Popped Off

by Allen, Jeffrey

  “How?”

  “End-of-the-day accounting,” he said, shrugging. “We have a routine process. Checks and balances. Nothing special, but routine things that we do to keep our books in order. Much of our money comes from cash donations at our services, so we are careful and detailed.”

  I figured there was probably a great deal of cash coming in based upon the campus of New Spirit and the size of Haygood’s office.

  “At the same time we were calling the authorities to do a welfare check on his home, I was informed that the money was no longer in the account,” he explained. His fingers were white, wrapped tightly around the glass. “We did our due diligence and realized that it had been withdrawn the previous evening.”

  “He had the ability to clear that much on his own?” I asked.

  “No. I believe he forged the second signature.” His entire face tightened. “Mine.”

  “Wow.”

  He nodded grimly. “Yes. This is the kind of thing that brings churches down, Mr. Winters. Destroys them. I am concerned for the members of this community.”

  Not to mention, you know, himself.

  “Did you know him well?” I asked.

  “Well enough. We didn’t socialize, but he was a regular here at New Spirit. Showed up at our services and our events. As the controller, he and I worked closely together on financial matters. It’s my church. I’m responsible for it in all ways. So I can be a bit . . . detail oriented.” He flashed a thin smile. “Probably micromanaging most of the time.”

  I appreciated that he could admit his flaws. He wasn’t coming across as arrogant or entitled. He seemed genuinely concerned for the well-being of the entire church, as well as himself. Despite my skepticism, I liked him.

  “So my guess is that perhaps you are looking for him for similar reasons,” Haygood said.

  “Perhaps.”

  He nodded, believing he was correct. Maybe knowing. I wasn’t exactly known for my poker face.

  “Have you reported the theft to the police?” I asked.

  He hesitated, then shook his head. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t afford the attention,” he said, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. “If anything about this gets out, the church and the community will suffer.”

  “I understand that. But that’s a lot of money.”

  He stared at me for a moment. “Yes. It is. So we are working on it . . . independently.”

  “Independently?”

  “Much like whoever your client is, I suppose. We are attempting to locate him without involving the authorities yet.”

  “We?”

  Haygood stood. “Mr. Winters, I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

  I stood as well. He wasn’t going to answer my questions, and he was done with me. He hadn’t gotten anything from me, and he was frustrated.

  Maybe I didn’t like him, after all.

  We walked toward the door.

  “I do hope that if you locate him, you’ll let me know,” he said.

  “I’ll do what I can,” I answered because I wasn’t going to promise him anything.

  Haygood nodded and we shook hands.

  “The Lord works in mysterious ways,” he said. “I’m sure He will help us locate Mr. Huber.” His eyes narrowed. “And will administer to him him any punishment he deserves.”

  13

  I made my way out of Haygood’s office and the outer building and headed back toward the church, seeking both a bit of air-conditioning and a few minutes to process my conversation.

  I didn’t think Haygood knew where Huber was, but I definitely got the impression that he knew more than he was letting on. And the way he’d talked about looking for Huber creeped me out. I wasn’t sure if he had some sort of Jesus posse out there looking for him, but I felt certain that he had something cooking. And Huber would be the main course if they found him.

  The cool air-conditioning cascaded down on me as I reentered the church. The check-in tables had been pushed aside, and the masses of children were gone, herded off to classrooms and play areas. It looked like a church vestibule again—quiet and orderly.

  The walls were lined with glass-framed photos, and I walked closer to them, partly out of curiosity and partly because I wasn’t quite ready to venture back out into the heat. The photos were of church-sponsored events—picnics, baptisms, fund-raisers, holiday services.

  The next-to-last photo caught my attention, because Moises Huber was in the middle of it.

  “Can I help you, sir?” a voice asked from behind me.

  I turned around. An older woman with gray hair and a pleasant smile stood there with her hands behind her back.

  “Oh, I just dropped off my daughter at the VBS,” I said.

  “Excellent,” she said. “She’ll be well taken care of.”

  “I’m sure.” I gestured to the photos. “These pictures are terrific.”

  She stepped closer and adjusted the glasses on her face. “Oh, yes. We usually have a photographer at every New Spirit event. We like to document the memories.”

  I pointed at the photo of Huber. “This looks great. What was it?”

  She leaned closer. “Oh, that’s our annual Casino Night.” She grinned at me. “Of course, it’s all with play money, and the donations collected are spread throughout the families in need here at New Spirit.”

  “Wow, that’s great,” I said. “This guy in the picture, he looks like he’s having a good time.”

  “Ah, yes,” she said, nodding. “Mr. Huber. He’s been here awhile.”

  “Has he?”

  “Well, I think so. I’m just a volunteer. But I see him quite often.”

  “That right?”

  She nodded, certain. “Oh, yes. As a matter of fact, if I’m not mistaken, he was in charge.”

  “In charge?”

  “Yes, sir. Of Casino Night. He’s organized it the last few years.”

  I glanced at the photo. He had his arms around two people, a man and a woman, big fuzzy dice in one hand and a red plastic cup in the other. A crooked smile slithered across his face, his dark hair slightly askew.

  “He’s the reason Casino Night is such a success,” she said.

  “Really? How’s that?”

  “Why, he organized all the games.”

  “The games?”

  “The casino games,” she said. “Blackjack, poker, some other card games I’m afraid I don’t know much about.”

  That was interesting. “Really? He’s the guy?”

  “Oh my, yes. They had a hard time making any money at Casino Night. It’s somewhat expensive to stage, and no one here had the know-how to put it all together. So it was actually costing us money to put it on.”

  “What kind of know-how?” I asked, looking at the photo.

  “Someone who understood casino games,” she answered. “And Mr. Huber is apparently an expert.”

  14

  I spent the rest of the morning and the afternoon doing my dad chores—laundry, dishes, cleaning, paying bills, and yard work. Even though our friends liked to kid me about how easy I had it, I was pretty good at managing the household. Julianne would even admit it, if she had to. I didn’t just lie around the house, eating ice cream and napping. I didn’t want Julianne coming home and feeling like she had more to do in the evenings, so I made sure the house was in shape when she got home.

  Unless I’d needed a nap.

  But as I was working my way through my to-do list, I couldn’t get my mind off Moises Huber and the money. He was accused of stealing nearly six hundred thousand dollars. That wasn’t twenty bucks out of someone’s wallet. That was the kind of money that got you sent to prison. And no matter how sneaky he thought he might’ve been, there was no way for that amount of money to go missing and people not to take notice. He had to know it wouldn’t take long for people to connect him to it, particularly when he had access to it.

  It made no sense. If he was dumb, he never would’v
e been in the positions he’d been in to manage the money in the first place. So I didn’t buy the idea that he was just stupid. If you were going to blatantly steal money from right under someone’s nose, there was usually one big reason.

  Desperation.

  After I put the final load of laundry away, I still had a little time before I needed to pick up Carly at camp. I sat down at the kitchen table with a Diet Pepsi and the e-mail printouts Victor gave me.

  There were about thirty pages in the stack, with multiple e-mails on each page. I put the total number of e-mails to read at somewhere near a hundred. Most were innocuous and didn’t tell me much. Confirmations of soccer games, church events, receipts for bill payments. Nothing that raised a red flag. And that really wasn’t surprising. I figured he didn’t use his personal e-mail address for work-related business, especially since it pertained to finances.

  I was about ready to throw them in the trash when something on the next-to-last page caught my attention.

  The e-mail was from an Elliott Huber.

  Hey, cuz! the e-mail read. Looking forward to seeing you this week. I signed you up for the weekend tourney. I covered your buy-in with my employee discount. Hope you’re ready!

  The e-mail address was eHuber@comriventertain. com.

  I grabbed my laptop and used Google to search the domain name in the e-mail address. It came back as Comanche River Entertainment. There was a link to the main Web site. I knew the name but clicked on the link, anyway.

  The Comanche River Resort and Casino was one of a group of casinos near the northern Texas–southern Oklahoma border. Massive billboards advertising it dotted the Dallas landscape, offering gambling and entertainment only ninety minutes away. Comanche River was one of the biggest. It boasted a massive casino and a hotel, along with a theater that regularly hosted top-name country music acts. They billed themselves as a resort. I’d been there once, having made a Saturday night trip up with my poker buddies. It was truly a mammoth place.

  I perused the Web site for a few minutes, seeing if the name Elliott Huber popped up anywhere. I didn’t have any luck. All I could find were generic contact addresses.

  But I did have another idea.

  The Web site worked hard to bring visitors to the casino and the hotel. It advertised specials everywhere. I punched in Friday night, and it came back with a great bargain rate for a night at the hotel.

  I hesitated for a moment. Julianne didn’t like it when I mixed business with pleasure, but I was thinking that a night away might be conducive to Operation Baby Making. A little dinner, a little gambling, and a lot of time in the hotel room.

  And if I managed to run into any member of the Huber family, well, that would just be a bonus.

  I patted myself on the back as I made the reservation.

  15

  I picked up Carly from camp, and we returned home. She wasn’t singing a Jesus song or trying to convert me, so the day was a success as far as I was concerned. She scampered up to her room, babbling something about playing with her dolls. I was pretty good at playing, but I still hadn’t figured out the elaborate world she had created with her plethora of dolls.

  When I was halfway through tenderizing chicken breasts for the grill, Julianne hustled into the kitchen, hugging two large pieces of white poster board.

  She tossed her purse and briefcase on the table but held on to the poster board. “Okay. We’re ready.”

  “Okay. Good. Ready for what?”

  “Phase two.”

  “I thought we were already on to phase two. Speaking of which, I—”

  “Oh. Fine,” she said. “Phase three. Where’s Carly?”

  “Upstairs.”

  “Excellent.” She laid the poster board across the kitchen table. “Here.”

  Both posters were covered with printouts. Dates, percentages, initials, multiple colors.

  “What’s all this?”

  “Phase three.”

  I looked at her blankly.

  She let out an exasperated breath. “Okay. These charts are going to help us get pregnant.”

  I set down the wooden mallet I was pounding the chicken with. “Charts? What? Do we lie on those things or something?”

  “I’ve calendared the next sixty days,” she said, ignoring me and pointing to the dates. “You’ll see the next two months are accounted for.”

  “Because we didn’t have a regular calendar?”

  “Now, the days in black, we can ignore those. We won’t be having sex on those days.”

  There were an awful lot of black dates. “Excuse me?”

  She looked at me. “I won’t be ovulating. There’s no point.”

  “No point?”

  “You know what I mean.” She turned back to the charts. “Now, stay with me. The red days are iffy. We can have sex on some of those days, even though the likelihood of conception is low.”

  I scanned the posters. “What does green mean?”

  “Green means sex,” she said. “Those are my optimal days for conception. You can look forward to multiple encounters on those days.”

  Multiple encounters sounded good. I made a mental note to list green as my new favorite color.

  “What do the initials stand for?” I asked. “BBT? CM?”

  “Things I need to start charting. Basal body temperature. Cervical mucus.”

  “Cervical what?” Those were two words I never thought I’d hear spoken in the same sentence. I didn’t think mucus even existed in any lower body cavity.

  She dismissed me. “It’s irrelevant. At least for you.”

  I scanned the calendars again. “A couple of these green days are during the workweek. . . .”

  “I’m a partner. I can be flexible with my hours.”

  “Or we can do it in your office,” I said, winking.

  “Yes, absolutely,” she said, nodding. “I had Marsha calendar these days on my schedule. We’ll work out the locations this weekend.”

  Marsha was her newest assistant. I wondered what that conversation had sounded like.

  “You’ll notice the numbers written in the corner of each day,” Julianne continued. “Those are the percentages.”

  “Percentages?”

  “Percentages that I might conceive,” she said. “Obviously, they are highest on the green days.”

  “Obviously.”

  “You see the pink and blue dots?”

  Each green day had either a blue or pink dot strategically positioned in the middle of the box. “Yes.”

  “They indicate the baby’s gender.”

  “What?”

  “Some days are better for conceiving boys and vice versa.”

  “Are we aiming for one or the other?”

  She shook her head. “Not really. But it’s good to know.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Yes.” She continued to study the charts.

  “Did you get any work done today?”

  “You don’t think this was work?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Yes, you just did.”

  “I meant . . . legal work. As in related to your job.”

  She dismissed that with a wave of her hand. “Please. I excel at multitasking. This took only a few hours.”

  “Okay. What if I want to have sex on a black day?” I asked.

  “Negative,” she said, shaking her head. “There’s no point, and we don’t want your sperm count dropping.”

  “No. That would be terrible.” I paused. “But there are so many . . .”

  She must have noticed the expression on my face. “Don’t worry. With all of this planning, I’m confident we’ll be pregnant in a month. Maybe two. Then we can have sex whenever you want.”

  I wasn’t convinced.

  “I know all of this may seem a bit . . . premeditated.”

  “A bit?”

  “But I plan to excite you with new lingerie and other pleasant surprises.” She tapped
the poster board. “You won’t be bored.”

  I was beginning to think I’d need a lot of new surprises to counterbalance the black days that loomed large on the calendar.

  “Oh! I almost forgot.” She shook her head. “No masturbation.”

  “Jules?”

  “We want your sperm count as high as possible at all times.”

  “Jules?”

  “Just for a couple of months, Deuce.”

  “Jules!”

  Her head snapped up in my direction. “What?”

  I started to say something sarcastic, something about charts and graphs and premeditation.

  But I held my tongue.

  She’d gone through a lot of trouble to put this together. No matter how insane I thought it was, this was Julianne. This was her way. This was her telling me how much she wanted a baby.

  I walked over and put my arms around her and kissed her cheek. “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said. “Whatever you say. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

  “I know.”

  I laughed and kissed her again. “I know you know. I’m just telling you. And I don’t need lingerie or anything else to get excited. You excite me.”

  “So you don’t want lingerie?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  I kissed her again, this time on the lips. I wasn’t lying. I didn’t need anything to excite me. Julianne still lit my flame, more so now than the day I met her. She was all I needed.

  She pulled back and poked me in the chest with her index finger. “I’m serious.”

  “I know you are. I will abide by the calendar. I won’t try to seduce you on black days.”

  She snuggled into me for a minute. “Not what I meant, but that’s good to know.”

  “Oh. What did you mean?”

  “No masturbation.”

  16

  That evening was a black evening, so after dinner we spent the rest of the night playing board games with Carly before turning in. I refrained from making any jokes because I feared she might take a green day away from me.