Plain Heathen Mischief

by Martin Clark

  “It’s simply questions put to you under oath prior to court. Don’t get me wrong—it’s an important part of the trial process. You don’t want to fu . . . uh . . . foul it up, but it’s done in a lawyer’s office without a judge, a little more informal. You’ll be asked all kinds of questions about the case, and you have to answer. As I said, you’ll need to be careful, because your statements can be used at the trial itself and presented to the judge or jury.”

  “How careful do I need to be, Mr. Sa’ad,” Joel scoffed, “given that I’ve already pled guilty?”

  “That does take some of the pressure off, doesn’t it?” Sa’ad grinned and tugged the knot in his tie. “Tactically speaking, I think it’s wise to admit your wrongdoing without a lot of fuss. If you hedge and fib, it’ll only make things worse.” The last words were strangely hurried, almost melded together. “So I take it you’re planning to concede the point?”

  “Yeah. What’s the alternative?”

  “There really isn’t one,” Sa’ad answered. “You’re being very smart about all this.”

  “So how’s this good news?” Joel asked.

  “Ah. Well, we’ve timed the trip to fit with Edmund’s project. He tells me you’ve decided to come aboard, correct?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” Joel had now made the decision with a clear, dispassionate mind, had actually committed when it counted. He’d turned the consideration away when it wormed into his thoughts in the days following his kitchen breakdown, had avoided revisiting the fugue-state plea he’d made to Edmund over the phone, figuring that each deliberation and acknowledgment was most likely a separate, distinct sin. And what choice did he have, even if the plan steered him down a crooked path? When he confirmed his intentions with Sa’ad, there was a fleeting burn in his middle, and he licked his lips, but the words didn’t seem too bitter or serpentine as they crossed his tongue. He checked to see Edmund’s reaction and discovered that his friend was still fiddling with the lighter, rubbing it against the fabric on his thigh.

  “We need to get you to Virginia. The deposition will allow us to do so without any hint of irregularity. We need you in Roanoke to retrieve your belongings. Edmund mentioned that you have a bank box. Is that correct?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “It would make sense, you see, for you to collect the last of your property. So we have a perfect cover, and the insurance company will be providing the travel cost.”

  “In other words,” Edmund added, “they’ll be payin’ the lion’s share of our project, and our project will ultimately take money from them or their evil kin in the same business.” He flashed a toothy smile that was a combination of satisfaction and disdain. “I told you our buddy Sa’ad was slick, huh? Notice how there’re no mirrors in here? No crosses or garlic?” The smile became puckish. “Capes-and-hats—what a racket.”

  Sa’ad altogether ignored him. “It would make sense, Joel, for you to start trying to sell some of your personal property, given your job dilemma. In the end, this bit of bad employment luck looks to be good for our endeavor. You go to Roanoke and leave a paper trail at the bank, show some jewelry around, maybe mention to Mr. Roland how money’s tight and you’re hoping to unload some of your mother’s rings and necklaces. We might even have you pawn a piece or two. The bottom line is that it would be natural for you to withdraw jewelry from your safe-deposit box and take it with you to where you currently live.”

  “What about my wife?” Joel asked. “She knows I don’t have any jewelry, and she knows what’s in the box.”

  Sa’ad sat straighter in his chair. “If we’re fortunate, she won’t become involved, but we have to assume that she will. If she does, we simply hard-bluff her and insist the items were folded up in something or that she overlooked them. All she can say is that she never saw the stuff, not that it doesn’t exist. Moreover, we let her know it’s better for her if you have money, especially if she wants any kind of consideration from the divorce.”

  “She’s very disappointed in me,” Joel warned. “I wouldn’t expect much help.”

  “Did your mother ever give either of you anything in the jewelry line, any family heirlooms?” Sa’ad inquired.

  “Huh. Well, she gave Martha an old opal ring several years ago—it’s stored at the bank. And there’s also a bracelet in the box. It’s old and ugly and the clasp is broken, but I understand the stones are not too bad. We were going to have it repaired.”

  “Excellent,” Edmund said. “We can work that to our advantage.”

  Joel was becoming entangled in the planning. “And, you know, I have the only key, and Martha hasn’t been in the box in over two years, so who knows what could’ve been deposited there, right?”

  “There you go,” Sa’ad said. “Who could say?”

  “And a man with marital—well, you know, we’d say there was a marital problem—he ain’t going to tell his wife all his money business, now is he?” This was Edmund’s contribution. “We’ve got this nailed.” He focused on Joel. “But you need to mention any potential traps that come to mind. We’ve all got to operate together, like a team. Let us know your thoughts. You shouldn’t be afraid to put the project to the test.”

  “Don’t worry,” Joel said. “I’ll probably hound you till you’re sick of me.”

  “No you won’t,” Edmund said jovially. “I understand how you must be feelin’.”

  “Will I actually have the genuine goods?” Joel asked.

  “Most likely, yes. Make it a point to be careful with them. There’s no room for error.” Sa’ad’s tone changed, acquired a streak of bass and turned purposefully somber. He brought his hands together and rested his elbows on the desk, then lowered his head until his face was obscured by a dark brown tangle of thumbs and fingers and bony knuckles. “If something goes awry, Reverend King, we’re all on the griddle, and I can promise you there’s not a lot of honor among thieves. We would do what we could, but . . .” Sa’ad broke open his hands and tossed them into a brief explosion, like a magician at the finale of a trick. “But I would imagine—sad as it may be— that you’d get the short end of the stick and catch most of the blame. No offense, of course.” His nails, Joel noticed, were buffed and polished, clear offsets bordering against umber flesh.

  “But nothin’ like that’s going to happen, Joel,” Edmund assured him. “Never has, never will.”

  Joel didn’t know what to say. “Right,” he finally croaked. Some team.

  “There are a number of critical guidelines, Joel, so listen to what I’m telling you.” Sa’ad’s voice turned pleasant again, and the stern angles rotated out of his face, replaced by an earnest helpfulness. “This is very important.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Joel said, still unnerved by Sa’ad’s dour warning.

  “First—never talk about any aspect of this project over the phone. Never. Is that clear?”

  “Yes. That seems obvious.”

  “I’m glad it does. If you need to speak with Edmund or me, call here, speak to the receptionist and use the code phrase ‘this divorce is driving me crazy.’ We will make arrangements to get you quickly in my office or meet you wherever you are. This office is a safe harbor. Attorney-client privilege affords us many protections from intercepts, wiretaps and so forth. Understood?”

  “Understood,” Joel repeated.

  “Item next—if this project becomes compromised, if investigators, lawyers or police officers become involved, keep your fucking mouth shut. The only words you need to know are ‘I’ll have to speak with my lawyer.’ No matter what they say or do or promise, keep your fucking mouth shut.”

  “I will,” Joel said.

  “Repeat the rule, please,” Sa’ad said in his best professional voice. His expression was holding on solicitous.

  “Keep my mouth shut, no matter what.” The last of his cold flared in Joel’s throat, and he ducked his head and coughed into a fist.

  “That’s not the rule. The rule is ‘Keep your fucking mouth shut.’ ” Sa’a
d uttered the sentence, profanity and all, without a trace of anger or menace.

  “I got it,” Joel assured him.

  “What’s the rule?” Sa’ad demanded.

  “I don’t use foul language, Mr. Sa’ad. But I fully grasp your message.”

  “Cut it out, Sa’ad,” Edmund said. “Quit actin’ the asshole. Here’s your rule: Keep your fuckin’ mouth shut. Keep your fuckin’ mouth shut. There, I said it once for me and once for him. That ought to take care of things.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Sa’ad replied. “The police can be very deceptive, Mr. King. They might tell you Edmund has confessed, or that they have a strong case against you. They might offer to assist you, or they may threaten you. It doesn’t matter how they come at it or what they suggest. ‘I want to talk to my lawyer’ is the mantra, and it’s always the correct answer. Ninety percent of the people behind bars got there because of their own big mouths.”

  “I understand,” Joel said. “I do.”

  “Joel’s a bright man,” Edmund offered. “He’s gonna do great.”

  “How much . . . how much will the, uh, the project be worth?” Joel asked.

  “Our partner Abel Crane has a skilled eye for jewelry—remember Abel Crane? I mentioned him to you when we were drivin’ out here.” Edmund returned his lighter to his pocket. “He estimates the profit to be between three and three fifty. More than I first told you.”

  “Three hundred thousand?” Joel asked.

  “Yep.”

  Joel studied Edmund for a moment, then looked up at Sa’ad. “And my payment? What would that be?”

  Sa’ad started to speak, but Edmund interrupted him. “We all take an equal share. Me, you, Blacula there, and Abel. Everybody gets a fourth. We take expenses off the top and divide the kitty equally.”

  “Sounds fair to me,” Joel said. “More than fair. When do we get started?”

  “By the way,” Sa’ad leaned forward and summoned a nakedly challenging cast into his eyes, “you realize you don’t go from the welfare line to the Jaguar dealership. You have to hide your money, camouflage things, create stories and explanations.”

  “I’d already thought of that. Give me a little credit, Sa’ad.” This was the first time Joel had dropped the “Mr.” when addressing his lawyer.

  “We’ll let you know,” Edmund said. “We’ll have to have the first phase completed before you leave for Roanoke. I’ll take care of the details. You just head back to Montana and keep lookin’ for work.”

  “Okay,” Joel said.

  Sa’ad stood and clasped his hands together in front of his chest. His necktie was mostly wine-colored and filled with minuscule white dots. “So we’re all on the same page, yes? We have an understanding?”

  “Sa’ad thinks he’s Donald Trump or somethin’,” Edmund said to Joel. “He likes to end his business dramatically.”

  “I’m ready,” Joel said. “Thank you both for helping me.” He and Edmund were also standing.

  “You’re welcome. Thank you. I’ll get things cranked up right away.” Edmund sounded enthusiastic.

  “Then all we have left to do is celebrate the deal.” Sa’ad gave Joel a big wink. “It’s time to light the Bunsen burners and get the party brew boiling.” He descended from his platform and put his arm around Edmund. “Dinner at Picasso’s?”

  Edmund frowned but didn’t pull away from Sa’ad’s grip. “First you get all fussy about your office, now we’re goin’ to a restaurant that doesn’t respect dark booths and red meat? No, we go to Rosewood Grille like always, order the surf-and-turf and grab the big banquette in the corner.”

  Sa’ad laughed. “Fine with me, Edmund.” He turned his attention to Joel. “Rosewood Grille suit you?”

  “I’ve never been to any of the restaurants here.” Joel hesitated, lowered his gaze. “You both know, I suppose, that I can’t—”

  “This one’s billed to the business, Joel,” Edmund said. “You don’t need to worry about payin’ for nothing.”

  “You don’t mind? You’re sure?”

  “Hell yes, I’m sure.” Edmund laid his arm across Joel’s shoulder so the three men were connected to each other, linked like a chain of paper dolls. “Then we’ll gamble on the Strip, visit the Crazy Horse at three in the mornin’, eat the two-dollar breakfast at Barbary Coast and go to bed when the sun rises.”

  “I’ll have to skip the gambling, and I’m assuming the Crazy Horse isn’t a place I need to be either,” Joel said. “But I’d be grateful for dinner.”

  “Nothin’ wrong with a little blackjack, Joel,” Edmund said. “No harm in that.”

  “Thanks just the same, but I’ll let you two go on without me when dinner’s over.”

  “I’ll drive,” Sa’ad said. “That way I’ll be in charge of the music.”

  “The music?” Joel asked.

  “Yeah. I can’t imagine how you lasted more than a day on the road with Edmund.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you,” Joel said.

  “Did you notice anything strange about what you listened to? Discover any themes?”

  “He had pretty fair taste as far as I can remember,” Joel answered.

  “Edmund only listens to music if the singer is alive,” Sa’ad explained, his arm continuing to hang off Joel’s shoulder.

  “Come on.” Joel laughed. “Are you guys kidding me?”

  “He’s tellin’ the truth,” Edmund said.

  “Why?” Joel asked.

  “I think it’s eerie and creepy to listen to dead people’s voices.” Edmund let loose with a shudder that seemed visceral and genuine. “It’s like from beyond the grave or somethin’. Weird, haunted, freaky—call it what you will, but it flat-out gets to me.”

  “So you don’t listen to, say, Elvis Presley?” Joel asked.

  “Absolutely not. Gives me the willies.”

  “Or Nat King Cole or Janis Joplin?”

  “They’re dead, aren’t they?” Edmund replied.

  Sa’ad was enjoying the exchange. “I’ll bring my CDs, Joel. See the problem?”

  “Mozart? Brahms?” Joel kept after Edmund. “I’m not a big music buff, but this seems a little strange.”

  “Mozart would be okay—most classical stuff, it’s just music, no voices or singin’. It’s hearin’ from dead people that makes my skin crawl.”

  Joel was smiling. “Okay, how about groups or duos with a dead member?”

  “Not on my playlist. It’s a very basic rule.”

  Joel stuck his hands into his pockets. “My goodness—that takes a big bite out of your choices.”

  Sa’ad leaned around Edmund and spoke to Joel. “It’s sort of like being afraid of the dark, isn’t it? Or the tribes who think photographers can steal their souls.” Sa’ad mussed Edmund’s hair. “You should have seen him when George Jones had that wreck several years ago and was in the hospital. My man Edmund was cramming in all he could before George checked out, just gorging himself day and night, listening to hour after hour of that horrible hillbilly yammering. Then he heard one of the Eagles had cancer and loaded up on Hotel California for a month.”

  “Hey, everybody has their own peculiarities, Sa’ad.” Edmund tried to sound indifferent, but Sa’ad had unsettled him and it told in his voice. He let Sa’ad out of his grasp. “You want to take your car, it’s okay with me.” He brushed his shirt, flicked his chest three times even though there was nothing visible on the fabric, no lint or dirt. “Everybody’s got somethin’ that worries ’em, depends on the person,” he said, sounding embarrassed.

  “How about you, Joel? What gives a minister the heebie-jeebies?” Sa’ad asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I can’t abide dogs dressed in human clothes—poodles in vests and Great Danes wearing tam-o’-shanters. And I hate cigarette holders, except of course if you’re Burgess Meredith or Marlene Dietrich.” Joel grinned impishly. “Hope you won’t think less of me.”

  When Sa’ad had finished taunting Edmund and the men were passing t
hrough the exposed teeth and fierce faces of the mounted animals, Joel noticed a new addition to the office. Sa’ad had placed a rack of bubble-gum machines—six of them, on a chrome frame—next to the door. The machines had red metal tops and glass fronts, appeared to be the kind that popped up at grocery store exits near the carts and real estate magazines. One offered Chiclets for a quarter, and the colorful gum squares were packed in a clear globe from top to bottom, creating a patchwork ball of yellow, crimson, white, green and black. The rest of the machines dispensed toys and novelty items: dice, key rings, puzzles, miniature playing cards, and rubber monsters that fit on the eraser ends of pencils.

  “Those weren’t here last time, were they?” Joel asked, pointing at the machines.

  “No. A recent acquisition. A nice touch, don’t you think?”

  “I didn’t realize you could hunt them,” Joel said, keeping a poker face. “Must not be much sport—they seem top-heavy and couldn’t possibly move too fast on those stubby metal legs.” Edmund laughed out loud and joined in, happy to be on the offensive. “What, Sa’ad, you hide a pistol under the loaf bread and slay ’em at the A&P?”

  Sa’ad smiled, didn’t seem ruffled. “They were a gift from a client, a gentleman who runs an amusement company. I actually asked for them. Fortunately, I didn’t have to track them or shoot them.”

  “Seems out of context,” Joel said. “I mean, with all the animals and guns and everything.”

  “It’s just Sa’ad’s way of tryin’ to steal your last little bit of loose change before you escape from his lair,” Edmund remarked. “Makes perfect sense to me.”

  Sa’ad chuckled. “Close, Edmund, close. The machines are my metaphor for the justice system. That’s why I wanted them, as a vivid reminder to people as they leave my office. You see, gentlemen, exactly like the world of jurisprudence: if you have enough money to put in, sooner or later you’ll receive what you’re after.” He gave them both a lively look. “You simply need the cash to turn the handle as many times as might be necessary.”

  “I see,” Joel said. “How reassuring.”