Short Money

by Pete Hautman

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going home. Where are my car keys?”

  “You don’t believe him, do you?”

  “I don’t know what to believe. Where are my keys?”

  “George Murphy is psychotic. You can’t believe anything he says.”

  Crow shrugged, thinking the same could easily be true of Bellweather.

  “Keys,” he said.

  “They’re in your car, under the floor mat. You’re coming back tonight, aren’t you?”

  “I’ll be back.” He remembered a question he had been meaning to ask. “By the way, that tiger, is it a pet? Or are the Murphys planning to sell it to some trophy hunter?”

  Bellweather crossed his arms. The question seemed to calm him. He liked to talk about hunting. “Actually, the Bengal was supposed to be mine. George got it for me. I suppose he’ll be selling it to somebody else now.”

  “You were going to shoot it?”

  Bellweather nodded. “Fair chase. That’s the only way I’ll hunt. They release the animal, and it’s just you and the cat, one on one. Same as hunting in the wild, except you know the game is out there. I was jaguar hunting down in Costa Rica last month. Took me three days in that damn jungle before I even caught sight of one, and another week to get a clean shot. Cost me a fortune. Then I try to bring it home, and the U.S. Fish and Wildlife people grab it at the border. A shame. It was a beautiful cat. Those game wardens are worse than the IRS.”

  “You sound like George. I thought jaguars were an endangered species.”

  “That’s what the Fish and Wildlife people claim, but try and tell them that down in Central America when some little kid gets hauled off into the jungle and devoured.”

  “Does that ever happen?”

  Bellweather shrugged. “There are stories. You ever see one of those cats up close, you believe it. The fact is, there are a lot of jaguars in the jungle, more than anybody knows. Those Fish and Wildlife people are a bunch of self-important, overzealous bureaucrats who have nothing better to do than harass legitimate sportsmen. These so-called endangered species—you know you’re not even supposed to shoot one that’s been raised in captivity?”

  “Shoot one what?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Tiger, rhino, leopard, jaguar, you name it. If it’s on their list and they catch you, you could go to jail. These are domestic animals we’re talking about here. Next thing you know, they’ll be prosecuting ranchers for sending cattle to the slaughterhouse.”

  “I didn’t think cattle were endangered.”

  “That’s exactly my point,” said Bellweather. “That tiger George got for me, it’s just an old female, way past her breeding years. Do you think the species is going to be hurt when she dies? Hardly. No real reason not to take her. She’s a gorgeous cat, isn’t she?”

  Crow turned away from Bellweather and walked out of his office. He passed through the dining room. Nate Bellweather was sitting on the white sofa in the living room, reading a copy of House Beautiful. The concept of the canned tiger hunt hung on Crow like a fog, cold and clammy. Did it offend him more deeply than the thought of Bellweather playing doctor with a ten-year-old boy? Perhaps.

  The world had become very quiet and dark. Shawn waited, counting his breaths. He counted to two hundred, then sat up and pushed the blanket aside. He felt like he’d been hiding for days. When he climbed into the Jaguar, he’d expected to remain hidden for only a few minutes. He had expected to surprise Doc as soon as they were off the ranch, but when the driver turned out to be this other man, a stranger, Shawn hadn’t known what to do except stay quiet and wait. Now the man was gone, and it was dark. The engine popped and hissed, cooling. Shawn climbed over the seat and fumbled for the door latch. He remembered that Doc’s car had a funny kind of door handle. There. The door opened, and the inside light came on. It wasn’t much of a light, but he could see that he was in a garage. Was it Doc’s garage?

  He hoped Doc would be glad to see him. During the long ride, he’d been thinking about what had happened several weeks before. When his dad had walked into his bedroom and caught him doing it. He remembered the awful feeling, holding his boner, his pants around his ankles, looking up at his dad’s big red face. Shawn had instantly known that he was in some kind of trouble.

  “What are you doing?” his father roared. “Put your pants on, goddammit!”

  Shawn yanked his jeans up so hard it hurt. He was scared. How bad a thing had he done? He didn’t know, but it must’ve been pretty bad the way his dad was breathing, the way his face was all red and splotchy. He shoved his stiff penis into his jeans and zipped them up.

  His dad had his mouth clamped shut, breathing through his nose like one of the buffaloes. “Where’d you learn that?” he asked in a gravelly voice. “A boy your age.”

  Shawn gaped at his father, watching his face display a series of tics and minor convulsions, waiting for the next eruption. For several seconds, they stood without moving, the only sound that of air rushing in and out of his dad’s lungs. He seemed to be calming down. For the first time, Shawn dared to hope that he wasn’t going to get hit. “Where’d you learn that?” George repeated in a softer voice.

  Shawn saw an opportunity to deflect his father’s anger. “Doc showed me how,” he said, thinking that invoking Doc Bellweather’s name would make it legitimate. Doc was an important client. He thought that his dad would say something like, “Oh, well, if Doc told you it was okay, then never mind.”

  Wrong.

  Right after he’d said that about Doc was when he saw Grandy, standing right there behind his dad, her face all twisted up the way it got when she was about to hit him, only this time she didn’t. She fell down on her knees and just started screaming. It scared his dad even worse than it did Shawn, on account of he hadn’t even known she was standing there at all. George had jumped about six inches off the ground, which was a lot for a guy as big as he was.

  But he hadn’t got hit, at least. Just locked in his room for what seemed like days but was really only a few hours. And then for about a week they were all acting real weird around him, not talking much. He hadn’t seen Doc since. He knew that he had gotten Doc in trouble. His uncle Ricky told him flat out that he was going to shoot the doctor “right in the fuckin’ nuts.” Of course, Grandy wasn’t around when he’d said that, or she’d’ve popped him one.

  He hoped the doc wouldn’t be mad. He thought about it. Yeah, Doc would probably be mad. But Shawn would take a mad Doc Bellweather over a mad George any day, and when his dad found he’d shot his prize elk, he was gonna be boiling.

  He heard the muted sound of an engine turning over just outside the garage door. The engine caught. Shawn remained still, listening. He heard the engine sound deepen, then the creak of tires rolling across packed snow. He pulled and twisted several knobs on the dashboard until the headlights flared bright on the back wall. He was definitely in a garage. He climbed out of the car. There were two doors, the large overhead door through which the car had entered and a normal, people-size door. Shawn went to the smaller door, turned the handle. The door opened directly into a kitchen, which reminded him that he was hungry. He could hear faint voices. He stepped inside and took a breath. He decided to go for it.

  “Hello?” he called.

  The voices ceased.

  “Anybody here?”

  He heard quiet footsteps. He took a few more steps into the kitchen. One doorway led to a hallway, a second doorway opened into a dining room. Shawn started for the dining room. He had taken only two steps when a figure dove through the door, hit the floor, rolled, and came up into a kneeling shooter’s stance, pointing a gun right at Shawn’s face. Shawn froze, mesmerized by the black hole in the end of the long barrel. For a moment, he thought he was about to be shot, but things had happened so fast he had no time to become frightened. Would he feel anything? One full second crawled by. He noticed that the hole in the end of the gun barrel was moving, jerking from side to side. He looked past t
he gun and saw the two hands wrapped around the grip, pale-knuckled and shaking. The man attached to the hands had sweat oozing from his forehead. His mouth was squeezed shut so hard his lips were white. As Shawn watched, the man’s mouth opened and made a croaking sound. He cleared his throat and tried again.

  “Nels, it’s some kid!” he shouted.

  Shawn heard footsteps approaching, and Doc Bellweather appeared, holding a double-barreled shotgun. He looked at Shawn, shook his head as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing, let the barrel of the gun drop toward the tile floor.

  Shawn grinned. “What’s up, Doc?”

  But Doc didn’t laugh like he usually did.

  Shawn thought, Uh-oh.

  Nobody said anything for a few seconds. Doc took a deep breath and started shaking his head again.

  He finally said, “What did you tell your dad about me, Shawn?”

  Shawn shrugged. “Nothin’.”

  “Right. I’d ask what you’re doing here, but I’m afraid you’d tell me you’ve run away from home. Please don’t tell me that—although I don’t know what you could tell me that I want to hear.”

  Obviously, the truth wasn’t going to get him anywhere with Doc. He was going to have to make up something good. He said, “My dad was going to beat me. He was gonna tie me up and beat me till I got all bloody.” He gave that a second, but Doc didn’t give him much back. “Because I shot his elk. Number One?”

  That got a reaction.

  “You shot Number One?” Doc almost smiled, but mostly he looked like he was going to be sick. “You’re kidding me.

  “Uh-uh. They were gonna tie me up and beat me, him and Ricky both, but then they just decided to kick me out. He said I should come live with you.”

  XII

  You got to forget about that cat and get yourself a real animal. Like a dog. A big dog.

  —SAM O’GARA

  MILO WAS STILL MISSING. There were no pawprints in the fresh snow. Crow shook the cat food box and called, but it had been three Minnesota winter days now, putting Milo’s return in the possible-but-doubtful category. He still hoped Milo had inveigled himself into the lap of some kindly old lady, but he feared that the kindly old lady was another personal myth. He returned the Meow Mix to its place above the refrigerator and started work on his own supper. It was looking like frozen pepperoni pizza and an overripe banana. Frozen pizza, banana, a glass of warm milk, if the milk hadn’t soured, then sleep. He turned on the oven and put in the pizza. The package directions always said to preheat the oven, but in Crow’s experience it didn’t make much of a difference. Either way, it was going to taste like a frozen pizza.

  He ate the banana and waited for the pizza to cook.

  The telephone rang. Crow touched the handset. It rang again and he felt the vibration. He remembered Melinda doing that, claiming she knew by the feel who was calling. Sometimes she was right. He lifted the handset with no idea who would be on the other end.

  “Hello?”

  “Joe? Hi, it’s me!”

  “Melinda?”

  “How are you doing?” She sounded too bright, too loud—but she was there, she was talking.

  “I’m okay,” he said, feeling unexpected relief, as if a weight had left him. His anger at her that afternoon … now he realized he had been worried. Concerned. Angry with himself for not just busting into her—his—their house to see that she was all right. Not twisted in cocaine-induced convulsions. Not lying dead on the bathroom floor. “How are you?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. How did your trip go?”

  “Good. I met George Murphy. We fed the pigs.” He paused. “I stopped by the house,” he said.

  “Really? When was that?”

  “A few hours ago.”

  “I guess I must have been sleeping.”

  She was lying.

  “I guess so,” he said.

  “I just called to say hi.”

  “Uh-huh.” Something in her voice convinced him that she was high. Sitting in the kitchen in front of the mirror, doing lines and making phone calls. He wanted to ask, but he knew whatever she told him he would not be able to believe.

  “And I wanted to invite you to dinner.”

  Crow felt his heart beating. He was unable to reply.

  “Joe?”

  “Dinner? When?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Tomorrow? About seven?”

  After weeks of closing him out, she was opening a door. What had happened? Best not to ask. With Melinda, it could be anything—her horoscope, her analyst, a channeled communication from the Pleiades. Maybe she just missed him.

  “That would be fine,” he said in a wooden voice. He would have to tell Bellweather that he’d be late tomorrow night. See how he took it. He could smell his pizza cooking.

  “See you then?”

  “Okay.” He hung up the phone, feeling scared. Replaying the conversation in his head as he pulled the pizza from the oven, he wondered whether her call had been nothing more than a coke-induced impulse. Would she phone again tomorrow and call it off? Or worse, would he drive all the way out to Big River tomorrow night to find the house empty and dark? Was the invitation from the real Melinda or one of the other Melindas? The cokehead Melinda. The space case Melinda. The cold, withdrawn Melinda. His thoughts skittered around the question and finally fell into a reminiscence about the days when all the Melindas had occupied the present. He ate the pizza quickly, without tasting it, trying to focus on memories of her slim body, her fine blond hair, the sound of her breath, hot in his ear.

  “He look like he been gut-shot, bro,” Ricky shouted over the pop and buzz of his Thundercat. He twisted the key, shut down the snowmobile, and walked back to the sled. The spotlight above the lodge entrance draped a cone of yellow light over the scene.

  George Murphy stared down at the dead elk. The frozen body of Number One was strapped to the plywood game sled. He and Ricky had hauled in bison, whitetail, antelope, and more than a few elk, but somehow George was not quite prepared for the demise of Number One. The eight-by-eight monarch had been a symbol, a figurehead, a living testament to Talking Lake’s status as a world-class operation.

  Number One had also been a sort of living savings account. An easy twenty-five thousand—maybe even more, to the right party—plus whatever other services he could add on. Most important, the elk’s mythic reputation had brought in a lot of business over the past few years. But in its current condition—dead—the beast was just a few thousand bucks’ worth of antler, meat, and hide. The caked blood looked black under the yellow yard light.

  “Look at that rack, would you?” Ricky grabbed one of the elk’s sixteen spikes. “I bet you shit to gold brick he runs over four twenty points. Record book for sure.”

  George squatted and pressed his finger to the small entrance wound just in front of the elk’s left rear leg. If not for the frozen river of blood that caked the animal’s flank, the wound might have been hard to find. Such a small hole. A gut shot. Probably took it hours, maybe even days, to die. He asked, pointing at the wound, “Is this all?”

  Ricky shook his head. “He’s got one more hole on his leg; couldn’t see nothin’ else. Looks like somebody shot him with a twenny-two or somethin’. Slug’s prob’ly still in there. I suppose it could be he speared hisself somehow, only I don’t know on what, bro.”

  George did not know either. He was certain the wound had been caused by a lead slug. He experienced an unwelcome image of his son Shawn’s little single-shot .22 rifle. Where was that boy? It was almost suppertime, and he hadn’t seen the kid since he’d interrupted the poker game.

  “You had any groups out that way? Some asshole packing a little handgun, maybe?”

  “Nope. I ain’t run a hunt up that way in three weeks.”

  A thin, jangling sound of metal on metal came from the direction of the house.

  “Dinnertime,” George said.

  “What you want to do with him?”

  George opened
his mouth to tell Ricky to just butcher the damn thing. Cut it up for meat and send the head off to Ollie Aamold to have it mounted. Since it was sure to be a record-book elk, he might get a few thousand for the mount alone. Old Number One would pay for his feed if nothing else. But a partially formed idea floated into his mind, and he hesitated, not quite sure that what he was thinking was possible. The idea persisted. He said, “Hey, you remember Rudolph?”

  Ricky said, “Huh?”

  “You remember that stuffed deer the game wardens were using last fall? They were setting it up, this stuffed deer they called Rudolph, setting it out in a field at night, using it to catch shiners. End of the season, Rudolph had so damn many holes in him they had to tie boards to his legs to get him to stand up straight. Shiners didn’t know the difference. They just kept shooting the thing. Coulda been a cardboard cutout, they’d still have shot it up.”

  Ricky looked puzzled.

  George smiled. Yes, he was definitely having an idea. It was getting more solid by the minute. “What say we get this guy into the barn, keep him nice and clean. I’m having an idea.”

  The hot dish was ready. Hot and ready and sitting on the cast-iron trivet in the middle of the table. Four plates on the table, and four glasses. One glass filled with milk, two with apple cider, the fourth with Pepsi. Alone, Amanda Murphy sat at one end of the table. She had said her prayers; now she was doing a slow burn. She took a sip of her Pepsi. The double shot of Jim Beam she had added improved its flavor immensely. She could hear the rumble of a snowmobile outside. They would say they hadn’t heard the bell. Sooner or later they would get hungry, and they would sit down with her, and the hot dish would be cold, but God bless it if she was going to eat alone.