Godwin also wanted Betsy to come back to running the shop. Decision making was all right until it became important. For example, what to do about the costly hand-dyed yarn Betsy had ordered from a local woman whose samples had been gorgeous. A big box of it had come in while he was gone, and he had eagerly opened it, to find that while the colors were still gorgeous, the wool had been so carelessly prepared for dyeing that it still had little pieces of straw stuck to it—and maybe something worse; Godwin didn’t care to inspect it too closely. He closed the box and set it aside. He’d tell Betsy about it tomorrow, when he had calmed down enough to refrain from shrieking. There were several customers all excited about buying the yarn. What to tell them? He’d much rather Betsy face them.
Then there were the “badgers.” There seemed to be an unusual number of them the past couple of days. Badgers weren’t customers from Wisconsin, whose state animal was that noble creature; these were customers who imitated the badger in its ability to dig fast and deep. They would disappear around a corner and pull things out of cabinets and baskets and off shelves, and leave the disorder for the help to discover. God knew what they were thinking; they seemed to root for the sheer joy of it, not in search of something.
It wasn’t until Godwin restored order to a drawer of out-of-print cross-stitch patterns that he realized the motive of one badger: theft. It was only in putting things back that Godwin realized three patterns were missing.
And then he couldn’t remember which badger it was who had gone pawing in that particular drawer. Betsy, he was sure, would have known. He felt incompetent, an unusual emotion for him.
At least his part-time help that afternoon was experienced and cheerful—and a real help in closing up. Marti ran the vacuum cleaner while he restocked; she straightened out the baskets of yarn while he ran the cash register; she even volunteered to take the day’s money to the bank with a deposit slip Godwin made out. Godwin blessed her, told her to tuck the money bag inside her jacket to escape casual gaze, and sent her on her way, then went to the back to scrub out the coffee urn and set it up for the morrow.
TONY thought he should go to the bank before he went to his place of employment, but an old friend called and invited him to lunch. Tony thought it was time to see some friends. But Vicodin had made him sleep in and it took some time to make himself marginally presentable, so there wasn’t time to hit the bank before lunch.
He made it to the restaurant only ten minutes late, where, despite his best efforts, Jeff said, “Well, I’m shocked. You look dreadful, simply dreadful, you poor thing.” Tony didn’t think he looked all that bad, but Jeff himself looked pretty good dressed all in teal, a great color on a man with red curly hair and large blue eyes. But, Tony reflected with a slightly malicious smile, Jeff’s looks were spoiled by a heavy, petulant mouth, and Tony’s wounds would heal.
But all Tony said was, “You’d realize how much better I look now, if you’d visited me in the hospital,” his tone making the complaint light, because he planned to stick Jeff with the check.
Jeff’s eyes widened. “Oh, hospitals! Dreadful places, I never go into a hospital, unless I’m in an ambulance, which hasn’t happened yet, thank God! But I just know I’ll keep my eyes closed the whole time! Ew, just the smell of a hospital gives me cold shivers!” Jeff twiddled his shoulders and lifted his hands, palms forward. “I don’t know how you stood it!”
“Drugs,” said Tony. “They give you lots and lots of lovely drugs.”
“Well, yes,” said Jeff, nodding. “Yes, drugs would certainly help.”
They had a pleasant lunch until Tony refused to engage in a tussle Jeff clearly expected over the check, which enlarged Jeff’s pout. Then Tony had to walk over to the Heart Coalition, because Jeff wouldn’t drive him.
So he was a few minutes late. He clipped his ID badge to his jacket, nodded at the guard behind the high, round desk, and took the elevator to the basement.
He found Pissant Mitch in the mail room along with a man in a dark suit, whom he recognized after a couple of seconds as Colin Roose, Mitch’s boss. And standing a little behind Mr. Roose was a very large man in a dark uniform who at first looked like a cop. There wasn’t a gun on his hip, so he must be a rent-a-cop.
Still, Tony didn’t like the looks of this at all, so he paused in the doorway. Then he slightly exaggerated the difficulty he had in managing on one crutch, and bit his underlip to show he was in pain, and came into the room. He’d almost forgotten how claustrophobic it was, windowless and much deeper than wide, with red-brown tile on the floor and tan walls harshly lit by four fluorescent fixtures hanging from the ceiling. The lights gave a sinister cast to the features of the three men waiting for him. Or maybe it was his suspicious mind, telling him he was in big trouble.
“Hi, Mitch!” said Tony, trying on a smile.
“Mr. Milan,” said Mitch, not smiling back.
So Tony dropped the ploy like the dead thing it was. “Okay, what’s the problem?” he asked.
“Well, for one thing, you’re fired,” said Mitch.
“What? You can’t fire me for not coming to work, I was in an accident!”
“You’re not fired for being absent, Mr. Milan,” said Roose. And the rent-a-cop worked his shoulders—not like Jeff, shaking off a fake tremor of fear, but like a thug preparing to hit someone in the face.
Tony began to feel there was not enough air in the room. “What’s this all about?” he asked, trying to sound calm.
“You’re a thief, Tony,” said Mitch.
Tony had to swallow hard before he could say, “No, I’m not.” Then he had to swallow again before he could ask, “What do you think I stole?”
Roose consulted a small slip of paper Tony hadn’t noticed was in his hand. “An iPod, a Chinese take-out order, various amounts of loose change, a gold ring set with a small garnet, a woman’s purse containing three credit cards and sixteen dollars—” He paused and looked hard at Tony. “Shall I go on?”
Tony was so relieved he didn’t know what to say. He cleared his throat and looked around. There was an orange plastic chair off to his left. He moved a few more steps and collapsed into it. “Um…” he said.
“We can continue this conversation down at police headquarters,” offered Roose.
“No, no, that’s not necessary,” said Tony, finding his voice, but keeping his head down so they wouldn’t see how relieved he was they didn’t know about the check scam.
“So you admit stealing various items while picking up and distributing mail in the course of your duties?” said Roose.
“Well…what the hell. Yes, I did it. How did you find out?”
“You jerk, you left the iPod in your locker!” said Mitch.
“How come you went into my locker?” demanded Tony, raising his head. “That’s my private space!”
“No, it isn’t,” said Roose. “If you’d read your employment contract, it says very plainly that your locker is subject to search.”
“So you searched everyone’s locker, I suppose,” sneered Tony, hoping to catch them in a lie.
“No, of course not,” said Roose, surprised. “But we noticed that the rash of thefts stopped after your accident, so that gave us probable cause to look in yours.”
“Oh.” Well, that was what he’d been afraid was going to happen anyhow. “So what happens now?”
“You will leave the premises under escort,” said Roose, glancing over his shoulder at the thug, who did his shoulder trick again. “Since you are terminated for cause, you will forfeit your benefit package, including health coverage. However, I am obliged to inform you that there is a provision for you to continue the coverage at your own expense. You will receive a booklet in the mail explaining the program, called COBRA, how it works and the cost to you. The booklet will also describe other rights you have; for example, to appeal the firing. Mitch has the other contents of your locker in that grocery bag on his desk and will carry them out of the building for you. I’ll take your Heart Co
alition ID card, please.”
Tony wordlessly unclipped it from his jacket and handed it to him.
“I’m sorry this had to happen, Mr. Milan,” concluded Roose in a less formal tone. “We were looking forward to being a part of your finding a new structure for your life.” But he didn’t offer to shake Tony’s hand before he left the room.
Nor did the pissant say another word as he carried the bag ahead of Tony, who was followed by the thug. They went up the elevator, across the lobby, and out the front door. Mitch set the bag down on the sidewalk, offered Tony an ugly triumphant grin, and walked back inside, the thug behind him.
Twelve
TONY didn’t like his job, but he didn’t like getting fired, either. Especially since getting fired meant they’d cut off his health benefits. Oh, yes, there was COBRA; but he’d had a friend in the same mess, and paying for his own health insurance turned out to be very expensive.
So now Tony absolutely had to go close that Heart Fund bank account. He swiveled on his crutch to start up the street toward the bank, and someone called out to him, “Hey, you forgot something!”
He turned back and saw a short, thin man in jeans and dress shirt pointing snootily at the big paper bag. Tony nearly told the man what he could do with it, but realized he was in no condition to back up his attitude with muscle. So he went back, picked it up, and carried it half a block to a trash can where he stuffed it in.
He went down the street to the dark granite façade of First Express Bank. He’d picked this big downtown branch of the bank for his scam for two reasons: First, it was close to where he worked, so he could drop in easily; and second, it was big, so he could remain anonymous.
He went in and paused just inside the second set of doors to reconnoiter. And was immediately nudged from behind by a tall, young, frozen-faced woman with a lot of magnificent red hair, a green silk suit under an open leather coat, and an attaché case that probably cost more than Tony’s entire wardrobe.
“Pardon me,” she said frostily, “but you’re in my way.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said, matching her tone but moving a couple of yards sideways—this was no time to make a scene—“I’m still getting used to this crutch.”
She sniffed unsympathetically at his crutch and went on her way.
He considered the row of windows along one side of the low-ceilinged, maroon-and-gray-carpeted room with its square pillars, fenced-off office section, and stand-up table with holders for deposit and withdrawal forms.
He had already prepared a withdrawal slip at his apartment, so he got in line to present it at one of the four windows where a bank clerk stood. He wondered if there was ever a time when all ten windows were manned. Certainly he’d never seen them all open.
The pleasant-faced woman behind his window looked at the slip, punched some numbers into her computer, and said, “This will empty this account. Do you wish to close it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, smiling, feeling that little tingle he loved when getting away with something. He could almost feel the cash in his hand.
“There’s a separate form we’d like you to fill out to close an account.” Noting his crutch, she added, “If you like, there’s a place you can sit down while you work on it.”
“Do I have to fill out the form?” he asked. “I’m in kind of a hurry. Doctor’s appointment,” he said, adding a plaintive note to his voice and drooping just a little on his crutch.
She gave him a look of compassion, but said, “I’m sorry, but we can’t close an account without the form.” She handed him a single sheet of white paper. “Both sides, I’m afraid,” she said.
“All right.” He sighed, wishing he’d decided to leave the account open with a dollar in it. Should he say he’d changed his mind? No, she might wonder at that, and his whole flimsy house of cards would come down if anyone started wondering. “Where can I sit down?”
“Over there,” she said, pointing to a distant corner, where there stood a small wooden table and a pair of swivel secretarial chairs.
Tony made a pitiful display of traveling to it, which was not entirely faked. His leg was aching and the arm using the crutch was complaining of too-long use. He sat down and began filling out the form, which wasn’t complicated. There was a little space for him to write, in his own words, the reason he was closing the account.
He frowned over it for a minute or two, then wrote, Relocating to St. Paul.
St. Paul was an inspired answer. Tony thought it was simply amazing how a lot of people living in Minneapolis treated St. Paul as if it were on the other side of the state instead of just across the river. Of course, he knew a lot of people in St. Paul who bragged that they had never been to Minneapolis in their life. Tony was an anomaly because he was not afraid to go back and forth, but the bank didn’t know that. He was sure First Express would agree that if he was moving to St. Paul, he would not want to bank in Minneapolis anymore.
Still smiling at his clever ploy, he got back into line and soon was talking with the same bank teller.
“Oh, this is a business account,” she said, looking over the form.
“Yes, is there a problem with that?”
“Are you an officer of the company?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m chief financial officer.” That was the title Tony had given himself when drawing up the phony company’s organization papers.
“One moment, please.” She walked away and he frowned after her. Were they going to make a fuss? It didn’t matter—did it? He hoped not, but in any case this was taking more time than he had been prepared to give. His con artist sense was setting off alarms. He knew he should walk away now, right now, but he needed that money. Stick it out, he told himself. It’s gonna be all right. He promised himself a dose of Vicodin if he stayed.
Which reminded him, he was down to his last four pills. He should have called in a refill of the prescription this morning, but how was he to know what his goddam lying boss was up to, telling him to come in for some “routine paperwork”?
He wondered what the full price of a month’s worth of Vicodin was. A lot, probably. He’d have to go easy on them. Or maybe buy them off the street. But that was dangerous because sometimes you didn’t get what you thought you were buying.
The clerk was gone for a long time, long enough that the nice little thrill was long gone before he saw her coming back. He smiled at her, but she wasn’t going to give him his money just yet. “Do you have some identification?” she asked.
“Sure,” he replied and leaned on his crutch while locating and bringing out his wallet. He handed her his driver’s license.
She looked at it, then at him. “No, I mean some identification to show you work for the Heart Fund.”
“Oh. Of course.” He’d been asked for the identification card before, and generally a flash of it—too quick to let them see it read Heart Coalition, not Heart Fund—was all it took. But there was no card to flash today; it had been taken away from him earlier by the pissant’s boss. He reached into his jacket pocket, pretending surprise when he didn’t find it, and began poking around in other pockets. “I’m so sorry,” he said at last, “we’re packing up for the move and I guess I forgot to bring it along.” He raised the ante on his smile from friendly to ingratiating.
She looked again at his driver’s license and then at him. He said, “I probably don’t look much like my photo. I was in a car wreck.”
But the accident hadn’t changed his hair from dark brown to auburn, or added twenty pounds to his once-buff frame—by-product of a job that let him sit a lot and turn his prison-built muscles to flab.
“I need to have you speak to one of our account managers,” she said and walked away again.
Tony was blowing hot and cold by now and sighed heavily several times to help him keep his temper. He turned to watch the clerk go into the gated compound and speak to a woman behind a desk. And his heart sank: It was the cold-faced redhead who had complained about him blocking
her way into the bank.
After a little conversation, the clerk straightened and gestured at Tony to come over.
Their conversation didn’t take long; less than ten minutes later Tony was on his way out of the bank. He was in a rage, though he’d concealed it with all his con artist’s skill. And, really, she hadn’t been as shirty as she might have been. He had told her that he must have left his ID card at the office and inexplicably didn’t have a business card on him, either. That was harder to explain—every business person carries business cards. He had to say they were making new ones up with the new address. She nodded as if that sort of thing happened all the time—and who knows? Maybe it did.
And maybe he just imagined there had been a steely glint in her eye as she listened to his lies.
Anyway, they had shaken hands and she had told him he could bring his ID back later today and she’d be pleased to close the account for him.
But for Tony, that opportunity had left the building.
ALLIE was on her way out the door to a Tai Chi class when Godwin came knocking that evening. “I think we may have a development,” he announced. “But I’m not sure.”
“Come in, come in,” she said at once. “How can I help?”
“Do you have a better photograph of Bob than this?” He held out a newspaper clipping.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” she said, looking at the photo on the clipping. “I mean, okay, this is cut out of a newspaper, but it’s his official photo at work, and it looks just like him.”
“Are you sure?” Godwin turned the slip of newsprint around and studied it. “I saw him at the banquet, and when I saw this picture, I thought the real Bob was a few years younger and a few pounds heavier than this photograph makes him look. And his nose—I don’t know; somehow it just doesn’t look a lot like him.”
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