The Angels' Share

by R. R. Irvine

  “There’s no other choice in this town.”

  “Fine. Then it’s settled.”

  “I’ve been hired to find a missing person, Willis, as you so obviously know. Judging from what I’ve heard so far, it’s probably a wild-goose chase. So why bother warning me off?”

  “And if it isn’t a wild-goose chase?”

  “Then I’ll have another satisfied client, won’t I?”

  Tanner studied his wristwatch in a deliberate manner. “You don’t have a client. Newell Farnsworth will be calling here in fifteen minutes to terminate your services. I hope you’ve already cashed his check.”

  “And his daughter?”

  “She’s not your problem.”

  “What are you trying to cover up, Willis?”

  “We’re friends, Mo, so I don’t like to say things like this. But you’re not playing football in California now. This is Utah. Here some things count more than money.”

  “Which is one of the reasons I came back home.”

  “Listen to me. You’re not a member of the church. I understand that. We’re tolerant. Live and let live, that’s our motto. But get in our way, Mo, and that’s the end of you.”

  Tanner pushed back from his chair and stood up. “You know the rules. They’re ours. We made them and we can change them any time we want.”

  Traveler shrugged.

  “Just so we understand each other,” Tanner said as he left the office.

  Traveler immediately took the phone off the hook. “The man can’t fire us if he can’t reach us.”

  “You’re better off out of it,” Martin said before his voice cracked and he had to cough to clear his throat.

  “Are you coming with me to Missing Persons or not?”

  “Shit,” Martin said, rising slowly to his feet. “Somebody’s got to cover your back.”

  6

  FIFTY THOUSAND years ago most of Utah was under water. Since then evolution and evaporation have taken their toll, leaving behind the Great Salt Lake as it is now, not to mention the vast desert sinkhole that became known as Brigham Young’s promised land.

  But there were times, like today, when Traveler got the feeling that God was trying to take it all back. A furnace wind, as astringent as the salt flats that spawned it, stung his eyes as he and his father fought their way to the parking lot.

  Once there, they had to wrap handkerchiefs around their hands just to touch the car’s door handles. But they couldn’t keep the vinyl seats from scorching their backsides.

  Squirming, Traveler said, “It must be a hundred and ten in here. I hope the air conditioner doesn’t blow the engine.”

  “Don’t you remember? A lizard of an old man like me doesn’t need such things.” Martin handed over his handkerchief so his son could grip the steering wheel with both hands.

  The melting asphalt sank beneath the Ford’s tires as Traveler headed down West Temple. When he turned left on Fourth South the car felt unstable, as if it were about to hydroplane.

  Heat waves made the police building shimmer like a mirage on the verge of disappearing. Inside, a forty-degree drop in temperature made Traveler feel just as unstable.

  Martin began shivering so badly his teeth clicked between words. “For Christ’s sake. Let’s go home. I’m getting too old for this kind of thing.”

  They found Sergeant Aldon Rasmussen, a sports fan turned dealer in sports memorabilia, on duty in Missing Persons. He led them past a counter meant to keep the general public at bay and into a cubicle surrounded on three sides by four-foot walls. It offered no privacy and only two chairs. Martin paced outside, trying to keep warm.

  “I came across an old jersey of mine the other day,” Traveler said by way of an opening ploy. An L.A. warm-up jacket had once paved the way for information on a runaway juvenile.

  “Has it got your name and number on it?” the cop asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “What kind of condition?”

  “There’s still blood on it,” Traveler lied.

  “Yeah?” His eyes lit up. “What would you want for something like that?”

  “Help with a missing person.”

  Rasmussen rubbed a thumb and forefinger together as if savoring invisible money. Traveler suspected he already had a customer in mind.

  “Give me the name of your subject? I’ll run it through the computer.”

  “Armstrong. Heber Armstrong.”

  “Forget it. That’s one name I don’t have to punch in. I know it by heart. Strictly hands off. Those are the orders.” He blew on his fingers before tucking them into his armpits.

  Martin stopped pacing long enough to give Traveler an I-told-you-so look.

  “What if I autograph the jersey?” Traveler said.

  “You know me, Moroni. I’d like to do it. I’d also like to keep my pension.”

  “Why the secrecy?”

  Rasmussen smiled crookedly and pointed toward the heavens, or maybe just the executive offices above.

  “Just tell me one thing. Is Heber Armstrong the only name on your forbidden list?”

  “What about the jersey?”

  “It’s yours for a slip of the tongue.”

  “Three names came down. I was told that all of them were out of bounds as far as the police department was concerned, no matter who filed the missing persons report.”

  “I know you, Aldon. You’d punch them into the computer just to see what came up.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’m signing that jersey, don’t forget.”

  “Shit. Don’t tell anybody where you got this, but only one of those names was ever officially reported as missing. The report was withdrawn the same day, whatever the hell that means.”

  “Watch it,” Martin warned. “We’ve got company.”

  Traveler stepped out of the cubicle in time to see Newell Farnsworth, escorted by a lieutenant, bearing down on them.

  “I’m here to terminate your services,” the man announced as soon as he was within range.

  “This is Mr. Farnsworth,” the lieutenant said to Rasmussen, ignoring Traveler and his father. “I’m turning him over to you, Sergeant. It concerns one of those special cases that were discussed earlier. Do you follow me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Traveler introduced Martin and himself.

  “I’m aware of your reputation,” the lieutenant said. “Father and son. One mean for his size, and the other mean because of it. Now, Sergeant, if you’ll escort these gentlemen to the other side of the counter where the public belongs.”

  “Mr. Farnsworth too?”

  “I think Mr. Farnsworth will be quite happy to leave.”

  Farnsworth was nodding even before the lieutenant finished speaking.

  “You heard the lieutenant,” Rasmussen said as he spread his arms and began herding them toward the counter.

  Once they were beyond the barrier, Traveler took hold of Farnsworth’s arm. “How did you know where to find us?”

  “Mr. Tanner called me from church headquarters.”

  Traveler exchanged a pained look with his father. There was only one way for Willis Tanner to know something like that. He‘d had them followed.

  “Some detectives we are,” Martin said.

  “Is that the Willis Tanner you’re talking about?” Rasmussen asked.

  Traveler nodded.

  “Shit.” The cop turned and fled back to his cubicle.

  His lieutenant grinned and said, “I guess that leaves me to escort you gentlemen downstairs.”

  No one spoke in the elevator. As soon as they passed out through the metal detectors, Farnsworth offered to shake hands. “I’m sorry, Mr. Traveler. When I got that call there was nothing else I could do.”

  “You can have your check back. We haven’t cashed it yet.”

  “I’m not here about the money. There’s someone God would like you to meet. He‘s waiting for us outside.”

  7

  THE MAN sitting cross-legged on a small
patch of grass near the main entrance looked totally relaxed, as if the blistering heat had nothing to do with him. He rose at their approach, showing a lean body encased in clothes that Traveler hadn’t seen the likes of since visiting the Pioneer Museum. His shirt, a pullover without buttons or collar, was made of soft homespun cloth. Its sleeves were loose and rolled to the elbows. His black trousers had no fly in the front. He was rosy-cheeked and youthful-looking despite a wispy gray beard and sixty years of wear. His twinkling eyes kept Traveler from labeling his a bishop’s face.

  “This is Orson Pack,” Farnsworth said. “I’d like you to shake hands with him.”

  The man’s long, bony fingers were cool despite the heat. His grip was firm.

  Farnsworth beckoned to Martin. “You, too, if you don’t mind?”

  Martin shrugged and shook hands. Pack held on a beat longer than necessary.

  My God, Traveler thought. He wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, not in this day and age. Farnsworth had set them up to be judged by the touch of a faith healer.

  Traveler glanced at his father. Martin nodded back to show he knew the score. “Well now, what’s the verdict? Do my son and I pass?”

  Farnsworth’s mouth fell open.

  “We’re not as naive as you might think,” Traveler said.

  Farnsworth started to say something, then appeared to think better of it. He deferred to Pack.

  “Lucifer is not among us,” the man said.

  “Orson is Reformed,” Farnsworth explained.

  In the language of Mormon country, that meant he was a member of one of the offshoot sects that had broken away from the LDS church. Association with such a man could cost Farnsworth his position as bishop. Even his soul, if it came to excommunication.

  “He‘s shaken hands with the devil before and bested him. He has the power of healing in his touch, too.”

  Pack thrust his hands behind his back as if to keep them out of harm’s way. “ ‘Lay your hands upon the sick, and they shall recover.’ Doctrine and Covenants, gentlemen. The Book of Mormon as it was written, as it will always be. Scripture is not open to interpretation. It cannot be updated or modernized to fit the times, or the needs of the church. It is the word of God.”

  Martin coughed. “Which reformed group are you with?”

  “We are called the Saints of the Last Day. God’s chosen people on earth.”

  Utah was filled with such men. True believers who, unlike Traveler, went through life without being tortured by doubts.

  “Where are your headquarters?” his father asked.

  Pack unclasped his hands and touched Martin again, as if reassuring himself that he hadn’t lost his knack. “We have a place near Kamas.”

  Martin looked as surprised as Traveler felt. The town of Kamas stood at the edge of the High Uinta Primitive Area, unforgiving country high enough in the Uinta Mountains to be classified as a semiarctic region. Not the kind of place one expected to find a religious sect, most of which were hand-to-mouth operations that had trouble feeding themselves, let alone coping with freezing temperatures all year around.

  “I might visit you one of these days,” Martin said.

  Traveler blinked in disbelief.

  “Now that you’ve passed our test,” Pack said with a nod to Farnsworth, “we want you to continue searching for Heber Armstrong.”

  “You seem to forget that we were fired ten minutes ago,” Traveler said.

  Farnsworth gestured for attention. “I was given an order. As a bishop I obeyed. But that doesn’t mean Uncle Orson can’t ask you to help my daughter find happiness.”

  “You’d better think that over carefully. In this state even the banks don’t have secrets from the church. If we cash your check, Willis Tanner will know it. He works directly for the prophet, Elton Woolley.”

  “We’ve thought of that. I’ll mail you cash in the morning. When you get it, tear up my check.”

  “My father and I have already been followed,” Traveler said. “Otherwise Tanner wouldn’t have known where to find us. By now he probably knows about our meeting with Mr. Pack.”

  “Suzanne’s happiness is at stake, Mr. Traveler. With Orson’s help I’ve come to realize that’s worth any risk.”

  “What about the risk to her?”

  “She loves Heber. That’s all that counts as far as she’s concerned.”

  “All right. A missing missionary appeals to me, I’ll admit that.”

  “Now just a damned minute,” Martin said. “I want a moment alone with my son, if you two don’t mind.”

  He pulled Traveler as far as the 4th South curb, distant enough to be out of earshot. “In this town there’s one rule of survival. Don’t stick your nose into LDS business.”

  “Willis owes me one.”

  “You know better than that. To him, you’re nothing but a soulless gentile. You’re going to hell and he’s going to an exclusively Mormon heaven.”

  Traveler changed the subject. “How does Pack strike you?”

  Martin fished out the handkerchief he’d loaned his son earlier and coughed into it. A rattling sound came from his throat. “He seems sincere enough to me.”

  “What do you say? Let’s give it a day or two. If we haven’t found the missing kid by then we can always reconsider.”

  “Count me out. This is one time you’re on your own.”

  Traveler reached out tentatively, as if searching for devils of his own. “Since when have you been afraid of anything, even the church?”

  “A man changes when he gets old. He—” A fit of coughing doubled him over.

  “Jesus, Dad. Are you all right?”

  Traveler was wondering what the hell to do when Orson Pack arrived and went down on his knees in front of his father. In one practiced motion, his fingers pressed together and his head bowed. An instant later both hands reached out to take hold of Martin.

  Within seconds the coughing stopped.

  “Take me home,” Martin whispered.

  Traveler sought explanation in Pack’s face, but the man’s eyes were closed.

  “We’ll watch over him while you get your car,” Farnsworth said.

  Ignoring the heat, Traveler ran all the way to the parking lot. As soon as he pulled up to the curb in front of the police building, Pack and Farnsworth helped Martin into the front seat. Until that moment, Traveler hadn’t seen the blood on his father’s handkerchief.

  8

  THROUGH GESTURES Martin communicated the fact that he didn’t want to talk. It might start him coughing again. But there was something in his expression that told Traveler there was more to it than that. Even so, they drove in silence to the house on First Avenue, a one-story pioneer relic complete with adobe walls two feet thick. The place was sandwiched between U Street on the west and Virginia to the east, which for some reason had escaped Brigham Young’s lettering system. Though the sun was beginning to set, the temperature hadn’t dropped more than a few degrees.

  As soon as they were inside, still cool because of the adobe, Martin led the way into the kitchen where he dug a bottle of scotch from beneath the sink.

  “Straight or with water?” he asked his son in a whisper.

  “I’ll pass for the moment.”

  “Suit yourself.” Martin, who still held the stained handkerchief clenched in one fist, leaned against the sink and drank directly from the bottle.

  Traveler watched in sick fascination as his father’s Adam’s apple bobbed repeatedly. He‘d never seen Martin drink like that. He was obviously fortifying himself to say something that already scared the hell out of Traveler.

  When Martin took his mouth from the bottle, sweat beaded his brow and upper lip. He coughed once, tentatively. When that didn’t trigger another attack he put away his handkerchief and sighed.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go into the living room and talk.” He carried the bottle with him.

  They sat on reclining chairs. The newest one, covered in
brown tweed, had been Traveler’s gift last Christmas.

  Martin kicked back, took a short pull at the bottle, and then handed it to Traveler. “You’d better have one for yourself, son. We’re both going to need it.”

  Traveler winced and swallowed a mouthful of scotch, as much to ease the knot in his stomach as please his father.

  “I’ve got a tumor in my throat,” Martin said.

  Traveler came out of his recliner so fast he spilled whiskey down the front of his shirt and slacks.

  “For Christ’s sake, be careful.” Martin fished the bottle cap from his shirt pocket and held it out at arm’s length. “That’s the last bottle and I’ve got a long night ahead of me.”

  Stunned, Traveler accepted the offering. The word cancer grew inside him until his chest felt constricted. He had to force air in and out of his lungs, and even then he felt lightheaded.

  “Don’t just stand there, screw it on.”

  Traveler stared down at his trembling fingers.

  “Here,” Martin said. “Let me do that before you spill the rest of it.”

  The tumor of fear expanded. Death came with it, a thought so ugly that Traveler shook his head violently to rid himself of it.

  Oh, Dad, was all he could say, and that wasn’t out loud. You’ve always been there when I needed you. You bailed me out when I was drunk at seventeen. You saved my sanity when I crippled a man playing football.

  Martin rose far enough in his recliner to take the bottle and cap from his son’s palsied hands.

  “Doc Murphy doesn’t know if it’s malignant or not. That’s why I’m going back tomorrow.”

  Somehow Traveler managed to speak. He was surprised that his voice sounded normal. “For a biopsy?”

  Martin nodded. “I’ll go in the hospital as an outpatient in the morning and be out sometime in the afternoon. Whatever the verdict, Doc says the damned thing has got to come out eventually.”

  When Traveler reached for his father’s hand, Martin pretended to misread the gesture. “Wait your turn. I’m not through drinking yet.” He unscrewed the cap and tilted the bottle.

  Traveler turned and walked to the other end of the long living room, where he stood staring out through the French doors. His father’s Jeep, which was parked on the other side of the glass, blurred through tears. God, what were the options? Surgery. Radiation. Chemotherapy. He was afraid to ask.