Plain Heathen Mischief

by Martin Clark

  Joel felt the vibration increase in his hands. A tractor-trailer rumbled by on his left, sped past the Cadillac at a good eighty miles an hour. “I guess. You’re some kind of watchdog or regulator? An activist like Ralph Nader?”

  Edmund chuckled. “Somethin’ similar to that. Yeah. I definitely don’t have any problem doggin’ Allstate, if that’s what you mean. So anyhow, here’s my plan. My friend Abel Crane runs a cleanin’ business in Vegas. Takes care of houses, commercial property, all sorts of spreads. Has access to a bunch of areas most people don’t. Are you followin’ me?”

  Joel cleared his throat. The phrase “access to . . . areas” didn’t sit well with him. “Yeah, sort of. Keep going.”

  “Here’s how this project works. Abel has the capacity to get his hands on some very expensive antique jewelry from a house in Vegas. The folks who live there come and go all the time. Stay with me now, okay? This ain’t goin’ where you think. It’s not about stealin’ someone’s diamonds and pearls. Stay with me. They leave for a month or two at a time—you know how wealthy people love to vacation. Of course Abel’s got the key to their house and the code to their security system, right? He’s ‘licensed and bonded,’ as they say in the trade. People eat that up.”

  “I’m listening.” It seemed to Joel that the wind noise was gaining strength. He looked at the speedometer; nothing had changed.

  “Abel will simply remove several items of jewelry, and there’s where you come in. He’ll give them to me, and I’ll very quickly give ’em to you. We’ll see to it that plenty of people know you have these valuables. In fact, you’ll buy an insurance policy on them in Missoula. The agent will want to see ’em. The agent will take pictures and demand an appraisal, which you’ll get from a reputable local jeweler who’ll inform you that these fine keepsakes your mother left you are worth more than a quarter of a million dollars. If ever pressed on the issue, you’ll say they were kept in storage or in a safe-deposit box. Do you have a safe-deposit box?”

  “Uh, yeah. I did . . . we did, my wife and I, when I went to jail. It’s empty except for some legal papers and a few odds and ends. An old ring. But—”

  Edmund raised his hand. “Hear me out. If anyone ever leans on you, you’ll simply advise them that these precious mementos were stored during your incarceration and you retrieved them when you got released. Naturally, you took ’em with you when you left Virginia.” Edmund’s tone was professional, very assured and measured. “Of course, you don’t tell anybody that right off the bat. Just say they came from your mother, get an appraisal and act stunned as heck when the jeweler quotes you a value.”

  Joel checked his speed again, even though the cruise control was activated. “That would be a lie, Edmund. I couldn’t do it. And this hardly sounds like a job.”

  “Don’t bring the curtain down before you let me finish, okay? After it’s real clear you own the stuff and the agent’s seen it and we have photos and a jeweler’s appraisal, you give the jewelry back to me and we return it. All of it. No theft, no crime, no nothin’. We just send it home to Vegas. See? Like I said, this isn’t any type theft involving people or anything of that stripe.” Edmund reached into his suit jacket and collected a pack of cigarettes, lowered his window to suck away the smoke. He fired the cigarette with a silver metal lighter and seemed to have finished his pitch. He sat quietly and blew smoke from his nostrils and thumped an ash into the crack.

  “And?” Joel had to grin. “That’s the end?”

  “No, of course not. You want to know the whole prospectus, the whole deal?”

  “Prospectus, Edmund?” Joel was smiling now. “Like this thing’s registered with the Securities and Exchange Commission, and we’re selling stock shares? You’re offering me a salesman’s job?” The Cadillac was boxed in between a van and a Buick poking along in the passing lane, so he tapped the brake to disengage the cruise control and waited for an opening.

  “You could say that. The rest of the project unfolds a few months later. The bait’s back where it belongs, and after, say, six months go by, burglars hit your home. Door’s kicked in, TV’s gone, house is turned upside down, things are stolen and—tragically—your mama’s sacred stones wind up in the clutches of some junkie thief, never to be seen again. You should’ve taken them to the bank for safekeepin’, but money was tight and you kept delaying, never got around to it. You, of course, will be at work or church or volunteerin’ at the cancer hospice when the home invasion occurs.” Edmund tossed his cigarette out the window and sealed the car.

  “I see. Then I march to the insurance office, file my claim and accept a check for jewels I never owned?”

  “Yep. Sweet, isn’t it? Their agent’s your best witness—hell, he’s seen the goods and held them in his own hands and has the pictures to prove it. The jeweler—another total stranger—he’s also seen ’em. Your churchgoin’ pal Edmund will definitely say that he too got an eyeful of these fine gems. They’ll have to cut the check. Six figures, no one hurt, only the bad guys stung.”

  “What if they discover the jewelry belongs to someone else? That kind of quality might be on record somewhere, or so distinctive they could trace the real owners.”

  “A diamond’s a diamond, a sapphire’s a sapphire. We’re not goin’ after Liz Taylor’s stash. And two hundred fifty thou isn’t all that much, not really. Plus we’ll throw in a couple pieces of our own, just to scramble the pot.”

  Joel floored the car and shot into the passing lane. “I see. Well, I’m afraid my mom’s still alive.”

  “She is?” Edmund’s voice flagged for the first time since he’d started his spiel.

  “Sure enough,” Joel answered.

  “Huh.”

  “She’s very infirm, though. She has Alzheimer’s and lives in a nursing home. I’m embarrassed to admit that we had to move her from Roanoke to Missoula and make her my sister’s responsibility while I was in jail.”

  Edmund considered this for a moment. “Well, I don’t know exactly how to put it, but as far as our project’s concerned, that’s not the end of the universe. Don’t get me wrong, Joel. I hate it for you and your mother, I certainly do. I hear it’s a wicked affliction, awful to deal with.” He twisted his lips. “But dependin’ on how bad it is, it might be a positive and not a minus. Can’t you just see some cape-and-hat from the insurance company tryin’ to put the torch to a fragile old sweetheart?” He allowed himself a cackle. “We could work with this situation, I do believe. Yessir.”

  Joel’s features tightened, and the amusement and mirth drained out of him. He pressed the cruise button to reset his speed and zombie-stared at the road. “I’ve become a convict,” he said, almost mumbling the words. “What in the world.”

  Edmund didn’t know how to take the remark, didn’t know how it stacked up against what he’d been proposing. “Don’t worry about it, Joel,” he finally said.

  Joel turned and gave him a level look. Edmund kept his eyes to himself, kept his posture unnaturally erect. “What exactly is your business, Edmund?” Joel asked the question with a plain voice, didn’t give anything away in his tone.

  “My business?” Edmund repeated.

  “Yes. How do you make money? Support yourself?”

  “Oh, okay. Sure. I’ll tell you. You see, Joel, I work the sag, patrol it from stem to stern, top to bottom. And you’re gonna ask ‘What’s the sag?,’ so I’ll go ahead and explain. Sag’s the sneaky tax and the holdback and the cushion and the reserve and the contingency and the ol’ thumb on the scale. It’s the markup that stores and companies and corporations factor in for the illusions we don’t truly receive. It’s all those dollars lost in green eyeshades or your congressman’s payroll, all the premiums we pay State Farm and the Good Hands People for Swiss-cheese protection. It’s the extra seventy-four cents on your phone bill each month that you’re too damn weary to fight about, rounded-off decimal points and that tiny price increase at Sears because they assume they’ll have a five-percent theft-loss this yea
r. Well, I say let’s make certain they do, because otherwise they’re overchargin’. To put it in plain English, the sag is somethin’ nobody’s got any claim to but somebody has.”

  Joel scratched his chin. “I understand the concept. But businesses have to prepare budgets that reflect real and reasoned possibilities. I mean, my goodness, we did it at the church, Edmund. We had a contingency fund for repairs and replacements or unforeseen events, and you’re saying— what are you saying?”

  Edmund locked onto Joel. “Listen, all I’m saying is that money ends up in the purses of people who have no right to it, and as far as I’m concerned there’s an open season on it, a free-for-all. They won’t miss it anyway—that’s why I call it the sag. We’re not talkin’ shoestring budgets and powdered-milk shipments for the saucer-eyed babies; we’re talkin’ some fat cat’s secretary ordering a friggin’ ice swan for the company buffet.”

  “Ultimately, Edmund, you have to break the law to do most of this, correct? That’s what I’m reading between the lines. Like the jewelry scam you’re selling—it’s just insurance fraud, pure and simple. Stealing.”

  Edmund wrinkled his brow, pursed his lips and filled his face with ruts and creases. He held the sour expression for several moments as if he were in pain, his features frozen in a long wince. “It’s sure not stealin’,” he finally said. “It’s just doin’ battle over what’s available. You ask me, they’re the ones puttin’ it to folks. How’s it stealin’ when you get money some insurance company’s sittin’ on ’cause they arbitrarily refused to pay your doctor his total bill? Or claiming some treatment ain’t covered by one of their hundred-page policies written in Sanskrit? Let’s talk about who’s really at fault.”

  “That’s why we have laws and courts and proper methods to settle disputes.”

  “That’s right, Joel. Take some big corporation to court.” Edmund laughed sarcastically. “Just try. And see if a vampire will take your case if it ain’t a biggie. They won’t. They know the capes-and-hats on the other side will keep ’em tied in knots for years over your tiny rag of a case. And the miserable insurance companies are financin’ the battle with the sag money they charged you in your payments.”

  “Not all companies are corrupt, Edmund. A lot of them provide real benefits. It’s far too simplistic and convenient to think every corporation’s a sinister bully.”

  “Let me finish. Even if you do find a lawyer and win in court, you still take a butt kickin’. Let’s say you get dinged in an accident and you’re due around five grand. They’ll offer you maybe three. They know if you fight that, you gotta pay a doctor to testify and a third to your cape-and-hat. So you go to court, get your whole five and walk out with only two thousand in your pocket. Fair, huh?”

  “I’m sure that can’t be altogether accurate. You could ask for your lawyer’s fee.”

  “Nope. No way. It doesn’t happen like that.”

  “Well, whatever you call it, it’s still illegal.”

  “Illegal?” Edmund snorted. “Illegal? The law ain’t always right, and it seems to change all the time dependin’ on who’s writin’ the checks. It was once the law that black people couldn’t vote, you couldn’t drink liquor and you couldn’t get an abortion down at the mall in the clinic next to the Chick-fil-A. You’re a preacher, Joel. You of all people oughta know the law isn’t always sound or even fair. And, hey, the law surely didn’t do justice by you. Look at the way you got treated.”

  “I can understand your position, but I don’t agree with it. I’m not a fan of anarchy and mob rule. And I have no problems with my punishment. I pled guilty and went to jail, and my troubles were of my own doing.”

  “I can’t say you got a square deal. What chance did you have? And look what’s happenin’ now. You’re right back in court, fightin’ the same old trench war.”

  “That’s hardly the system’s fault. Christy filed the suit.” Joel shrugged. “Anyway, I’ve already told you I’m planning to take what comes.”

  Edmund tossed his hands up and let his palms slap his thighs. “You’re a tough hombre, Joel. You are indeed. Like I say, I can sure understand why you might not want to get involved. Just wanted to give you the opportunity. No hard feelings, I hope.”

  “Of course not. I’m a little surprised, though. I’d assumed your businesses were more, uh, conventional. I think I recall—didn’t you once tell me you were in the meat-processing business? I believe I remember that.”

  Edmund showed him a satisfied expression, with a mote of smugness mixed in. He didn’t say anything.

  “Edmund?”

  “Think about it.”

  “I am.”

  “Think harder,” Edmund urged.

  The gag finally registered with Joel. “Oh, right. Meat processing. I get it—it’s the lard and suet you’re whittling away at. The fat. The sag.”

  “Exactly. There you go. I told you the truth.” He took out his silver lighter and began absentmindedly flipping the lid. “So now you know what I do.”

  “Yep,” Joel said. “I guess I do.” He paused, started to say something else but didn’t.

  “What is it?” Edmund asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “You were goin’ to say some more.”

  “Well, I . . . it’s not important,” Joel stammered.

  “Tell me. Heck, you’re not goin’ to hurt my feelings.”

  “Well, Edmund, I was wondering whether you believe in the Lord. I hate to ask it like that—it sounds sort of pious—and it’s really none of my business now. I suppose it’s ingrained after so many years in the ministry. Besides, I mean, you know, I’m in no position to ask anyone much of anything. There’s not a whole lot sadder than a down-and-out preacher wearing the scarlet letter.”

  “You sure don’t owe me any apologies.”

  “I imagine I do, in some sense. But be that as it may, I don’t want to come off as a hypocrite.”

  “Why are you askin’?” Edmund wondered. “You know I was in church every Sunday.” The accents were typical Edmund—a clipped “church” and a slurred, honeyed “I.”

  Joel waited a moment before he answered. “I guess I’m curious as to how your deceptions—your necessary untruths, or whatever you’d call them—fit into your world as a good servant of the Lord?”

  “Man comes into your house and takes hold of your wallet, you have a right to do what’s needed to get it back. It’s sure not stealin’, and as for the lying part of it, it’s no different than the police callin’ wanted criminals and tellin’ them they’ve won the lottery or Super Bowl tickets and then arrestin’ ’em when they show up at some swanky hotel to claim their prize.”

  Joel nodded. “So do you believe in God, Edmund?”

  “I do. I sure do.” He stopped opening and shutting the lighter. “I’m not as certain about the niceties and creeds and chants and original Greek and all the details that keep you guys in business, but I’m a believer. I don’t know how He likes His suit cut or His hair parted or His martini made, but I believe in God. Yessiree.”

  “His martini?” Joel lifted his eyebrows.

  “You know what I’m gettin’ at.”

  “And you know what they say, Edmund, ‘the devil is in the details.’ ” Joel tried to catch his eye but couldn’t.

  “The devil, Preacher, is in too many details.”

  “I see.”

  “And the best thing about being Baptist is that you can just throw up your hands and ask to be forgiven and it’s done. Know it’s a sin—doesn’t matter. Do it over and over and over—doesn’t matter. Beat a man to death with a claw hammer ’cause of a two-dollar bet in a poker game—same story. Simply ask to be forgiven and you’re salvation bound. So there you go, bein’ Baptist and believing like we believe works out just fine and dandy with what I do. Sorta like an all-you-can-eat buffet or a bottomless cup of coffee, that’s how I think about it. I mean, assumin’ I was into something sinful, which I’m not.”

  “I’ve often wonde
red about the expression ‘bottomless cup.’ Seems to me you’d never have anything in it.”

  Edmund laughed and rearranged himself in the seat. “That makes better sense, don’t it?”

  Joel forced Edmund to look at him. “You’ve got to mean it when you go to the Lord, Edmund. You need contrition and sincerity.”

  Edmund appeared perplexed. “Mean it? Mean it? You better believe I mean it. I da—darn sure don’t want to wind up in hell. Of course I mean it.”

  “Good enough, then.”

  “I hope you don’t think poorly of me, Joel. In my heart of hearts I don’t feel I’m doing nothin’ wrong.”

  “You’re a friend and a good man, Edmund. We disagree on the sag, so let’s just leave it there.” Joel gave a subtle dip with his head to conclude the sentence.

  “Great.” Before the word had vanished, Edmund began a clumsy struggle to raise his leg from the floorboard. He joined his hands into a sling underneath his knee and hoisted and turned until the limb was on the seat. His foot ended up in Joel’s lap, and his shoulders were pressed against the passenger-side window.

  “Edmund? You okay?”

  “Well, I’m in some pain, yeah. But I want to show you somethin’ that might make things a little clearer.” He grabbed his pant leg below the knee and hiked the fabric until his calf was bare.

  Joel glanced at him, then returned to the highway. Edmund’s leg was perfectly smooth and hairless, without any curves or veins or definition, a lifeless run of beige that disappeared into a blue sock. Joel took another peek, trying to scrutinize what was happening in the car and not miss events on the road. “What’s wrong with your leg?”

  “Not my entire leg. Not the entire shebang. Just below the knee, Joel.” Edmund made a fist and rapped his shin, struck it three times with his knuckles. “Nice, huh?”

  “Oh, my. It’s not real. My goodness . . . you can’t even tell. I never noticed.”

  “The best prosthesis money can buy.” Edmund began maneuvering his leg out of the seat. “Of course, it’s still plastic.” He manufactured a smile. “What was the line in The Graduate? ‘Plastics. Go into plastics, young man.’ I wound up takin’ it literally.” He’d returned to his side of the car, was staring out the windshield.