to fix the books. He kept two sets—one in pencil, the other in ink. The books in pencil were the real numbers, and the books in ink showed a lesser profit, for the Internal Revenue Service. My dad owned apartment buildings and handled a lot of cash: security deposits, fees for pets and parking spaces, and upfront rent payments at move-in.

When I started working for him, he told me to take an accounting class at Cleveland State University. “I already have a bachelor’s degree, dad,” I said, overvaluing my English major. But “Introduction to World Trade” did sort of appeal to me, I admitted.