Plain Heathen Mischief

by Martin Clark

  “Baptist,” Joel answered.

  “You know how to fly-fish, Joel?”

  “I’m okay. A little rusty, so probably what you’d call an intermediate.” Joel tasted his coffee; it was pungent and hot.

  “You ever fish out here before?” Dixon asked.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Well, I’ll give you a shot, see what you can do. Two of my guys are settin’ up on their own, so I can use the help. You can row a boat, can’t you? And tell entertainin’ stories, talk the talk?”

  “I’ll try. I’m anxious to get the job.”

  “I suppose I need to make sure I only book you with men and marrieds, huh?” Dixon measured Joel over the rim of his brook trout mug. “Come by Monday morning at seven sharp. I’ll carry you to the Clark Fork and see how you rate.”

  It was Joel’s fifth night at the Station when the call came, around eight o’clock on a Wednesday. He was busy in the kitchen, mopping a corner where a waiter had spilled a tray of appetizers and drinks. The chef had cursed the waiter, and Sarah had appeared to learn what the clamor was about, had chided them both and told them they were being babies. She’d left and returned a few moments later, timing her strides so she never touched the swinging double doors, barreled in as a busboy went out.

  “Call for you, Joel.” She placed the portable receiver on a table. “Please bring me the phone when you’re done,” she said as she headed back into the dining room.

  He took the phone from the table, plugging his open ear with his middle finger against the noise of the kitchen. “Hello?”

  “Reverend. How are you?”

  Joel blanched when he heard the voice, felt his stomach shrink and a bolt of anxiety disrupt his lungs. He’d put the insurance trickery out of his mind, ignoring it like a child with a hidden report card or a war bride with an unopened telegram, hoping dumb inertia would somehow grant him a reprieve. He was vacillating, betwixt and between, frightened of the bargain he’d struck but mindful he was penniless and sinking fast, floundering.

  “You there, Joel?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s me, Sa’ad. Can you hear me?”

  “Yeah, I can.” Walking to the door, he stumbled into a rack and caused two skillets to bang together.

  “I have wonderful news for you, my friend.”

  “Oh?” He was almost outside.

  “Indeed. We’ve persuaded your wife to abandon her alimony claim. I just talked to our associate in Virginia.”

  Joel was out of the building. He shut the door behind him and rested against the wall. Someone had spray-painted a shaky heart and arrow with four runny initials on the restaurant’s Dumpster. A bike was parked in the alley, fastened to a utility pole by a chain and combination lock.

  “She what?”

  “We’ve won the alimony game,” Sa’ad said.

  “How? How’d that happen?”

  “You know when a divorce ends, Joel? When it’s actually over?”

  “I would assume when the judge signs the paperwork.”

  “No, not at all. Death or hot new romance—that’s when it’s truly finished. When they’re either dead or in bed.”

  “So what’re you saying?”

  “Well, your wife’s still living, and her lawyer wants to do a painless no-fault divorce. You connect the dots.”

  “You think she’s got a beau?”

  Sa’ad cackled. “My phone screwed up, Joel? Did you say ‘beau’? Yeah— she and Ashley are probably picking out hoopskirts and buggy-riding and hand-holding and taking nature walks. That’s what I think.”

  “So you’re positive there’s another man?”

  Sa’ad caught the sadness in Joel’s question. “Well, yeah, Joel. What can I say? She’s moving on. After all, it’s been several months now, and you can’t expect her to let her hair go white and spend the rest of her life in peasant dresses and crummy old sweaters.”

  “I suppose.” Joel slid his shoulders down the wall, felt the brick’s scratchy bite through his shirt.

  “I thought you’d be pleased. You’re off the hook, Joel. This is resolved, favorably resolved.” Sa’ad was sympathetic; all the taunting and cynicism had vanished. “And who knows, maybe she simply decided to cut you a break. That’s possible. Or she and her lawyer decided it wasn’t worth the effort, with you broke and in another state. Sometimes people just want to get it done. I’m only speculating about the boyfriend.”

  “It’s just terribly heartbreaking when it finally hits home. What a horrible punishment. My wife’s a good woman, and I’d always hoped we . . .” The words perished in his throat.

  “You’ll be over it soon. Trust me.”

  “Well, thanks for managing things for me. You certainly took care of your part.” Joel was sitting now, completely collapsed onto the ground, his legs straight in front of him, flush against the pavement. He could feel heat from the asphalt grilling his butt and calves.

  “By the way, your deposition in the other case is set for August twenty-second. That’s right around the corner. As I told you, Mr. Roland is paying your travel expenses—I’ve got a plane ticket to Virginia he sent my associate, and you’re to submit the hotel bill at his office when you leave.”

  “Right.”

  “August twenty-first,” Sa’ad said, “you’ll be flying to Roanoke.”

  Joel knew exactly what was not being mentioned. “How’s Edmund doing?”

  “Fine, I would imagine. I haven’t seen him much.” Sa’ad was terse.

  “How’d you find me?”

  “I called your sister, and she gave me the number. I’m pleased you located work. She said you were doing something for a guide service, too.”

  “Yeah. I’ve got two solid jobs.”

  “Congratulations. And good luck with the deposition. I hope everything goes well in Roanoke. I’m sure you realize there’s a lot riding on how you do.”

  Joel sighed. “I figured that out.”

  The next morning, Joel stopped by the probation office for his scheduled meeting. Jack Howard was in his customary arrangement, sprawled in his chair with his feet on the desk. “Reverend King. You keepin’ your nose clean, my criminal friend?”

  “Yes.” Joel took a seat.

  “You got a job?” Howard asked.

  “Two,” Joel answered.

  “Can you pass a piss test?”

  “For drugs? Is that what you’re referring to?”

  “Right, Sherlock. For drugs.”

  “Of course,” Joel replied.

  “Then I guess our intensive, thirty-minute monthly contact is almost done. Did you make your monthly payment?”

  “Yes. I have a receipt if you need to see it.”

  “Oh no. I trust you, Reverend. But I don’t think you’ve gotten around to your local fee, have you?”

  “No.” Joel was focusing on a spot a few inches above Howard’s head, determined not to be drawn into a skirmish.

  “Well, we need to attend to that important business.”

  “If you say so.”

  Howard put down one of his feet and thrust his hand at Joel. Joel removed a ten and twenty from his wallet and placed the cash on the edge of the desk, next to a file and a posed picture of Howard and his two kids. “You realize you’re taking five hours of my work,” Joel said. “Five hours.”

  “Like I give a shit,” Howard barked. “I expect you never had any problem sending the plate around a few extra times, huh Reverend? All the while you’re humpin’ some guy’s minor daughter, and he’s payin’ you to do it? I don’t give a damn if you go hungry and sleep under a bridge. You get my drift? You’re nothing but a con artist with a Bible.” He swiveled his head and spit on the floor. “That’s what I think of you. Be glad it’s only thirty.”

  “I assume I won’t be getting a receipt for this portion,” Joel said dryly.

  “Get the hell out of here.”

  Joel left the office and walked outside, opened the door to the station wagon.
A summer storm was in the offing, and the mountaintops were stacked with clouds, rampaging shades of black, gray and pewter that manhandled the sky. Joel let the burning air escape from the car and tested the cracked leather seat as he entered to make sure it wouldn’t singe him. He turned the key, and nothing came of it. He tried again, and still nothing happened. He adjusted the shift knob, removed and reinserted the key, then turned the switch as far as it would go, pressing the ignition’s metal notch with his thumb and rolled wrist. The Taurus would not crank. The thunderheads were striding across a high, jagged peak, and the breeze latched on to a discarded fast-food wrapper and danced it through the parking lot.

  Joel crumpled against the headrest and forgot about shutting the door. He would never be able to shake Howard, and even with two jobs, his life was always going to be a series of pitched battles and daily labors simply not to go under. He could afford to live in his sister’s basement and no more, dwelling in the dirt like a subterranean millstone, a middle-aged pity whose big contribution would be to bring home the occasional out-of-date steak from the Station and cart his decrepit mom to her doctor’s appointments. Watching the angry sky advance, he vowed to do the right thing with the money—give a chunk to his wife, send a generous tithe to Roanoke Baptist, and repay his sister for her help and love. He’d only keep enough for a fresh beginning, and how terrible was it anyway, pulling a fast one on the insurance guys whose policies were as rigged as a carnival game or a three-card-monte bet? Cheating a cheater, conning a con. He was going to play the insurance game by their own rules and beat them at it. Edmund had a point.

  He acknowledged, too, sitting in the steamy, balky wagon, waiting for the rains to hit, that there was a sad weakness in his decision—he missed his former life, yearned for stability and certainty and comfort, and was willing to swap a portion of integrity for a little breathing room. He was unnerved by the thin balance of his life since jail, hounded by possibilities and what-ifs, fearful of a slow cancer in his belly or an achy tooth or something as slight as the cost of a broken water glass deducted from his pay, completely alone and at the mercy of happenstance and hinky fortune, only a tic, stumble or stutter away from sheer ruin. He was tired of being patient, weary of stepping gingerly, defeated by the feeling he could be picked off at any moment. His heartfelt belief in the Lord’s loving guidance had run smack into the price of a dozen eggs and the need for electricity, gasoline and the other commonplace, worldly staples he required to barely eke by.

  He got out and opened the hood, even though he knew nothing about automobiles and their repair. He scanned the wires, pulleys, hoses and belts in hopes of discovering something obvious and easy to fix. Two fat splatters popped the windshield, and he heard the first rumbles of thunder. There was a blanket of fair blue sky to the right of the storm, the weather tame and sunny many miles to the east. Joel stared helplessly at the engine and wiped his eyes, felt the stinging upheaval in his nose and chest that precedes unwelcome tears.

  “Problem with your ride there, buddy?”

  Joel spun and discovered a stranger standing behind him, a giant of a man in jeans and motorcycle garb. “Well, it won’t start.”

  “Won’t start, huh? That’s ’cause it’s a damn Ford.” The biker laughed. His frizzy Fu Manchu framed his teeth on three sides.

  “I have no idea what’s wrong with it.” The serious rain was almost there. The pace of the fat drops was picking up, and the wind was whipping the flag in front of the municipal building, causing its big brass grommets to thrash against its pole.

  “You work here?” the burly man asked.

  “In Missoula?”

  “Naw. I mean inside, for the town.” He seemed unconcerned about the storm.

  “No,” Joel said. “I just finished some business.”

  “Oh. Huh. I’m looking for a map, tryin’ to see if there’s a scenic route to Sturgis.”

  “It’s all pretty scenic around here.”

  “I’m just lookin’ for a different trip. You know, see something new.” He was wearing a leather cap that was too small for his head. Joel decided he was over six and a half feet tall, probably weighed two seventy-five.

  “I don’t know the territory so well. Sorry. I’m sure someone inside can help you. I couldn’t tell you if they have a map.” Right then, the rain poured down in a gusty, sweeping burst, and Joel was drenched in a matter of seconds, before he could react or take cover. His shirt became saturated and translucent, his pants were soaked and the deluge was so fierce he had trouble seeing the man standing next to him.

  The huge biker took off his leather hat and tilted his head so the drops hit him in the face. “Damn, that feels good,” he yelled. “Bring it on!” He opened his mouth, let the downpour bounce off his tongue and pelt his throat. “Oh, man, what a gully-washer!”

  “You have any idea what I could do to get my vehicle going?” Joel asked.

  “I’ll take a look; you never know.” He lifted his shirt and let the rain wash his torso for several moments, then crouched under the hood and squinted at the motor. Water dripped off his nose and chin, and the rain continued to beat him from behind. “Get in and try to fire it up.”

  Joel got into the car, twisted the ignition and heard only a faint clicking sound.

  The biker poked his head around the hood. “Try it again.”

  Joel did and got the same result. Click-click-click-click.

  The man dropped the hood and walked to Joel’s door, covering the distance in two gigantic steps. “Starter’s history.”

  “The starter? Is that something you can fix?”

  The man smiled, bent closer to the window. His face was dotted with rain, his mustache wet and drawn flat by the weight of the water. “If I had the parts and tools and about an hour to spare, but there ain’t no hope for it as things stand right now. Sorry ’bout that.”

  “You’re sure that’s the problem? It’s not something we can correct?”

  “Wish it was.” The biker resumed his full height. “Nope, you need a mechanic.”

  “I just thought, the way you materialized out of nowhere, the coincidence and so forth, like you’d been sent to help me . . . I’d hoped . . . well, I thought things would turn out differently. Better news or something.”

  “Be glad to let you off somewhere, but that’s about the best I can offer.”

  “Thanks. I’ll wait here till the storm passes, then call my sister.”

  “Good luck, buddy.”

  “Thanks.” Joel extended his hand into the rain and the biker took it. The large man went through a sequence of three grips Joel recalled from high school, started with thumbs entwined and ended with a regular handshake. “How much will the new part cost?”

  “Probably find a good rebuilt starter for a hundred-and-fifty or so.”

  “That wouldn’t include installing it, would it?” Joel asked.

  “Nope—that’d be for the parts only.”

  “Well, thanks again. Have a safe trip.” Joel rolled up his window and watched the man penetrate the clear torrent, saw him vanish as if he’d punctured a membrane and been sucked from sight. Joel sat in the car for twenty minutes while the rain pounded the sheet metal and the water pooled around the sidewalk drains, then trudged back inside to locate a phone.

  Joel was certain his sister wouldn’t do it—she’d lecture and rebuke him and consider the request a breach of faith—and that left only one person to ask: Frankie, whom he’d known for all of two weeks. They were loitering next to the dishwasher during a slow spell at the Station, trying to look busy in case Sarah visited the kitchen. It had been an excellent night so far. A boisterous, crew-cut North Carolina deejay named Jack Murphy had enjoyed his meal so much he’d stuck his head in the door, handed the chef a ten and slipped Joel a twenty for the kitchen to divide. A table of tourist fly fishermen, drunk and happy after a successful day on the Bitterroot, had given one of the waitresses a hundred-dollar tip. They’d asked her to paint the town with them, but
she had to get home and tend to her child. Better still, the chef had told Frankie that Phil Jackson was coming from Whitefish and would be in Friday with a party of ten. It seemed like as good a time as any to ask, and Joel was not going to have many more opportunities. He waited until Frankie finished wiping the sink with a paper towel, then took a deep breath and tried to sound casual.

  “Do you think you could help me with something, Frankie? A small favor?”

  “I might. Depends what it is.”

  “Well, you see, I need a phone number. For a woman who lives in Roanoke, Virginia. I know her parents’ number, but I can’t call there. I need someone to phone them and get her number, find out where she is. She might be with her parents, but I doubt it. So that would be the favor, calling her house and helping me locate her.”

  A waitress busted through the door, and both Joel and Frankie turned to look at her.

  “Why can’t you call?”

  Joel put his palms on the lip of the sink and rocked forward. “I’m not supposed to. I can’t. Her parents despise me. And to tell you the truth, so you know what you’re getting into, I’m court-ordered not to have any contact with her. You should be aware of that. You’d probably need to call from a pay phone and say . . . say . . . you’re a friend of hers from the University of Virginia.”

  “Man.” Frankie stroked his goatee. “Huh.”

  “It would mean a lot to me, but I’ll understand if you don’t want to become involved.”

  “Why’s it so important to talk to her?”

  “To straighten out some business. I give you my word it’s nothing bad or threatening.” Joel stood up from the sink. “She’s filed a lawsuit against me, and I need to know what she’s thinking. I’d hoped that if I could talk to her, just the two of us, maybe I could get the situation resolved.”

  “What’s the suit for?”

  “For, uh, supposedly having sex with her.”

  Frankie wrinkled his face. “Like rape or something?”

  “Oh no, nothing like that. There was no force or anything.”

  “So how old is this girl, Joel?”

  “She’s eighteen or older now. For sure she’s at least eighteen.” Joel stammered on the last word. It came out “eight-t-teen.”