The Killing of Butterfly Joe

by Rhidian Brook

  ‘I mean you’ve lied.’

  She waited for me to reveal the lie.

  ‘About your father. Writing to him. Incognito.’

  ‘What I did . . . what I did then . . . is not your business. And what Mary thinks I did and tells you is not to be trusted – as you know.’

  ‘You really are impossible to please, Isabelle.’

  Isabelle stood up from the chair, waving away my cigarette smoke.

  ‘Why should pleasing me – or anyone – be your main goal in life?’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  In which Joe is arrested – again – and I decide to quit.

  The morning of doing the deal – or ‘Do-da-deal day’ as Joe called it – I awoke with two varieties of butterflies hatching in my gut: Butterflies of Excitement and Butterflies of Anxiety. Excitement that I was about to close a deal that I had set up and that would justify my position in this family; anxiety that some natural disaster or intervention of history would snatch it away. I kept these thoughts in the gloomy recesses where they belonged and instead focused on the likelier outcome that today would be a million-dollar day.

  When I pulled back the curtains and looked out across the grounds of the house I saw a silver canopy of spider webs spreading from the drive to the edge of the lawn, across the croquet-smooth grass that Joe had manically cut the night before with a hand-pushed mower in an effort to do as Edith had instructed and remove the ‘whiff of hick’ from the premises in case Roth’s representative needed to come and see the collection. The jalopies (minus Mary’s Camaro) were parked the other side of the outhouses and the dogs were in their kennels. The hazy sunrise gave the dilapidation of the grounds a golden grandeur; and if you squinted you could believe it was a house in its heyday, a place where great things were going to be accomplished.

  I donned the suit Joe had bought for me at J. C. Penney’s and the tie that was flecked with the green of my favourite butterfly and went downstairs. I wasn’t the first one up. Or even the second. Edith was sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee and Elijah was playing with the free toy from the cereal packet.

  ‘You’re up early, Edith. Excited?

  ‘It’s just another day, Rip.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘So far.’

  She was wearing crimson lipstick, and a light dusting of foundation.

  ‘You’ve dressed up. I thought you never dressed up for any man.’

  ‘I’ll put lipstick on for one about to pay me a million dollars.’

  There was something touching about this prettification. It was easy to forget that she wanted and needed this deal as much as anyone. Maybe more. She couldn’t keep up the ‘it’ll never happen’ act for ever.

  ‘Maybe you should come with us to New York, Edith. You should be there, really, not me.’

  ‘Believe me, I want to be there. But a company needs a face and it can’t be this one. When I pitched Atlantic and Pacific the man looked at my scars all the way through. He didn’t barely look at the product. He kept asking me if I wanted anything. In the end I got so mad I said, “Yes, I want you to stop looking at me, you dickwad.” It kinda killed the deal. Just see that Joe gets there and signs the papers and don’t talk too much. The boy has a disease of words. He gets excited and, well, you know. It’s time for you to justify your existence, Rip. Bring home the bacon.’

  Joe entered singing, ‘It’s Deal Day. It’s Deal Day. It’s Do-da do-da-deal Day!’ He looked at his mother, then sniffed ostentatiously. ‘Ma’s got all coochie for the Wizard’s man.’ Even in the cheap suit he looked a million dollars.

  ‘How do I look, Ma?’ He twizzled his clip-on bow tie.

  ‘Same as always.’

  ‘Rip?’

  ‘Entomological and entrepreneurial,’ I said, telling him what he wanted to hear. ‘Like an educated, mad-scientist-explorer-poet.’

  ‘What’s with the dicky bow?’ Edith asked.

  ‘Gives me a gravitational pull, Ma.’

  Another phrase that Joe mutated into something even better than the original. He clasped me around the shoulders.

  ‘Our lives are about to change, Rip, I can feel it!’

  The dogs heard them first, their crazed barking telling us someone was coming:

  ‘Car! Car! Car!’

  We were all drawn to the window. Two cars were coming up the drive at funeral-cortege speed, cautious, anticipating resistance. A patrol car escorting a green Plymouth, the same make, model and colour of car that we’d dismissed as a manifestation of Mary’s dope-fuelled paranoia and that had spooked me and Joe in Tarrytown.

  ‘What’s this?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s the catch,’ Edith said. ‘There’s always a catch.’

  I could feel a swell of panic that I was about to discover something else I could and should know about. The feeling in my stomach was more a rising than a sinking feeling.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s the FWA,’ Joe said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘They’re like the FBI for critters.’

  As the convoy swung around the island of the circular drive the insignia on the doors declared: US Fish and Wildlife Agency. A man wearing shades, a white short-sleeve shirt, grey flannels and brown shoes stepped from the Plymouth and walked towards the house. He had a real sheriff’s saunter on him and he sauntered as far as the bottom step, placing one shiny toecap on it.

  ‘What do they want?’

  Joe wasn’t explaining. He’d left the room.

  ‘We’d better go find out,’ Edith said. ‘Give me your arm, Rip.’

  As I escorted Edith downstairs, rather ominously she said, ‘Look like they mean business this time.’

  ‘This time?’

  ‘They stopped me once for selling butterflies they thought were on their goddamn special list. Maybe Joe’s been selling something he shouldna.’

  The driver of the Plymouth had been joined by two officers who shadowed him from a distance. They must have wondered if they’d stepped back in time. The whole family – less Joe – was now gathered on the veranda. With Edith, the grand matriarch, at the centre of the group and Celeste in her petticoats we looked as if we were about to pose for a box camera.

  ‘Can I help you, officer?’ Edith asked.

  ‘We’re looking for a Joseph Bosco.’

  ‘Is he in some kind of trouble?’

  ‘Is he here, ma’am?’

  ‘I believe he is. Elijah, will you go see where Joe’s got to?’

  Elijah went back inside.

  There was a box of small- and medium-sized cases on the step, ready to be Fedexed to that wedding in New Jersey. The agent looked at the box.

  ‘Go ahead, take a look. You like yellow swallowtails? I can sell you a case. Ten dollars for the small.’

  Edith had charm, a deep well of it when she bothered to lower the bucket, but the agent wasn’t tempted. I noticed he couldn’t look directly at her. I’d got so used to her deformity, I had to remind myself what it was like seeing her for the first time. This guy would have failed ‘The Test’ for sure.

  ‘Is he in trouble, officer?’

  ‘He is, ma’am. A heap.’

  ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘Well, I got a sheet of paper here listing it but he needs to hear it first.’

  ‘Hullo!’

  Joe suddenly appeared, brushing some dust from the lapels of his suit. He walked right up to the agent and shook his hand as though he was a long-lost friend. Joe did it all so fast the agent didn’t have time not to shake his hand back.

  ‘How can I help you, officer?’

  ‘Are you Joseph Bosco?’

  ‘That is me. Six foot five and two hundred and ten pounds in my Fruit of the Looms.’

  ‘I have a warrant for your arrest.’

  ‘For real?

  ‘For real.’

  ‘Could you . . . could you arrest me tomorrow, officer? You see we got real important business in the city today?’

  And th
en, with the entire family watching, the agent announced that he was arresting Joe for selling Appendix I butterflies in contravention of the Lacey Act (which said same officer would later explain to me with great solemnity). That on three different occasions in the last eighteen months Joe had sold protected species to undercover agents disguised as collectors. He told Joe that he would be taken to the Federal court in Hudson and charged with the illegal import and selling of contraband. He said that the FWA would be returning on the morrow with a warrant to search these premises for further contraband. Joe, doubtless familiar with the wording, added a harmonizing hum to the Miranda. Had he ever exercised his right to remain silent?

  Edith stepped towards the agent and he actually took a step back and reached for his holster.

  ‘I think all this is unnecessary, officer.’

  ‘Agent.’

  ‘I think it’s uncalled for. These butterflies all belong to us.’

  ‘I am taking your son to the court in Hudson where he will be charged. You will have to make your case at the hearing.’

  ‘How long will this take, officer?’ Joe asked. ‘You see, I have to be in New York. At 3pm today.’

  ‘I can’t say with certainty, sir, how long it will take. It depends on the magistrate judge. And on what other cases are in court. I’d suggest you won’t be going anywhere today.’

  ‘Do I get a phone call?’

  ‘Yes. You do.’

  Joe was either putting on a wonderful act of nonchalance for the benefit of his watching family and me, or he really wasn’t concerned.

  ‘Well, officer, agent, this is most inconveniencing. Can I speak to my friend?’

  ‘You may, but keep it brief, sir.’

  ‘You have to go to the meet on your own, Rip. You have to buy some time.’

  Buying Joe time. Who had enough resources to do that?

  ‘What do I say?’

  ‘Do your thing, Rip. You’ll think of something.’

  ‘Mr Bosco.’

  The agent came forward with a pair of cuffs. Joe offered his wrists, very compliant and still annoyingly nonchalant. ‘Is that your Plymouth, sir?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I love the Grand Fury. I seen you tailing me that time near Rochester. And just a few days back – in Tarrytown. It’s hard to forget a car like that. It’s a great colour. It’s the same colour as the Argema mimosae moth from Senegal, which is a moth to match any butterfly. Do I get to ride in it?’

  ‘You’ll be in the patrol car.’

  ‘Aww.’

  ‘Is Joe in trouble?’ Ceelee asked as they led Joe away.

  Isabelle tried to reassure her: ‘They’re just asking him some questions, Ceelee.’

  ‘But the man put the chains on him.’

  ‘That’s just what they do when they want to question someone. Joe will be fine. He’ll be back soon.’

  Just before he got into the car Joe turned to me. ‘I’ll try to call, Rip. If you don’t hear before midday then you better go to New York without me.’

  And then, for the second time since I’d known him, I watched as he tried to duck his massive frame into the back of a law-enforcement vehicle.

  ‘Damn fool,’ Edith said.

  Celeste was as upset as I was, albeit for a different reason. ‘Will Joe go to jail, Ma?’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ Edith muttered. ‘It might put an end to all this bullshit. Like I said. A deal is never a deal until it’s done. It’s just words. I’m getting on with what’s real.’

  Edith stood and put out an arm for someone to take. Clay obliged her. ‘You better take the phone call. I don’t want to speak to that ape, unless he’s calling from hell itself.’

  Edith went in with Clay, Celeste and Elijah leaving just Isabelle and me standing there. We both watched the convoy until it had disappeared around the bend, carrying my friend away and with it – I was sure now – the prospect of the million-dollar deal. My million-dollar deal!

  ‘Was he serious?’ I asked. ‘About confiscating the collection?’

  ‘I guess. But I don’t think they can take it away from us,’ Isabelle said.

  ‘But they can stop us from selling it?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Isabelle shrugged.

  ‘Well at least you’ll be pleased about that,’ I said sarcastically, sure she was taking secret pleasure in this turn of events.

  She looked surprised by my sharpness. ‘Am I not allowed to be?’

  ‘You can be what you want, Isabelle,’ I said, sulkily. ‘You just carry on being yourself.’

  She looked at me as though I was a hopeless case and went inside.

  I felt sick. Actual sick rose up, an acid reflux making me swallow and grimace. There was one cloud in that damn sky and the sun managed to find it. The loss of light and warmth was as sudden as a switch, bringing with it a chill of reality and a frame of mind I thought I’d banished. I was so cross and disappointed that I decided to go for a walk, get my head round this turn of events, see if I could get some guidance from nature. I reached the end of the drive and looked out over the Catskills. It was hard to believe that just over those mountains there was a metropolis busting with millions. And somewhere in the heart of that metropolis Roth’s representatives were waiting for Joe and me to sign off on a deal that was no longer possible.

  I continued to stare at the vista. Even though I knew that nature did not give a damn about how things appeared to us, I looked for a sign and the fates offered me a chevron of geese flying in the direction of New York City, full of purpose and instinctive direction; I envied those geese: without the benefit of a classical education they knew exactly where they were going. How I wished I was one of them at that moment.

  ‘I don’t believe this.’

  I said this out loud but I should have believed it. When you make your bed with the unpredictable, you ought to be ready to lie down with it at any point. I had wanted to believe I had been working for someone different; a great exception, a beautiful aberration, a holy fool, iconoclastic adventurer, idiot savant; when really he was no more than a huckster, duping people with his fool/clown act, with me the latest to be duped: you shall know him by the trail of the suckers. Everything that the agent had said about Joe – selling legal butterflies to the masses, and illegal butterflies to the chosen few – sounded plausible. All too plausible. Joe had been ‘up to something’ and this was the something he was up to. For the first time in all my time with Joe I contemplated quitting, leaving this place. I was done with this Joseph and his technicolour dreamcoating.

  I must have walked for a couple of hours for when I returned I could hear someone calling my name.

  ‘Rip! Rip!’

  It was Celeste and she was standing on the veranda holding out the walking phone.

  ‘It’s Joe. He says this is his one call.’

  ‘Thanks, Ceelee.’

  I took the phone and my ear was filled with the breathy high-pitched sound of Joe yelling a garbled message that wouldn’t quite get to the point.

  ‘Rip! Can you hear me? This is my one call so you need to listen! Can you believe it? That hairy guy who arrested me? He’s called Agent Moroni!’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He’s named after a bogus angel! The goddamned same name as a bogus angel from the Book of Mormon!’

  I don’t know which part Joe was asking me to believe or not. The arrest. The name.

  Tell him you quit!

  ‘I can’t believe this. I can’t believe it!’

  I can believe it. Everyone else in the world who has ever met Joe can believe it! Now quit!

  ‘He wants to lock me up for twenty years!’

  Sounds like a wise man to me.

  ‘They have arrested me for selling my own bugs. It ain’t illegal to sell your own bugs. But this bogus angel is like a maniac. And now I got into an escalating situation here, Rip. I upset the magistrate judge and they’re gonna slap me in jail for contemptuanity.’

  I sighed.

 
‘I told him he weren’t the judge that mattered to me. He gave me thirty days and when I said to him thirty weren’t so bad when you figure our Lord spent forty in the wilderness he slapped ten days more! Rip – are you there? Don’t bail on me. I’m at FWA in Hudson. I can’t call you after this. It’s plain foolishness. This guy don’t know his own rules. Says now he’s caught me he’s not gonna let me go! That’s how he’s talking. He calls me “Butterfly Joe”! Which I kinda like but he says it like I’m Al Capone or something. He’s like a guy who thinks he’s found cocaine when it’s just baking powder. Anyway. You gotta go to the meeting, Rip. You got time.’

  ‘I don’t know, Joe.’

  ‘You don’t know what?

  ‘I don’t know if I can go on with this.’

  There was at least enough of a pause to show Joe was listening.

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying that maybe I should quit.’

  Silence again. And then a giggle!

  ‘You can’t quit, Rip. I’m counting on you. We’re all counting on you. You gotta go meet Roth’s man. You just gotta meet them and buy me time. Rip? You hearing me? This deal’s still on. This story’s not done.’

  Quit now, Llewellyn!

  ‘You gotta buy us time here. Say whatever it takes. Tell them I died if you have to.’

  ‘Joe?’

  But the phone went dead.

  * * *

  My father had a motto: anything for a quiet life. To me this was the epitome of smug incuriousness and the opposite of how I wanted my life to be. But as I stood there, holding the phone, listening to Joe’s bluster, I had an image of my father saying this to me and it came with such unexpected force that I wondered if my conscience was trying to steer me along a safer road. My conscience – essentially on holiday for a few months – was suddenly back with a tan and a new-found clarity and, like an admonishing parent, insisting on calling me by the name I’d been born with:

  Time to take a safer road, Llewellyn. Ramifications are stacking up, consequences waving at you from the horizon, portents yoo-hoo-ing at every corner. They’re all telling you the same thing: you’re working for a huckster who you should never have agreed to follow in the first place. He promises you this and he promises you that but he never delivers, this Cat In The Hat. I know you have not exactly won glory through any great deeds and your homecoming would be tinged with the what-might-have-beens, but you really should quit while you still have a head!