Inside Job

by Levinson, Len

  “What’s the problem?” Brody said.

  “What’s all this coming and going at night?” the old Cuban asked in a heavy Spanish accent. “If I known you was gonna have all these people coming and going, I would not’ve rented you the garage. You keep waking up my wife.”

  “Sorry, it won’t happen again.”

  “If it does, you find another garage.”

  “Listen, I’ve been planning to move out anyway. My rent’s paid up for the end of next month, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Okay, I’ll be leaving when the rent is up. In fact, I probably won’t be using the garage much until then anyway, so you can start showing it to other people.”

  “Is the light broke in here?”

  “No.”

  “Then how come you don’t use the light when you’re in here at night with your friends?”

  “ We were afraid of waking you up.”

  “It is not the light, it is the noise that wakes us up.”

  “Well, like I said, you won’t have that problem anymore because I’m leaving. Good night.”

  Brody climbed into the cab of the truck, drove out the door, turned left on the street, and drove away. The old Cuban was left standing in his garage, pleased that this troublesome tenant was leaving. What had that man and his friends been doing in the garage so late at night? The Cuban turned on the light to see if it was working. The garage lit up. The Cuban was pleased. Looking around, he saw that there was no damage and none of his pails, hoses, or other stuff was missing. Something on the floor caught his eye. It looked like a piece of green paper. It might be a dollar bill. The Cuban shuffled over and picked it up.

  His jaw fell open.

  It was a hundred-dollar-bill.

  Brody took the Long Island Expressway to the Whitestone Expressway, and then drove north on Route 95 to the New England Expressway. As he crossed the state line into Connecticut, he felt relieved to be in another jurisdiction. The city with its hustle and bustle was far behind him and soon would be farther behind him. He felt free and easy for the first time since the robbery. If they hadn’t got him by now they would never get him. He was going to hole up until the N.Y.P.D. gave up the chase.

  He stopped for the night at a motel near Bridgeport, Connecticut, ate a meal of steak and potatoes at the adjacent restaurant, and went to bed, after making sure the camper section of his pick-up was securely locked for the night.

  They called him at two in the afternoon and told him it was checkout time. He got up, took a quick shower, and carried his suitcase to his truck, tossing it in back and locking up again. After a breakfast of ham and eggs, he was heading north again on Interstate 95.

  He passed through the forests of Rhode Island, the suburbs of Massachusetts, rolled across New Hampshire farmland, and near midnight turned in at a motel in the wild country north of Bangor, Maine. The next day he drove into the town of Houlton, cruised along the main street until he saw a real estate office, and parked.

  On the sidewalks were men wearing boots and lumber jackets. The women wore double-knit slacks and were all bundled up. It had snowed recently and there were piles of it along the curb. Brody realized he looked alien in his leather jacket and bell-bottom jeans. He’d have to get some new clothes soon.

  The real estate office consisted of three desks, and two of them were vacant. Behind the third sat a woman in her thirties who wore glasses and her hair in a teased shellacked style that Brody hadn’t seen in New York since 1968. He was built on the health side with big breasts and ruddy complexion, and she wore double-knit slacks of chocolate hue.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked in a loud voice.

  “Mind if I sit down?”

  “Be my guest,” she said, pointing to the chair beside her desk.

  He unbuttoned his jacket and sat down, catching a whiff of her sweet perfume. “I’d like to rent a furnished cabin in a remote part of the woods,” he said. “I’m a writer, you see, and I need some privacy to write a book I’m working on.”

  “You from New York?”

  “Yes I am.”

  “I could tell from the way you talk. Got tired of the rat race, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What kind of books you write?”

  “Oh, about soldiers and things. I used to be in the Army.”

  “Anything I might’ve read?”

  “I don’t know what you’ve read.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Mike Brody.”

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t think I never read anything by Mike Brody. I like love stories, myself. Especially if they’ve got happy endings. Well what brings you here, Mike? My name’s Sally, by the way.”

  “I’m looking for a quiet place to write a book.”

  “But why’d you pick Houlton?”

  “I was by here once on a hunting trip, and I kind of liked the area.”

  “Yeah, it’s a nice place. Well, let’s see what we’ve got.” She pulled a loose-leaf notebook toward her ample bosom, and Brody noticed that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. He figured his time might pass quicker if he could get a little poontang once in a while.

  “Here’s a place out on Loon Lake,” Sally said. “Two bedrooms, shower, full kitchen, oil heat, it’s even winterized, for only two hundred dollars a month.”

  “How close is my nearest neighbor?”

  “Oh, about a few hundred yards away, I’d say.”

  “Can I see this house?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like to find a place more isolated than that. Other people distract me when I’m working.”

  “Aren’t you afraid you’ll get lonely?”

  “Nope.”

  “Cabin fever can get to be pretty bad around here.”

  “I’ll have a lot to do, so I doubt if I’ll be getting much cabin fever.”

  Sally leafed through the pages of the notebook. “Well if you want to be alone, here’s the spot. It’s way back in the woods just east of here on a dirt road that’s plowed in the winter. It’s a log cabin consisting of two rooms, sort of a living room and kitchen together, and a private bedroom. It’s got a kerosene stove, electricity, and a bathroom that’s fairly modern. Rent’s only a hundred dollars a month but you have to pay for the kerosene which might come to another fifty-sixty.”

  “How close is my nearest neighbor?”

  “I’d be your nearest neighbor if you took the place, and I’m about three miles away. If you needed anything or had a problem, you could just come and see me.”

  Brody smiled. “You live alone, Sally?”

  “Nope, I live with my fourteen year old daughter, and you keep your cotton-pickin’ hands off her, hear?”

  “Yes ma’am. You divorced from your husband?”

  “No, he’s dead. He used to be a lumberjack, and one day a tree fell on him, damn fool.”

  “Gee, that’s a shame.”

  “That depends on how you look at it,” Sally said with a shrug.

  “How do you look at it? “ Brody asked.

  “Well, Ted and I hadn’t been getting along very well for years. Like I said, he was a damn fool. Dumb as a porcupine, and you know, there ain’t nothing dumber than a porcupine. And then there was that insurance policy. I’d never known about it. Turned out that the damn fool was worth more dead than alive. So you see, although I didn’t wish him any harm or anything like that, I can’t say I miss him that much.”

  “But you must get lonely at times, an attractive young woman like you.”

  She touched her hand to her hair. “Why thank you, Mister Brody. It isn’t often that a gentlemen like yourself comes to town.”

  “Don’t you get lonely?”

  “Up here we call it cabin fever.”

  “Don’t you ever feel it?”

  “Feel what?”

  “Cabin fever.”

  “Oh, once in a while. But I know how to take care of that problem.”

  “How?”r />
  “I ain’t telling you, Mister Brody.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because then you’ll know.”

  “Why don’t you want me to know? “

  “I got my reasons.” She put some papers into an attaché case. “Well, let’s go look at some cabins.” Standing, she put on a brown wool coat and a yellow stocking cap. From a board near the door she unhooked a set of keys. “My car or yours?”

  “Let’s take mine.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  They went outside and walked to the truck. Pedestrians waved to Sally and said howdy. In the windows of the stores were rifles, boots, parkas, and blankets, not the frilly crap you saw in Manhattan stores.

  “It’s that van right over there,” Brody said, pointing.

  “Looks like a new one.”

  “It is.”

  “The writing business must be pretty good.”

  “It could be better.”

  “Well, everything could be better,” Sally said, “but we should count our blessings and thank the Lord for them.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “Are you a God-fearing man, Mister Brody?”

  “Not especially.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  Brody opened the passenger door for her, and she climbed into the cab. He went around to the other side and got behind the wheel. Starting the engine, he turned on the heater, and soon it was blowing warm air.

  “Which way do I go?” he asked.

  “To your left.”

  Brody backed out of the parking spot, turned left, and drove down the main street of Houlton, Maine.

  “That heater feels awful good against my legs,” Sally said.

  “You’ve got awfully nice legs, Sally.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I can tell.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Because I can see the outline of them underneath those slacks you’re wearing.”

  “You can?”

  “Yes I can.”

  “Why you naughty thing.”

  “Why am I naughty?”

  “You’re not supposed to look at things like that.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “ You should have will power. I surprised that a writer like you don’t have will power.”

  “I don’t see any harm in looking at your legs, Sally. Just as long as I don’t look at them while I’m driving, because we wouldn’t want to get into an accident.”

  “The roads are very icy.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “Make sure you keep your eyes on the road.”

  “I certainly will, Sally. Although I’m tempted to look at other things.”

  “Mister Brody, you’re a very naughty man.”

  “I don’t think I’m so naughty.”

  “You’re just a big city slicker, that’s what you are.”

  “Who me?”

  “Yes you. I think you need some religion.”

  “Religion’s not what I need.”

  “What do you need?”

  “You know what I need.”

  She blushed. “You’re just awful. I’m almost afraid to be alone in this truck with you.”

  “You should be afraid.”

  “I should?”

  “I’ve been writing books all by myself for so long that I forget what it’s like to be alone with a woman.”

  “Don’t get any ideas about me, Mister Brody.”

  “I’ve already got them.”

  “Well you’d better just push them out of your mind.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “By thinking pure thoughts.”

  “I am thinking pure thoughts, but they’re about you, Sally.”

  “Now you stop that right now, Mister Brody!”

  “I’m sorry if I’m making you nervous.”

  “You should come to our church sometime.”

  “I’ll go if you’ll sit next to me and hold my hand.”

  “People don’t hold hands in church. My word, what kind of churches have you been going to in New York?”

  “I don’t go to church at all.”

  “Shame on you.”

  “Church is boring.”

  “Not our church.”

  “What makes your church different from any other churches?”

  “We talk to our angels.”

  “What was that again?”

  “Well you see,” she explained patiently, as though talking to a child, “every person on earth has his own guardian angel who looks out for him. I know this sounds strange to you, but it’s really true. And anyway, at our church we make contact with our angels and they give us guidance.”

  “ Do you mean that you actually have conversations with your guardian angel?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re putting me on.”

  “Take a left down that road over there,” she said, pointing. Behind the road was a hill covered with spruce trees. “I am not putting you on. If you come to our church, you can talk with your angel, too.”

  “Do you know your angel’s name?”he asked.

  “It’s Minnie.”

  “Minnie ?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Minnie Ha Ha?”

  “Now you’re making fun of me, Mister Brody.”

  “ What does Minnie tell you to do?”

  “That’s between Minnie and me, and Mrs. Evans.”

  “Who’s Mrs. Evans?”

  “She’s the medium.”

  “What does she do?”

  “She’s the one who actually talks with the angels. And she writes what they tell her on her yellow notepad.”

  “Oh I get it. She’s the one who talks with the angels, not you.”

  “Well, the angels talk to us through her.”

  “You’ve never actually heard your angel’s voice?”

  “Why no, because I’m not a medium.”

  “Do you have to pay Mrs. Evans to talk to your angel, by any chance?”

  “It’s twenty dollars the first time and seven dollars and fifty cents every time after that.”

  “Oh. And how often do you talk with your angel?”

  “At least once a week.”

  “And how many of you people belong to this church?”

  “About two hundred people.”

  “That many, huh?”

  “It’s not that many.”

  “At seven dollars and fifty cents a shot it is. Mrs. Evans is making close to two grand a week off you people. I must be in the wrong business.”

  “Take a right down that road beside the lake over there. And it’s not a business. She’s a holy woman.”

  “She’s also a rich woman.”

  “That has nothing to do with it.”

  “I think it has everything to do with it.”

  Sally pointed her cute little nose toward the roof of the cab. “You city folks have no souls.”

  “Is Mrs. Evans a member of the community here?”

  “She is now.”

  “How long has she been here?”

  “About two years.”

  “Where’s she from?”

  “Someplace in California.”

  “That figures.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Most of the holy con artists come from California. They breed like flies out there. Must have something to do with the sun.”

  “Are you trying to say that our Mrs. Evans is not being completely honest and above-board with us?”

  “What makes you think I’m trying to say that?”

  “I think you’re an agent of the devil, Mister Brody.”

  “Who, me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  “But at least I’m not asking you to give me seven dollars and fifty cents every week to write stuff down on a piece of paper.”

  “That’s because you can’t speak to the angels.”

  “Neither can Mrs. Evans.”r />
  “She can too.”

  “How can she, if there are no such thing as angels?”

  “There are, too!” Sally said emphatically.

  “I can’t prove it.”

  “You’ve got to believe, right?”

  “Right.”

  “How can you believe in something that can’t be proven?”

  “Because I can feel it in my heart.”

  “I’m sure you’ve felt a lot of things in your heart that later turned out to be misleading.”

  “Never.”

  “How about your husband?”

  “What about him?”

  “From what you told me, you thought you loved him when you married him, and then after a few years you thought you didn’t love him so much.”

  “What does that have to do with this?”

  “It’s going to be the same thing with Mrs. Evans. In a few years you’re going to realize that she’s full of shit.”

  “Mister Brody!”

  “Calm down.”

  “That’s blasphemy!”

  “I said calm down.”

  “You can’t talk that way about Mrs. Evans!”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s practically an angel herself.”

  “She’s a con artist. If you had any decent cops around here, they’d slap her in jail.”

  “Many of the policemen’s wives are members of the congregation.”

  “That figures. Policemen’s wives are liable to do anything, and the dumber it is, the more likely they are to do it.”

  “You don’t have much respect for authority. I can see that.”

  “I only have respect for beauty, Sally. So I respect you.”

  “You do not.”

  “Yes I do.”

  “You think I’m crazy because I believe in angels.”

  “That’s right, but I can’t help feeling a healthy normal attraction to your beauty.”

  “Now you’re just sweet-talking me.”

  “Pretty women like you should be talked to sweetly.”

  “Take a left down that dirt road.”

  “What dirt road?”

  “The one next to the white house.”

  “Oh, I see it. Jesus, it ain’t much of a road, is it?”

  “It’s pretty good as roads around here go. By the way, I live in that white house.”

  Brody steered onto the dirt road. It was narrow and lined with tall evergreen trees. “It looked like a nice house.”

  “It’s got four bedrooms and two baths.”

  “What do you do with all those bedrooms?”