All the Bells on Earth

by James P. Blaylock

  33

  WALT AND HENRY sat in a window booth at Coco’s, waiting for Sidney Vest, who would probably turn out to be another postal inspector. Unlike the big man, the woman this afternoon had been pleasant and undemanding—no threats, no jail talk. Her name, she’d told him, was Hepplewhite. When Walt had referred to the other inspector, she hadn’t stumbled. “Probably another operative,” she’d said, and then she’d given him her name and a phone number and left.

  He glanced at Henry over the top of his water glass. Henry had the popes in a manila envelope. He was sparked up, looking over the menu like a trencherman, squinting his eyes and nodding, as if everything he saw looked first-rate. Something had given him an appetite. It was probably time to ask him outright about the Biggs woman, before lie did anything regrettable.

  “I might try the chicken fried steak,” Henry said, winking at Walt and inclining his head toward the waitress, who was helping the people at the next booth. Henry leaned over and whispered, “Nice gams,” and darted his eyes a couple of times.

  Walt nodded, although the word meant nothing to him. Gams?

  Henry leaned back and picked his teeth with a wooden toothpick he’d pulled from the dispenser on the way in. He had the relaxed air of someone who was in for the long haul, who had the afternoon off and was going to do some real eating.

  “Women,” Henry said, heaving a sigh.

  “Yes, indeed,” Walt said. He watched the street, looking out for a Lincoln Town Car.

  “Who was that Italian woman, that blonde who ran for the senate or parliament or whatever the hell they’ve got over there? Reminded you of a couple of mush melons in a sack.”

  Walt shook his head helplessly. “Italian woman?”

  “She took off her clothes and climbed into a public fountain. It was all over the newspapers.”

  “Oh, sure,” Walt said, remembering. “That was a few years ago. I think they call that a photo opportunity. What was her name?—something like Chicolina. I think that was it. I guess that was pretty much why they elected her, that prank with the fountain.”

  “I’ve always liked the Italians,” Uncle Henry said. “They understand beauty, the female form.”

  “Did you know it’s against the law to lie about a cheese over there?” Walt asked. “A Parmesan cheese has to be made in Parma. Over here you can make a Parmesan cheese in Iowa.”

  “Now, the blonde women are from the north,” Henry said, “up around Switzerland … It’s the cooler climate that fleshes them out.” He gestured with both hands, winking heavily. “Bella, bella,” he said.

  Walt grinned weakly. “Good pasta in the north.” Henry was full of beans. What was this, his hula-hula woman? Success? Anticipation? Certainly it was trouble with a capital T.

  “I met a woman from Varese once….” Henry shook his head, as if the words had suddenly failed him, and Walt would have to imagine her.

  “I wonder where your man Vest is,” Walt asked, still trying to shift the subject. He checked his watch.

  “He’ll show,” Henry said. He put his arm across the top of the Naugahyde booth and stared out the window at the afternoon traffic. “Varese.” He rolled the word out of his mouth, stretching the second syllable.

  Walt nodded.

  “It was on a train.” Henry paused again, remembering. “We were riding down to Rome. Crowded as hell, and hot. It was the first of August, and every Frenchman in creation was on the train heading south, speaking out of their noses like they do.” He inclined his head at Walt. “Now, there’s nothing wrong with a Parisian woman, although they’re a little too thin.” He paused, looking as if he expected an argument on this one.

  Walt widened his eyes. “I was only in Paris once—with Ivy, of course. We found a bed and breakfast on a little street called the Rue Serpente—fresh bread and jam in the morning. And the coffee!” He clucked in appreciation. “Good coffee in Italy, too.”

  “Well, Jinx was in the first-class compartment, and I was out in the aisle getting some air, and here was this … this vision, absolute vision. Blonde like you wouldn’t believe. Biggest …” He gestured with both hands, nearly knocking over the water glasses, indicating something that flew in the face of gravity. “She was wearing her grandmother’s nightgown.”

  Walt glanced over at the waitress, hoping that … She was staring at Henry with a fixed grin. Walt smiled and shook his head, wishing he could make the pinwheel sign around his ear. He’d have to leave her a hell of a tip.

  “This woman Chicoletta reminded me of her,” Uncle Henry said. “She’s an Italian type. Now, in the south, there’s a touch of the Mediterranean in the women, a swarthiness. But in the north …”

  Walt waited for the conclusion of the story, for what happened on the train full of Frenchmen, the woman in the nightgown, but Henry had abruptly fallen silent, perhaps lost in thought. “Did you meet this woman?” Walt asked.

  “What woman?”

  “On board the train. The woman from Varese.”

  “Oh, no. No. Not really. She got out in Milan, and the train went on to Rome. We stayed on it.”

  “And you never saw her again?”

  “Never. I wouldn’t expect to, though. Never got back to Milan.”

  “Then how did you know anything about her nightgown?”

  “Well, she was wearing it. Here he comes!” Henry sat up straight and pointed out the window. An old green Torino was just angling into the parking lot. The paint was sun-faded, and the rear fender was banged up, with a taillight made out of duct tape and red cellophane. When the car hit the dip in the gutter, the entire rear end slammed down, as if the springs were shot, and a plume of black smoke exhaled from the tailpipe.

  “I thought he was driving a Lincoln Town Car,” Walt said doubtfully. “Are you sure this is the guy?”

  “One and the same,” Henry said. “I imagine that a man of his talents owns more than one vehicle. This is what you might call the practical art of understatement.”

  Walt nodded. “Hefernin?”

  Henry winked and nodded.

  Vest rounded the corner of the building on foot and headed up the sidewalk, carrying a briefcase. Henry waved at him through the window. He was short and stocky and looked a little too much like a well-fed chipmunk. He moved ahead with a will, like a man with places to go and people to meet, a man who was running a half hour behind. He came in and sat down in the booth, next to Henry, who introduced him to Walt. Vest gestured immediately at the waitress, who came around now to take their order. Walt studied his menu, not quite wanting to meet her eye.

  As soon as the waitress was gone, Henry hauled out the popes. He had an even dozen renditions—side views, front views, measurements and notes in the margins. Vest looked through them for about thirty seconds and handed them back.

  “What do you think?” Henry asked.

  “I think I know a man who can help you out,” Vest said. He drained his water glass with a noise that sounded like he was sucking the water through his teeth.

  “Henry rather thought that you yourself were interested,” Walt said.

  “Oh, I am, but I’ve got a few things hanging fire right now. Don’t count me out, though. Do you have a financial advisor, Mr. Stebbins?”

  “I hardly have any finances,” Walt said. “About a nickel’s worth of advice would cover it.”

  “All the more reason to take care of business,” Vest said. “Let me give you my card.” Vest handed over a business card, and Walt took out his wallet in order to put it inside. The little flip-flop plastic slipcase fell out, exposing his new Get-Out-of-Hell card.

  “I can get you a twenty-six-percent return,” Vest said. “What are you making now, bank interest?”

  Walt nodded, and just then Vest noticed the card. “Are you a current member?” he asked, tapping it with his finger.

  “Well, yeah,” Walt said. “So it says here, anyway. It’s got the Dilworth signature.” He took the card out of its slip so Vest could see it more clear
ly.

  “V.P.?”

  “What? I’m sorry … ?”

  “Are you a vice president?”

  “No, I guess not. I just got the card, actually. I ordered a couple of items through a catalogue….”

  Vest nodded broadly, then drew his own card from his wallet, tossing it onto the table. “I can get you started on the lamination process. There’s a twenty-dollar fee, but it’s worth its weight in gold. The connections are fabulous.”

  “Connections?” Walt asked.

  “Business connections. It’s the best twenty dollars you’ll ever spend.”

  “I’m in,” Henry said, inspecting the card himself. He turned it over and stared at the faces.

  “Actually,” Walt said, “I didn’t pay anything for this. It came free.”

  “That’s what I’m telling you. Yours isn’t laminated. Take a look at mine. Take a look at this lamination.” He clicked it against the table. “It’s a chemically impregnated space-age plastic. It’s actually impervious to gamma rays. Won’t burn. Floats. What I’m talking about is having your card activated, cleared for takeoff.”

  “Takeoff? What is it actually?”

  Vest sat thinking for a moment. “It’s like … what? Like the Catholic thing—the scapular. They wear it around their necks, you know, for salvation. Now, this card, I call it insurance. You’re welcome to wear it around your neck, like the Catholics. I don’t know how a hole punch would affect the lamination, though…. You better hold off on that.”

  “Why does all this sound preposterous to me?” Walt asked.

  “I don’t know,” Vest said. “Do you own life insurance?”

  Walt nodded.

  “Nothing preposterous about that, is there?”

  “I’m not sure,” Walt said. “There might be.”

  “There’s where you’re wrong,” Vest told him. “A man can’t have too much insurance, not a family man like you. Take my word for it.”

  Their lunches arrived. After Jinx’s meatloaf last night, Walt’s burger looked like heaven. Vest had ordered a top sirloin, fries, and a salad—the seven-ninety-five lunch. “Put aside a piece of that Harvest Pie for me, will you?” he asked the waitress.

  “Anyone else for pie?” she asked.

  Henry shrugged. “I’m about famished.”

  “Looks like pie all around,” Vest said cheerfully. He picked up his water glass and peered into it for a moment. “Look,” he said seriously, setting down the glass. “Thursday night after Christmas there’s a meeting up on Batavia, at the union hall. I’m going to recommend it to you. It’s a business venture put together by three of the most successful men you or I will ever meet. It’s called the Plan for the Sensible Investor.”

  “Now you’re talking,” Henry said, nodding hard at Walt. “This is the kind of thing I was telling you about.”

  “There’s a short testimonial first,” Vest said. “Then they’ll tap out the men who’ll be cleared for takeoff. I think you’ll be impressed with the ceremony. There’ll be a general discussion about selling distributorships and about the officer hierarchy. If you’re interested, you’ll get a supply of coupon booklets right then and there. You’re on your way.”

  “Is this a sales organization?” Walt asked. Something was odd here—all this business about the card, the connection between Vest’s nonsense and Dilworth Catalogue Sales. Argyle again, like the many-armed octopus, tightening his grip.

  “Indirectly. The real object is service. That’s the point of the coupon booklets.” He opened his briefcase and drew out a booklet the size of his palm. He flipped through it, showing Walt and Henry examples of the hundred-odd coupons—brake-job discounts, offers for free sodas at fast-food joints, two-for-one dinners, motel travel packages, cut-rate Vegas shows. “These will save you a buck every time you go to the movies,” Vest said, indicating a discount card for a local chain of theaters. “And look at this.” The back of the booklet was a Get-Out-of-Hell card, just like Walt’s, but without the Dilworth affidavit and signature. This one was imprinted with the Sensible Investor logo instead, and had little squares around the perimeter that apparently could be punched out by merchants when you redeemed coupons. “You can accumulate as many of these as you want,” Vest said.

  “Why would you want more than one?” Walt asked, echoing the sentiment of the Dilworth man.

  “For your children.”

  “I don’t have any children,” Walt said, heating up a little. Henry was clearly roused by this baloney.

  “Then put a few aside for your grandchildren. Think about the future. Look, what I’m saying is that you can hold activated cards for anybody you please—dead relatives, what have you. The cards are entirely retroactive. And five percent of coupon sales are put into a fund for locating the missing children. This is a service-oriented organization, but it’s got nothing against making a profit.”

  “The missing children?” Walt asked, letting the “retroactive” part go.

  “That would be the children depicted on the milk cartons?” Henry said helpfully.

  Vest nodded in Henry’s direction. “Like that except different, if you follow me. But the real money is in distributorships. I don’t mind telling you that. None of us will make a dime by playing games here. When you buy the first program packet you’re a distributor, and five percent of your sales come to me. That’s right. You heard me right. Straight into my wallet. If I can pull in twenty distributors I’m what they call a ‘Hundred Percenter.’ That’s the end of the rainbow. The pot of gold. Just four distributors and you’re a vice president. That’s what I was asking about when I saw your card. That’s the Lamination Level. I myself was four vice presidents, and I’ve only been in the organization for two months.” He hit the table with his fist, to underscore things. “Do you have a pen?”

  Walt took his pen out of his pocket and handed it over. Vest tore a coupon out of the booklet and wrote an address in the margin. He handed the slip of paper to Walt, who tucked it into his shirt pocket.

  “You’re four vice presidents?” Walt asked. “All by yourself?”

  “I was. George Nelson is thirty-eight vice presidents. You know George?”

  Walt shook his head.

  “Law office up on the Plaza? Well, he’s a charter member. Inner Circle. One of the First Captains. The sky’s the limit here. No ceiling. There’s only one question to ask: how rich do you want to be?”

  Their pies arrived, and Vest started forking his down in a hurry.

  “How many vice presidents are you now?” Walt asked.

  “That’s not the point,” Vest said. “The point is, I sold my vice presidencies back to the Sensible Investor. That’s how it works. It happens that mine were bought by one of the Captains, and for ten times their face value, I made a couple of bucks on that one, and, listen to this, I receive two percent of the off-the-top profits into perpetuity. This is capitalism, gentlemen; there’s no part of this that you can’t sell at a profit. Surefire gain. What I’m thinking of doing is cashing out entirely. I’m from North Carolina, out around Raleigh. I’m going to take my nest egg and go home, buy a little place of my own.”

  “Good for you,” Walt said. “But this whole thing sounds a little like a pyramid scheme, doesn’t it? Excuse me for saying so.”

  “Perfectly reasonable question,” Vest said. “But I can assure you this is no pyramid. This is circular, with levels. Look, don’t take my word for it. Come around on Thursday and you’ll hear the real McCoy, the horse’s mouth, from men and women who are already making money. And I mean money.”

  He stood up to leave. “Thanks for the lunch,” he said, shaking Walt’s hand.

  “About the drawings …” Henry said, picking up the envelope.

  “Why don’t you bring those around on Thursday night when you come?” Vest said. “We’ll see if we can’t put something together.”

  “Now you’re talking,” Henry said.

  “And what about the sales club?” Vest asked.
“Have you thought that over?”

  “I certainly have,” Henry said. “I’m ready.”

  “Can you take delivery tomorrow? Betty’s got a party set up already, gratis. You don’t pay any percentage on your first party—profit’s all yours, so you can’t lose. It’s a house right over here on Harwood, ten women so far and a couple more possibles.”

  “Ten …” Henry said, nodding.

  “We’re talking a three-figure party. That’s not chump change. I’d jump in with both feet on this one.”

  “By heaven, I will. Tomorrow’s fine. Jinx is going out to see Gladys,” he said, turning to Walt, “in Costa Mesa.”

  Vest nodded and turned to leave, heading toward the door without a backward glance.

  “I told you he was a go-getter,” Henry said.

  “He’s a ball of fire,” Walt said. “What’s this ‘delivery’ he was talking about?”

  “I mentioned that yesterday, I believe.”

  “You said something about a business venture that Vest was going to let you in on. That wasn’t this ‘Sensible Investor’ scheme?”

  “No,” Henry said. “This is something else—immediate money. He’s already shown me the ropes.” Henry paused, looking shrewdly at Walt. “What do you think? Partners? It’s ready money. I’ll put up the three hundred to cover Vest’s stock.”

  “Sure,” Walt said weakly. “I guess so.”

  “Don’t worry about me. The three hundred’s entirely refundable if we can’t sell the product. But that’s not the issue. We’ll sell it. You heard what Sidney said about that. He represents a surefire line of clothing articles. He books what they call ‘parties.’ “

  “I’ve heard of that,” Walt said uneasily. “So this isn’t crystal or Tupperware or potted plants or something?”

  “Women’s lingerie,” Henry said, scraping his pie plate clean with his fork.

  Sidney Vest bumped out of the parking lot just then, the old Torino boiling away up Chapman Avenue toward the Plaza. The waitress arrived, and Walt found himself paying for the lunch, for Vest’s steak, for “pie all around.”

  Rain swept against the window in a sudden gust of wind, and Walt heard the bells start up again, over at the church. It was the top of the hour—two o’clock. If they rang true to form, they wouldn’t let up for twenty minutes, which was perhaps getting to be too much of a good thing. Probably it was in the memory of poor Simms. Walt picked up his card from the tabletop and slipped it back into his wallet, noting for the first time that he hadn’t signed it yet.