Short Money

by Pete Hautman

  Now what? He shut down the blower and glared at his wife.

  “What’s that?”

  “You’ve got to get out to Birdy’s, Orlan. Somebody’s shot old Berdette.”

  Sure enough, when he arrived at Birdy’s he found two of his officers—Nelson and Fleener—standing over old Berdette Williams. Arlene, who’d found her dead husband, was crumpled in one of the booths, looking about half her usual size. First thing he did, he took Nelson aside and asked him what in the got-damn hell was going on.

  “Found him just like you see, Chief. His wife called it in.”

  “She shoot him?”

  “I dunno. There’s that Mercedes out front, and nobody to go with it. Hasn’t been there too long. Windows aren’t even frosted up yet. And we found him with that old shotgun still in his hands, one shell fired. Looks to me like he took a shot at somebody and got his self shot instead.”

  “That don’t mean she wasn’t the one shot the poor bastard.” The idea that a guy’s wife would shoot him made sense to him.

  “No, it don’t,” Nelson agreed. “Only I got a feeling it wasn’t her that did it.”

  Johnson was disappointed. He liked crimes where he didn’t have to go chasing people all over the countryside. He liked the ones where a guy knew right away who did it.

  “Yeah, well, you and Fleener take her the hell out of there. Take her home. We can talk to her later. And run the plates on that krautmobile. You call the M.E. yet?”

  “Just after we called you.”

  As soon as they left him alone with the dead man, Johnson got hit with a case of the creeps and figured out that what he needed was a good stiff drink. Even under such gruesome circumstances, he enjoyed playing bartender, figuring out where Berdette kept the limes and how to get tonic out of the soda shooter. He walked the drink back to his usual booth, slid in, put his Sorels up on the seat, took a look around the place.

  It made him feel sad, like it was the end of an era. The Berdette Williams era. “Yeah, I knew old Berdette real well. Berdette was a friend of mine,” he imagined himself saying.

  Of course, Berdette might not’ve agreed with that.

  The coroner finally showed up, asked a few stupid questions, took some notes. Johnson watched her go through her routine, which seemed to take forever. She and her assistant got the body on the gurney, raised it up, wheeled it toward the door.

  Now that Berdette was gone, Johnson felt himself relaxing. He had never been all alone in a bar before. It was peaceful.

  Feeling the need to do something coplike, Johnson considered the facts of the case.

  One, Berdette was dead, shot in the chest.

  Two, a mysterious Mercedes-Benz was parked outside.

  Three, his glass was empty, and no one was there to fill it.

  He slid out of the booth, walked around the end of the bar, made himself another v.t.—this one a double, for poor old Berdette.

  Crow stood in the lobby of his apartment building, staring at the notice taped to the wall above the mailboxes. The illustration, done with felt-tip markers on a sheet of typewriter paper, looked a lot like Milo. Big and black, with yellow eyes. Above the illustration, large block letters spelled out LOST CAT. Below, in smaller print, it said: “Big black cat with yellow eyes. Answers to Milo.” Two phone numbers were printed at the bottom of the page. One of them was his. The other one he didn’t recognize.

  He let himself into his apartment, put the bottle of bourbon on the kitchen counter, picked up the phone, and punched in the unfamiliar number. An answering machine picked up. He listened to twenty seconds of distorted rock and roll, then Debrowski’s recorded voice instructed him to leave a message. He said, “This is Crow. Just calling to thank you for the sign.” He hung up, feeling uncomfortable, as if he didn’t deserve the favor, as if now that she had done this nice thing for him, he couldn’t drink his bottle of bourbon.

  He dropped his coat on a chair, turned up the thermostat, and stood over the heat register by the door. His hands were cold and stiff from gripping the steering wheel. The phone began to ring as he clenched and unclenched his hands, forcing fresh blood into the capillaries.

  “Should I answer it?” he asked.

  Okay, I’ll answer it, he thought, and if it’s not about Milo, I’ll hang up and I’ll pour myself a drink about eight inches deep.

  He picked up the phone and listened.

  “Officer Crow?”

  Crow made an unpleasant sound in his throat.

  “I want to thank you for returning my son to me.” Murphy’s voice sounded strained, as if he were talking with his jaw wired shut.

  Crow shrugged. “No problem,” he said.

  “Do you know where I am, Crow?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I’m at the hospital in Alexandria.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m with my mother.”

  Crow waited.

  “Someone hurt her, Crow. Beat her unconscious. Broke her ribs, beat her head, left her for dead.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Crow said. “I know how she feels.”

  “I doubt you do, Officer Crow. When you are nearly eighty years old, you do not take a beating as well as you do when you are a young man.” Murphy was speaking oddly, spacing his words, holding himself back. “Do you know who did this thing to my mother?”

  Crow said, “Are you asking, or are you going to tell me?”

  “I am going to tell you. Your Dr. Bellweather did it.”

  Crow was surprised. It didn’t seem like Bellweather’s style.

  “Yes, he did,” said Murphy, answering the unspoken objection. “She is awake now, and she remembers.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” asked Crow.

  “I want you to understand how serious I am. I want you to find that doctor, and I want you to bring him to me.”

  “Sorry. I already delivered your kid. That’s it for me. Why don’t you send your psychopathic brother after him?”

  Crow listened to Murphy’s breath whistling in and out of his nose. It took him several seconds to reply.

  “I am being very serious with you now, Officer Crow. Ricky is like a duck on the ground when he gets in the city. He would not be able to find this doctor. You may not be able to find him either, but it would be best if you would. I am not the only person involved in this conversation to have a family member in danger. Are you listening?”

  Crow’s body began to tingle. Melinda.

  He heard himself say, “I’m listening.”

  “Good. The doctor left here about three hours ago, shortly before you dropped off my son. He has a piece of property belonging to me, a mounted Russian boar about five feet long. Inside the boar is a small metal safe. I want you to find the doctor and the safe, and bring them both to me. Do you understand?”

  Despite the horror he was feeling, Crow found himself thinking that Murphy sounded a lot like a Mission Impossible instruction tape.

  “I understand,” he said. “But I have no idea where Bellweather is.”

  “Find him.”

  “I want to talk to Melinda,” Crow said.

  Murphy hesitated. “Who is Melinda?” he asked.

  Crow felt a pang of hope. “You said something about a family member.”

  “That’s right. Your brother-in-law, the lawyer. He’s with Ricky right now, but I don’t think he’s enjoying himself. Find the doctor, and I’ll let you have the lawyer.”

  “Are you talking about Dave Getter? You think I care what happens to him?”

  Murphy said, “I think you do.”

  Crow laughed and hung up the phone. He sat at the kitchen counter and waited for his insides to settle. So Bellweather had ripped off George Murphy. I should be enjoying this, he thought. He rotated the bottle, running his eyes across the words printed on the label without extracting any meaning from them. He was still sitting there when, ten minutes later, the phone rang again. He picked it up and listened.

  “You�
�re welcome,” said Debrowski after a pause. “I just wanted to let you know—no one’s called here yet.”

  “Here either.”

  “I stopped at the Humane Society. No yellow-eyed black cats.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You don’t sound so good, Crow. What are you doing?”

  “Sitting here.” He cleared his throat. “You want to come over and help me get drunk?”

  Pause. “Sure. What are you drinking?”

  “I got a jug of fine Kentucky bourbon here.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  Debrowski arrived, replete with leathers and chains, fifteen minutes later. Her eyes scoured his face, then flicked to the bottle on the counter. The bottle was open. Beside it sat two glasses, each of them containing a carefully poured inch of amber fluid.

  “Thanks for waiting,” she said. “So what are we celebrating?”

  “The end of sobriety,” said Crow. He felt horrible. When he had poured the drinks, the smell of raw liquor had nearly made him vomit. Waiting for Debrowski, he’d managed to eat a few crackers. Now he was salivating uncontrollably, each swallow followed by a wave of nausea.

  “You don’t look so good,” she said, perching on one of the stools. She picked up a glass, swirled the liquid, smelled it. “I used to drink this shit by the gallon.”

  Crow stared at her, horrified by the sight of her holding the glass so near her lips. “Are you … how long has it… how long have you been straight?” He was thinking of a matter of weeks.

  Debrowski bit her lip and thought. “Four years,” she said.

  “Four years? Look, I don’t like this. I don’t want to—”

  “Screw you, Crow.” Debrowski raised the glass, swallowed the entire shot, slammed the glass back down on the counter. She squeezed her eyes shut, emptied her lungs, took a deep breath, opened her watering eyes.

  Crow gaped at her, hardly able to believe what he had seen.

  “See how easy it is?” she said, her voice lower by an octave. She poured herself another, larger drink.

  “I don’t want you to do that,” Crow said.

  “Why not? Isn’t this why you invited me over here?”

  Crow shook his head. He had no idea why he had invited her over.

  “What’s going on, Crow? Talk to me.” She lifted her glass of bourbon.

  “Please don’t do that.”

  “Talk to me, Crow.”

  Crow took a breath. “What do you want?”

  “You’ve got a problem, Crow. Tell me about it.”

  Crow turned and walked back and forth in front of the sofa. “It’s sort of complicated,” he said.

  “Try me.”

  “My brother-in-law is the asshole of the world.”

  Debrowski set her glass gently on the counter.

  “That’s a start,” she said.

  She was a good listener. Crow wound his way through his story, giving it to her in bits and pieces, answering her questions, taking every opportunity to tell her what a jerk he had for a brother-in-law. He wanted to be sure she understood that part.

  “So you don’t like the guy.”

  “I never liked him.”

  “Why not?”

  “I thought I explained that.”

  “What, he’s a sleazy lawyer? Treats you like shit?”

  “Basically.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad, Crow. You go around hating everybody that treats you like a dog, you wind up putting out a lot of negative energy. I mean, you act like a dog, people are going to treat you that way.”

  “Thanks a hell of a lot.”

  “What about your sister?”

  “What about her?”

  “Does she like him?”

  “She hasn’t divorced him.”

  “That’s not the same.”

  Crow considered. “I think she cares about him,” he said. “I don’t know why, but she does.”

  “You like your sister?”

  “She’s a space cadet, but she’s my sister.”

  “Do you think they’d actually hurt him?”

  “Who? Getter? I think they’d hurt him a lot.”

  “But you think he deserves it.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Crow sat on the sofa, crossed his arms, stared at his knees. “They’d hurt him good.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’m not sure. What do you think?”

  Debrowski shook her head. “Uh-uh, Crow, this one is all yours. Besides, you’ve already made up your mind.” She picked up the two glasses, poured the bourbon into the sink.

  Crow raised his head. “What are you doing?”

  Debrowski tipped the bottle into the sink, let the liquor gurgle out. Crow watched, his eyes dull.

  “I have to get going, Crow. I’ve got a meeting with one of my bands. Toesucker. You ever hear of them?”

  Crow shook his head.

  “Neither has anybody else.” She opened the door. “Thanks for the drink, Crow.”

  XXVII

  They want you to make it like it never bled, and died, like all they did was stop time. Like they snapped this three-D photo, and you’re the developer.

  —OLLIE AAMOLD

  OLLIE AAMOLD SAT IN his workshop, surrounded by the body parts of assorted animals, contemplating the head of a four-point buck. He dipped the tip of a number-four sable brush into a jar of thinned acrylic paint and carefully darkened the edges of the buck’s eyelids. Some taxidermists would use a marker for these final touches, but Ollie was a perfectionist. The details were what made the difference. A good mount looked alive—frozen in time, but alive.

  Taxidermy was an art form, and Ollie Aamold was an artist.

  He sat back and examined the shoulder mount. It was a pretty animal, had a nice inquiring tilt to its head, but no matter how good a job he did, the animal would never make much of a trophy. He was repeatedly amazed by these so-called hunters who would plunk down hundreds of dollars to have their substandard kills immortalized. Buck like that, he would maybe have shot it for meat, but more likely he’d have let it walk.

  What the hell. It was a living. He’d even mounted a few pet dogs in his time. Once, he’d even done a gerbil for his nephew. Later, he learned, the kid had used the thing to terrorize his little sister.

  Thank God for the Murphys. At least they came up with some interesting animals. He’d done zebras, caribou, gemsbok, all sorts of creatures he’d never seen before. A few years back, they’d brought him a white rhino—not a huge specimen, as rhinos went, but the biggest thing he’d ever had a chance to work on. His favorite animals, though, were the big cats. Beautiful. George had told him that the tiger would be coming his way soon. Ollie was really looking forward to that. He’d never done a tiger before.

  The telephone rang. Ollie let it go for five rings, then picked it up.

  “Ollie? Steve Anderson here.”

  “Yeah?” The name didn’t do anything for him.

  “You got my elk. I dropped it off a couple days ago?”

  “Oh, yeah, the shoulder mount. You want it to be bugling, right? Nice rack.” Another worthwhile trophy courtesy of the Murphys.

  “Four hundred eighteen points.”

  “Is that right.”

  “I was wondering … I’m having a little party at my place in a couple weeks, some old buddies are going to be in town, and I’d like to, you know, show it off a little. I know it’s kind of soon, but I was wondering if there was any way you could have it ready by then. A week from next Saturday, say?”

  Ollie rolled his eyes up. He didn’t trust himself to reply.

  “Ollie? You there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.” Always a mistake to pick up the damn phone.

  “What do you think?”

  “Negatory.”

  “Damn! Not even if I kick in a little extra money? Say an extra couple hundred?”

  Assholes with money, think they can buy anything. “Negatory,” Ollie repeated. “Haven’t ev
en sent your elk to the tannery yet, and that takes better’n a month.”

  “Jeez. I gotta tell you, I’m really disappointed. It would mean a lot to me.”

  Ollie gave the telephone the finger.

  “Isn’t there some way? I mean, suppose I was the President of the United States. Could you do it for the President?”

  Ollie let out the breath he had been holding for the past thirty seconds. “Look,” he said, keeping a tight leash on his voice. “This isn’t like hammering together a birdhouse. Good work takes time. You bagged yourself a nice animal here. You don’t want me to do a hack job on it, do you?”

  “No, but—”

  “But nothing. Even if you were the president of the goddamn universe I couldn’t have it for you. A mount takes time—there’s just no way.”

  “Suppose I—”

  “Suppose nothing. Can’t do it. Give me three, three and a half weeks, I could maybe pickle it here instead of sending it out, but it’d be losing hair inside a year. First you bring me a bison with its face all shot to hell, now this. If you were in such a damn hurry, you should have brought your elk in the day you shot it instead of letting it sit around. You think I like working with an elk that’s been dead a week?”

  “A week? But I—”

  “Week, six days, whatever. You know when you shot it. All I know is I wouldn’t want to have to eat the damn thing. Looked like it was froze, thawed, and froze all over again. Thing’s already shedding hair like crazy. You shoot an animal like this, you got to get it caped and salted down right away. You had this big to-do planned, you should’ve brought it straight to me. Course, even if you had, I still couldn’t a done ’er for you.”

  Anderson didn’t reply for a moment, then he said, “I dropped it off the same day I shot it.” It sounded as if he was holding the phone away from his mouth.