The Many Aspects of Mobile Home Living

by Martin Clark

  He glanced at Evers, apparently didn’t recognize him at first and returned to the coffee snake and a dark headboard she was rubbing with her hand. Lester leaned in to tell her something, and then he twisted back abruptly, jerked his head around, and looked up and down at Evers and scowled at Pauletta. “Excuse me,” he said to his client, who hardly looked up from the wood she was examining. Evers and Pauletta stopped walking, and Lester squeezed through a desk and the back of a dresser to meet them.

  “Judge Wheeling. Miss Qwai. My, what a surprise seeing you here.” Lester was tight and erect. “Well, now.”

  “Hello, Mr. Jackson,” Pauletta said.

  “Hello.”

  “Quite a fine store,” Pauletta remarked.

  “I doubt that the two of you fancy antiques, and I’m sure you didn’t stop by for tea and scones and patter. And since you’ve already successfully stolen my property, I’m at a loss to explain why the fuck the two of you are here. Standing in my store. With your hands on your hips and wearing frowns. I should be the unhappy one, yes?” He flashed a crisp, snide smile. “So what can I do for you?”

  “We want to talk to you. Perhaps take a little of the sting out of your loss.” Pauletta took her hands off her hips.

  “What is it that you want? You’ve stolen my money, and Ruth Esther and her troll brother have my letter.” Lester turned and looked back at the coffee snake. The woman had moved to a fainting couch and was pushing down on the cushion with the heel of her hand. “I understand that … I heard that your wife had passed away, Judge Wheeling. Is your visit somehow connected with that sad problem?”

  “No, it isn’t,” Evers snapped. “How could it be?”

  “You tell me.”

  “My wife shot herself.”

  “I believe that I read something about your brother being involved, yes?”

  “We’re here about the letter.” Evers raised his voice.

  “I see.” Lester rubbed his chin with the back of his wrist. “I’m confused, of course.” He took a step forward. “Would you like to sit down or come back into my office?”

  “We’re fine here,” Pauletta answered.

  “Tell me what it is that I can do.”

  “You’re out roughly a hundred thousand dollars, correct?”

  “Among other things.” Lester sat down in the middle of a sofa. He bent forward and tugged up both of his socks.

  “Mr. Jackson, the money was ill-gotten. We all know that. That’s why you didn’t report all of it missing. That’s why, I’m sure, you claimed only a ten-thousand-dollar loss with the police and your insurance company. Pretty fucking hard to explain how you made a hundred grand in cash selling tables and bric-a-brac to dentists’ wives.” Pauletta took a step closer to Lester. “You—”

  The serpent lady had finally belly slid to Lester, and she touched him on the shoulder from behind the sofa. “I may come back for the bed. I just need to think about it, you know, try to visualize it in the space, and try to colorize it with everything around it. So I’ll call or come by later.”

  “I appreciate it. It’s a beautiful piece.” He stood up and walked the woman to the door of his shop. “Where were we?” he said when he got back to Evers and Pauletta. He sat down on the sofa again, in the same place, and crossed his legs.

  Pauletta sat down beside him. “You’re out a hundred thousand in drug money. You’re out a shitload with the letter. But there’s nothing you can do about that, either. It’s a safe bet that you got the letter from Artis. He stole it from Ruth Esther, and you either had him steal it or knew it was stolen when you took it from him. And the kicker, Mr. Jackson, is that you probably gave him drugs in exchange for the letter and envelope. So you have a stolen letter that you got from a drug-addled, cutthroat runt in exchange for cocaine, and now you’ve got nothing except a pitiful little insurance check. No letter, no stamps, no cash, nothing. Zip, nada.”

  “You’re full of theories and supposition, Miss Qwai. Wonderful stories. And what if they’re true? I’m not saying they are. But if you’re correct, so what?”

  “Am I right?” She stared at Lester.

  “You are correct that I obtained the letter from Artis.”

  “What did you pay him, Lester?” Evers asked.

  “That, Judge Wheeling, would be proprietary information. Why does it matter?”

  “You know the letter didn’t belong to Artis.” Pauletta leaned back some so her shoulders rested on the back of the sofa.

  “I do now. Of course when I acquired it, I thought he was the rightful owner. I bought it in good faith.”

  “I’m sure,” Pauletta said sarcastically.

  “I’ve since come to discover that some of the pieces he traded me were perhaps—and I emphasize the word ‘perhaps’—not altogether his.”

  “He stole the letter from his sister, Mr. Jackson. You know that.” Evers was still standing, still looking down at him.

  Lester uncrossed his legs. “Why are we going through all this hide and seek, all this hunt and peck and asinine circling?” He reached down and pulled on his socks again and smoothed the cuff in his pants leg. “Artis came to me from time to time trying to peddle a few odds and ends. The first time we did business, he brought me a lamp, some old books and an exceptional inkwell, a really nice piece. One day he came in with a good side chair in the trunk of his car—the fabric needed to be redone, but it was a very impressive piece. Probably 1870s. I sold it to a chiropractor’s wife from Kernersville. I encouraged him, of course, to bring me other items when he had the opportunity. He brought me the letter and envelope along with an old frame and a steamer trunk.”

  The phone rang, and Lester glanced toward the back of his business, toward his office. “I have an answering machine,” he said. Two women walked into the store, and Lester greeted them without getting up, told them to look around and that he’d be glad to help if they needed anything. “Anyway, when I received the letter, I knew that it was valuable—at the time, I guessed around three or four thousand. I had no idea….” Lester stopped and fingered his socks and pants again. “I have to confess I had no idea that the stamps were so worthwhile. No idea at all. I’m not a stamp man. It’s such a prissy business; tweezers and magnifying glasses, fussy, ill-kept collectors. I don’t keep up with the trade at all.”

  “I can see how you’d find selling lamps and inkwells a lot more ballsy,” Pauletta remarked, and Evers let out a blunt, barbed cackle directed at Lester Jackson.

  “You’d be surprised,” Lester said to Pauletta. “You’d be surprised.” He was as rigid and pressed as ever, not a curve or wrinkle anywhere on him.

  “I doubt it,” she answered.

  “That was my mistake, the stamps. And, to be honest, I doubt I would’ve ever paid much attention to them, although sooner or later I most likely would’ve discovered their significance. Ironically, it was the claims adjuster for my insurer who suggested I check the envelope; he figured maybe there might be a hundred dollars or so worth of old stamps. Needless to say, I didn’t attempt to claim the several million they’re worth. The letter I could’ve sold in a couple of weeks. Then it was stolen, along with a great deal of money. Overall, I’m out close to ninety thousand dollars—I was only able to claim the loss of the letter and around ten thousand when I dealt with my insurance company. I didn’t have an adequate paper trail to prove the existence of the other money, and there were also some tax concerns. I’m sure that you understand what I mean.”

  “It’s not hard to figure out,” Pauletta said.

  “And, naturally, that figure doesn’t include my loss of the stamps.”

  “A pretty big hit there,” Evers noted.

  “So there you have it.” Lester was watching the two women walk through his store. “Women come and go, talking of Michelangelo,” he remarked when he looked back at Pauletta and Evers.

  “I wouldn’t have thought the letter was worth more than a thousand dollars, if that.” Pauletta’s expression didn’t change.


  “There’s a huge market for historical documents. Letters, canceled checks, autographs, signed contracts. The few items I get I sell to a company called Write On Incorporated. I don’t fool with the stuff myself. They have about twenty stores. They frame the document, matte it, spruce it up and sell it. They’ve got a great store in the mall in Las Vegas, the one on the Strip next to the Frontier. Everyone from Robert E. Lee to Albert Einstein.”

  “But four thousand for this letter? Even given the author, that seems steep.”

  “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars seems a lot to pay for a canceled postage stamp, wouldn’t you agree?” He pivoted on the sofa so he could see his two customers. “Let me know if you’re finding everything all right,” he called to them.

  “But four or five thousand dollars?” Evers shook his head. “Wow.”

  “The insurance company paid me four thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars, actually.”

  “That’s based on what—the time when it was written, or the writer, or the age?”

  “It’s …” Lester stiffened his lips. “You tell me.”

  “Tell you what?” Evers demanded.

  “Who wrote the letter.”

  “Why does it matter?” Evers asked.

  “It must matter to you and Miss Qwai.”

  “We know who wrote the letter. We’ve read it.” Pauletta looked Lester Jackson in the eye.

  “Then tell me who wrote it,” Jackson insisted.

  “You’re forgetting the script, Lester. We have it. We’ve read it. Remember? Remember out in Utah? You were overdressed and hiring thugs to steal our bags. You had that cutting-edge Banana Republic safari look, and your hirelings on mopeds fucked up a fairly simple street crime. I’m not even sure that you ever had the letter. So you tell me what was in it.”

  Lester Jackson sighed and popped his thighs with his open hands. “This is getting us nowhere. Get to the point, please. What do you want?”

  “I’m sure that you copied the letter, correct? For your records. For insurance.”

  “I photograph every piece of furniture and copy every document which finds its way into my store.”

  “And you have a copy of Ruth Esther’s letter.”

  “Yes. In fact, I made a copy when I got it, right away, and another that I attached to my duplicate of the letter I sent to my contact at Write On. I should have two copies, as best as I can recall.”

  “We would like the copies,” Pauletta said.

  “Really? That’s what you’re after?”

  “Correct.” Pauletta didn’t flinch, didn’t show Lester anything at all in her face.

  “Why?” Lester looked puzzled. “What am I missing?”

  “You don’t need to know.”

  “Are you trying to somehow cover up something for Artis? That doesn’t make any sense.” Lester started tapping a fingernail on his watch crystal. “Or to protect yourselves, to get rid of any connection between you and Artis and Ruth Esther? What? I’m bamboozled. And I don’t want to get screwed twice.”

  “How much for the copies?” Evers asked Lester.

  “Maybe I have several copies. What then?”

  “We would need all of them, obviously,” Pauletta answered quickly.

  Evers started to speak. “Actually, we only need—”

  Pauletta glared at him and cut him off. “Actually, we know we can trust you—right, Judge Wheeling? We only need your assurance that you will give us all your copies. That’s correct, isn’t it, Judge Wheeling?”

  “Right, yeah.” Evers felt his neck get hot. “That’s correct.”

  Lester left his watch alone. “What would you offer for my copies?”

  “What are you asking?”

  Lester split his lips and gave a short whistle through his teeth. “What am I asking? Let’s see. How about the ninety thousand I’ve been fucked out of?”

  “Shit,” Evers exclaimed. “Guess again.”

  “How about five thousand dollars?” Pauletta offered. “That’s five thousand more than you have right now or will ever get from this deal.”

  “Twenty.”

  “Ten,” Evers said.

  “Twenty.”

  “No chance.” Pauletta chuckled.

  “You must really want these copies. It has to have something to do with Artis—it has to. And, oh yes, now the policeman is dead. I’ll bet you’re both a little uncomfortable. The answer’s right around there, isn’t it? I’m getting warm, aren’t I?” Lester sat up even straighter on the sofa, so erect that it looked like he was trying to unloose a kink in his spine. “I’m very close, aren’t I?”

  Pauletta reached into her purse. “Here’s ten thousand dollars, Lester. This is it. This is your only chance. Bring us the copies.” The money was in an envelope, and Pauletta held it in front of her, shook it up and down some, like bait for an animal or a flapping paper lure.

  “You are a brutal negotiator, Miss Qwai. Wait here.” Lester stood up from the sofa and walked to the back of his store, through a door. When he came out again, his two shoppers had settled on a small marble-top end table, and Lester took their check and helped them carry the table outside to their car.

  “Not really a quality piece,” he said when he walked back in. “I was glad to move it.” The phone rang, and Lester looked back toward the sound. “The machine will get it,” he said for the second time.

  “Here’s your money.” Pauletta handed Lester the envelope. He took the bills out, counted them and put them back into the envelope.

  “Here’s your letter. Both copies.” Lester handed one set of papers to Pauletta, the other to Evers. “And you can trust my discretion should the police or any other authorities happen by.”

  “I’m sure we can, Mr. Jackson,” Evers said. “We all have something to lose in the long run, don’t we? I think I mentioned to you once before that no one wins a nuclear war.”

  Lester smiled and held out his hand. Evers halfway expected him to snap his heels together and salute the Reich. “I enjoyed our time together,” Lester said.

  Evers and Pauletta shook his hand and walked off.

  “It’s a pretty colorful bit of history, isn’t it?” Lester said as they were leaving. “Mischief seems to run in the bloodline. I’d thought about contacting some historian or biographer or archive, but decided to let the dead rest in peace.”

  “That’s generous of you, Mr. Jackson,” Pauletta said.

  It was hot when she and Evers stepped out onto the sidewalk, hot and quiet, only a few cars driving by and two or three people window shopping. “Did you hear the copier come on?” Pauletta started laughing.

  “Yes. Oh, yes. Our friend Lester, always scheming. It sounded like someone had started a cement mixer in his office. What a dishonest, slippery piece of shit. He’ll probably call next week and tell us he has just ‘found’ another copy. Unbelievable.”

  “Lester is a creepy man.”

  “I’m sorry I almost fucked up your pitch, Pauletta. I didn’t catch on right away.”

  “Don’t worry about it. We got what we came for. I knew that if we gave Lester a chance to cheat us, he’d jump right on it.”

  Pauletta and Evers got into the Datsun. He started the engine, rolled the windows down and turned on the air conditioner. He was sweating; spans of slight beads had formed across the top of his lip and popped out above his brow. “I hope this is worth five thousand dollars apiece,” he said while unfolding his copy. “It’s going to have to be pretty entertaining for ten grand.”

  “I have to admit that I like the way having lots of money makes everything seem less expensive,” Pauletta remarked.

  The letter was written on four small sheets of paper, and Lester had copied the smaller sheets onto eight-and-a-half-by-eleven paper, so the writing was in the middle of the page, framed by black borders on each side:

  Dear Ruth,

  I have received and thank you for your correspondence of April 24, 1918. It found me in good health and av
erage spirits, somewhat tired from various travels. I am writing this from Washington, having just arrived here after leaving on business some ten days ago. The return trip was arduous but uneventful, and the city is now taking on its spring colors; the rebirth has taken over the city, and all about the town it seems as if everyone is a little more gay and a little more inclined to linger in discourse with a friend or to study nature’s blooms and craft, even with the bitter war on everyone’s mind. You know how I urged all who would listen—even President Wilson—to have us stand neutral in Europe’s conflict. But that debate is well passed and long ago decided, and we must now take the world as we find it and hope for a speedy and merciful resolution to this battle that has consumed so many.

  I am constrained to say that I also enjoyed our most recent visit and your company. Your New York is a bustling town, although I must confess that I am finding that the relatively gentle pace of my old Lincoln and the simple countryside are more suited to my disposition. I am also considering a move to Florida, as the climate is so constantly pleasant I am told.

  Like you, I have become quite a convert where the “horseless carriage” is concerned, and I am beginning to share your enthusiasm for this form of transportation. As I mentioned, I had owned only two automobiles until the acquisition of the new Model T which you recommended to me. It is much superior to the Stanley Steamer and the Oldsmobile I purchased in 1902. The price of $420.00 for the Ford was quite reasonable, and I occasionally, I must admit, simply drive it for pleasure without having any real destination in mind.

  I am not at all certain how to respond to the more personal and intimate concerns you raised in your letter. Like you, I am now and have been for some time rent and tortured, in my passions and my intellect, about our involvement. I am mortified and ashamed that we allowed it to become carnal, and have prayed that this sin and all that might come in its aftermath will be forgiven. Given my substantial years and your bare youth and inexperience, I must accept all of the blame. I also sadly must agree that it is not wise for us to meet again, despite my affection, love and fondness for you.