Short Money

by Pete Hautman

  “How you doing, Ollie?” he said. “Stuff any rhinos lately?”

  Ollie swiveled his head back and forth. “Negatory,” he said.

  “You got a seat for me?”

  Ollie let his head fall to his right, toward the empty chair next to the younger guy wearing the camouflage coveralls. Crow circled the table and sat down, Ricky’s eyes tracking him all the way. Ollie shuffled the deck, dealt five cards to each player.

  “Five-card draw?” Crow asked.

  “Now what the hell you think it is, Crow?” Ricky said. “Old Maid?”

  The other player, the one in the pink cowboy shirt, said, “Crow? Your name is Crow?” The man reached across the table. Crow shook his soft hand. He didn’t like the way the man was looking at him, grinning like he had a secret. “I’m Dr. Nelson Bellweather.” He waited, as though expecting Crow to recognize him.

  Crow blinked away the tequila haze, examined Bellweather’s flushed, bright-eyed face. “Let me guess,” he said. “Is that pink Jag out there yours? License plate FATGONE?”

  “Yes it is,” said Dr. Bellweather, looking pleased.

  “You were doing seventy-nine out there on County Five.”

  Bellweather raised his eyebrows. “Oh!” He laughed. “Were you hiding behind a billboard? Are you going to give me a ticket?”

  Crow looked at his cards, focused with some effort, saw a pair of fours. “I check.”

  “I believe we have a common acquaintance,” Bellweather said. “I mean besides Ricky here.”

  “Crow ain’t no ’quaintance a mine,” Ricky growled.

  “Hey Ricky!” Berdette yelled from behind the bar. He held up a phone. “It’s George.”

  Ricky stood up. “Keep yer hands offa my cards,” he said, staring at Crow. “I’ll be right back.” He grabbed his drink and headed toward the bar, fighting a tendency to list to the right.

  Bellweather giggled. “I guess he doesn’t like you.”

  Crow nodded, staring at his cards, trying to turn his fours into aces. It had never worked before, but who knew? He’d rather indulge in fantasy than explore common acquaintances with a guy who’d painted a Jaguar pink.

  Bellweather persisted. “I know your brother-in-law. Dave Getter, right?”

  Crow’s head snapped up.

  Bellweather flashed a victory grin. “My lawyer. Dave is my lawyer. When I told him I hunted out here, he told me his wife’s brother was a Big River cop. John Crow, right? I always remember names. That’s you, right? How many John Crows can there be?”

  “It’s Joe,” said Crow. He did not like this Dr. Bellweather.

  Bellweather waved away the correction. “John, Joe—what’s the difference? You’re the same guy, right?”

  Crow sighed. His stomach was hurting again. In a prick contest, this guy would give his brother-in-law some serious competition. It made sense that they had found each other.

  “Dave’s a good man,” Bellweather said.

  “Dave’s an asshole,” said Crow. He was about to enlarge on this observation when he looked up and saw Ricky Murphy charging across the room, straight at him, brandishing one of Berdette’s wooden barstools, holding it high over his head like a bludgeon.

  The image had a cartoonish, unreal quality about it. Ricky’s movements seemed slowed down, but then so were Crow’s reactions. He tried to stand up, his thighs hit the edge of the table, bottles of beer tipped, foam gushed over cards. Crow twisted, got his legs free. Ricky was still coming, his face red and distorted with fury. Crow took a step back and crouched, hands extended clawlike to meet the assault.

  But Ricky had someone else in mind. He brought the stool down hard across Dr. Bellweather’s back. The legs of the stool splintered. Bellweather collapsed to the floor, air squeaking from his astonished lungs. Ricky’s momentum carried him crashing into the card table, stumbling over it, directly at Crow, who, without conscious thought, landed a perfect right jab on the point of Ricky Murphy’s jaw. Ricky went down hard, facefirst on the floor, and remained still, his Stetson rocking gently on its crown beside him.

  Crow shook out his hand, which had gone numb.

  Dr. Bellweather had managed to get up on his hands and knees. The young man in camouflage helped him stand. The doctor looked dazed and in pain, his eyes not quite focused.

  “You okay?”

  Bellweather nodded uncertainly.

  Crow asked, “What was that about?”

  The doctor shook his head, bewildered. “I … I can’t imagine.” He gripped his friend’s arm, not quite able to stand up straight.

  Ricky was stirring, limbs twitching in anticipation of consciousness.

  Crow said, “If I were you, I’d get out of here.”

  “Are you going to arrest him?” the doctor said.

  Crow shook his head. “Best thing would be if you’d get in that pink car of yours and go.”

  Bellweather opened his mouth to object, then clamped it shut. Ricky raised his head, muttering and cursing. “You’re dead, cocksucker,” he growled, his eyes on the doctor.

  Crow dropped a knee onto the small of Ricky’s back, grabbed him by the hair, put his mouth near Ricky’s ear. “Stay,” he said, his voice tight and low. “One move and your head’s a basketball. Understand?”

  “You better get the fuck offa me, Crow.”

  Crow pulled up on Ricky’s head, bounced it once on the linoleum tile.

  Ricky groaned and went limp. Crow turned to the doctor. “Get out of here,” he said. “Now.”

  The camouflaged man said, “C’mon, Doc. Let’s get going.” He steered the stunned doctor toward the door.

  Crow watched them leave. He thought, This is not good. He could feel Ricky’s breathing, the rise and fall of his rib cage against his knee, the tense muscles of his back. The world had grown small again, and darker. The sounds of excited conversation grated on Crow’s ears, a distant roar. Berdette was coming across the room, shaking his head, holding the old shotgun he kept under the bar. A wave of something awful swept through Crow’s body. It wasn’t nausea, or pain, or anger, or sorrow. The fight had taken something out of him. Something was missing, as if he had a hole, a cavity inside, as though he had misplaced some essential part of his being. He struggled to identify it.

  Berdette said, “Joe? You okay?”

  Of course. He knew now what he needed.

  He said, “Berdette, how about you bring me another double Cuervo.”

  Anderson cleared his throat. “So what happened back there, Doc?”

  Bellweather shook his head, both hands gripping the steering wheel, his back rigid. He hadn’t said a word since they’d left Birdy’s.

  “Is he crazy or something?”

  Bellweather nodded.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Bellweather shrugged, shook his head, shivered.

  Maybe I better shut up, Anderson thought. They rode in silence for a few miles. It was getting dark, and a few snowflakes flashed across the headlight beams. The beer and the Juicy Lucy had finally merged to form a comfortable warm mass behind his navel. He let his head fall back against the headrest and closed his eyes. He had been asleep only seconds, it seemed, when Bellweather finally said something.

  “What?” Anderson shook his head to clear it. The snow was getting heavier.

  “I said I want in. That BioStellar. What have I got sitting in my account, Stevie?”

  “Cash?”

  “Altogether.”

  “I don’t know. A little over two hundred thousand. About two twenty.”

  Bellweather nodded sadly. A year ago it had been six times that. “I’ve got a situation with the feds, you know.”

  “You’ve mentioned it.”

  “Right. Well, I’ve been fighting with those bastards for over a year now. You think Ricky Murphy clobbered me? That’s nothing. The IRS, they’re the ones that’re killing me. They’re going to take every last dime I’ve got. If I want to have anything left over, I’m going to have to make
a play. I want you to put me in all the way, Stevie. I need to get back up into the seven-figure range, you understand?”

  Anderson stared out through the windshield. It would be irresponsible to put all of the doctor’s money into one security, especially something as speculative as BioStellar.

  “Uh, Doc, you know, there is an element of risk here.”

  “I don’t want to hear about it. Life is too short. If this baby doesn’t take off, I’m screwed anyways. I can play the market or take my money out to Vegas and put it all on a number.”

  Anderson hesitated, thought a moment. “You don’t want to go to Vegas,” he said.

  III

  It is a card of profound significance, but all the significance is veiled.

  —ARTHUR E. WAITE, THE PICTORIAL KEY TO THE TAROT

  MELINDA SAT ON THE SOFA, facing east, legs shrouded by her black cotton bathrobe. She heard the key in the front door but did not look away from the tarot cards laid out on the coffee table before her. There was a problem with the number three card, which represented the best that could be expected. The card was Death, and it had appeared upside down, a promise that something would be taken from her, something she had no right to possess. The door opened; a river of chilly air slithered into the room, carrying with it a few flakes of snow. Melinda shivered, lifted her eyes to watch him enter. She could tell by the way he closed the door, overcareful and deliberate, that he’d had a lot to drink. She lifted her wineglass in her hand, sipped. So had she.

  “Hi,” he said.

  Melinda smiled, nodded. They weren’t the sort of drunks who would scream and throw furniture. Their conflict occurred on nonphysical planes, his intellectual, hers emotional. But it was just as real. If she was drunk enough, she wouldn’t feel the pain until later, when she would see it in the cards.

  Joe Crow removed his coat, hung it on a hook by the door.

  “Winter,” he said. He unbuckled his belt and holster, hung it beside the coat, sat down heavily in the Queen Anne chair on the other side of the coffee table.

  “Happy birthday,” Melinda said.

  “Sorry I’m late. I ran into a little problem. Ricky Murphy again.”

  “Do you want some wine? There’s a bottle on the kitchen table.” There was only a glass or so left. She hoped he wouldn’t drink it. She thought she might need it to get to sleep.

  He shook his head. “Is there anything to eat?”

  Melinda said, “Bread, ham, pickles, sour cream, ketchup, bananas.” She closed her eyes, visualizing the refrigerator in greater detail. “Eggs, lettuce, jalapeño peppers, stale tortillas, apple juice …”

  He looked disappointed. “What happened to that birthday dinner you were going to make me?”

  “You were late.”

  “What if I’d been on time?”

  She shook her head. “You weren’t going to be.” She said it as though she’d had special knowledge, as though the future had been laid out for her, and in part she believed it. In part she was the Queen of Wands. A more pragmatic Melinda, however, knew that she’d spent the afternoon and early evening chipping away at the little rock she’d bought for his birthday present, shaving off a little hit here, a little hit there, reading the cards, delaying the planned dinner ten minutes at a time until it became clear that Joe was late. She stared down at her obstacle card, the nine of wands: delay, suspension, adjournment. She’d done the last of the coke an hour ago.

  Joe nodded, signifying not understanding but acceptance. As always, he would refuse to engage her.

  “What happened with Ricky Murphy?” Melinda sipped her wine, a dark-red Bordeaux that Joe would have enjoyed with the steak she had planned to serve but had never gotten around to buying. She let her eyes rest on the tarot layout, listened to her husband talk about his day. It wasn’t very interesting—he said he’d spent most of his shift sitting in his car, waiting for speeders. Joe’s significator card, the King of Swords, had not appeared in any of her layouts. She listened, hearing a few key words, but most of her attention remained on the cards. Their message was disturbing. Every layout she’d spread that night had delivered the same message, had confirmed what her pragmatic mind had been telling her for months. Joe’s voice receded to a drone, then something caught her ear, a familiar name.

  “Who did you say?”

  “This Dr. Bellweather. I don’t know what kind of doctor he is. He’s not a local. I got the impression he works out of Minneapolis. He knows Dave Getter, so I’m sure it’s something sleazy. The next thing I know, Ricky is trying to kill the guy with a barstool, and I had to step in.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “The doctor? As far as I know.”

  “Why did Ricky attack him?”

  “I have no idea. I asked, but all I got from Ricky was ‘Fuck you, Crow.’ It was very strange. One minute they were playing cards, then Ricky gets a phone call, and a minute later he’s trying to break the guy’s skull. After I got the doctor out of there I had to do something with Ricky, so I cuffed him to his Hummer.”

  “His what?”

  “That thing he drives. Haven’t you ever seen it?”

  “Cars all look the same.”

  “You’d remember this one. Anyway, one thing led to another, and I had a few drinks with some of the guys. So that’s how come I’m late.” He looked at the tarot cards. A sarcastic note entered his voice. “But you probably could see all that in your cards.”

  “That’s right, it’s all here.” And more, she thought, as her eyes were drawn back to the final card, the sign of things to come: the Empress, reversed.

  “He’s still there, as far as I know.”

  “What?”

  “Ricky. He’s still handcuffed to his Hummer.” He laughed. “It’s probably the longest he’s ever been locked up.”

  “Do you think that was a good idea?”

  “What difference does it make? Ricky already hates my guts, and Orlan Johnson thinks I’m his prize fuckup. What’s he gonna do, fire me? Arrest me?”

  “He could.”

  “Ask me if I give a shit.”

  Melinda looked back at the Empress. “Do you give a shit?” she said quietly.

  Joe leaned toward her. “What?”

  The Empress sat before the trees, behind the wheat, elegant in her poppy-studded gown, her stellar diadem, judging with her accusatory, pitiless gaze. Alienation. Domestic upheaval. A relationship in chaos.

  “What’s wrong?” she heard him ask.

  She felt tears on her face. She hadn’t planned it this way, but there was no more waiting left in her. She hadn’t planned to give him this for his birthday.

  “What?” he asked. She could hear the fear in his voice, as clear as the message in the cards.

  Mrs. Orlan Johnson, née Hillary Murphy, let the telephone ring. She was reading one of the sexy bits in this week’s historical romance novel. The ringing phone could not compete with the contessa’s heaving bosom as it pressed hungrily against the broad, firm pectorals of Raban, the outlaw prince. As his hard lips sought the tender spot at the base of her throat, Hillary heard a voice calling her name.

  “Hill!”

  Ring!

  “Hill! You want to get that?”

  Hillary pressed her lips together and looked up from her book.

  Ring!

  Why didn’t he get it himself? And where was he yelling from anyway? She could hardly hear him.

  Ring!

  “Got-damn it, Hill, I’m sitting on the got-damn pot!”

  Ring!

  Hillary set the book on the end table, levered herself up from the chintz sofa, crossed the room to the ringing phone.

  “Hello?”

  It was her brother George. Who else would let the phone ring fifteen or twenty times? Anybody but George would have given up a dozen rings ago. As usual, he wanted to talk to Orlan.

  “He’s busy,” Hillary said. “Do you want him to call you back later?”

  “Busy? Tell him to get his as
s off the shitter and get on the phone, Sis.”

  “George, it’s after ten o’clock at night. We’re getting ready for bed.” She didn’t like to see her husband jump to attention every time George snapped his fingers, even though she could see why it had to be that way. Left on his own, Orlan would never get anything done. Still, she wished he would stand up to George now and then, show her brother he wasn’t just a flunky in uniform, even if he was.

  “Who is it?” Orlan shouted from the bathroom.

  She put her palm over the mouthpiece. “It’s George, honey. Do you want to call him back later?”

  “I’ll talk to him.” She heard the toilet flush, the door opening, and her husband’s thumping progress down the stairs. As always, after she’d spent an hour with Raban, the outlaw prince, it came as a nasty dose of reality to see her husband, especially bare-chested. His pectorals were soft and swollen, almost like a woman’s breasts. Below them, a pale, flaccid abdomen drooped over unbuttoned trousers. Everything about him was soft and gelatinous. She handed him the telephone receiver and went back to reading her novel.

  The conversation was brief and one-sided. Thirty seconds later, Orlan Johnson hung up the phone, sighed, and sank into the sofa beside his wife.

  Hillary lowered her book and said, “So what did George have to say?”

  “He called to complain about that Joe Crow.”

  “Who?”

  “One of my men.”

  “Have I met him?”

  “Yeah. At the department picnic. I remember you told me he looked like a Celtic rogue, whatever the hell that is.”

  Hillary frowned and tried to remember. “Oh, yes. The one with the dark eyes. The brooding one. A very attractive young man. With the pretty blond wife. The weaver.”

  “Yeah. Well, he’s been bothering your brother Ricky again. Handcuffed him to his Hummer. I guess Ricky was pretty upset.”

  “Why did he do that?”

  “Knowing Ricky, I’m sure Crow had his reasons, but … well, I can’t have my officers doing that sort of thing. If the kid’s being a little rambunctious, then fine, jack him down a notch, but Crow has this thing about Ricky, keeps wanting to lock him up.”