by Martin Clark
“Sure, Joel. Whatever.”
“I’m telling you the absolute truth.”
“Just like you did in Roanoke, when you said ‘So help me God’ and raised your hand?”
“It’s the truth.” Joel didn’t know what else he could say. He’d planned on divulging the jewelry scam to her, then delighting her with his scheme to once again take advantage of Sa’ad and Edmund and donate the money to her and the church, but he knew this was not the time, not with her so miffed and cranky.
twelve
Wednesday was the day to locate insurance for the borrowed jewelry. Edmund would soon be in Missoula to retrieve the rings, brooches, bracelets and necklaces so they could be returned to their owner, and Joel needed to purchase a policy as quickly as possible. Sophie was still sore at him, angry and annoyed from the night before, and she made it a point to start the gurgling, prehistoric dishwasher during her breakfast and stomp around on the floors every chance she got and blow the horn at Tut—like she was really going to hit him—after she’d cranked the Volvo, did all she could to treat Joel rudely in minor, offhand ways. He felt certain, though, that she would come to appreciate how well he was managing the betrayals and skeins of intricate zigzags, and when everything was said and done and the sag money was hers to keep, he knew she’d forgive him, understand he’d ridden roughshod over a gang of conniving, unscrupulous people.
Joel woke at six-thirty, but he didn’t leave his bed until Sophie was gone. He rested under the covers, daydreaming about random delights and miracles, scenes that distilled transcendence and laid bare God’s craft. He recalled saying grace over the platters of tenderloin and biscuits and fried apples in the First Baptist fellowship hall; saw the orange-speckled sides of a brown trout as it arched across the Clark Fork and smothered a tiny fly; and recaptured a middle-aged woman’s beatific face rising through the water of the baptismal pool, her eyes closed, hair trailing behind, the lights and wetness turning her skin baby pale for the first second or two after he steadied her and she became upright and newly saved, her renaissance spilling into everyone who witnessed it.
He studied his Bible for longer than usual, recited several verses aloud and, out of habit, put together the beginnings of a sermon in his head. When he finished reading, he got down on his knees beside his bed and prayed. He was wearing boxer shorts and a Royal Coachman Outfitters T-shirt, and the cement was cold and unsympathetic, causing his naked knees to lose sensation.
The jewelry was once again between his mattress and box springs, hidden near the foot of his bed. He opened his eyes after saying amen, took the weight off his knees and then reached under the mattress to find the bag, turned his cheek and fed his arm deeper and deeper into the split, kept searching and sweeping with his hand until his entire limb disappeared and his neck touched the fitted sheet. For some reason, the jewelry was difficult to locate, didn’t seem to be where he’d left it. He groped until he finally bumped the pouch with his fingertips, felt the red velvet just outside his grasp. The bed was completely jammed against the cinder-block wall opposite him—there wasn’t even space to properly tuck the comforter—so he had to lift and balance the mattress to get at the valuables. The mattress flopped and wobbled when he propped it on its thin edge, and he used his shoulder as a support to keep it elevated.
A diamond and ruby bracelet was sticking out of the bag, and the top was not cinched, the pinched folds the drawstring made altogether missing, the fabric loose and relaxed over the sack’s entire length. Joel grabbed the bag and snatched it from between the two bed parts. He took a nimble backward step, and the mattress collapsed when he withdrew his shoulder, falling shut like a giant toothless jaw. The impact spat fine, dancing dust into the basement air, tiny motes and particles that flitted through a passageway of light from a table lamp and irritated Joel’s eyes, made him sneeze.
Setting the jewelry aside, he methodically ironed his trousers and shirt, starched and steamed a sharp crease in the pants and worked diligently around the shirt’s collar. He wanted to have a good appearance and look well groomed when he showcased the jewelry and recited his story. He used a new blade to shave, trimmed and filed his nails, squeezed the bag into his pocket and embarked for town, followed a flatbed truck pulling a utility trailer until he arrived at the interstate. A mattock and a pair of shovels were lying on the bed of the truck, and Joel noticed one of the trailer tires was going flat, was deflated almost to the rim.
Given the reversal of fortune in Roanoke, he had considered abandoning the jewelry project, had debated his options as he sat crammed in coach flying home to Montana. He could simply relinquish the bag and tell his accomplices that he lacked the nerve and gumption to see the fraud through to the end. He’d recognized, though, that the potential windfall from the conspiracy with Christy was hardly guaranteed—her fidelity to him was the kicker in the deal, and what a kicker it was, a pitfall that could make him odd man out and leave his prosperity in her Prada purse or Sa’ad’s eelskin wallet or Edmund’s obscure Cayman account. Plus, he rationalized, since he would receive the insurance payment, continuing with the original plan might somehow provide him another opportunity to clip Sa’ad and Edmund while assisting his sister and his former congregation. And then there was the concern that a change of heart might stir suspicion in his partners, cause them to put the screws to him or double-check Christy’s loyalty. A multitude of reasons, he’d told himself, to stay the course.
After consulting the yellow pages, Joel had decided to take his insurance business to a State Farm agent on Spruce Street. The man who ran the agency was nearing fifty, starting to decline through the stomach, and was dressed in a colorful sweater, khakis and shiny brown shoes. He was a handsome man in a plain, unimposing way, which was to say there was nothing patently wrong anywhere in his face or build—everything was within limits. There were numerous trophies on a shelf behind his desk, championships won by the Little League teams he’d sponsored over the years. James Scott was his name, but he informed Joel that everyone called him Scottie.
Scottie and Joel made small talk for several minutes, chatted about Virginia and the weather and how crowded the Blackfoot was on the weekends. There were two secretaries outside Scottie’s office, and they both stayed busy, fielding phone calls and completing paperwork. After Scottie finished a story about vacationing at Colonial Williamsburg and the linens he’d gotten for cheap from an outlet mall there, Joel brought up the subject of his jewelry, told Scottie he’d brought his mother’s gift west and wanted to make certain he was protected if, Heaven forbid, something should happen.
“Do you have an appraisal?” Scottie asked.
“You mean something stating their value?” Joel hoped to appear befuddled.
“Exactly. I need that, or else some kind of receipt, before I can write the policy. We have to know what we’re insuring. It’s as much for your protection as ours. We don’t want you to have a loss and discover your coverage is short.”
“Right. Well, I brought the whole kit and caboodle with me. I thought perhaps you could help me decide on an amount.”
Scottie chuckled. “I wish I could. I sure do. I’d love to help you. But it’s very easy to have them looked at by a professional.”
“I figured maybe we could just agree on a value. I was guessing maybe ten or fifteen thousand dollars.” Joel took the red sack from his pocket and placed it in front of Scottie. “See what you think.”
“I’ll be glad to look, but I’m hardly an expert.” He untied the drawstring, tugged open the mouth of the bag and peeked inside. “Holy cow,” he said. “There’s a lot in here. Is this real?”
“I assume so,” Joel answered. “Like I said, my mom gave it to me, and it’s been in our family forever. Unfortunately, I don’t know much about women’s jewelry.”
“If it’s genuine, I imagine you’ll need more coverage than fifteen thousand.” He reached in the bag with his thumb and first finger and withdrew a sapphire ring. “This is awfully pretty
. And old, a real antique.” He looked at Joel, kept the ring displayed between his fingers.
“Thanks,” Joel said. “My mom can’t even wear the rings these days, her hands are so swollen. She has Alzheimer’s and lives out at High Pines. Makes you realize, in a certain sense, how worthless and unimportant so many things are.”
“I agree,” Scottie said. “But now the jewelry’s yours, right?”
“Oh yeah. She gave it to me years ago, when she was living in Roanoke. It’s been in my safe-deposit box. I don’t have a bank here yet, and I live with my sister. I thought she might enjoy it—my sister, I mean. Seems senseless not to get some use out of it.”
“Sure. So I’ll need to list you as the insured, not your mother?”
“Yeah, I guess. I’m the owner, if that’s what you’re asking. She gave it to me, and I’ve had it for years.” The lies were effortless.
Scottie returned the ring to the bag, tugged the yellow drawstrings in opposite directions. “Great.”
“So I need to have everything evaluated?” Joel asked.
“Definitely. I wouldn’t feel comfortable writing your coverage until we see what you’ve got.”
“That makes sense,” Joel said. “Where should I go? I’d like to get this done today, if possible, without making another trip.”
“Sure. You can use any reputable jeweler. Far as I know, almost anyone here in town will do. They may not be able to get it finished today, though. Never can tell how busy they’ll be.”
“Who would you recommend?” Joel asked.
“Well, the Diamond Store over on Main Street is good—lady named Wilma does their appraisals. You can tell her I sent you. The store’s a few blocks down from the parking garage. Also, Riddle’s Jewelry is okay. They’re in Southgate Mall.”
“I’ll try the Diamond Store first. Thanks, Scottie.”
“Thank you,” Scottie said. He passed the bag to Joel and they shook hands, then walked together to the door.
Two teenagers—probably seventeen, maybe eighteen—were selecting a pre-engagement ring at the Diamond Store when Joel arrived. The boy had a silver loop through his nose and a tongue piercing and a dragon tattoo, and he was wearing a muscle shirt even though he was scrawny and trollish and the weather required something more substantial. His girlfriend had greasy black-and-orange hair and asked, “So how much is this one?” after she examined each tiny diamond-chip band. Joel loafed around the displays while waiting for the clerk to finish with the two kids, inspected a spinning rack of cigarette lighters and was careful not to smudge the glass counters. A stocky woman with frizzy hair appeared from the rear of the store, greeted him and asked if he needed help. Joel explained that he was interested in an appraisal, that he’d been sent by Scottie the insurance agent and was looking for Wilma.
“Then you’re in luck. I’m Wilma Rand. Nice to meet you.” She was far enough away that she didn’t offer her hand. “What do you have?”
“Some rings and necklaces my mom gave me. I need to have them insured, and Scottie says I need an appraisal.”
“I believe we can take care of that,” she said genially.
“Would you be able to get to them now? I don’t mean to be pushy, but I work two jobs, and I’d like to wrap this up today, if possible.”
“I don’t see why not. I’m doing repairs, but I could take a break if you’re in a hurry.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
She took the bag, sat down on a high stool behind a display case and progressed through the same ritual of squints, stares and tests that Doc had done a few days before. “Exquisite,” she cooed once she’d scrutinized the entire velvet sack. “You’re a lucky man.”
“Why’s that?”
“Your mother has some lovely jewelry.”
“Thanks. I’m not positive, but I believe she’s had the bulk of it for a pretty good while.”
“I can tell. One of the rings is quite old. That’s apparent from the settings and the wear patterns, and you don’t see workmanship like this anymore.” Wilma switched off a desk light and stood, pushed the stool back as she rose.
“I’m grateful to you for helping me on such short notice. Will you just get in touch with Scottie?”
“I’ll actually do a written appraisal and give you a copy.” She was holding the red bag.
“So what are they worth?” Joel asked. He looked at the floor, then up at Wilma, was careful to restrain his lips, lungs, and eyes, all the regions that might flag the swindle. His skin was sizzling, his nerves copper wire and voltage.
“Do you have any idea?” she asked.
“No, not really.”
“None?” She was enjoying herself, had injected a lighthearted taunting into her voice, milking and building the anticipation.
“I asked Scottie about buying, say, fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of coverage.”
“That would certainly be adequate”—she jingled the bag—“for one of the pieces.”
“What do you mean?”
She turned serious. “You’ve got some very nice jewelry. One piece, the diamond and ruby ring, is quite unique, very exotic. There’s a bracelet that’s run-of-the-mill, but this is a spectacular collection, very nice. All together, I’d say you’re looking at close to two hundred seventy-five thousand.”
“You’re kidding.” Joel tried not to appear too astonished, avoided pin-wheel eyes and quaking knees. After rehearsing various reactions in the mirror, he’d decided to let his voice carry most of the weight.
“No, I’m not.”
“Wow. I had no idea.”
“Consider yourself fortunate,” she said. “Most people come here believing they’ve got the Hope Diamond and leave thinking I’m a crook.”
“Not me. This is something, a total shock . . . my goodness.”
“I’m glad your surprise is on the happy side, not the other way around.”
“Two hundred seventy-five thousand. Hard to imagine.” Joel allowed some exuberance to bounce through his words. “My, my.”
“My, my,” she laughed.
“I don’t know what to say—I’m grateful to you.”
“Thank your mother, not me,” she said.
He waited for Wilma to type his appraisal, paid her seventy-five dollars in cash, took a receipt and returned to State Farm.
Scottie was stunned when he saw the number at the bottom of Wilma’s calculations, but he wasn’t unhappy or reluctant to cover the jewelry, was eager to earn the commission for so large a policy. As Edmund had predicted, he took Polaroids of each item and snapped a final shot of Joel sitting behind the loot, smiling as if he’d just won the lottery. He laid the pictures in a row across his desk, and he and Joel watched the thirty-second alchemy, amiably joshing about Grizzly football while the blank white squares turned to glittery shots of gold and platinum and precious stones.
Scottie phoned the Diamond Store and confirmed the numbers with Wilma, filled out a personal articles binder for Joel and took a small payment, told Joel he’d be billed for the remainder in a week to ten days, after the underwriters processed the application. “I appreciate the business,” Scottie said when the arrangements were complete and Joel was leaving.
Joel folded his receipts and papers in half and walked to his car, didn’t dare look back and tried not to rush his departure, fought the urge to break into a trot and click his heels together. “No sweat,” he said to himself after he shut the door to the Taurus. He closed his eyes and acknowledged the Lord, offered a brief prayer of thanks.
Joel loved his job with Dixon Kreager, looked forward to the weekends and his work on the big rivers. Initially, his shoulders and neck pained him on Monday mornings, but after several trips down the Clark Fork, he got used to rowing the drift boat, learned how to use the currents and position the oars and not wear himself out fighting the water. He and Dixon became friends of sorts, and Joel would arrive early at the Royal Coachman on Saturdays, drink strong coffee with Dixon and talk about fi
shing and politics and cooking and whatever else happened to pique their interest.
Joel had learned to fly-fish when he was a boy, had persuaded his mother to cash in her S&H Green Stamps for a nine-foot fiberglass rod that was heavy and cumbersome and difficult to cast. He’d liked the sport, though, and working as a minister gave him the opportunity to spend time perusing the streams around Roanoke. He could be on the Smith River in less than an hour, and the James—full of smallmouths and sunfish—was just up the interstate, a fifteen-minute drive. He was a competent angler when Dixon hired him, but Dixon took him behind the shop and showed him several tricks that made him that much better, changed his grip and slowed his casting rhythm.
During their first trip down the Clark Fork, when Joel was auditioning for the job, Dixon had explained to him that a big part of the business was providing “reasonable expectations,” keeping novice fishermen interested and eager during an eight-mile float. “I’ve caught fish in just about every run, riffle and seam this river’s got,” Dixon had told him. “And I let folks know it, especially when things are slow and the fish have turned off. Keep ’em optimistic. I tell them I caught a big brown right here or a hellacious cutthroat from the hole right around the bend. Never let ’em think the fish aren’t biting. This job’s more than just rowing a boat and tying knots.”
True to his word, Dixon had given Joel exclusively married couples and men, almost all of them tourists and beginners. He’d not let Joel attempt the Bitterroot with its hidden currents and wicked logjams that could take a boat quick to the bottom, had kept him on the Clark Fork and the tame sections of the Blackfoot. Dixon charged three hundred dollars per day for a guide and boat. He kept half the payment, and Joel received the other half minus the fifty he paid Dixon to use his boat and thirty bucks he spent on lunch and snacks for the customers. Joel also got tips, usually fifty dollars, sometimes more if the folks landed a big trout or drank a lot of wine at lunch. Normally, he’d bring home two hundred forty dollars for the weekend’s work, along with leftover cookies and pretzels and sodas and sandwiches.