Plain Heathen Mischief

by Martin Clark

  “Uncle Joel, would you please drive me to the pizza party? Please. Everybody who got a hundred on the reading test gets to go.”

  “Sure. Unless your mother has other plans.”

  Sophie had a can of generic furniture polish in one hand and a dust rag in the other. “He may go as soon as he takes his dirty clothes to the basement and puts his shoes in the closet where they belong.”

  “Sounds fair to me,” Joel said, jostling the boy with his knee. “You going to help your mom with that?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” he answered.

  “And what brings Bernie Cornfeld home so early? The rivers run dry?” The question was more mischievous than snide; Sophie’s anger and exasperation never lingered for too long, were always overridden by her affection for Joel, and on Tuesday she’d said what she had to say about his throwing in with Christy and his newest folly, and that was four days ago, now far enough past for most of her bile to have evaporated.

  “Who’s Bernie Cornfeld?” Joel asked.

  “Yeah, who’s Bernie Cornfeld?” Baker echoed. He was still in Joel’s lap, but had undone his hands from around his uncle’s neck.

  “He’s a famous con man. Bilked people out of millions in the sixties and seventies and lived it up with Victoria Principal in the Caribbean. I used to read about them and think it was sort of glamorous and swank, although he did seem old and chunky and hairy as best I can recall. She was about twenty back then, a real siren. I would’ve thought, Joel, that you’d be aware of all the legends in your new field. You know, Bernie, Jim Bakker, Charles Ponzi, Jesse Jackson, the swarthy carnival guys with pick-up-ducks and teddy bears.”

  “I’m only halfway through the textbook. Just finished the chapter on selling frozen meat door-to-door and the Irish Travelers’ termite scare for the elderly. I’m sure I’ll encounter the true masters in another hundred pages or so.”

  Sophie laughed hard enough that her shoulders shook, and she stuck out her tongue at Joel. “Smartass,” she said.

  “You said a dirty word,” Baker singsonged.

  “I did, but it’s Uncle Joel’s fault.”

  “Why?” Baker asked.

  “I would suggest you go look after your clothes and shoes,” Joel told him.

  “Good idea,” Sophie agreed. “Then Uncle Joel can drive you to the party.”

  “Where is it?” Joel asked.

  “Near Lolo. I’ve got a map.”

  “I’ll be glad to take him.” He nudged Baker forward and playfully swatted his butt. “I’m ready when you are,” he said to the boy. Baker slid from his lap and went to his room, didn’t carp or fret or trudge across the den, behaved like a smart kid should, and Joel caught the satisfaction in his sister’s eyes as she watched her child walk a straight line down the hall, proud of her son and all she’d been able to accomplish in him, by herself, working under considerable burdens, a single woman doing her job and a man’s as well.

  “Good for you,” he said, and she knew exactly what he meant.

  “So why are you home early? I hope nothing happened.”

  “Well, nothing happened to me. I took a man and his wife down the Blackfoot, and the man was an absolute ogre. He punched his wife in the face and cut her pretty badly. For no reason, he hit her. I rushed her to the hospital, and here I am.”

  “How frigging horrible. They should cut his nuts off.”

  “I agree. He was such a spoiled bully. I had to break them up, literally step between them.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “I wrote a report for the guard at the hospital. And I left my name and number.”

  “He just hit her?”

  “Basically, yeah. They were in a bad mood when they came to the shop, and it got worse and worse. Part of it was she caught this phenomenal trout, and he couldn’t stand it. At least that’s my take on it.”

  “Poor woman.”

  “Yeah. Her name’s Lisa. I feel sorry for her.”

  “Ought to castrate him,” Sophie said, still disturbed.

  “But the good news is I brought home an excellent spread—no one touched lunch. Food but, alas, no tip from the wife-beater. At least we can have a nice dinner.”

  “Can’t,” she said, her voice returning to normal. “Not tonight.”

  “Why?”

  Sophie mimicked Groucho Marx, her eyebrows wiggling corny innuendo. “Love to, but I have a date.” She waved an invisible cigar.

  “Oh.”

  “I was going to see if you’d baby-sit Baker. If you can’t, I’ll call Joan. I’ve already mentioned it to her, and she’ll do it if you don’t want to.”

  “It would be my pleasure. You go and enjoy yourself. How about that— a date, huh?”

  “Yep,” she said, and actually raised on the balls of her feet for an instant, a nervous, girlish push of excitement.

  “Who’s the lucky gentleman?”

  “His name is Raleigh, and he seems okay. I met him at Baker’s school. He’s a teacher and has a kid of his own. Divorced. I’ve got my fingers crossed.”

  “This is your first bit of courting since I moved here, isn’t it?”

  “So?”

  “So nothing. Only an observation. I’m extremely happy for you.” He smiled and nodded his approval. “Try to behave,” he teased. “And be home before midnight. Harpo and Chico will hold down the fort.”

  “He’s making dinner for me.”

  “Have a blast and don’t worry about a thing. I’ll take care of my favorite nephew.”

  “You have anything on the horizon, Joel?” she asked.

  “Meaning what?”

  “Well, you and Martha have been apart for a while now, and I thought I understood you to say the divorce was almost done, that she just wanted it over.”

  “True.”

  “So are you going to spend the rest of your days burning incense and moping about in a long robe and cowl, or are you going to move on with life?”

  “That’s an odd question coming from you,” he replied.

  “Why’s it odd?”

  He grinned at her. “I figured you think I should be sort of permanently suspended where women and romance are concerned. Like certain criminals who can never own a gun or enter the public-housing project or log on to a computer.”

  “I’m serious, Joel. You should try to find someone. Over eighteen, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “The right woman could make you happy, lift your spirits. I’d hope you’ve learned your lesson by now and would treat her decently.”

  “Believe me, I’ve learned my lesson,” he said.

  “So have you met anyone? Anyone at all?”

  “I’m kind of fond of the lady I work for.”

  “There you go. Have you talked to her?” Sophie asked.

  “Yeah. She told me to drop dead.”

  “Well, that’s a start.” Sophie transferred the dust rag into the same hand as the can. “Not a very good one, but a start.”

  “Why are you dusting? I did the entire house no more than two days ago.”

  “And I appreciate it. Thank you. By the way—did you know it’s well within accepted standards to move things when you clean? To wipe underneath objects and behind furniture?”

  Joel smiled at her, chuckled. “Thanks for the tip. It should really enhance my game.”

  At noon on Tuesday, Joel was in downtown Missoula, drinking a cup of coffee and taking bites of a Snickers bar left over from Karl and Lisa’s Blackfoot lunch. “A Carousel for Missoula” was next to a whimsical, slides-and-chutes play area for children called Dragon Hollow, and a surprising number of people were milling around, many more than Joel expected on an unremarkable weekday. He spent several minutes studying the carousel, walked against the rotation so the parade of horses met him head-on. The horses had pink painted inside the openings for their nostrils and ears, white wooden teeth, and fancy halters carved and lathed to the last detail, and a band organ played “Toot, Toot, Tootsie�
� as they cantered in their circle.

  Joel spotted Edmund and Sa’ad before they noticed him, glimpsed them between the white flank of one horse and the palomino head of another. Edmund looked ordinary, blended into the crowd, but Sa’ad was something else altogether, and Joel started laughing even though he was angry and disgusted with them and on edge about delivering the jewelry. Everything Sa’ad was wearing appeared to be right off the shelf, absolutely new: a hideous red-and-white flannel shirt, stiff blue jeans, impractical leather hiking boots, a wool jacket the color of a ripe summer tomato and a porkpie hat with a curlicue feather in the band. Joel changed directions and followed the horses around to where the two men were and attracted their attention with a pssst that was difficult to form because he was so amused.

  “Joel,” Edmund said. He kept his head tucked, his hands inside his pockets. He was wearing a baseball cap and dark glasses. “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  Joel turned so he was shoulder to shoulder with Edmund, both of them staring at the large wooden face of a dragon in the playground. Joel dropped his voice, started singing in a deep, stagy bass: “Oklahoma, where the wind comes sweeping down the plains . . .” He stopped and grinned, shifting his eyes toward Sa’ad.

  “What? What’s going on?” Edmund sounded uneasy, and he scanned the area, even looked at the sky for some reason. “Why are you singing about Oklahoma?”

  “Keep walking,” Sa’ad said, a step or two behind them.

  “Calm down, Sa’ad,” Joel said. “We’re in the middle of Montana. I don’t think there’s much surveillance happening here.”

  “People never think they’re being watched,” Sa’ad replied. “That’s how they get caught.”

  “What’s so damn funny?” Edmund wanted to know.

  “Who the heck dressed Sa’ad?” Joel asked. He laughed again. “He getting ready for a casting call at the college? I thought maybe they were doing Oklahoma this semester. Or Little House on the Prairie, perhaps that’s it.”

  Edmund stopped short, so quickly that Sa’ad nearly bumped him from the rear. He bent at the waist and slapped his thighs, stood still while he laughed. “No shit, Joel,” he said when he straightened himself. “I told him a million times. I think he looks like Eb from Green Acres.”

  “Or Mr. Haney,” Joel said.

  “I’m glad I can bring such entertainment to you both. Obviously, this isn’t my usual venue.” Sa’ad seemed surprisingly good-humored about the abuse.

  “Yeah, shiny suits and thousand-dollar shoes don’t cut much ice around here,” Joel said.

  They started moving again, Joel and Edmund in front, Sa’ad trailing.

  “I told him.” Edmund was shaking his head, still grinning. “God forbid some crew-cut militiamen stop us and discover him dressed like he is. I doubt he’d make it out alive. A yodeling black lumberjack, the lost member of the Village People.”

  “Do you have my fishing equipment?” Sa’ad whispered, putting his lips close to Joel’s ear and aiming the words.

  “Fishing equipment?” Joel hesitated, twisted his head a quarter turn. “Oh, yeah. Sure. Right.”

  “How much?” Sa’ad asked.

  “How much?” Joel repeated. He peered at Edmund.

  “The value,” Edmund offered.

  Joel suddenly became anxious, was conscious of every step, every breath, every swallow, felt his skin tingling and his lungs harden. “Oh.”

  “Three?” Sa’ad suggested.

  “No,” Joel answered. “Two seventy-five.”

  “Two seventy-five? Shit.” Sa’ad’s voice peaked when he cursed. “That’s light, my friend.”

  “Well, Sa’ad, I did the best I could. You want me to go somewhere else? Visit more stores? I could tell them that you and Edmund believe the bag is worth three or four hundred thousand, make a big splash, decorate myself in neon arrows and cause a scene. I went to one place, and this is what I got. Maybe you need to do a little more research on your end.” He kept walking but glared back at Sa’ad.

  “No problem, Joel,” Edmund said. “Everything’s okay. Appraisals are subjective, seat-of-the-pants stuff anyway.” He removed his sunglasses. “After expenses, we’re all gonna walk with close to sixty-eight. Nothing to sneeze at there.”

  “You have the paperwork handy?” Sa’ad demanded.

  “Yeah, Eb, I do. I brought the original with me for you to see. Somehow I guessed you’d be a pain in the butt about things. This isn’t my fault, guys.” The nervousness was gone, and his breathing was in rhythm again.

  “I agree,” Edmund assured him. “Everything’s cool—right, Sa’ad?”

  “We’ll see,” Sa’ad grumbled. “You turn left,” he said to Joel, “and we’re going to walk on. We’re parked on Higgins Street, near some kind of camping and hiking shop. Blue rental Impala, Nevada plates. Meet us there in ten minutes. Give me the equipment and the papers to examine as soon as you locate us. Then we’ll be on the road.”

  “Fine,” Joel said and veered away, nearly bumped into a mother cradling a drowsy child and had to apologize.

  Ten minutes later, Joel located the car and found Sa’ad behind the wheel, his hat on the seat beside him. Joel had placed the bag inside a newspaper, and now he leaned against the Impala’s door and shook the velvet sack through the window and into Sa’ad’s lap. The appraisal was folded small and stuffed in with the valuables. “I’ll need the jeweler’s statement returned,” Joel said. He left and walked the streets without any destination, looked in several windows, strolled close enough to the Clark Fork that he could smell the river and finally made his way back to the blue vehicle and waited for one of them to speak.

  “Okay,” Sa’ad said. “Let us know if your work schedule changes.”

  “I will.”

  Sa’ad cranked the motor. “Sorry about the misunderstanding.”

  Joel shrugged.

  “You did great, Joel. Great.” Edmund bobbed his head up and down.

  “How long before something happens?” Joel asked. Cars were passing him on the street, the majority of them in no hurry, the drivers making slow, blinkered turns and braking before every stoplight regardless of its color.

  “Two or three months,” Edmund said.

  “Will you warn me?”

  “No,” Sa’ad told him. “But let us know if your schedule changes. You need to be at work when it happens.” He passed the appraisal through the window, and Joel held it concealed in his palm, didn’t immediately pocket it.

  “I understand.”

  “Good luck,” Sa’ad said, and he sounded sincere. “We’re almost there.”

  “Great to see you,” Edmund said. “Just stick to the plan.”

  “I will,” Joel answered, both words spoken softly.

  Joel had time to kill and nothing to do, but he didn’t want to return home, couldn’t think of any attraction there beyond television and the Third Part of Thomas Aquinas’s Summa Theologica beside his bed, and he wasn’t in the mood for reruns or dense reading. He stood where Sa’ad and Edmund had left him, eyeing the streets and businesses, debating where he should go. He decided to wander back to the carousel, stroll around and see if anything interested him. It would be nice to have a magazine or a big-city newspaper to read, and he thought about visiting the library or a bookstore.

  He’d started along the sidewalk in the direction of a travel agency, beckoned by a giant poster of a beach and inviting ocean, when he heard a car approaching from behind, louder and more rapidly than the other traffic tooling through the town. The car wasn’t quite speeding, but Joel heard it accelerate from a stop and continue to climb. He turned and discovered Edmund and Sa’ad coming down the street in their blue Impala, fast enough that he knew instantly something was wrong, that they had returned in a hurry, looking for him. Sa’ad slowed and pulled alongside the curb, talking out the window to Joel while the car continued to roll.

  “Where is it?” he demanded, his face blazing with fury.

  “What?
Where is what, Sa’ad?” Joel just stared at him. “Why are you here again?”

  “Get in the car,” Sa’ad barked.

  “Why?” Joel asked, a trace of fear starting to appear with the confusion.

  “Get in the motherfucking car right now, or I swear I’ll get out and drag you in.” He stopped the Impala.

  Joel studied him and then tried to peek at Edmund’s expression. “Calm down. The way you’re acting, I’m not about to go anywhere with you.”

  Sa’ad had traveled as far as he could, had arrived at a parked vehicle that blocked his progress. He ripped open the door, and Joel heard Edmund tell him to quit being an ass and give Joel a chance to explain. “It’s okay,” Edmund said, leaning across the seat so Joel could see him. “We’ve got a problem with the bag you gave us. Somethin’s missing.”

  “Missing?” Joel took a step toward the car and crooked his neck to get a better view of Edmund.

  “Let’s not discuss this here,” Edmund pleaded. “Sa’ad’s not going to do nothing; you know how he gets, all wound up and full of hot air.”

  “I don’t understand. And I thought we were trying to avoid being seen together.”

  “I’m going to ask one more time,” Sa’ad threatened. “Get in.”

  “Help us out here, Joel,” Edmund cajoled. “We need to clear this up, find an understandin’.”

  Joel thought about weapons. He couldn’t see anything in Sa’ad’s hands or the front of the vehicle, but he was still nervous, reluctant. “I’ll meet you guys at the carousel. Just leave the car and follow me there.”

  “You cocksucker,” Sa’ad said, but he didn’t make good on his promise to come after Joel.

  Joel kept watch on them over his shoulder and took longer strides than usual. He was bewildered as to why they had returned, concerned this was some new layer in the con that would lessen his stake or leave him vulnerable, and he was queasy and cotton-mouthed because he believed Sa’ad might really hurt him. He didn’t stop at the horses, but instead continued on until he arrived at a chest-high wooden fence in front of the dragon playground, discovered when he looked up that the beast was glowering also, was staring at him with angled green eyebrows and a sour mouth. He rested his elbows along the top of the fence, and Edmund and Sa’ad filled in on each side, so close they touched him.