Short Money

by Pete Hautman

  “He take his business to somebody else?” George said.

  Anderson shook his head, not in answer to Murphy’s question but in an effort to avoid it.

  “I don’t know,” he said, ending his statement with a belch. “Excuse me.”

  Murphy said, “That’s okay, Steve. Just us boys here. So what happened with you two? You have a falling-out? He make a pass at you or something?”

  Anderson hunched his shoulders. He wasn’t enjoying this conversation. Not good to be passing out information about a client, even if Bellweather was a child molester, as Murphy had claimed. Also, his parting of ways with the doctor had not been amicable. It did not reflect positively on his skills as a stock picker. The value of the doctor’s account had nose-dived after the SEC seized the BioStellar corporate records, dropping the value of his account six figures into the nether zone, necessitating a margin call, which the doctor refused to honor. A very sticky affair, and still very much unresolved. Besides which, it was none of Murphy’s goddamn business. Anderson decided to play a safety.

  “It’s history, George. Dr. Bellweather and Litten Securities are no longer doing business together, and I am not at liberty to discuss the particulars.”

  “You know where I can find him? He’s not at home or at his clinic. I’ve been trying to get in touch with him.”

  Anderson shrugged. “Sorry.”

  “It’s important,” Murphy said, his voice flat. “You know what kind of guy he is, right?”

  “I know what you told me. Look, I came out here to hunt elk, not talk shop.”

  Murphy leaned forward. “Let me tell you something you don’t know. He has something that belongs to me.”

  “I’m sorry, George. My tongue is tied.”

  “He has my son, Shawn.”

  Anderson cleared his throat. Holding the beer bottle in both hands, he said, “Your son?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s what I said. He has my son. You met him, didn’t you? Shawn. A good kid.”

  “Jesus! Look, I don’t know where he is. If I did, I’d tell you.”

  “So you don’t know where he is?”

  “I said I didn’t.”

  Murphy held up his hands. “Okay, okay, I believe you. I was just asking, Steve. You don’t want to tell me, that’s okay. I understand.”

  “It’s not a matter of what I want to tell you. I really don’t know where he is.” He looked at the beer bottle in his hand, set it on the desk among the coffee cups and back issues of Outdoor Life.

  Murphy turned his head to look out his window, but his gaze was blunted by the frosted surface. “What’s it like out there? Still snowing?”

  “It’s snowing.”

  Murphy nodded. “Good for hunting elk. They can’t see you coming.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “They can’t find him. Think about what he might do to my boy, Steve. You sure you can’t think of where he might be?”

  Anderson shook his head, trying to remember what the Murphy kid looked like.

  “You know any of his friends? People he might stay with?”

  Anderson considered. “Well,” he said, “he has a brother.”

  “Ah. His name?”

  “Well, it’s Bellweather. Ned, I think. Or Nate.”

  Murphy leaned forward so far Anderson thought he was going to fall on his face. “Where’s this Ned or Nate live?”

  Anderson tipped his head back, gripping the arms of his chair. “It’s Nate. Somewhere in Minneapolis, I think.”

  The office door opened, and Ricky walked in. His face was red, his Stetson studded with melting clumps of snow. He clapped his gloved hands, nodded at Anderson, then said to George, “Best get on with it, bro. She’s gettin’ thick out there.”

  “I’ve never seen a kid could eat like that, Nels. I’ve got to loosen my belt just to watch him.”

  Shawn pushed the last piece of cheese pizza into his mouth and pretended not to hear. He thought it was stupid the way Nate talked about him—like he wasn’t even there. Like he was a dog or something.

  Doc Bellweather said, “He’s a growing boy, Nate. He needs his calories—don’t you, Shawn?”

  Shawn looked up and nodded, took another cheesy bite. No sausage, pepperoni, mushrooms, or any of that stuff. Shawn liked plain cheese, and lots of it.

  “You sure polished off that pizza,” Doc said. “You want some dessert?”

  Shawn nodded, his mouth full. It was weird, spending all this time with Doc. Sometimes he acted really pissed, and then he would act really nice, like now.

  “Why don’t we all have some dessert, then. You’ve got cookies or something, don’t you, Nate?”

  Nate shouted, “Hey, Ginny! We got any cookies?”

  Nate’s wife, a pinch-faced woman wearing stretchy violet slacks and a beaded sweatshirt, appeared in the kitchen door.

  “We got any cookies?” Nate repeated.

  Ginny glared at each of them, then opened a cupboard door, pulled out a plastic tray of Oreos, slapped it on the table.

  “I need you to help me with something,” she said to Nate, her voice flat.

  “Can’t it wait, honey?”

  “No.”

  Nate shrugged and followed his wife into the living room. Shawn twisted apart an Oreo, scraped the filling off with his front teeth before eating the black cookie part. He was on his sixth Oreo when Nate returned, his face a shade darker.

  “So how long you planning on staying, Nels?” he asked.

  “You having a little domestic problem, Nate?”

  “Look, this was supposed to be just for one night. You’ve been here three days now. Ginny’s getting perturbed. She doesn’t like the idea of keeping …” He inclined his head toward Shawn. “You know. And the idea of those guys looking for us. I mean, you can’t blame her for being worried.”

  Doc rolled his eyes, looked at Shawn, and winked. “Women,” he said.

  “I have to agree with her, Nels. What if they come looking for you here?”

  “George doesn’t even know I have a brother. He doesn’t know you exist.”

  “Why don’t you take a vacation. Maybe you could disappear for a while till this thing blows over.”

  “What, I’m supposed to grow a beard and sell watches to the tourists? It’s not going to ‘blow over,’ Nate. If I have to disappear, I’m not going to do it broke.”

  “I still can’t believe it. All the money you’ve made, and you don’t have anything?”

  “I explained this to you, Nate. My property has been seized. You know what that means?”

  “I don’t see why you can’t just declare bankruptcy. Don’t you get to keep your house? Don’t the courts protect you from your creditors?”

  “Not from the IRS they don’t. And not from George Murphy. Look. In the last three years I’ve gotten divorced, which cost me a fortune. I’ve been hit with a few big malpractice suits that I had to settle for cash. And then the feds go back five years and disallow close to half a million dollars in legitimate deductions.”

  Nate rolled his eyes. “Imagine that. They wouldn’t let you deduct your hunting trips.”

  “I used those trips to promote my practice. And to observe medical techniques used by surgeons in other nations. You wouldn’t believe the size of the boob implants they’re using down in Buenos Aires. Anyway, I could’ve handled the tax bill until that twerp Anderson, who’s supposed to be earning money for me, manages to lose every last dime I had on the market. I miss my deadline with the feds, and the next thing you know, I’m sleeping on my brother’s couch.”

  Shawn wasn’t following much of this, but he liked the part about the boob implants. Doc looked about as mad as he’d ever seen him. Nate was mad too. When Ricky and his dad would have their arguments, or when Grandy got pissed off, that was scary. But watching Doc fight with his brother, that was kind of funny.

  “Yeah, well, you don’t have to
sleep on it anymore.”

  “Oh, really? You want me to get killed?”

  “I just don’t see you staying here with this kid, that’s all.”

  The doctor sat back in his chair and drummed his fingertips on the table. “Look, all I’ve got to do is come up with enough money to get me out of the country, get myself set up in Guttmann’s clinic.”

  “Guttmann?”

  “That doctor I met when I was hunting jaguar down in Costa Rica. He has a cosmetic-surgery practice in San José, does eyelids and chins for every rich bitch from Guatemala to the Panama Canal. He’s just getting started in liposuction and as much as told me I could buy into his clinic.”

  Nate crossed his arms. “I told you, I don’t have any money to spare.”

  The doctor shook his head. “I’d need about a hundred grand, plus money to live on till I get my own practice going. It’s not cheap down there. I’ll need money to make it work. Look, I just need a day or two to work it out, okay? Maybe I can coax a loan from some of the guys I went to school with.”

  “You haven’t used them all up already?”

  “I suppose I have.” He sighed.

  Shawn didn’t get it. Doc kept insisting he was broke, but he had a whole house full of stuff. “I thought you were rich,” he said.

  “Sorry to disappoint you, kid.” He tapped his chin with a forefinger, gave him a funny sort of stare. “Actually,” he said slowly, “I do have one thing that might be worth something.”

  “What’s that? Your car?”

  Doc laughed and rubbed Shawn’s back. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “I’ve got that too.”

  Shawn grabbed another handful of cookies, looked up, and caught Nate staring at the depleted Oreo package, the corners of his mouth turned down. Shawn grinned, his teeth coated with black-and-white cookie.

  Dr. Nelson Bellweather’s house showed no sign of occupation. A light dusting of snow lay undisturbed on the walk. An official-looking white notice was tacked to the front door. Crow got out of his car, walked up the steps, and read it

  He returned to his car, drove out of Orchard Estates, and took the shore road around Maxwell Bay and across a narrow isthmus. After several wrong turns, he found Applewood Curve and followed it to a low, sprawling house that looked out over Stubbs Bay. He parked in the meticulously plowed driveway and sat for a minute, trying to imagine living in such a place. There was something cold about it, reminding him of Bellweather’s living room. Pale-gray stone, flat white trim, acres of glass over white-on-white drapery. The snowbound landscaping displayed a painful symmetry. Crow took a breath and got out of the car. The flagstone walk was dotted with deicing pellets. Minnesota safe. Brass script on the white lintel spelled out the house number One Thousand Eighty-Seven. Two matching four-foot-tall urns, featureless, white, and empty, flanked the door. Crow pressed the doorbell.

  Mary Getter opened the door and smiled. “Joe! What a surprise!” It wasn’t a bad smile, although a little crinkling around the eyes would have improved it. “Come in. I wasn’t expecting you. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, Mary.” Crow stepped in through the front door. As always, the interior of the Getter residence was ready for a House Beautiful photo session. The Suburban Sterile look. He was suddenly conscious of his own appearance, which the Lake Mille Lacs fishing trip had not improved. Beard, jeans, and jacket, all going on three days. His hands reeked of fish, even after a thorough scrubbing at the Amoco station in Garrison. Maybe he should have gone back to his apartment first, changed clothes. The hell with it. She was his sister. She’d seen him in worse shape than this.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “We’re fine,” she said.

  “Is Dave home?”

  Mary shook her head. “He’s at work.”

  “Good. I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Oh?” She grimaced bravely, stretching her mouth out in a parody of her usual smile. He imagined he could hear the inner gates slamming shut.

  “Do you have any coffee on?”

  “I can make some.”

  “That’s okay. Don’t bother.”

  Mary took a step back, pirouetted, and headed toward the rear of the house. “It’s no trouble.”

  Crow followed her into a spacious kitchen that looked as though food were not permitted within its sterile confines.

  “I’ve been fishing,” he said. She wouldn’t ask him what he was doing there, or why he reeked of sweat, kerosene fumes, cigarettes, and dead walleye. She wouldn’t even ask him about the fading bruise on his jaw. He could show up wearing a burlap sack and a top hat, and she still wouldn’t ask. Nevertheless, he felt the need to explain. “I went up to Mille Lacs with Sam.”

  “Oh?” she said. Mary did not care for Sam. Their mother, Virginia Crow, had raised them without a father. Shortly after her death—Joe was eighteen, Mary two years older—Sam O’Gara had appeared, claiming to have sired them. Joe believed it, Mary would not. He couldn’t be her father, no matter what he claimed.

  “We were ice fishing.”

  Mary nodded, filled the coffeemaker, turned it on, then flipped on the exhaust fan over the stove. A quiet hum filled the air. Mary stood beside the coffeemaker and waited, holding her hands in a knot. Ignoring her discomfort, Crow examined his sister. Thirty-five years old, she dressed and carried herself like a well-preserved forty-five. Her pale hair was cut short and expensive, with nicely done golden highlights that would look natural come August. Loose, cream-colored twill slacks, an expensive-looking, oversize taupe cardigan, gray-on-ecru loafers—it should have been a study in home-alone casual, an outfit Martha Stewart might wear to entertain the neighbor’s Persian cat, but his sister was cursed with an inner tension, emitting a jangle of concern, uncertainty, fear, and disapproval. The overall effect was as if she was channeling a mildly hysterical June Cleaver. Crow might have suggested this possibility to her, but he was sure she’d have informed him that June Cleaver was a fictional character and not available for channeling. Mary’s sense of humor had atrophied over the years.

  She hadn’t always been that way. Mary had once had a quick wit, an infectious laugh, and a tough, practical core. After picking up a Studio Arts degree at the U, she’d spent her twenties working a variety of jobs, running with a diverse collection of artists, musicians, poets, and other shaggy, earringed, disaffected sorts, trying new things, having a good time. She’d survived a succession of interesting boyfriends, maintained a studio in a decaying warehouse on the fringes of downtown Minneapolis, and she’d even sold a few of the quirky painted wooden assemblages that she constructed in the small-morning hours.

  Crow had liked his big sister. They’d gotten along great back then, going out to hear live music whenever he was in town, having a few drinks, comparing notes on their ever tumultuous love lives.

  But in her late twenties Mary began to change. At first, Crow thought it was a temporary thing, a love affair gone wrong, money troubles, something fixable. Her laugh lines became worry lines, her wide, curious eyes narrowed. She became sadder and slower and intolerant of her friends’ laissez-faire attitudes. A cloud of desperation settled over her. One day, sitting in the New French Bar drinking beer, she’d said to him, “Joe, I’m thirty years old. I want to be a grownup. I want to live in a real house. I want a baby.”

  Crow, who had never wanted any of those things, had said, “You’re nuts. What do you want a kid for? You aren’t even married.”

  Stupid damn thing to say. Next thing he knew, she’d given up her studio, joined a Unitarian church, and begun to dress more conservatively—letting her hair revert to its natural color, ordering new clothing, none of it black, from Lands’ End and L. L. Bean. The new Mary met Dave Getter at a church-sponsored singles night. A few weeks later, she went to work for him in his office, and within three months they were married.

  Crow had tried to like his new brother-in-law but failed utterly.

  As Getter’s law practice grew more profitable, Mary continued to ev
olve. She started highlighting her hair and buying her clothing from Saks and Cedric’s, creating a more expensive Mary. Her face became more masklike, her mutated laugh lines disappearing from lack of use. She became a grown-up and got her house, but she showed no signs of fertility. Apparently she or Dave had a problem, but Mary never spoke of it and Crow didn’t ask. He suspected that her failure to conceive had triggered the latest phase in her evolution—she had discovered the New Age.

  Crow did not know whether it was Mary or Melinda who first discovered the healing powers of crystals, homeopathic medicines, and the channeled words of the Ascended Masters. Their friendship had, at first, delighted him. When Melinda began her serious study of the tarot, he had thought it little more than an amusing diversion. And when the two of them had flown down to Sedona for a weekend to attend a workshop on something called “synchronized harmonic attunement,” he had thought of it as a women’s version of a fishing trip.

  But now, with Melinda becoming a stranger, their shared interest in alternative philosophies seemed to him to be a threat. They spoke a language he did not understand; they seemed able to communicate with each other but not with him. Melinda had once told him that she and Mary had discovered that they had been sisters in a former life. She’d speculated that her attraction to him was a resonance from that former life. “It’s almost incestuous, us being married,” she’d said.

  It reached the point where Crow could not think of one without the other—the two women became welded in his mind, and he caught himself saying Mary when he meant Melinda, and vice versa. To avoid embarrassing mistakes, he took to calling them “my wife” and “my sister.” Maybe Melinda was right. On some level he did not understand, they were the same.

  The coffeemaker belched; a thin, dark stream flowed into the glass carafe.

  “This is from Kenya,” Mary said. “We joined a club where they send us a different kind of coffee every month. They roast it the same day they ship it.”

  “It smells good.” It smelled great, especially after the gallons of Taster’s Choice he’d chugged trying to stay warm on the Mille Lacs ice. Mary filled a blue mug, handed it to him.