Plain Heathen Mischief

by Martin Clark

  “And you only want to talk to her? You’re not stalkin’ her or something?”

  “I give you my word.”

  “Hmmm . . .” Frankie was shaping the point of his goatee again. “You seem like a good enough guy, but I don’t know. I sure don’t need a load of somebody else’s police problems dumped on me. Let me think about it.”

  “Of course, absolutely. I don’t mean to pressure you, but I’ve got to find her real soon. In the next couple days.”

  “Give me the parents’ number, and I’ll sleep on it. I want to be a pal and all, but I don’t want to do the wrong thing. You understand what I’m sayin’?”

  “I do. I can only promise you I’m not out to cause any harm. If I were after her or planning to hurt her, I wouldn’t be in Missoula, completely across the country. The girl’s name is Christy, Christy Darden.”

  “Okay.” Frankie fumbled with a dish towel. “How old was she when, you know, this stuff between you happened?”

  “She was seventeen.”

  “Damn.” He folded the towel in half. “Seventeen.”

  Joel wasn’t sure what to make of his remark, delivered as it was with a blank face and an ambiguous inflection.

  Two large tables were seated at seven-thirty, and the kitchen became hectic. Joel took his break at eight, stepping out the rear door with a Pepsi and a small plate of chicken wings. He sat down against the building and placed the food on the ground beside him. It was still bright and hot, the very first hints of night starting to surface in a shadow or two. The city was busy, full of commotion and bustle, and a group of young kids trooped by in front of Joel. Most of them had skateboards, and they all said hello but didn’t bother him or act like punks. A man was following behind them, probably fifty yards away, the declining sun over his shoulder.

  Joel ate a chicken wing and threw the stripped gray bone onto his plate. The man was much closer now, the gang of teenagers gone from view. Joel cocked his head to swallow his soft drink, caught a snatch of azure sky and rooftops, and when he finished with the Pepsi and leveled his eyes, Edmund Brooks was standing directly in front of him. Edmund looked exceptionally large from Joel’s slouched perspective, and he dropped the can, causing a puddle of brown drink to wet his lap. He sprung to his feet and took several frantic swipes at the mess he’d made, tried to clean off the soda before it stained his trousers. “Edmund! Gosh, you startled me.”

  “Sorry about that, Joel. I hope you’re doin’ okay.” Edmund was wearing a baseball hat, sunglasses and a long-sleeved white shirt. He’d grown a mustache since Joel last saw him, and his sideburns were more pronounced.

  Joel felt a flash of fear. He wasn’t sure why—it was simply avuncular Edmund, arrived to deliver the goods—but there was something suddenly imposing in the way Edmund had hunted him down and taken him by surprise, his eyes hidden and his face different and shaggy. “I’m fine,” Joel said. “Just taking a break from work.”

  “I can’t stay long, my friend.” Edmund surveyed the alley, then reached into his pocket and handed Joel a red velvet bag cinched by a yellow cord woven into its top. “Here you go, Joel. You know the plan. Show ’em at the bank in Roanoke, pawn the small diamond earrings while you’re in Virginia, have everything else insured locally, and make sure the agent takes photos and gives you an appraisal. I’ll be here about a week after you get back from Virginia to collect the stones. You gotta work fast.”

  Joel didn’t speak.

  “Okay? You’re ready, right?”

  “Yeah. I suppose. Just the way you appeared without any warning . . . I’m really anxious, scared some, now that it’s actually happening.” Joel stuffed the bag in his Pepsi-damp pocket.

  “That’s natural, Joel. All you need to do is take it easy and follow the plan.” Edmund clapped him on the shoulder. “I gotta hit the road. You’ll be fine.”

  “How come you can’t give them to me when I get to Roanoke? Wouldn’t that be safer?”

  “The less time the stuff’s in my hands, the better. To be honest, I don’t like holdin’ ’em, don’t like the risk. If I was caught with this kinda stash . . . Well, suffice it to say I don’t have any wiggle room in the insurance business. Also, as insignificant as it may seem now, I don’t even want to be near Roanoke while you’re there showin’ off stones and hocking diamonds. If the plan—God forbid—should ever go south, I’m checked into the Golden Nugget miles and miles away, and we eliminate one possible link. On top of that, hell, if you get stopped or inspected, you can simply stick to the plan, say you’re transportin’ your mother’s jewelry. I don’t have the same luxury.”

  “Oh.”

  “Good luck, Joel.” Edmund adjusted his cap and tramped off with his head bowed, his shoulders rounded forward and his arms tucked against his sides, a winter walk almost, like he was pushing into a cold, mean wind.

  Joel kept the bag in his pocket while he worked, didn’t take it out until he’d returned to the basement. He was nervous and jumpy carrying the jewelry around the kitchen, would pat his thigh from time to time to check the lump in his pants and talked more than he ordinarily did, told Frankie a rambling story about Baker finding Tut’s hen and her seven off-white eggs. The house was asleep when he arrived home, and Joel was especially careful to keep quiet as he crept through the kitchen and down the stairs. He got on his knees beside the bed and shook the bag until it was empty. Rings, fantastic brooches, several necklaces, three pairs of diamond earrings, bracelets and an elaborate stick pin spilled onto the thin counter-pane, the necklaces coiled and wound like red, green and white snakes, the rings sparkling and vibrant even in the dull cellar light. “Oh my,” he whispered. Like a goofy teenager, he collected the baubles and hid them underneath his mattress, then tossed and turned for most of the night above someone else’s extravagant wealth.

  The next afternoon, Frankie was already at work when Joel arrived. He reached into his shirt pocket and offered Joel an opened, empty envelope that was folded in half. The envelope was from the power company, addressed to Frankie Jamison. Joel glanced at the envelope, then looked at Frankie.

  “It’s on the front,” Frankie said. “Hell, I just stopped on the way here and called for you. That’s all I had to write on.”

  Joel found the number on the other side of the envelope, tore it off, put the scrap of paper in his wallet and tossed the remainder into the trash can. “Thanks, Frankie. Thank you.”

  “No problem.”

  “What do I owe you for the call?” Joel asked.

  “Not a thing.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yep,” Frankie said.

  “I hope I can do something to return the favor.”

  “Maybe,” Frankie replied. “Don’t worry about it though.”

  “How did everything go? Any problems?”

  “Shit, what time is it, Joel? Like not even four here. So I called a few minutes ago and it’s six-something in the East, and the mother is already snockered, all slurred and talkative.”

  Joel grinned. “Mrs. Darden likes her toddy.”

  “I’ll say.” Frankie unbuttoned his cuffs and started adjusting his sleeves, getting ready to stick his arms in the sink and scrub dirty dishes. “She was a trip.”

  “Did she want to know why you were calling?”

  “Not really. I told her I was a friend from school, and the old bag was smashed and not too curious. But here’s the problem, Joel. Your girl Christy’s still living with mom and dad. She’s leaving soon for college at Sweet Briar—I think I got the name right—but she’s bunkin’ with her folks for the short term. I was scared to death they were going to put her on the phone, but lucky for me, she was ‘out for the evening.’ ” Frankie mimicked Mrs. Darden’s haughty, intoxicated voice.

  “Huh. I thought she’d be staying somewhere else. Sorry to put you on the spot—I’d have never guessed she’d be living at home. I believe I mentioned she could be there, but I’d have bet against it.” Joel paused long enough to read Frank
ie’s scribbling. “So what’s this number you gave me?”

  Frankie allowed a smile to come and go. “That, Joel, would be her private line. Like the Bat Phone or the hotline to the Kremlin, those digits will take you directly to her and bypass the drunken mom and pistolpackin’ papa.”

  “I see. Good.” Joel nodded his head several times. “I’m grateful.”

  “Glad to help. I hope things turn out okay for you.”

  “I’m optimistic,” Joel said. He gave Frankie a quick shrug. “Who knows, huh?”

  “I’m pulling for you. I’m not certain what you’re after, but I hope you get it.”

  “What convinced you to help me?” Joel asked.

  Both Frankie’s sleeves were folded into neat, round bands at his elbows. His hair was pulled into a ponytail, held tight with a red rubber band looped three times. “No real reason, Joel. You’ve got a good vibe, and it kinda hit me when I was driving in that I believed what you told me, and I didn’t see how I could get in trouble even if things go sour. Lots of times I just do shit on impulse, without wasting a lot of energy agonizing over it. I think that’s the way of the world—people don’t put a lot of thought into half the junk they do.”

  “Amen,” Joel said, and then realized he didn’t exactly hold with what Frankie was saying. He raised his index finger and pursed his lips. “Although there are people who plot and scheme and take everything apart and plan to the smallest detail. Some people are very calculating, some very rash.”

  Frankie had turned his back and was standing over the sink spraying the first plate of the night. “You can have all the plannin’ in the world, but when it comes time to jump, to do the deed, it’s mostly a matter of checking the wind and takin’ a deep breath. Most of the time you don’t actually know how things will end up.”

  Joel had mentioned when he was hired that he would need to miss a day or two of work in the near future and had alerted Ralph the moment he’d received the exact date for his deposition. He’d leave on Sunday, return late Monday and be at the Station for his regular Tuesday shift. Dixon Kreager—who’d hired him on a handshake after the audition at the Clark Fork—had agreed to let him have the weekend free, even though it meant Dixon himself would have to fill in on the river and baby-sit a novice from Sacramento. When Joel’s night ended on Friday, he thanked Frankie again for his help, said goodbye to the waitresses, wished George the chef a pleasant weekend and walked to the front of the Station to remind Sarah he’d be gone when the new week commenced.

  “Gone?” she said. She was seated at the bar, tapping numbers into an old electric adding machine, the paper tape inching out the top each time she hit a key. She didn’t take her eyes off her duties while she spoke to Joel.

  “Yes. To Virginia.”

  “Whatever happened to two weeks’ notice?” The machine made several zipping, mechanical sounds, and the tape grew incrementally longer.

  “Pardon?”

  She stopped her tally and smacked Joel with a withering stare. “How am I supposed to run a restaurant when you people quit me with no warning? You think I can get someone else here and trained by Monday?”

  The bartender finished loading beer into the cooler, glanced at Sarah and disappeared.

  “Oh, I’m not quitting. I’ll only be gone a day. I told Ralph when I was hired I’d need the time. I mentioned it to him again not long ago, and he assured me there wouldn’t be a problem. And then I reminded him on Wednesday.”

  “Ralph. You told Ralph?”

  “Yeah.”

  Sarah flung her hands. “When did you inform me? Huh? Who do you think really manages this place and does the schedule? How many times have you seen our boy Ralph in here doing anything helpful?”

  “I’m sorry. I thought he was my boss. I didn’t mean to leave you in a bind. I’m assuming this is news to you, huh?” Joel couldn’t look at her. He studied the floor and shuffled his feet. “I apologize.”

  “Of course Ralph didn’t tell me. And why shouldn’t you have a vacation, Joel? You must be exhausted after putting in two or three weeks.”

  Joel was in no mood to quarrel. “It’s not a vacation,” he said quietly. “Far from it. From now on, I’ll make sure you are the first to know my plans. I’m sorry about the confusion. I’ve tried to be a good employee and handle this the right way.”

  “Great,” she snorted.

  “I’ll see you Tuesday.” Joel caught her eye. “Okay?”

  She began working the machine again. “I won’t hold my breath.”

  He lingered for a second or two longer than he needed to, watched her flip a ledger sheet and search for a number near the end of the tape. The thought had been in the corner of his mind when he went looking for her that he might be able to ask how she was doing or visit for a while or share some leftovers from the chef’s special. This was not the night for any of that, but it was nice to have an interest, something to keep him going.

  eight

  The next day was Saturday, and Joel was awake early. Tut was atop the lawnmower shed’s tin roof, his head jaunty and his yellow beak cracked open, crowing for all he was worth, the cries loud and rapid and piercing. Joel drove down the gravel entrance onto the main road, then five miles to a large convenience store to buy food for breakfast. On the way, he slowed to watch three horses, a big Appaloosa and two paints, loping and kicking in a pasture, their flanks embroidered with raised muscle as they glided across the grass. Twice the Appaloosa pinned his ears, and one of the other horses leaped and bucked in the App’s direction, came off the ground with all four hooves. The horses were beside a ramshackle house, corralled by a makeshift fence that was part wire and part board, and two white pails were near the fence’s rusted gate, the smaller one tipped on its side. The day was splendid, the road deserted, the sky flawless, the tops of the ponderosa pines and cottonwoods petted by an occasional breeze. September was waiting in the wings, and the morning was brisk, close to cold.

  Joel bought a dozen eggs, bacon, biscuits in a soft cardboard can, a tomato, strawberry jelly, orange juice and a box of chocolate Pop-Tarts for Baker, and he’d been back home for an hour when Sophie wandered into the kitchen at eight thirty, wearing a football jersey that covered her knees and a pair of gray wool socks with red rings around the tops. He fixed her a full breakfast while she lounged at the table, and they talked about old times and Sophie’s first dog, a crazy cur named Luther who could walk on his hind legs across the living room floor. She let Baker sleep, was grateful for the quiet and her brother’s generosity. After Joel drained the grease from the frying pan and washed and stored the dishes, he poured himself another glass of juice and rejoined Sophie at the table.

  “I need to talk with you,” he said.

  His somber tone immediately caused her to constrict her face and bunch her lips. “I should have known this was too good to be true. I’m guessing one of three things: you lost your job, you need money, or you’re in trouble with the law again.”

  Joel placed his hand on top of his sister’s. “Why do you think it’s going to be bad?”

  “Experience.” She slid her hand out from beneath Joel’s and jumped her chair farther away from the table. “So what is it?”

  “I need to tell you something. It’s not bad unless you assume the worst.”

  “Why do I feel like I’ve been bribed, like you were greasing the skids with all this breakfast hoopla?” She sighed. “And things were going pretty well here, too.”

  Joel maneuvered his chair closer to the table, until the wooden edge was touching his stomach. “I made you breakfast because I wanted to, and because I got paid last night and had a little cash. Calm down—it’s nothing terrible. In fact, it’s far more good than negative.”

  Sophie didn’t speak. She lifted her legs, drew her thighs against her chest and bundled her shins inside her arms, balled herself into a fleshand-bone fortress, her chin on her knees.

  “Okay,” he said, “here it is. When I get to Roanoke, I’m goin
g to meet with Christy before my deposition. I called her last night and made the arrangements. No one knows except you.”

  “Are you just plain fucking stupid, Joel? Are you?” She didn’t raise her voice, but the skin in her face was stretched so taut Joel thought her jawbone might tear through. “It’s like you’re on dope or something. Amazing.”

  “Listen to me before you fly off the handle. I just need to talk to her, and I’m meeting her at Tanglewood Mall, in the food court upstairs. A public place. I wanted to tell you in advance, so if something goes wrong it won’t seem as if I was being sneaky.”

  “Talk about what, Joel? Sorority rush or when she gets her braces removed or what’s hot in back-to-school fashion? Talk? She’s a child.”

  “I’m going to discuss the case with her. I want to get to the bottom of this and try to keep her from taking the church’s money. And . . . well, there’s a lot nagging and biting at me. I need to fill in some blanks.”

  “Why? What good will it do? This is the girl you screwed when she was a minor. The girl who ruined your career and your marriage.”

  “I didn’t have intercourse with her,” Joel said. “And I ruined my career and marriage, not Christy.”

  “Say that again.”

  “You heard me.”

  “I thought I heard you say you didn’t have sex with her. That’s what I heard. That’s why I want you to repeat it. Maybe say it fifty or sixty times, so I can be sure.”

  Joel plopped his elbows onto the table, craned his neck. “I didn’t have intercourse with Christy Darden.”

  “Why do you want to sit there and lie to me, Joel? Don’t disgrace yourself or make this worse than it already is. Hell, I can’t stop you from seeing her.”

  “I’m not lying, Sophie. Would you hear me out? Let me finish?”

  She blew a long exhalation, held her hands above her head, palms up. “Sure. Go ahead. Tell me.” She lowered her arms.

  “Okay.” Joel wiggled in his chair and shoved away from the table. “I . . . I never actually had sex with Christy. Never had intercourse—”