Tax Man

Tax Man

By Charles E. Kraus

My father was an IRS investigator.   In 1930 he graduated from the City College of New York, passed his CPA exam, then applied for a Treasury Department assignment.

A ton of years later, Dad happened to be issued a license plate with an alphanumeric sequence beginning HH.  His wife said it stood for Honest Harold.  He was honest, more or less.  That is the impression I gathered from the stories he told about his life as a tax man.

Dad kept a shelf of code binders in our den.  Unlike my school binders  --   his were more substantial.  Inches wide.  Dignified, or at least very official looking.  Fitted with hardware designed to withstand abuse.  Snapping the rings shut after replacing pages of out-of-date regulations required agile fingering.  The rings slammed into place instantaneously.  

I got the impression that what with civil service hours and the need to be 'in the field' most of the time, the work load was quite flexible.  As, apparently were the rules.  When I was about ten, my father pointed to his binders and playfully explained, "using those books, I can prove or disprove anything."

His beat was corporate compliance.  But that did not discourage relatives from stopping by for an annual early April dinner served with tax preparation for anyone who just happened to bring along the appropriate forms and a shoebox of financial history.  After the meal, Aunts and Uncles sat around the table organizing and reorganizing documents.  They whispered to one another in tones appropriate for a doctor's waiting room.  As dad completed a return and delivered the verdict, the rest of us could hear responses from the other side of the den wall -- sounds of relief, regret, or occasional disbelief.  Protests, even accusations.  Harold didn't understand, was unfamiliar with personal tax law.  Pleas for a little more flexibility -- after all, Uncle Morty pointed out, this was family.

One year -- taxes completed, as mom served cake and coffee, I wandered into my room and found Morty seated at the desk erasing numbers dad had entered on his tax papers. 

During the Christmas season, unusual presents arrived at the house.  Cases of scotch. Theater tickets.  Perhaps guidelines about giving gifts to IRS agents were more relaxed in the 1950s.  I like to believe these friendly gestures were not factored into ongoing audits.  HH -- Honest Harold.

Dad didn't talk all that much about his work.  I recall two stories.

My father and his team had been set to report  tax fraud allegedly committed by a famous crooner, someone known for his talent and his underworld connections.  Moments before the charges were to be filed, 'word came down' that the investigation was closing.  Done.  Through.  Gone.  

Each time he spoke about the incident, or about the accused perpetrator, my father turned purple with rage. I wasn't allowed to purchase or play records by the singer.  If a radio or television station happened to feature the guy, we adjusted the dial, tuning to a program that offered a more congenial, law abiding entertainer.

How could that happen, I asked, how could a case just shutdown?

Dad didn't offer details.  Instead, he told a companion story.

Another agent was working on an equally explosive investigation.  One Saturday morning, the guy’s home phone rang.  A pleasant sounding stranger said, Hi Agent ___.  I just want you to be aware that we know where you live.  We know the route your son takes to school ... the park your daughter visits when she heads to the playground.  She's seven.  He's ten.  Nice kids.  

That's all he said.  Perhaps it was enough.

Every once in a while, I wonder if a caller knew where I parked my bicycle when I visited the library.