Improbable Fortunes

by Jeffrey Price

  “Look at what she’s done to herself!” Mallomar said, shocked at how much weight she’d lost during her experimental treatment. “She’s got a substance abuse problem. Had her in the best…” Mallomar caught himself before bragging. “Had her in a nut hospital. I guess we know how well that fucking worked.”

  Like biblical handmaidens, they carried her up the stairs to her own room.

  “Last year they arrested her for shoplifting. Can you imagine that? One of the wealthiest…” Once again, he stopped himself from bragging. “They caught her stealing shoe samples on display at Barney’s. Her closets were filled with three hundred of the damn things—no pairs—just tiny single shoes. After they pinched her, I said, ‘Dana, you had no possible use for the fucking things. Why in God’s name did you take them?’ She just shrugged her shoulders and looked at me like I was the biggest lox in the world and said, ‘Why do you think?’”

  Once they had her tucked in, her hospital-white skin against the white sheets made her appear chroma-keyed and invisible save for her eyebrows.

  Buster thought it best that he step outside to give the Mallomars some privacy. Mallomar looked down on Dana, dead to the world, and noticed that she still had her shoulder bag on her. Gently, he lifted the strap around her neck and pulled it up from below the sheets. He threw the bag on the chair and was about to leave the room, when he had a thought. He went back to the bag and emptied its contents on the dresser. There were the remnants of her hospital hygiene kit, the plastic ID bracelet that she had decided to keep as a souvenir, and a package of beef jerky. Beef jerky? She had never eaten beef jerky in her life. He turned the package over and a white powder cascaded from it. Dana had been under close supervision from the time she left the hospital, to his own driver, to their private airplane. From Montrose, the only person with whom Dana had contact was the limo guy.

  “This is Marvin Mallomar,” he said, on the phone in his office. “That’s right, you just brought my wife up to the ranch in Vanadium. Hey, in all the commotion of the happy homecoming, I forgot to tip your guy. Got his name and address handy?”

  Mallomar put the jerky and drug remnants in a FedEx envelope with a note.

  He wasn’t going to bother with the local constabulary when he already had connections at the DEA. Whoever that driver was, Marvin Mallomar intended to fuck him up good. When he finished, Buster was waiting for him on the front porch with two cold beers.

  For the first time since Buster had known him, the arrival of his delirious wife had put Mallomar truly at a loss for words. As the sun set and the San Juan’s were slowly turning Venetian red with alpenglow, they drank their beer in silence.

  “So, where do you want your hundred acres?” Mallomar asked, finally.

  “At the edge of the canyon, by that old sheepherder’s wagon.”

  “Done.”

  “But Mr. Mallomar…?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Now ah’m givin’ it back to you.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “Since it’s mine, ah’m free to do whatev’r I dang please. So, ah’m makin’ a little present of it for ya.”

  “You’re crazy. It’s worth seven hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Beggin’ yor pardon, sir. Ah ain’t settin’ out to get my ranch thataway.”

  “You really…want to give it back to me?” Mallomar seemed to suffer from the same problem Sheriff Dudival had and turned away from Buster to clear the lump in his throat.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Buster could see Mallomar’s hand go up to his face as if he were brushing something away. Finally, he turned around and offered his hand.

  “Thank you.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Hell to Pay

  Mrs. Mallomar woke up the next day with no clue as to where she was. Her mind shuffled through her Rolodex of hospitals, first, second, and third homes, development sites, and hotels—and drew a blank. Wherever she was, her arms were not restrained, she noticed. That was a good sign. And it was quiet. She smelled fresh paint and the pleasant aroma of newly laid wood flooring. Slowly, she untangled her bony legs from the sweat-knotted sheets, stood up and walked to the door. The hallway led to the overview of the house’s Great Room: an architectural assembly of trusses and beams that arched cathedral-like over a two-thousand-square-foot living room complete with a ten-ton fieldstone and blackened-iron fireplace.

  “This is the fucking cabin?” she mumbled to herself as she held on tightly to the railing trying not to slip on the just-polished stairs. Mrs. Mallomar, no slouch when it came to interior decorating herself—having previously decorated four of their part-time houses—took note of the salvaged barn wood he had used extensively on the interior walls. “I know where you got that idea, Marvin,” she grumbled. It was at the Democratic Fundraiser at the teen-movie director, Adam Schreifeldt’s house on Long Island. He had bought the barns from four different defunct potato farms that could no longer afford the increased Hamptons real estate taxes.

  When Mrs. Mallomar finally made it to the bottom of the stairs, she stood mind-boggled, facing what could still be identified as a hundred-thousand-dollar Frank Lloyd Wright dining table—its legs having been cruelly sawn off by her husband to create a coffee table large enough to fit the scale of the oversized room. The monster. Was he in the house? She couldn’t wait to scream at him for the nouveau-riche boor he was. Unfortunately, he was nowhere to be seen. She was alone except for the two Ute girls who were washing the windows in the Great Room.

  Not many rich people used Utes as domestics, she would learn, generally favoring the less expensive illegal Mexicans, but Mallomar had found, after going through every able-bodied woman from Ridgway to Egnar, that the Ute women were the only ones with the requisite courage and balance to ascend the thirty-foot extension ladders needed to wash his Great Room’s twenty-five-foot picture windows. Lolly and Lily Longfeather, chammies clutched in puckered brown fingers, were perched atop twin ladders looking very much like their cliff-dwelling ancestors depicted in the clay model at the Anasazi Visitors Center in Mesa Verde. Unaware of Mrs. Mallomar’s pale-faced presence, they paused for a moment to look through the just-cleaned upper portion of the windows and contemplated the clouds drifting by Sunshine Peak, Lizard Head, Mt. Wilson, El Diente, and Lone Cone Peak—the sacred gateways of the Ute and Navajo Indian Nations. Suddenly, a blue jay, fooled by his reflection in the sparkling clean window, smacked into it and fell to the ground, its neck swizzling 180 degrees. Shocked by the impact, the Ute women wobbled on their ladders for a moment, but regained their balance. They looked at the dead jay, and then at each other with horror. This was bad Ute juju. Even Mrs. Mallomar sensed it—in her first sober moment in forty-eight hours.

  In the meadow behind the house, Buster and his horse, Stinker, were inspecting the ditch line for blockages. Buster was proud that the work he had done on the irrigation system might last for generations. But something was wrong with Stinker. He wouldn’t stop fidgeting and cantering sideways from the house. The more Buster tried to get him to go closer to the house, the more agitated he became.

  “Something wrong, old boy?” Buster said, trying to soothe him. His eyes were wide with fear, and his nostrils flared. Buster quickly looked around to see if there were any mountain lions. Stinker started gagging on his bit, backing up. Buster squinted in the direction of what was spooking him. About twenty-five yards away, the ghostlike figure of Mrs. Mallomar could be seen in the window, looking down at the hapless feathered aviator. Stinker, it seemed, had never seen a human being as skinny and pale as her before and bucked with such ferocity that his bridle broke. Off he went, Buster holding on for dear life, as the horse leapt over the river-rocked garden wall, smashing two $3,500 teak chaise lounge chairs that Mallomar had just uncrated from Smith and Hawken.

  Mrs. Mallomar screamed so loudly, and so unexpectantly, that the Ute women f
umbled their Rubbermaid buckets of vinegar and water. The ladders waved together then parted like knitting strands of DNA—and then women, buckets, and ladders crashed to the floor. The buckets, smashed the Frank Lloyd Wright coffee table in half soaking the forty-by-sixty Persian rug with vinegar. The overstuffed leather sofas fortunately broke Lilly and Lolly Longfeather’s fall. They were unhurt, but had trouble catching their breath. The damage would clearly cost twenty years of their combined salaries. Numbly, they looked out at Buster, now on the patio, who had dismounted to look for his hat. Sadly, he found the little bird instead, picking it up in his big hand. He gazed up at the Ute girls through the window and pantomimed to the dead bird. “Did I do this?”

  The Utes mutely shook their heads. Relieved, he smiled. That is until he saw Mrs. Mallomar. She stormed out the patio doors, scaring Stinker away.

  “Uh, afternoon, Mrs. Mallomar. Sleep well?” Buster said, holding the jay behind his back so as not to further upset her delicate constitution.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Well, ah’m Buster. We, uh, met…already.”

  “Is this my house?”

  “Uh, yes, ma’am.”

  “Do you work here?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then you’re fired.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Buster said, and stuck his hat back on his head. Then he laid the dead bird on top of the covered Wolf gas grill like a Raja on a funeral bier. Stinker had run all the way back to the barn where Buster retreated as well.

  About an hour later, Mallomar, who’d been in town ostensibly discussing chicken-fried steak franchises with Mary Boyle, found Buster’s pickup and trailer next to the barn. He was inside packing up his horse tack.

  “My wife said she fired you over some crappy furniture you broke. Is that what’s going on here?”

  “Yessir. Ah’ma leavin’.”

  “Did you tell her you were the foreman of this place?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Don’t you think you should have conveyed to her, in all her fucking dazed glory, that you run this place…that you’re my partner?”

  “Dint wanna rile her no further.”

  “You’re not afraid of her, are you?”

  “No sir, not ’xactly.”

  “Well, tell me something. Would you turn your back and run away from a mountain lion?”

  “No sir, ah sure would not.”

  “How about a grizzly bear?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then why, in the fucking world, would you run away from a ninety-five-pound drug-addled woman?”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Dangerous Quarry

  Marvin Mallomar was a fixer by nature, so one can only imagine his frustration in not be able to fix his wife. There she was, sleeping in another room down the hall, craving something day and night that would probably kill her and so far he hadn’t been able to do anything about it. Why not? Why couldn’t he solve this? Then the answer came to him during a restless night’s sleep. It was simple. He had outsourced her. No more, he thought. No more doctors with experimental cures, no more half-listening headshrinkers. He would put his own hand to the till and he, Marvin Mallomar, would concentrate his full powers and attention to Dana’s cure.

  That said, Mallomar’s powers and attention were sorely being tested on several other fronts. First, there was the SEC. He’d denied their request for a friendly conversation, but now they were demanding—by way of a subpoena—his appearance before the Commission on allegations of insider trading. On top of that, his impulsive decision to send the jerky/drug sample to his friend in the DEA had boomeranged into a full-blown investigation. His connection phoned to warn him that a team of agents had been dispatched to Lame Horse County—without Sheriff Dudival’s knowledge—to investigate Dana’s limo driver, who it turned out, had been named Cookie Dominguez’s “Salesman of the Month” for expanding the Busy Bees’ methamphetamine business into the Four Corners of Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, and Utah. In fact, an assault on Cookie’s crank farm was already in the works and it was suggested that Mallomar leave town for a few days. Mallomar, concerned about the possibility of a murderous backlash, purchased a handgun. He trained himself to use it by dry-firing it at the TV image of Maria Bartiromo when she appeared on CNBC’s Squawk Box. He found her particularly annoying—crowing daily about the upswing in housing starts. Add to all of this, an excruciating spray of shingles appearing across his stomach and love handles—in the exact same place he wore his money belt when he travelled in developing nations—and you would have the sum total of a man at his limit. But then, Marvin Mallomar was no ordinary man. He knew how to compartmentalize. He knew how to triage. He knew how to talk himself down from his own tree.

  The billion-dollar investment? In his mind, there was nothing he could do about it. If he lost it, he lost it. He’d still have a hundred million in the mattress. Hell, his parents had lived through the Great Depression. He’d manage. The SEC? They didn’t have the resources in their department to go after him and Stevie Cohen at the same time. Cookie Dominguez? Not that he condoned capital punishment for nonviolent crimes, but maybe he’d get lucky and the Feds would blow his head off. The shingles? He’d live. How easy was that? Now, back to Dana.

  Mallomar handed down the edict that, until further notice, no one was to disturb Mrs. Mallomar. That included the animals—which were all moved outside of earshot to the furthermost field. Buster was told to continue to pay Lilly and Lolly Longfeather’s weekly salary, but under no circumstances were they to enter the house to clean or cook. Mallomar, himself, would do the cooking—but there was a minor glitch. For three days straight, Dana Mallomar refused to eat.

  “I had this chicken flown in from D’Artagnan in New York,” Mallomar said. His wife remained silent, offering only a sad, blank stare. “It’s organic, if that’s what you’re worried about. Or you can just eat the vegetables.”

  “I’m not very hungry,” she finally said.

  “I’m not letting you leave this table until you eat something.” That may have sounded like something one says to a child, but since they never had any children, Mallomar felt it was there for him to use.

  “Then be prepared to wait a long, long fucking time.”

  “I’ve got all the time in the world. I’m a patient man.”

  “Marvin, you’re a fat man—a selfish, narcissistic, badly tempered man. But you are NOT a patient man.”

  Mallomar smiled slightly, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of seeing just how badly tempered he could be. Dana looked at his right hand and slightly raised her eyebrows. Unbeknownst to him, he had strangled his fork, bending the tines backwards like Uri Geller.

  “What are you trying to do here, Marvin?”

  “I’m trying to make you well. Be a sport and lift a tiny finger to help me.”

  “Can I tell you something…as a friend?”

  “What?”

  “Let go of the rope.”

  “No.”

  “I’m never going to fuck you again.”

  “Who do you think you’re talking to…your father?”

  “That was not…” She waved the rest of the sentence off with her hands and started crying.

  “I didn’t mean that. You wound me up.”

  “I hate you.”

  “Happy to see you’re getting back to your old self. Will you be all right here for a couple of days?”

  “Why? Where are you going?”

  “I have to go to New York tomorrow to take care of something.”

  “Working on your divorce strategy with Sidney?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not my only ass cancer.”

  Mallomar got up from the table and smiled.

  “Try to eat something.”

  b

  Mallomar stopped out
side the house to take a few deep breaths and shake it off. He walked across the driveway to the barn where he found Buster currycombing his horse.

  “How-dee,” Mallomar chirped like a Minnie Pearl, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Mallomar sat on a bale of hay. “What’s the good word, brother?”

  “You have any inneress in perchissin’ Belted Galloways?” Belted Galloways were the distinctive breed of black Scottish cattle with white bands around their middle.

  “I don’t know… Are they any good?”

  “They say thar the best eatin’… Mr. Ralph Lauren has a hunnert of ’em.”

  “He does, does he?” Mallomar thought for a moment. “Let’s get some. A hundred and fifty,” Mallomar said, not too opaquely.

  “Ah’ll take a look a that.”

  “Hey amigo, I just wanted to give you a heads up…I have to go to back east for a spell.” Mallomar had not only bought up the real estate in town, but had started to appropriate Buster’s lingo.

  “How long you gonna be gone for?” Buster said, feeling his pulse quicken.

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  Mallomar could see the panic in Buster’s eyes at the thought of being left alone with his wife and was frankly comforted by it. “I hid all the booze and meds in the chicken house.”

  “Mr. Mallomar,” Buster said, “ah ain’t comferbull bein’ alone up here with her and all.”

  “You’ll be okay.”

  “Ah really think you should getta nurse or some woman to come out here.”

  “She’ll only rebel if I do that.”

  “Maybe we can bring Mrs. Boyle up here to cook for her and all.”

  Mallomar’s face darkened.

  “What’s your next fucked up idea?” He handed Buster a cell phone. “Look, if there’s any trouble—not that there will be—call me on this phone. And, uh…if anything bad does happen…just make sure you document it.”

  There was a lot going on that Buster didn’t understand. Mallomar patted Buster on the shoulder. “C’mon… you’ll be okay as long as you remember one thing…”