Plain Heathen Mischief

by Martin Clark

  “So this has something to do with an insurance company? Or a hospital? Is that it?”

  “Puts things in a different light, don’t it?”

  “I’m so sorry, Edmund. What happened?”

  “What happened is what happens all the time. Suppose you’re a fifteenyear-old kid with a circulatory problem and your insurance company claims the surgery—which is damned expensive—that will save your leg is ‘experimental’ and isn’t covered by your harried single mother’s policy. What is covered is a nice, relatively cheap amputation and a clunky metal strap-on limb that rubs your new stump raw and causes you to limp and stumble and fall.” Edmund spat out the words in dry tones, his eyes fixed on some distant point.

  Joel was speechless. He bit his lip and felt his stomach turn heavy, his throat start to clog. Finally he managed to utter a slack-jawed “I’m so sorry” a second time.

  “Hey, don’t worry about it. I didn’t mean to upset you. I get along okay, despite my handicap. In fact, I think I’ve done better than most.”

  “Yes, you have,” Joel said. “You certainly have.”

  Joel and Edmund made it to Nashville in the middle of the afternoon, checked into the Hermitage, rented separate rooms—Edmund insisted— and had Edmund’s luggage carried up while they talked to the receptionist about finding a good steak house. After dinner, they visited Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge, a narrow bar with a purple facade and hundreds of photos on the wall, the ones closest to the ceiling turned a brittle yellow by decades of rising nicotine. Edmund put away three beers and tipped the band a five when they played a Marty Robbins song he’d requested. Joel ordered coffee and sang along on a couple choruses he knew. The front door stayed open as people came and went, drinking and talking, and Joel and Edmund laughed and clapped in time as the band ended a set with “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.”

  It took them four more days on Interstate 40—and stops in Little Rock, Amarillo, Albuquerque and Flagstaff—to reach Las Vegas. As they were walking out of their hotel into a blistering Arizona morning to start their last day on the road, two attractive, stylish women passed by them. The prettier of the women—a brunette with brash eyes—turned back and showed an interest in Edmund, looked at him with an explosion of bright lipstick and an unmistakable invitation. He slowed, but when the woman saw he was heading for the beaten Cadillac, she gave up on him and sauntered away. The incident seemed to vex Edmund; usually talkative and full of stories and quips, he was quiet, almost sullen, as he and Joel began the trip to Nevada. When Joel finally asked why he was so taciturn, he got only a hangdog stare and a big exhalation from his companion.

  “For heaven’s sake, Edmund, what’s the matter with you? I hope I haven’t done anything.” Joel was settled behind the wheel, the safety belts aggravating the soreness along his chest.

  “Nah. You’ve been fine company.”

  “So what is it? Something to do with those two women?”

  “Well,” Edmund said, “it’s like this. I figure a man’s got three things to worry about, three things to take pride in: his ride, his hide and his stride.”

  Joel made a quizzical sound, a quick “hmmm” that stayed mostly in his throat. “The ride part I get—”

  “Your car, your clothes and the way you carry yourself. And here I am, limping into Vegas in a rent-a-wreck and lookin’ like Joe Shit the Ragman. Sorry about the language, Joel, but I just hate for people to see me like this.”

  “You look great, and you can get the car fixed in no time at all. I can’t imagine something so small and trivial would upset you.”

  “I know it shouldn’t, but it does.” Edmund grabbed his car-wreck collar with both hands and jerked it off. He tossed it into the rear seat and rubbed small circles on his neck with his palms. “There,” he said, “that’s better.”

  Joel drove into Las Vegas at night, when the city was loud and lit. Edmund woke up from a nap after the car came to a stop at a light, woke fresh and alert and recognized precisely where they were, pointed at an empty building and said it had once been an excellent restaurant. He directed Joel to the Golden Nugget, explaining that he enjoyed Vegas the way it used to be. Slick new resorts with French acrobats in the showrooms could never compare to bordello-red wallpaper, gangsters and molls, late meals and old gamblers hacking out unfiltered coughs while shaking dice over a table with a stain or two on the felt. Forget about art collections and roller coasters and pirate ships and fountains that danced to classical music. Despite the fact the city had tricked up the area with a hopeless light show, downtown was the place to be, the last little shard of the genuine thing and still the home of Binion’s and the Four Queens, gaudy dens that were a little on the margins as soon as they were built and had never changed.

  Edmund paid for a two-bedroom suite and set off to gamble, offering Joel a feeble courtesy invitation to come along and try the games. Instead, Joel took a shower and found a cheap buffet at Sam Boyd’s, went through the line twice and ate a mound of mushy, pencil-thin crab legs. He wandered the sidewalks and in and out of the casinos, and after an hour or so, it struck him that Las Vegas was not the devil’s best work. There was a streak of Sodom in the streets and cards and slot machines, but the whole thing was so obvious, so gleefully corrupt, such a bolo punch, that you could spot the snares from miles away. The come-on for lethal sin was far more cunning: a secretary’s hem an inch too high or a dab of cocaine after a round of golf, harmless distractions whose fangs at first are hidden. Las Vegas, Joel concluded, was to damnation what Cruella De Vil was to villainy: difficult to take seriously, outlandish and so predictable you could hear the cogs grinding before every move.

  He bought a cold soda at a bar near the back of the Golden Nugget, dropped a quarter in a slot machine on the way to the elevators, hit two cherries and was paid ten coins, which he put in his pocket. In his room, he felt the cold marble floor brace his feet as he walked from the sink to his bed after brushing his teeth, and he fell asleep almost as soon as he lay down, pulled a pillow from beneath the comforter and didn’t bother to get under the covers.

  Edmund reappeared the next morning, wearing the same clothes he’d left in. He seemed sober and fairly composed, his eyes red but his pants still creased and his hair combed and neat. He told Joel to get the car keys, said they needed to visit his lawyer before heading north to Missoula.

  “Edmund, I appreciate it, but I don’t see why it’s necessary. On top of that, I feel bad about you paying a lawyer for me. You’ve already spent a fortune on meals and rooms.”

  “Least I can do, and don’t fret about it. Hey, I more than financed us last night. I got into a blackjack table that was flat-out boiling. Skinned the house for close to seven grand.”

  “You won seven thousand dollars playing cards?”

  “Yep.”

  “Wow.” Joel whistled. “How about that.”

  “So we’re still ahead. Way ahead.” He clapped Joel on the back. “Our friends at Binion’s will be coverin’ the cost of the trip and payin’ for your cape-and-hat gouging.”

  “For what it’s worth, I truly am grateful. But we really don’t have to see a lawyer.”

  “No more fussin’ with me. I’m goin’ anyway, so you may as well tag along. Come on or I’ll leave you here and let you walk to your sister’s.”

  “Well, I did my part, too.” Joel reached into his pocket and produced the quarters. “Here you go—I had a big evening also.”

  Edmund took the change and balled it in his fist. “Consider us even, Preacher. You’re paid in full.” He slapped Joel on the back again and unleashed a peal of laughter, a burst of noise that stayed in Joel’s ears even after they’d left the room and started toward the elevator.

  Joel and Edmund never took a seat in the lobby of Sa’ad X. Sa’ad’s law firm. They walked straight through past ten or twelve other people and followed a dignified secretary down a hall to a huge office, where Sa’ad X. Sa’ad was waiting for them at the doorway. The room behind him wa
s phenomenal, laid out in a large rectangle with Sa’ad’s desk—an ornate mahogany monster—on a raised platform in the center of the space. Two steps led to the desk plateau, and four leather chairs were arranged at the foot of the steps. While the sheer size of the office was impressive, it was the horns and snouts and heads of dead animals protruding from the walls and jammed into every corner and cranny that mesmerized Joel. The main attraction was a stuffed bear, easily seven feet tall, standing on its rear legs, its shellacked nails pawing at the ceiling. The bear was kept company by a fox, deer heads, game birds, racks from a moose and an elk, a wild boar and a coyote with yellow marbles in its skull. An elaborate gun case was located within easy reach of the desk, and Joel noticed the stock of one rifle was finished in ivory swirls and the trigger gold.

  Evidently Edmund had toured the menagerie before. He showed no interest in the surroundings and immediately wrapped his lawyer in a robust embrace that ended with them still connected from thigh to breastbone and their heads withdrawn and offset, the greeting brotherly, fervent and strangely Old World. Sa’ad finished with Edmund and offered his hand to Joel. “Sa’ad X. Sa’ad. Pleasure to meet you.”

  Edmund insisted that Sa’ad sit with them on the ground and not climb the elevation to his desk. Joel sat between the two men. Edmund had regained his cervical collar on the way to the lawyer’s, but even with the bulky ring around his neck and despite a full night at the tables, he was a handsome, vigorous figure, not a scuff or blemish on his shoes, every stitch and button in his suit impeccable. Sa’ad was his equal, a tall, immaculate black man whose face seemed to be permanently rotating. A hodgepodge of expressions—threatening or inviting or demanding or good-humored— took turns in his flawless features without any warning which would come next. Sa’ad removed a pair of delicate, rimless glasses, folded them, placed them in a case and pocketed the case. “So what’s on the table, Edmund?”

  Edmund’s air became grave. “The preacher here. Let’s talk about his concerns first. He’s bein’ royally screwed by this system you guys run. He had a small problem back in Roanoke with a girl at our church. I think—”

  Sa’ad interrupted. “So you’re a minister, Joel?”

  “I was.”

  “What kind, if I could ask?”

  “A damn fine one,” Edmund blustered. “Who got a raw deal.”

  “I was a Baptist minister for several years,” Joel answered.

  “Ordained or merely—how is it you put it—‘called’?” Sa’ad spoke in a smooth, practiced baritone that was almost musical.

  “I’m ordained. College at Indiana, graduate degree from Southeastern Seminary in Wake Forest.”

  Sa’ad chuckled. “Ah yes, the Demon Deacons.”

  “Well, the university and the seminary are actually different places.”

  “Arnold Palmer’s alma mater,” Sa’ad noted.

  “There’s a dorm named after him, but it’s at the university,” Joel said.

  “This is all great, gents, but let’s not forget the meter’s runnin’, Sa’ad. You guys can talk golf and campus tours another time. I’m here to do business, not chitchat. As I was sayin’, well . . . jeez . . . let Joel tell you what happened.”

  “I simply like to learn a little about my clients, Edmund. Why so touchy this morning—bad cards last night?”

  “The cards were lovely,” Edmund said.

  “I’m happy for you. I’d think you’d be more civil.” Sa’ad winked at Joel, then relaxed in his chair and crossed his legs. “So, Mr. King,” he said, prompting Joel with a nod and a meaningless smile, “I’m eager to see if I can solve your problem. You mind telling me what’s happened?”

  “Okay,” Joel said, and as Sa’ad listened impassively, he recited his story from start to present, told of the criminal charge, his guilty plea, his time in jail and the arrival of two lawsuits, one seeking a divorce, the other demanding five million dollars.

  Edmund had slid to the edge of his seat. “I advised him to fight the infernal thing, Sa’ad. It’s double jeopardy, right? He’s been tried and done his time—you can’t bring it up again, correct? That’s against the Constitution.”

  Sa’ad stretched his legs and sank deeper into the leather. “Oh, no. Not at all. He’s been tried on the criminal case. This is civil.”

  “I sort of guessed that,” Joel said, “from what little I know.”

  “Explain to me what you’re sayin’,” Edmund insisted.

  “It’s like this, Edmund,” the lawyer said, “and you of all people should know something so basic. Double jeopardy means a person can’t be tried twice by the state for the same offense. That’s one concern—you and the state and the criminal charges. You and the victim—that’s another, that’s the civil end of the equation. For instance, say you get hit by a drunk driver. The state puts him in jail, but you sue him for money damages. Two suits—one criminal, one civil.”

  “So the suit’s good?” Edmund asked.

  “Well, it’s not barred.” Sa’ad sat up slightly. “Whether it’s good or not is a separate issue. Depends on the facts.”

  “I don’t plan on contesting it,” Joel said. “I told Edmund that.”

  “What kind of a case do they have against you—factually, I mean?” Sa’ad inquired. “What evidence?”

  “I pled guilty, went to court and admitted it. Then there’s Christy’s testimony. A groundskeeper saw her go into the church the afternoon this was supposed to have happened. And their big gun was this test, a PERK test, I think you call it—”

  “Physical evidence recovery kit,” Sa’ad interjected. “Semen swabs, pubic-hair combings, some other investigations. I’m familiar with the term.”

  “Yeah, right.” Joel felt his neck start to color. “They found some hair from, uh, my private area when they . . . when they, I guess, inspected her at the hospital. The state lab matched it to me.”

  “I see. Certainly a better than average beginning for the plaintiff,” Sa’ad said dryly.

  “Exactly.” Joel was looking at the floor.

  “I don’t believe none of her crap,” Edmund declared. “Nope.”

  “It’s not as bad as it seems,” Joel added. “There’s a lot that went into my decision to accept blame. And some other, unsolved issues.”

  Sa’ad arched an eyebrow. “I’m happy to listen, but it’s hard to undo a guilty plea that’s coupled with uncontroverted DNA evidence. I imagine that will be our starting point.” His tone was patronizing, carried a defense attorney’s jaded, heard-it-before skepticism.

  “I understand,” Joel said, realizing his legal options were limited. “I’ve dug myself into quite a hole.”

  “Do you have any assets, Mr. King?” Sa’ad was polite, made the very personal inquiry seem like casual conversation.

  Joel shook his head. “No, I’m broke.”

  “I guess that’s the good news—you don’t stand to lose much.”

  “Is it fair to assume they’re doing this just to be spiteful?” Joel asked Sa’ad.

  “Perhaps. Of course, the judgment would allow them to intercept wages or any money you might earn in the future.”

  “Take a long time to get to five million that way,” Joel said.

  “True, but it’s hard to live on two hundred dollars a month.” Sa’ad cleared his throat. “Let me ask you this: How big is your church?”

  “Relatively large, especially for our area.”

  “Interesting.” Sa’ad pulled himself higher and straighter.

  “We’ve got close to nine hundred members,” Edmund said.

  “Why do you want to know?” Joel asked.

  “So this isn’t your uncle’s basement with a boom box, a few tambourines and a plastic cross in the driveway? This is a solvent, substantial institution?”

  “It’s an old, established church,” Joel said, “with a good, middle-class congregation.”

  “You have the papers with you?” Sa’ad asked.

  Joel took the pages from his
pocket and handed them to Sa’ad.

  Sa’ad only glanced at the suit for an instant, never got past the first page. “There’s your answer, gentlemen. There it is. Your church belongs to the Southern Baptist Convention?”

  “Well, uh, yes,” Joel stuttered, “although, you know, we’ve been—we were, I should say—debating our membership, given some of their doctrinal positions.”

  “What’s the catch, Sa’ad?” Edmund swerved toward Joel. “I told you he was sharp, didn’t I?” He focused on the lawyer again. “What’s goin’ on?”

  “I was just inflating your bill, Edmund,” Sa’ad teased, “padding your charges, trying to pry another dollar from your miserly white hands.” He sang through the words and finished with a big laugh.

  “Kiss my ass, Sa’ad,” Edmund said, but the rejoinder was playful also, without prickles or malice.

  “I’m guessing there’s a healthy insurance policy at the end of this rainbow. They sued you and the church. Your friend Christina’s chasing the heavy-duty money. You work for the church, so the church is responsible for your conduct. Maybe even your governing body. Is your church insured?”

  Joel struggled to recall, mashed the heel of his hand against his forehead. “I know we are for fire and so forth, but I’m really not involved in that part of things. Believe it or not, ministers don’t do much of the business end. Everything was in place before I got there, and the finance committee keeps track of those concerns. I mean, they keep me generally informed, keep me abreast of our needs, but I’ve never discussed insurance. I know I have life insurance, but that wouldn’t make any difference.”

  Edmund looked flabbergasted. “So that’s it.”

  “Most churches and businesses and corporations have some kind of liability policy to protect them, especially if they have something to lose—as would your church.” Sa’ad held up the suit papers. “Did you notice that you have been sued quote ‘individually and in your capacity as an agent and employee’ of your church? And the church is named as a defendant, too.”