by Reed Arvin
Unnerved, he scattered the furniture with an almost manic energy, eventually moving the main desk to the center of the room, just under one of the working light fixtures. Satisfied, he settled in to work, opening up the folder of Crandall assets and looking once again for connecting points between Crandall and Raymond. The only solid lead he had was Raymond’s job at the bank, and he felt certain Hesston and Durand knew about that as well. But the only person who could actually unravel what had happened during that time was Ellen, and she wasn’t talking. He needed a lever on her, but she was tough, hardened by years of living alone. Worse, she had in those years clearly learned to despise men. Walters had been no help with her; she’d been a good employee, according to him, and if her skirts were a little short, well, he didn’t mind that either. She kept her nose clean, did her job, and left at the end of the day.
All of which left Henry exactly where he had started. If nothing in the conspiracy broke down, he would have little on which to proceed. On a whim, he flipped open his phone and called a Chicago exchange.
“Matt?” he said into the phone. “Matt Phillips?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s Henry, Matt.”
“Mathews!” the voice retorted. “What you go and get your ass canned for, you crazy son of a bitch? And you didn’t come by and say good-bye, you bastard.”
“Which is it, Matt? Son of a bitch or bastard?”
“Hell, I don’t know. But it pissed me off.”
“I know. Things were . . . awkward. It was better that way. Sorry I didn’t get by.”
“I thought you were Sheldon’s golden boy. Anyway, the shots you gave him in meetings sure fooled the rest of us.”
“We melted down. I can’t go into it.”
“You don’t have to. I already heard. You did the right thing.”
“Thanks. Would you have done the same thing?”
“No fuckin’ way.”
Henry smiled. That was, in its simplest form, the prevailing philosophy at the firm. Work hard, cover your ass, and don’t let your convictions get in the way. “Care to salve your guilty conscience with a good deed?” he asked. “I’ve got a situation I could use some research on.”
“Sure. The interns don’t have anything better to do.”
“Good. I’ve got a name I need you to check on. Ellen Gaudet.”
“Details?”
“Early fifties, bit of a tart, residence in Council Grove, Kansas. Works at the Cottonwood Valley Bank, same town.”
“What am I looking for?”
“Anything.”
“Pretty vague.”
“Thanks, I’m desperate.”
There was laughter on the phone, a sound highly communicative of the distance Henry had moved down the career chain since leaving the firm. His problems were minuscule compared with the cases the firm was handling. “I’ll see what I can do,” Matt said. “No promises. But I’ll put somebody on it. Maybe something will shake loose.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem. Hey, you know about Sheldon banging your girlfriend?”
“Yes, Matt. I see your legendary tact is unchanged.”
“Sorry, man. I just thought you should know.”
“I wish them each other, which is the cruelest thing I can do.”
There was more laughter, and then a dial tone.
Roger Crandall walked into the Cottonwood Valley Bank just before closing. He saw Frank Walters through a half-closed door, and moved quickly past the line of sight. He wasn’t there to see Walters. Instead, he approached Ellen, feeling the big hand in his back pushing hard. It would have been better, he supposed, to have waited until the bank closed for this talk. But he had been reduced to Carl Durand’s and Frank Hesston’s errand boy, and that brought up a set of emotions he couldn’t easily control. Being an errand boy was something he had his fill of, and the idea of playing that role with no end in sight was utterly intolerable. He wanted to slow his pulse, to think. But all he could do was ride and feel the big hand. He ground to a halt before Ellen’s desk, and forced his voice to a low whisper. “We need to talk.”
Ellen looked at him placidly, as if by perfect stillness she could negate his agitation. “Have a seat,” she said softly, in a bank teller’s voice. “How can I help?”
“Not that kind of talk,” Roger growled. His eyes seemed stuck open, staring. But he couldn’t do anything about it. “We have to talk alone. Right now.”
“I’m working, Roger,” Ellen answered. She glanced at the clock on the opposite wall. “I can’t just pick up and leave. I get off in about ten minutes. Wait till then.”
Roger stood brusquely and turned on his heel. “Make it five,” he spat over his shoulder. He left the bank and got into the Cadillac. A few passersby on the street looked into the car; their stares invaded him and he glared back, locking eyes on a man standing a few yards away. This would never have happened before, he thought. One look would have sent them running like rats. He started the engine and pulled away to a gravel clearing a half block away. From there, he could look across the street and watch the front door of the bank.
Work on her, Hesston had said. Don’t spell things out, that’s my job. Just plant the seed. Once again, Roger felt power drifting away from him, floating beyond his reach. Hesston had given orders but had not explained the game. But the game’s not over yet, he thought. I’ll do Hesston’s errand but anything else I can pry out of her is mine. Durand had said it was ironic that his father gave the money to Boyd, and that had troubled him. I just have to work out what Boyd has to do with everything. Find a card to play. Then squeeze.
Four minutes. He fiddled with the radio, banging the buttons from station to station. Two minutes. The big hand pushed. He watched the bank door eagerly. She’s late, damn it. Just before he was sure he would explode, the door opened and Ellen emerged.
Roger put the car in gear and drove slowly down the street. Ellen was walking rapidly toward Benton when Roger pulled alongside. He pushed open the door, still rolling. “Get in.”
Ellen glanced up and down the street and stopped. Roger braked and she slipped into the car. He was gunning the engine before she had the door closed. The force of the acceleration pushed her awkwardly back in the seat. “For God’s sake, Roger,” she said, “what’s got into you? What’s all this about?”
Roger gripped the wheel silently and drove. After a quick U-turn he turned off Main onto Owendale and headed toward Custer’s Elm. “I don’t like this,” Ellen said. “Either tell me what’s going on or let me out right now.”
Roger shot her a glance, but said nothing. He drove silently the seven blocks to Custer’s Elm, and pulled the Cadillac to the edge of the park. He stopped and looked down the wide clearing; the Birdman sat at its opposite end, loosely hunched over and staring at the ground. “That is what’s going on,” Roger said, pointing at Boyd. “I want to know what the hell he and my father had to do with each other.”
“Your father didn’t share his secrets with bank employees, Roger.”
Roger stared back at her. “You don’t really expect me to buy that, do you?” he asked. “Look, I know about you and Daddy. Not everything. But enough.”
Ellen blanched. “What do you think you know, Roger?”
“I know you and Daddy didn’t get together to talk about the bank,” Roger said bitterly. “I know you were his little whore.”
With that word Ellen felt her soul catch in a vise; part of her wanted to weep, while the rest of her wanted to strike Roger’s face in fury. Between those two forces she found herself unable to speak or move. She merely sat in misery, breathing in unsteady gulps.
“Did you really think I didn’t know about that?” Roger demanded. “Don’t be crazy. Of course, I didn’t know it was you at first. Just that it was someone. When he told me to stay away from certain meetings. When he took his drives at night. I found out it was you later.”
Ellen found a small voice in the midst of her shock and horror.
She used it to throw up a last, pathetic denial. “Your daddy and I didn’t do anything. You can’t prove a single thing you’re saying.”
Roger laughed bitterly. “Daddy had a big appetite. He ate big. He bought big and he sold big. And I know he picked you up along the way, too, like some kind of trophy fish. He would have mounted you on his wall, if he could have got away with it.” He grimaced. “Anyway, in the end I saw you together. And it didn’t surprise me none it was you. You were the logical choice.”
“What does that mean?”
Roger gave Ellen a withering stare. “Why, Ellen, you’re the town tramp. Didn’t nobody ever tell you that?”
With those words, Ellen found her strength. She reached out to strike, but Roger caught her wrist inches from his face. Her hand trembled in his powerful grip. She tried to wrench her arm back in frustration, but he held it, immovable. She struggled against him for a moment, but eventually slumped down, beaten. She looked out at Boyd. He was standing now, his back to them. He raised his hands into the air and made the sign of the cross. Poor beautiful fool, she thought. The poor beautiful fool and the whore. Council Grove has more than one walking dead, now. For a moment, she wanted to let everything unravel, to let the whole story roll out of her. She couldn’t take much more of this inner leaking, the gradual erosion of her resolve. When she spoke, it was in a whisper. “Your father and I were once very much in love,” she breathed. “I don’t say he loved me at the end, all right? But in the beginning. In the beginning he cared for me.”
“I suppose you think that makes a difference to me.”
“I say that for me. It means I’m not . . . that word you called me.” She pushed her hair back. Grayish-brown roots were beginning to fleck once again into the bottle blonde. She looked tired. “That was all before he was married.”
“If he loved you, then why didn’t he marry you? Maybe it was you who was in love. Not him.”
Whore. Tramp. The words hung in the air like floating skeletons. Ellen exhaled bleakly, fighting back tears. She battled with her emotions awhile, eventually recovering herself. “Your daddy had just got back from the service. That was what, seventy-three? He was beautiful. Of course I loved him. I knew he was selfish. That didn’t bother me. I liked that he knew what he wanted and how to get it.” She shifted in her seat. “It’s so hot in here. It’s stifling.”
Roger clicked the key over and lowered the windows. “I want the straight story. I want it now.”
Ellen looked into Roger’s face a moment. “So similar,” she murmured, “but different.” She peered back across the park. Boyd had noticed the car, but she doubted he could make out who was in it. Nevertheless, she hunched down, turning her back to the door. “He happened,” she said, closing her eyes.
“What does that mean?”
“Raymond wasn’t always like this. Something happened to him, something horrible. I can’t say anything else.”
Roger grabbed her arm once again and squeezed. “I’m gonna find out one way or another. Either you tell me everything or . . .”
Ellen, holding her arm stiff against his grip, looked him in the eye. “Don’t threaten me, Roger. You’re just another man. Do you think you’re more powerful than your daddy was?”
Roger’s anger poured through him. “I’m twice the man Daddy was,” he snarled. “But that don’t matter anymore. I got friends now, powerful friends.”
Ellen eyed him cautiously. “What friends?”
Roger’s face bloated with self-importance. “I told Carl Durand . . .”
With the mention of Durand’s name, Ellen stiffened. “Durand? Why are you talking to Durand?”
“What crawled up your skirt?” Roger laughed. “I ain’t afraid of him.”
Ellen looked away. “You shouldn’t have talked to Carl Durand, Roger. Stay away from him. Stay away from Durand.”
Roger studied Ellen’s face. After a moment, his mouth made a thin smile. “Hesston said you’d do something like that,” he said. “You look like you seen a ghost.”
“You mean he sent you here?” Ellen’s voice was edgy, unsteady. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with,” she said. “You don’t know . . .”
“Hesston says he wants to talk,” Roger interrupted. “He says it’s something you’ll be interested in.”
Ellen looked at Roger intently. “He’s wrong if he told you that. Now take me home.”
“You haven’t told me what I want to know.”
“I’ve told you more than I’ve told anyone for more than twenty-five years.”
“Hesston said there was a lot of money involved. Enough . . .” Roger paused, thinking. Enough for her to get the hell out of Council Grove forever.
For a moment it appeared as though Ellen might begin to cry. But she merely whispered, “Either you drive or I walk.”
Roger shrugged and started the engine. “I don’t think Hesston’s gonna like this.” He put the car in gear and backed away from the park. Ellen shot a look back at Raymond as they sped away; the bench was empty. Boyd was gone.
“So how’d it go?”
“She turned white when I said your name.”
Hesston smiled and sat back in his leather chair. “Good. You keep on playing ball. Everything’s all right.”
“She said she wouldn’t come. She sounded like she meant it.”
“She’ll come.”
“I still don’t understand the game you’re playing with her.”
Hesston looked at Roger with disregard. “You don’t have to understand. You have to do what you’re told, and you’ll get your share; ten percent.”
“Daddy got a third.”
“You’re not your father.”
“It’s not fair. I want more.”
Hesston laughed. “We’ve been through this, Roger. You want more. Or you’ll what? Turn me in? You’re along for the ride and you earn your money one way: by keeping your mouth shut. That’s your total responsibility. Not to think. And sure as hell not to complain.”
Roger paced the office, swirling ice cubes in his glass. “I need another drink.”
“Yes, have a drink, Roger. Have a lot of drinks.”
Roger poured whiskey into a glass and fell into a chair. “I did your job. So what now?”
Hesston smiled. “It’s very simple. This whole mess has one obvious, tidy solution. Get rid of Boyd.” Roger stared, but said nothing. “Without Boyd everything reverts to your family. Your mother, in fact, which is perfect. She doesn’t know about the real money, and the land would still be in our control. Business as usual. You can handle dear old Mom, can’t you?”
“Daddy did, didn’t he?”
“I already told you, you’re not your father.”
“I can handle her,” he said grimly.
“All right. So Boyd has to go.”
Roger hammered down his drink. “How gone?”
Hesston shrugged.
Roger’s expression hardened. “You’re talking about murder.”
“I’m talking about money, Roger. And nerve.”
Roger felt his own inner unease and the booze swirling together in his mind. Murder. To kill a man. He was rattled by the words, but Hesston was disturbingly calm. Roger pushed down his fear, attempting to control his emotions. Gradually, the idea of killing Boyd took shape in his mind, and he was simultaneously repulsed and fascinated. It would solve everything, and it risked everything. Then his blood suddenly ran cold. “If anything happens to Boyd I wouldn’t be able to get out of Council Grove before the shit hit the fan. It ain’t exactly a secret I hate the little freak. The whole town would point their stubby fingers at me, and I’m not going down for it just so you can make all the real money.”
“What’s this, another push for more? That conversation’s over.”
“For a start. God, let me think.” He rose and walked across the room, picking up the whiskey bottle as he went. Hesston watched him carefully, not speaking. “You serious about this?” Roger asked. “Actu
ally kill him?”
Hesston pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket and lit one. “Not a joking matter,” he said calmly. “But neither is twelve million dollars.”
“Your twelve million. You keep forgetting that.” The booze burned in the back of Roger’s throat. He was tired of getting ordered around. If Hesston meant what he was talking about, the equation was changed. “You’re raising the stakes for all of us,” he said, “you, me, Durand. If you’re serious about this I have to have a bigger cut. I mean it, Frank. I don’t care what your plan is, I’m going to take most of the heat. You know it.”
Hesston sat back in the chair, pleased with himself. The more Roger melted down, the easier it was to play him. The boy’s buttons were so big he barely needed to think about pushing them. “If you want more, you have to earn it.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means nothing is free. Your father was man enough to do what needed doing when the time came.” He looked at Roger a moment and said, “Did you ever wonder why he never brought you into our little scheme?” Roger stared back; he hated being left out, and despised his father for not confiding in him. “He told me why he kept you in the dark, Roger. He said you couldn’t handle it.”
“That’s a damn lie,” Roger spat. “I can handle anything he did.”
Hesston smiled. It was like playing poker with a child. “All right, Roger,” he said, “I believe you. You handle Boyd, and you get another five percent. Not of the back money, but from here on out. That’s fifteen total. No more, and don’t piss me off by bringing this up again.”
Roger took a drink. The word “murder” rattled in his brain, careering through his synapses. He felt vaguely nauseous. “Not enough.”
Hesston’s face was set in stone. “Fourteen percent.”