by Max Cossack
Gloria got up and went to the fridge and got a bottle of her new favorite brand, Chumpster. She brought back two more Chumpsters for Gus and Hack. She noticed that Cali was staying with the usual sticky black espresso he kept brewing for himself. Humberto got himself a clear water glass filled to the brim with straight Casa Noble tequila. Mattie took an atypical white wine—"to get into character”—she explained.
“What character?” Hack asked.
Gus said, “Cali and I have worked up a plan.”
Mattie said, “Cali said I did so well with Claude Rivelle he’s giving me another speaking part. Even bigger. With this Flo Thorpe.”
Cali said, “Mattie’s performance was amazing. Claude Rivelle followed her out of his office like a puppy. Nobody’s heard from him since.”
Gloria asked, “Mattie, what’s that book you’ve got?”
Mattie handed her a big paperback. It was the famous acting teacher Konstantin Stanislavski’s book An Actor Prepares. Gloria opened it at random. Yellow highlights covered lines on nearly every page. Little pink and blue post-it notes poked out of a dozen or more. Gloria asked her, “Did you buy this used?”
Mattie said, “No. New.”
“So you made all these notes yourself?”
Mattie said, “Of course.”
Hack asked, “Training to be a better liar?”
Mattie sniffed. “Acting is not lying. It’s finding the truth of a character.”
Hack said, “But you did lie to Rivelle, didn’t you? About this contest you claimed he could win.”
Mattie said, “There’s no lie.”
Gus butted in. “Right, partner. There really is a Grundl Hypothesis contest. And a five-million-dollar prize.”
Hack looked around, “Does anyone in this room think Claude Rivelle’s going to come out of this with five million dollars?”
Mattie said to Gloria, “May I have the book back for a moment, please?”
“Of course.” Gloria handed it to her.
Mattie thumbed the book to a spot marked by a pink post-it. She opened it and read aloud, “Every person who is really an artist desires to create inside himself another, deeper, more interesting life than the one that actually surrounds him.”
“What does that mean?” Hack asked.
“When I sing,” she said, and here she patted Hack on the hand, “Or when you play or compose at the piano, we both want to create a kind of experience more intense than we get from everyday life.” She looked at him. “You know what I’m talking about. Admit it.”
“I admit nothing,” Hack said.
She said, “And now I’ve given Claude Rivelle a deeper and more interesting life.”
Cali said, “Also, we are all of us united in the process of creating an intense experience and a more interesting life for Professor Soren Pafko.”
“And Mattie is one of our leading artists,” Gloria said.
“That sounds like one of your articles,” Hack said.
“I thought you never read my stuff,” Gloria said.
Hack said, “I hear rumors.”
“You’re on to something, though,” Gloria said. “This whole experience would make a fun piece.”
41 Me, Too
The doorbell rang and Flo opened her front door and saw a tall attractive woman standing there. The woman wore a black skirt, a white sleeveless blouse and a distraught expression. Flo asked, “May I help you?”
“Yes,” the woman said. “And I can help you.”
“How can you do that?”
“My name is Smith.”
“So?”
“May I come in?”
“I don’t know you. Why should I let you in?”
The Smith woman gave a sad smile. “In an odd sense, we’re related.”
“I’m sure you don’t resemble anyone in my family.”
“I mean we share a mutual intimate relationship. Through a third person.”
“What third person is that?”
“Soren Pafko.” The Smith woman lifted her hand as if dabbing a tear from her eye, though in fact it looked dry.
Five minutes later, Flo let Smith in. Twenty minutes after that, the two women were sharing tea in the kitchen. Thirty minutes after the tea, the Smith woman was gone, and Flo was on the phone with her attorney.
Smith’s story was simple and eerily familiar. Smith was widow to a successful physician, in her case a brain surgeon. Smith had met Soren Pafko at a political rally. From her own experience and from talking with other victims, Smith suspected that Pafko read obituaries for the names of dead male doctors and their widows.
Pafko had plied Smith with sexual hijinks and tales of social justice, taken big chunks of her money for the Movement, and tossed her away, leaving her with sorely reduced assets and sorry memories.
Flo Thorpe was not going to be played for a sucker.
42 Sylvia
Soren was sitting in his office conjuring ever-more fantastic plans for the sixty-five thousand dollars he had snagged from Flo when Sylvia stormed in and locked the door behind her and slapped a fat yellow manila envelope down in front of him on the desk.
“What’s this?” he asked her.
“Who’s this, you mean? That’s the better question,” she said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Hand delivered by messenger to our front door. Read and see.”
He opened the envelope and took out a thick sheaf of papers. The top one read:
COUNTY OF OJIBWA FIFTEENTH JUDICIAL DISTRICT
Florence Thorpe,
Plaintiff,
vs.SUMMONS
Soren Pafko
Defendant.
“No,” Soren mumbled.
Sylvia smirked. Somehow it was Roper’s smirk pasted on Sylvia’s face. Was there some way the two knew each other? Soren recoiled at the thought.
Sylvia said, “So who is Flo Thorpe?”
“A friend.”
Sylvia said, “The Complaint spells that out in nauseating and graphic detail.”
Soren read through the document, aware the entire time that Sylvia’s glare was beating down on the top of his head like the hot sun on a desert rodent. By the time he finished, he was sweating.
She asked, “What’d you do with the rest of it?”
“The rest of what?”
“The rest of the two hundred thousand dollars she gave you. I won’t insult us both by asking what you did to earn it.”
“It was only sixty thousand.”
“We both see she’s suing you for two hundred thousand.”
“She’s lying.”
“Maybe, but so are you. I already found sixty-five myself. And took it.”
“What sixty-five?
“The sixty-five thousand dollars you hid in your special secret place—you know, behind the water heater, where you hide all your stuff. In the house you used to call your home.”
“You knew about that place?”
She shot him a scornful look. Now she was a dead ringer for Roper. Soren felt a shudder down to his very being.
He said, “All right. I promise you she only gave me one hundred thousand dollars. For the Movement.”
“And you expect me to believe you.”
“Yes, I do. You are my wife.”
“Not for long.”
43 Mutual Guardians
Abarca threw up his hands. “A refund, my friend? The Revolution does not give refunds. This is not one of those deals where you get a money back guarantee if not completely satisfied.”
“I understand,” Soren said. “It’s just that I’m in a tough spot. This woman Thorpe is suing me for two hundred thousand dollars.”
Abarca said, “Why?”
Soren said, “I don’t know. And now my wife has thrown me out. These women are all crazy.”
“Hey,” Roper put in, “Don’t use that sexist language around here. This is a house of the Revolution.”
“Sexist?”
Soren said. “Me?”
“Of course,” Roper said. “Words like ‘crazy’, with their historical arbitrary unfairness to women. That’s the same belittling language the patriarchy has been using to devalue women for centuries.”
“Screw you, Roper!”
Abarca said, “Please Camaradas, you are hurting my heart with your bickering.”
“She didn’t just sue this clown for no reason,” Roper said.
“This much is true,” Abarca said. “So, putting aside the idea this Thorpe woman is crazy, which we can discreetly agree all women are anyway, as we are all gentlemen here, why in fact did she sue?”
Soren said, “I already told you she was the one who contributed that sixty thousand dollars I gave you.”
“And now she has changed her mind and wants it back?”
“Seems like.”
“But why?”
Soren said, “I don’t have a good answer.”
“And why is she suing for two hundred thousand when she gave you only sixty?”
Soren shook his head. “Can’t say. Can’t say why any of this is happening, really.” He sank down into the gold-upholstered chair and put his head in his hands.
Abarca said, “You do accept that neither you nor she will be receiving any of this money back?”
Soren looked up. “I accept that.”
Abarca gave Soren a gentle squeeze on his shoulder. “You possess the attitude and fortitude of a true revolutionary, my friend. But do not be so sad. We still have the painting. And with Roper’s buyer on the horizon…”
Soren felt a flicker of hope. “What about it?”
“The Revolution must stand by its own. If nothing else, we can get you a good attorney to match the demon Sam Lapidos this rich loca hired.”
“And what money will I use to pay an attorney for myself?”
Abarca said, “Perhaps a small finder’s fee for you. Shall we say five percent?”
“How about ten?” Roper asked.
“Ten for both of you together.” Abarca said. “Five percent each.”
Roper said, “I found the buyer. Why should this guy get the same as me?”
“I got the copy made,” Soren said. “That’s why we have the original in the first place.”
“That is true,” Abarca said.
Roper and Abarca glared at each other. After a long moment, Roper shrugged and said, “What the hell.”
Abarca rubbed his hands together and beamed at them both. “Excelente.”
Soren said, “What now?”
Abarca mused, “As soon as we began marketing the painting through our various underground sources, it became safe no longer. We must move it to somewhere else and guard it there.”
“That’s true,” Soren said.
Abarca said, “And you say you are homeless?”
“Now wait a minute,” Roper said. “Now you’re going to trust this loser with the treasure I got for us?”
Soren could almost see the steam coming out of Abarca’s ears. “Roper,” he said, “You are treading very close to insubordination. Don’t cross that line.”
Roper said, “I am merely pointing out this guy’s track record is not exactly sterling. And now to trust him with our biggest asset, that is something I can legitimately ask questions about.”
“Don’t forget Roper tried to get me to cut you out,” Soren said.
“That doesn’t count,” Roper said. “Señor Abarca asked me to do that to test you.”
“You showed a lot of enthusiasm for a mere test,” Soren shot back.
Abarca sighed and turned his back on the two bickering cameradas. He folded his hands behind him and walked about for a few moments. He whirled and said, “I have decided. You two will share custody. That way there will be no temptation or stupidity from either one of you. You will guard each other.”
44 Roper’s Betrayal
The One Time and Out Motel sat by a two-lane highway halfway between St. Paul and Ojibwa City. It was a perfect location for Roper and Soren to hole up with L’Amination. Aside from that one advantage, the place was a nightmare.
Because the two men had to keep their eyes on each other, they shared one room with two beds. The room started out clean enough, but there was only one bathroom.
Soren feared leaving Roper alone with the painting, and Roper took the same attitude towards Soren, so they had to eat together. Harbinger’s was a handy café across the highway, with serviceable eggs for breakfast, mostly edible burgers for lunch, and not-completely-soggy fried chicken for dinner. And from their usual table by the picture window, they could keep their eyes on the door of their motel room.
They ate breakfast, lunch and dinner in the café every day for a week, waiting for Abarca to call and order them to bring him the painting. Neither ever left the other alone at their table even to use the restroom. Deprived of exercise and his usual healthy diet, Soren began to feel his belly softening and widening.
One lunch, Soren could stand it no longer and had to leave Roper alone at the table to visit the head. As Soren headed back, he saw Roper on his phone. When Roper saw Soren, he clicked off the phone and was in such a hurry to stuff it in his pocket he missed and dropped the phone. It clattered on the floor. Roper bent over to pick it up. Then he sat blinking in transparently phony innocence.
Soren stood with his hands on his hips. “What’s happening, Roper?”
“Nothing.”
“You couldn’t be more obvious if you wore a sign on your forehead. Who were you talking with?”
Roper looked up at him. “Sit down, will you. You’re being melodramatic. You look ridiculous.”
“Not as ridiculous as you’re going to look if I tell Abarca about whatever you’re up to.”
Roper blanched. “There’s no need for that. Sit down. Please.”
Soren sat. “So who was that and what was it about?”
“A buyer.”
“This another of Abarca’s tests?”
“No,” Roper said. “On the level. Since you know, I’ll give you a chance to get in on it.”
“What’s the deal?”
“The same as before. But this time it’s real,” Roper said. “After Abarca put me up to testing you, I began to think. That would really work, wouldn’t it? I could sell to my buyer directly and make a lot of money for myself.”
“But here I am.”
“Right. Here you are. And this is your chance. We become partners and we make the deal ourselves and then disappear. Abarca never knows.”
Soren pretended to consider. He stroked his chin. He said, “Hmm” several times. Then he asked, “How much is in it for me?”
Roper said, “We’re talking about a million dollars. I have the buyer lined up. I do all the hard work. All you have to do is keep your mouth shut. That’s worth a hundred thousand to me.”
“No way.”
“Then what?”
“Half for me and half for you.” Soren had to make it look good. Soren had no doubt Roper was lying about the total amount anyway. The real price was probably three million.
Roper said, “Are you crazy?”
“I can just call Abarca right now.”
“Three hundred thousand,” Roper said.
“Half. That’s five hundred thousand.”
“Okay—but only after the deal’s made.”
“Obviously. I’m not unreasonable. You can’t give me money you don’t have.”
Roper said, “Fine. Let’s head back across the street.”
Each slapped a little cash on the table for his own check. They left and walked single file across the highway to their room.
That night, Roper insisted they celebrate their new “partnership” and “friendship” and had a bottle of Old Minnesota whisky delivered to their room. Soren hated the taste of whisky, so he filled his motel room plastic cup with tap water and tinctured it with only a few drops of the whisky. Roper on the other hand swilled his booze like the drunk Soren had always suspecte
d him to be. By midnight Roper had fallen unconscious across his bed and had begun to snore.
Soren snuck out of the room onto the parking lot asphalt outside and dialed Abarca.
Abarca answered immediately. “Yes, my friend?”
“Roper wants to cut you out. He has his own buyer.”
“Really?”
“So I’m calling you.”
“That is good,” Abarca said. “Very good.”
“I have to ask, was this another test?”
There was a pause. “No,” Abarca said, “This was no test. This is Roper on his own.”
Dammit! Soren might really have had a chance there. Soren asked, “What do you want me to do?”
“Where are you now?”
“In the parking lot just outside our motel room.”
Abarca asked, “And the painting?”
“Inside.”
Abarca said, “Roper might be dangerous.”
“He drank himself stiff. He’s dead to the world.”
“Good,” Abarca said. “That is very good.”
“What do you want me to do?”
Abarca asked, “You have your car keys with you?”
“Sure. Roper and I drove here separately.”
Abarca said, “Take the painting. Now.”
“Where?”
“Do you have money for gas?”
Soren said, “I still have a credit card.”
“Excellent,” Abarca said. “You will drive to Philadelphia.”
“Philadelphia?”
“Yes. We have people there.”
“What about Roper?”
Abarca said in a low tone, “We will deal with Roper in our own time in our own way, as we have dealt with many others before him.”
With Roper snoring like a freight train, Soren had no trouble sneaking into their room and grabbing the painting and sneaking out again. The slob never stirred.
Soren carried the painting to his Prius and stuck it in the back seat. He wondered if he’d made a mistake. He could have taken Roper’s deal. If he could have pried the identity of the buyer out of Roper, he could have dumped Roper and taken the whole bundle for himself. And the Movement, of course.
But at the time he’d had no way to know that wasn’t another Abarca test. And it would have cut him off from much bigger opportunity, and all for a measly million dollars or so.