Plain Heathen Mischief

by Martin Clark

  “Probably fifty thousand.”

  “So you’d want one big check to you, and a fifty-thousand payout for the church?”

  “No, I’d want both checks to me. It’s easier to give away if it’s not all together, if it’s not included in the big amount. My check would just be my check, and I won’t have to deduct it. It’s sort of a psychological thing.”

  “So why wouldn’t I cut the other check to the church?” Hanes asked. “One for them, one for you?”

  “ ’Cause I might change my mind.”

  “Ah,” Hanes said, growing skeptical of her intentions.

  “Is this going to be another major production? I can’t even get my money the way I want it? All I’m sayin’ is give me two tens instead of a twenty—they can do that at friggin’ Wal-Mart.”

  “We’ll see to it that you receive two checks, if that’s what you request.”

  “Deluxe. Thank you.”

  Joel was happy to be back in the Station kitchen, relieved to be offstage for a few hours, nondescript and insignificant again, another unremarkable employee behind two steel doors, scrubbing plates and folding napkins. Soon after he took his spot by the sink, Frankie arrived and gave him a high five and a delighted grin, then turned somber and discreetly shielded his lips. “Everything copacetic in Virginia?” he asked from the corner of his mouth.

  Joel flipped him a thumbs-up. “Thanks to you, Frankie.”

  Joel was putting on rubber gloves when Sarah rushed into the kitchen, a menu under her arm and three dirty water glasses wedged between her fingers. She glanced at him while she was pointing at the menu and talking to the chef, but she didn’t speak to him or do anything cordial, didn’t wave or smile or nod. Business was slow—Tuesdays usually were—and Joel and Frankie took a couple extra breaks, stepped outside into the alley and split a Coke, talked about the coming winter and how cold Missoula would be.

  Food orders had nearly ceased by nine—a handful of bar customers wanted wings and chicken fingers, and that was about it—and Joel and Frankie were completely caught up with their work. Sarah came into the kitchen and turned left, headed for Joel. She was wearing a white blouse and small pearl earrings, and her hair was completely swept from her face, fastened by two plain clips at the rear.

  “Joel, right?” she said.

  “Surprised to see me?” he asked.

  “Truthfully, yes. How was your vacation to Virginia?”

  “It wasn’t a vacation,” Joel said. “It was business.”

  “Good. I hope it went well.”

  “It did. And I apologize again for any misunderstanding.” He was humble, ducked his head when he addressed her.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re here now, and we’ll let bygones be bygones.”

  “I appreciate it.” Joel stuck his hands in his pockets. He was wearing a white apron that tied behind him and covered his chest and thighs. “You didn’t really have to guess at my name, did you?”

  “I was fairly sure.”

  “I’ve been here a pretty good while.”

  “I’ve been here seven years,” Sarah replied. “Help comes and goes.”

  “Yeah.”

  She took a scrap of paper from her pocket and handed it to him. “This guy called earlier and left these numbers for you. Said you could call collect or use the toll-free. Make sure you do—the phone bill here’s plenty steep already.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “So how’ve you been?” Joel asked, the transition clumsy and forced.

  She scowled. “I’ve been here, Joel. Working.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yep,” she said, the word quick and austere.

  “I was, uh, wondering . . .” He looked around the kitchen, anxious for a measure of privacy. “If, uh, you’re going to be here when we close.”

  “Of course I’ll be here. I lock the doors.”

  “So, I wondered if I could maybe . . . visit with you, say hello while you’re doing your final things.”

  She tilted her head, assailed Joel with her stare so there was no mistaking her mood. “Look, you’re a handsome guy—I’m sure you’re aware of that—very gentlemanly, very convincing with your shy, skittish, sincere approach. But you know what? You’ve either been there and screwed up, or you’re never, ever gonna make it there. It’s always one or the other. You wouldn’t be washing dishes at your age unless you’re carrying a lot of baggage or far too many impossible dreams and schemes. I don’t have time to stitch you together again, to drive you to the methadone clinic or deal with your ex-wife or loan you money to fix your car. And if you’re a poet or artist or singer, I’m not interested in waiting for Hollywood to buy the screen-play or the record company to come knocking. I’ve got my own problems.”

  “Sure,” Joel stammered. “I understand.”

  “I’m flattered you’d ask, but I’m married and stressed.” She gave Joel a little quarter, filtered some of the poison from her voice.

  “I think you’re a good person and, uh, wanted to get to know you. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “You didn’t.” She nailed Joel with one last severe stare and started to walk away.

  Frankie had been standing over the sink with the water turned off, wiping the chrome fixtures with a damp rag, pretending not to listen. “Ouch,” he said good-naturedly. “Joel is singed.”

  “Shut your mouth, Frankie,” Sarah said without turning around, and it was clear she meant it, wasn’t amused in the least or pleased by the attention.

  Frankie waited until she disappeared, reached beside a stainless steel range hood, took the fire extinguisher from the wall and aimed it in Joel’s direction. “Hang on, Joel. I’ll save you.” The chef and one of the waitresses chuckled, and so did Joel.

  “Oh shit,” said the waitress. Her name was Jill. She was a happy-go-lucky girl who’d stayed in town after finishing college a year ago. “Check this.” She was standing next to the radio, always kept low enough so as not to seep into the dining area. She spun the volume knob, twisted it to ten, and everyone stopped what they were doing, concentrated on the song coming from the plastic speakers. Frankie caught on first, then the chef, then Joel, and they all roared, laughed and hooted and wiped their eyes. Frankie slapped his thighs and Joel sat on the floor, collapsed and tipped over onto his shoulder for a moment before righting himself. It was Elvis—and that was funny for some reason—and he was singing “Burning Love,” was tearing up the refrain when Jill adjusted the volume: “. . . a hunka, hunka burning love . . .” Everyone joined the King, singing along and laughing like loons, and Frankie convulsed and shimmied and bucked and danced across the floor, wielding the fire extinguisher as if it were a guitar.

  After they settled down, Joel asked Jill to bring him the cordless phone from the hostess’s stand. While she was gone, he and Frankie had another giggling fit, and two different waitresses hustled through the kitchen and couldn’t figure out why everyone was maniacal, gave Joel and Frankie puzzled looks and said “What?” several times. “It’s one of those nights, ladies,” the chef told them. Jill returned with the phone and handed it to Joel. “Don’t melt it,” she kidded.

  He stepped outside and punched in an 800 number. The keypad lit when he touched the buttons, and a woman answered and asked how to return his call, informed him that Mr. Sa’ad was eager to speak with him. He stood in the dark waiting on Sa’ad, and the illumination in the receiver shut off and he heard another bout of merriment break loose in the kitchen. He tapped his foot and stared down the narrow alley, watching people and traffic through a notch at the end of two high buildings.

  The phone rang and lit white and Sa’ad was there, and it sounded as if he was calling from a party or a bar. “Joel, how are you?” he asked, as friendly and professional as ever.

  “Good. I’m at work, standing outside.”

  “I’m glad your employment situation is going so well.”

  “It’s better than nothing.”


  “I wanted to touch base, see how everything went in Roanoke.” His voice was transparent and casual.

  Even though he knew Sa’ad’s deceitful plan and was on guard, Joel detected nothing unusual, not the faintest hitch or glimmer of conscience in Sa’ad’s words. It was appalling, almost eerie. “Good news. Great news, in fact. Christy was terrible, really showed her true colors. I actually believe she was high or taking something.” He didn’t want to get too specific or spend too much time giving Sa’ad details.

  “You mean she was impaired? Stoned or drunk?”

  “Sure seemed so to me. And she ’fessed up to what I’ve been saying all along—admitted she was the aggressor, admitted all kinds of problems well before our contact, and, get this, she wasn’t even able to say we had intercourse. She conceded she was so doped up at the time that everything was a blur.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Sa’ad said.

  “Mr. Roland, my lawyer, was extremely pleased. I don’t mean to boast, but he told me I did well. He thinks they’ll get way, way less than five million. He was pretty sure they’d take forty or fifty thousand.” Joel’s mouth was dry, and his stomach was fluttering.

  “What did you say?” Sa’ad asked. “How were you able to deny having sex?”

  “In a nutshell, I told them we’d kissed and done some petting and that I was remorseful and accepted blame, but I denied actually having sex. I told them I’d resigned and pled guilty to spare the church. Mr. Roland thought it was very convincing.”

  “I see. So—”

  “Look, my boss is yelling at me to get inside. I’ve got to go. But thanks for all your help with this. I’m confident the church and I are off the hook; looks like there’ll be ample insurance money to pay Christy.”

  “I’m delighted,” Sa’ad replied.

  “By the way, I had another bit of good fortune while I was gone. I took some jewelry my mother had given me to a pawnshop, and the owner offered me ten thousand dollars on the spot. It’s nice to have a little cushion. I had no idea it was so valuable.” Joel wanted to confirm he’d done his part in Roanoke, signal Sa’ad that the plan was still on schedule.

  “My, my, what a windfall,” Sa’ad said, his tone silly and giddy and rife with feigned surprise. “You’ll probably need to get it insured,” he added, his voice virtually winking.

  “Maybe I will. Thanks again for the help. I’ve got to run.” Joel pushed an oval-shaped button at the top of the phone and disconnected Sa’ad. The space at the end of the alley was empty, no people or cars, the view straight across the street to the front of a bank.

  Sarah let Joel and Frankie leave work early, appeared in the kitchen at ten-thirty and told them they could punch out and acted like she always did, as if nothing had happened between her and Joel. When Joel arrived home, his sister was still awake, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, lollygagging on the sofa, eating popcorn and watching The Lion King. The Whoopi Goldberg hyena was repeating Mufasa’s name over and over and quivering with each syllable, the bit humorous or carnal depending on the viewer’s age. Joel had watched the movie three times with Baker and thought it was enjoyable, loved the soaring redemption at the end.

  “God, I need to get laid,” Sophie said as he came into view. “A massage, a facial, a meal with wine, a good man and about an hour in bed.”

  “Can’t have sex unless you’re married,” Joel said. He dropped the Taurus keys into a bowl and sat on the arm of the sofa. “Why are you watching Lion King for the thousandth time?”

  “Baker had it in when I sent him to bed, and I would have to raise my weary ass from the sofa to switch things since the remote is broken. Besides, there’s probably nothing on cable any better.”

  “True.”

  “Anyway, welcome home. I have to admit I missed you.”

  “I’m glad to be back,” Joel said. He slid onto the sofa and put his sister’s feet in his lap. “Thanks for all your help. You were a champ.”

  “So tell me the details. I’m ready for my debriefing.” She wiggled her feet. “Put a little mojo on my aching arches while you’re talking.”

  “You really want to know? Usually you’re dismissive or upset.” Joel started rubbing her soles and the undersides of her toes.

  “I do. You promised me a handsome reward, remember? Why wouldn’t I want to find out the rest of the story?”

  “If things pan out, you’ll get that and more.”

  “Did the girl show up after I called her?” Sophie asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I felt like such a sleaze when I phoned—I’m old enough to be her mom, and here I am pimping and grovelling for my convict brother. It was not a pleasant experience.” She knit her brows to underscore the point.

  “I’m sure. I’m so grateful to you. I know—with the Neal experience and all the struggles and setbacks—what an effort this is. But you’ll get ample blessings for being a faithful sister.”

  “Tell me what went on.”

  “Well, like I told you over the phone, I tried to record Christy without her knowing it, tried to trick her into admitting the truth. She discovered what I was doing and, uh, that plan basically exploded in my face.”

  “This is old news, Joel,” Sophie reminded him. “I want to know what happened afterward. The new plan.”

  “Right. Okay, so I met Christy, and we came up with a scheme to essentially eliminate any profit for Edmund and Sa’ad, while at the same time funneling money to folks who deserve it.” He was still massaging his sister’s feet.

  “I can hardly wait to hear this.”

  “I went to the deposition dressed like a lunatic evangelical and took a great big dive, said I’d had sex with Christy and acted bizarre and unrepentant. I did as poorly as I could. She showed up looking like Tinkerbell and said all the correct things. Based on my performance, her settlement is bound to increase. We, however, have told Sa’ad just the opposite, told him Christy was stoned and stumbled through the questioning, and I came off like a hero. Sa’ad and Edmund will think the case has gone to pot—so to speak. Christy and I will split the bulk of a bigger settlement, brought about by my admitting to things I didn’t do, and Sa’ad and Edmund will receive next to nothing.”

  “Joel,” she said, her voice spiking with astonishment, “you didn’t.” She withdrew her feet. “Seriously?”

  “It’s a splendid plan. Look—Edmund and Sa’ad get a pittance compared to what they’re expecting, and I get tons of money to give to you and the church. I’m only going to keep enough to pay my court costs. The rest is for you and Baker and Roanoke First Baptist. Christy gets far more than she deserves, but I did do wrong where she’s concerned, so that’s not altogether inappropriate.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “No. Why are you so upset?”

  “Putting aside the question of what you really did or didn’t do—and who knows what to believe about that—it seems to me you’ve managed to leap into the cesspool and become as corrupt and dishonest as your friends. This is terrible, crazy.”

  “Why? You tell me why.”

  “Okay, let’s see. For starters, you lied. Lied under oath as I understand it. And you are stealing from the company that has to pay this bogus claim, ripping off people for a lot of money. You think everything is washed clean because you plan to donate the money to a church and your pitiful, ragtag sister?”

  “It’s the best outcome possible, given where I found myself,” Joel protested. “The money’s going to be paid regardless, right? So who should get it? You and the church and Baker, or two professional con men? Don’t you see? And are you really rushing to the defense of an insurance company? Suggesting that those privileged fat cats are victims? You and I both know they’re simply Sa’ad and Edmund with TV commercials and tax breaks.”

  Sophie grew stiffer, pressed her shoulders against the sofa. Mufasa had perished by now, done in by his brother’s perfidy, and Scar ruled a parched, barren kingdom, surrounded by drooling yes
-men. “I’m not going to argue with you, Joel. You’re supposed to be the preacher, not me.” She pointed a finger at him. “But understand this. I don’t want one penny of your money. I don’t want to see my son raised by foster parents while I do jail time. Keep me out of this, you understand?”

  “Why did you help me? I mean, I told you I had another plan. Why’d you call Christy?”

  “Because you’re my brother, and I love you. And because I thought you were trying to get away from all the shit and scams and do the right thing, instead of using the meeting to hone your own thievery skills.”

  “Hey, I’ll admit it’s not a perfect situation, but I left things better than I found them.”

  Sophie kicked Joel’s thigh, popping him hard with her heel. “Stupid,” she said. “What has happened to you?”

  “Nothing has happened to me. I’m still a good person. I still love the Lord. I’ve simply had to scrape the margins to improve my situation. You’re the one always yapping about the real world and how I’m so naïve and impractical. Who can win with you?”

  “You can’t go from one extreme to the other, Joel. There’s plenty of space you seem to have skipped right over.” She appeared distracted when she was speaking, wasn’t looking at Joel or anything in particular. “Damn,” she said, raising her voice and suddenly drawing down on him. “You and this girl rigged this from the beginning, didn’t you?” She kicked him again, this time not as energetically. “How else could she get your DNA for those tests? And so now you have to explain everything, make it look like something reasonable, go back and cover your tracks.”

  “How in the world could you think so poorly of me?” The accusation upset Joel, caused him to clamp his lips and return his sister’s stare. “Huh?”

  “Well?”

  “I’ll tell you exactly how they manufactured the tests. Christy let me in on that as part of our agreement. Remember her job at the church, cleaning toilets and mopping floors? Remember how I told you she’d go weeks without touching the bathroom in my study? She did that for a reason. She simply collected my hair—pubic hair—from the shower and from around the commode. They only needed two or three, and she kept watch and stored the hair till the big day. So, no, Sophie, I didn’t decimate my church, ruin my marriage and end a career I loved for a few thousand dollars. I was set up.”