SEVEN HAWKS A-CIRCLING

         On the twentieth day of August, my true love sent to me the aforementioned seven hawks milling about the northwest sky over a field on Pinto Ranch Road. I see them as I look out the sliding screen door that leads to the deck. I make the mistake of exclaiming to one and all, "Look at the hawks!"

         Since 'one and all' is equal to the sum of a cat who doesn't give a damn unless she is the one who makes the find, and a dog that has a very limited vocabulary, my remark is very ill-advised. The word that is the chief irritant is 'look'. It sets the dog off in a series of furious barks at the oppressor outside. She can't see whatever it is, but Master says 'look' so it must be there.

         The dog races to the front door. I open it and out she runs, turning left and heading for the side of the house to meet her destiny. I follow at a lope that becomes slower every year. The dog has stopped by the tree line. Another false alarm! Unlike humans, dogs cannot be embarrassed by their faux pas. She calmly lowers her head and nibbles on the grass.

         The raptors keep circling. They surely are at least a half-mile away, but are clearly visible. Usually in these parts hawks work alone. If seven of them have come together, it must be a big job. My eyes go back to the dog. I doubt that she is very edible, but I'll defend her to my last breath. She knows this and feels safe. When my eyes return to the sky, the hawks are gone.

         I watch the near horizon for a few minutes, half expecting to see fourteen sets of talons carrying Bossy away for a hawk cookout, but this is not to be. Rather than go back the way we came, we circle the house slowly. The dog sniffs the glider, which was not there yesterday. Rain has collected on the seat despite the canopy. The protective trademarked product seems to have kept the water from permeating the fabric. Score one for chemistry.

         We reach the front of the house again. The dog informs me it's time for a roll and rub-rub. I wish I could get the hang of lying on my back and squirming. It must feel good, and it might get this horrible case of 'the hype' off me. Ever since I read my client's fax this morning, I have been trying to fight a gagging feeling. She had called early and mentioned a flyer received from a local accountant. It told of a way in which taxes might be avoided when selling a residence where gain exceeded the $500,000 tax-free allowance given to married couples by a generous or drunk Congress four years ago.

         I asked her to fax me the flyer. She did and I read it. While it was chock full of weasel words, it did imply that, indeed, he could produce such a result, although he went on to say, "Well, actually, it's not for everybody." In his hazy explanation, he seemed to be knitting together two sections of the tax code that have been asunder for some time. I thought to myself, "This man is blowing smoke."

         He went on to tell the reader that their 'tax guy needs to look at it', and then of course offered to do the same. I could say I resent being called a 'tax guy', but after hearing the names some people call me, maybe it was a compliment.

         As I thought about it, I suspected what he was doing was marketing a 'loss leader', something to get the person in the door. He will explain that his idea is highly speculative, and only those aggressively seeking tax shelter should adopt it, but the idea illustrates the proactive thinking he brings to his profession.

         Why should I be upset that this man is blowing smoke? It is the national pastime. If we don't prevaricate, we exaggerate, and if we don't do that, we certainly employ smoke and mirrors. There is no reason I should get out a copy of the Internal Revenue Code and an explanation of the Tax Relief Act of 1997 to prove what this mountebank proposes can't be done.

         Thirty minutes later I have faxed back to my client an analysis of what he is telling her. I put in a few weasel words of my own, just in case this man has found the Holy Grail, but I tell her point blank that it can't be accomplished in her situation. All the time I am typing, I am wondering why I am wasting my time doing this.

         My mind goes back to Sam Spade telling Brigid O'Shaugnessy why he is sending her over for shooting Miles Archer: she killed his partner and that is bad for his business. Sam played the national pastime well. He was sleeping with Ivy Archer and probably with Brigid too. Probably? Most definitely!

         In the case of the problematical tax break, I guess it is a question of scale. A tax free 500K is not enough for some people. "A billion here, a billion there, pretty soon we're talking about real money.' I actually remember hearing Everett Dirksen, the rumbling basso from Illinois, not delivering that line but many others.

         The dog and I go back inside. I fill her water bowl, give the cat a scratch on the head, and take one more look out the sliding door to the deck. The hawks are in formation, flying off and holding in their collective talons what appears to be a balding man with glasses. He is holding a copy of the Internal Revenue Code of 1986 in his hand and screaming at the top of his lungs.

Postscript

The Internal Revenue Service has rejected the apparent approach of this expert by issuing Revenue Ruling 2001-57. This ruling came three months after this article was written.

Further update: In March, 2002, Congress clarified that the course of action is not legal.