by Martin Clark
“Do you think we are morons?” Sa’ad asked.
“No. Not morons,” Joel said, and the answer made Sa’ad that much madder.
“We have an item missing,” Edmund offered.
“From the bag?” Joel asked.
“Correct.”
“That you gave to me and I just handed back?” Joel said.
“Right,” Edmund said. “It’s not there. It wasn’t returned.”
“You’re wearing my ass out,” Sa’ad complained. “You know damn well it’s not there.”
Joel stepped into Sa’ad. “You’re suggesting I stole part of the jewelry?”
“Cool it, guys.” Edmund gripped Joel’s arm. “Come on now. We’re all friends here. Nobody’s accusing you of anything.”
“He is,” Joel said, frowning at Sa’ad.
“Damn right I am,” Sa’ad answered.
“I returned everything I got. I darn sure didn’t steal anything. Why would I do that?”
“Duh?” Sa’ad said. “Money, maybe?”
Joel relaxed and let out a breath, then another. “Sa’ad, I promise I gave back the whole works, all of it, every bit.” Joel held up his hand and spread his fingers, as if taking an oath. “My word on that.”
“So where is it, then?” Sa’ad wanted to know. “Tell me.”
“What’s missing?” Joel asked.
“I did an inventory when Abel gave me the stuff, wrote down the contents of the bag. It would seem we’re missing a diamond and emerald ring. Six total stones, platinum setting, small gouge on one side.” Sa’ad was now sounding more lawyerly than angry. “Not a great piece, maybe ten, fifteen grand tops, according to Abel. Very much the kind of low-interest item somebody might rogue, figuring no one else would notice.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t have it,” Joel said. “I remember seeing it, though. I have to admit that much—I was going to ask if you were sure you didn’t lose it or fail to deliver it to me. But I did get it. I remember the big nick.”
“So where is it?” Sa’ad asked, less aggressively this time.
“I don’t know. Did you check the car? Maybe it fell out.”
“Did I check the car?” Sa’ad mocked him. “It’s not in the fucking car. And it’s due back at its rightful home day after tomorrow, before the owners return from their vacation and discover it’s gone.”
“Think about where it could be,” Edmund encouraged him. “Think where you saw it last.”
“I don’t know . . . Wow.” Joel rubbed the side of his face; he felt stubble resist when he went against the grain.
“You can’t hustle a hustler, Joel,” Sa’ad said. “Just give it up, and we’ll consider it bad judgment and move on, pretend this never occurred.”
“I simply don’t have it. I don’t. I promise.”
“Fine,” Sa’ad said petulantly. “Have it your way.” He paused. “No matter how you break it down, this is your fuckup—you’re either dishonest or remarkably incompetent. So this comes out of your cut.”
Joel shook his head, sighed. “I never should’ve gotten into this. Never. What was I thinking?” He whirled and looked Sa’ad in the eye. “And this is what I get, huh? Treachery and backstabbing and everybody questioning everybody, no one sure whom to believe.”
“Spare me the sermon and self-pity. You made your choices, and it’s a little late to start bitching about them now.”
“Joel, I believe you, okay?” Edmund said. “And you can believe me— we’re not out to screw you. But you can see our problem. I hope this is no more than a bump in the road. We’ll get it solved, though. Yes we will.”
“Tell that to your buddy Sa’ad,” Joel said.
“It is solved, Joel,” Sa’ad said. “For starters, your share is going to be fifteen thousand light—”
Joel interrupted him. “Hey, whoa. Wait. Wait a minute. Remember how you estimated we’d get three hundred and the appraisal came up short? Remember?”
“I’ve already thought of that,” Sa’ad answered.
“So that means—maybe—the missing piece didn’t make it to the appraiser. See what I mean? That’s why we were disappointed in the amount, got only two seventy-five. Or maybe she took it, the lady at the store or . . . oh, my . . . the guy in Roanoke at the pawnshop. Doc was his name . . . Certainly he wouldn’t have been so brazen. But you know, he had the stuff and shuffled it around and did a lot with his hands—and he did try to cheat me, lied about the value. I’ll bet that son of a gun took it.”
“Or maybe gremlins snatched it while you slept,” Sa’ad said. “I don’t give a shit how you lost it. Your share’s going to be light, and if this thing is reported to the cops, they’ll start nosing around and you can be sure they’ll spend some time with Abel. If he’s compromised, it’ll cost me thousands. And if things get nasty, I’ll make certain you take the fall. That’s a promise.”
“Maybe the owners won’t notice it’s gone,” Joel said lamely. “Or maybe they won’t report it to the police.”
“Right,” Sa’ad snorted. “I’ll count on that.”
“And it’s not like you’ve lost anything, Sa’ad,” Joel added. “It’s someone else’s property, not yours. Why punish me?”
“I’m out my share of the piece you lost, and so are Edmund and Abel. Your share goes for aggravation costs.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” Joel said. “Surely you don’t think I’d do something this obvious, this stupid, to try to take advantage of you and Edmund?” He kept his eyes away from Sa’ad, watched two kids emerge from a tube slide that emptied at the dragon’s haunch.
“Check the appraisal and see if the ring is mentioned,” Edmund said. “You can tell by the descriptions. We didn’t bother to inspect that right off, when you first gave us the papers. We just looked at the amount, the bottom line, and it seemed low but in the ballpark. Sa’ad had me match up the bag with his list as we were leavin’ town. There were thirteen pieces in the bag, fifteen on his inventory. We gave you fifteen, you hocked the cheap earrings, we got back thirteen. So we’re one shy. I told him you were totally innocent. I stuck up for you.”
Joel pulled the appraisal from his pocket and read the contents as Edmund and Sa’ad crowded in, looking along with him. “Only thirteen listed,” he said glumly. “The ring never made it.”
“Doesn’t tell us a thing, Joel,” Sa’ad said. “I’m supposed to believe you weren’t aware how many items were in the bag? Never counted? Never inspected the pieces?”
“I knew there were several, Sa’ad. I didn’t memorize them or write them down like you. I’m a rookie—it never occurred to me. And I was nervous as a cat when I went to the store for the appraisal. You try that sometime, try to seem casual and surprised while you’re pulling off a scam and on probation with a jail sentence hanging over your head. I wasn’t counting, but I was always careful to watch when the bag was out of my control. It’s not like there were two things, and I lost one of them. There were a bunch, and I was darn attentive if they weren’t under my mattress.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Sa’ad chided him. “You hid the shit under your mattress?”
“Where else would I put it?” Now Joel was growing angry.
“I’m not even going to answer that,” Sa’ad scoffed.
“I don’t know what we can do here,” Edmund said. “Helluva dilemma we got.”
“You don’t think there’s any chance of criminal problems, do you?” Joel asked him. “Or jail?”
Edmund spoke in a pensive voice. “I’m guessin’ the owners will report it to their insurance company, the company will demand a police report, the police will talk to everyone who has access—including Abel—and get nowhere—”
“You better hope they get nowhere,” Sa’ad butted in.
“And dependin’ on the people who own the stuff, the police will assume it was lost or misplaced or underneath a sofa cushion. If this was a theft, the cops would expect more to be taken, especially when there’s so much more available.
Plus they won’t find squat on Abel or any of his guys, and Abel’s a champ. He’ll offer interviews with his staff and let the cops search his home and the whole nine yards. But it does give us a wrinkle we don’t need.”
“I promise I don’t have it,” Joel said. “I’m not trying to slip one past you. Either I just lost it, or Doc or the lady appraiser has it. Should I go back and ask? Or should you guys?”
“How smart is that, Joel?” Sa’ad snapped. “Huh? All we need is for you to be running around claiming a hot ring the police are looking for in Las Vegas. As poor as our fortunes have been so far, the damn trails would cross and we—pardon me, you—would be in even deeper.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Joel muttered.
“I’ll be watching you like a hawk,” Sa’ad warned him.
“You do that. See if I care.” Joel unwound his features, rubbed his palm against his temple and turned to Edmund, completely ignoring Sa’ad. “You think we should still go through with this?”
“Probably,” Edmund answered. “We’ll let things slide and see what happens in Vegas. There’s still no real link. I mean, a lady loses a ring in Vegas, you get robbed of thirteen different pieces of jewelry miles away. No connection, unless there’s the million-to-one chance some insurance company happens to compare your loss claim to the owner’s insured list and sees they’re similar. Red flag goes up, and we have a problem, but in a sense, we’ve had that problem all along. It’s maybe slightly more possible if the actual owners have just filed a claim and their policy’s been in play recently. But Abel can help us with that, too. When the ring’s reported missin’ in Vegas, I’m sure the insurance folks will want a word with the cleanin’ service, and Abel can tell us who has the coverage. If it’s not the same company who’s insuring you, we’ve got clear sailin’. No chance of overlap.”
“Jeez,” Joel said. “Could this get any more fouled up?”
“It’s the business we’re in, Joel,” Edmund replied. “It’s what we do.”
“You understand you’re on the hook for this? Whatever it takes,” Sa’ad warned for what seemed like the hundredth time.
“No? Really?” Joel said. “I thought we’d patched things up, and we’d all share responsibility equally.”
When Joel arrived home after work, he combed the Taurus for the missing ring, used Baker’s Spider-Man flashlight and a straightened coat hanger and checked under the seats and mats and in every crack and recess. He emptied the glove compartment and the trunk, found a dime, three pennies and an ink pen, but no jewelry. He searched the Volvo and his clothes. He looked beneath his bed and raised the mattress off the box springs, propped it with two fire logs. The ring was gone, and the more he considered it, the more convinced he became that Doc was the culprit. He’d been hoodooed by an old pro, hoodwinked when he thought he was the one ruling the scam.
On the first Monday in October, Probation Officer Jack Howard called Joel at his sister’s and told him he needed to report immediately. That was how he announced himself on the phone: “This is Probation Officer Jack Howard, and I need to talk to Joel King.”
“I recognized your voice,” Joel told him. “This is Joel. Good morning.”
“You need to come by my office ASAP,” he said, his voice all business.
“You mean now? Today?”
“ ‘ASAP’ is what they call an acronym. It means as soon as possible. Like right this instant.”
Joel was preparing Jell-O, stirring bright cherry powder into a bowl of warm water with a wooden spoon. He assumed Howard was calling because he wanted to revisit the subject of the probation release, had decided on the shape, size and cost of his corruption. Joel stifled his anger and answered in a subservient, humble tone. “I’ll stop what I’m doing and drive right down, if that’s convenient for you, sir.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s convenient for me. I’ll be waiting.”
“Is it about—”
Howard interrupted before Joel could finish. “I’ll see you soon,” he said, then hung up the phone.
Joel had intended to get back to him, had planned to stop by and genuflect and make peace and negotiate the terms of his buyout, but he’d recognized he needed to let their disagreement cool or he would just make the situation worse, would utter something under his breath or lose his temper again and drive the price of his discharge even higher. It was difficult to kneel and kiss Howard’s ring and come off as genuine when he despised the man and everything about him, and despite several prayerful efforts to shed his dislike, he’d been unable to marshal enough will to talk to Howard without risking another ugly skirmish and bruised throat.
He’d say very little, Joel decided during the drive to town, just make his offer and eat crow and meekly say he couldn’t afford the price that was originally quoted. He’d look at the floor or the wall when they spoke and divert his face from Howard’s line of sight, because even a dullard like Howard could spot the loathing in his expression. He stopped at an Ole’s convenience store and pumped three dollars’ worth of gas into the Taurus, and when he was standing at the register counting nickels and quarters out of his palm, he glanced at the cashier and saw himself in a mirror behind her, noticed that his hair and whiskers were getting grayer, his face craggy.
Two other people were in the waiting area when Joel arrived, a chunky man with a red beard and a completely average fellow in jeans and a sport coat. Mrs. Heller greeted him by name, got up from her seat and accompanied him to Howard’s door. She knocked and then allowed him in without waiting for an answer or anyone to appear.
Howard was where he always was, seated behind his desk, but his feet weren’t hoisted and he was sitting like a professional, his hands stacked on top of a file, the arrogant sway in his neck and shoulders absent. A woman was seated on Joel’s side of the desk. She had a round face that wasn’t the least bit fat or heavy, thick brown hair styled so it didn’t appear to require much attention, painted nails and a trace of lipstick that wasn’t very noticeable, seemed more brownish than red. She was smartly dressed, and a briefcase with a skinned, dented corner was beside her on the floor. She stood when Joel came through the door, and—remarkably—Howard also rose, left his seat and gestured toward the empty chair next to the woman. She looked to be thirty-five or so, was tall for a woman and had a good deal of presence in the small, sparse office.
“Good morning, Mr. King. Thank you for coming so soon.” Howard’s tone was new to Joel, the sarcasm and condescension gone, replaced by a businesslike monotone, the voice reminiscent of a salesclerk or an elderly lady making change at the end of a cafeteria line.
“Hello,” Joel said. Whatever this was, it couldn’t be good. But certainly she hadn’t been brought here, some cop or lawyer, to cause him trouble about the probation disagreement or the bribe he’d offered his supervising officer—that would be too stupid and impulsive even for Howard.
“This is Lynette Allen, Mr. King.” Howard rolled his hand in her direction, shifted his weight. A flash of malice hopped through his mouth and constricted one of his eyes, and he was careful to make sure Joel saw the old Howard, gave him a cancerous second or two that he kept hidden from Lynette Allen.
“Pleased to meet you,” she offered. They shook hands, and she sat down, then Joel, then Howard.
No idea. He had no idea, and the anticipation and dread were beginning to pummel his bowels and cause his head to fill with static and white noise.
“She’s with the county attorney’s office,” Howard said. “A prosecutor.”
The jewels. Edmund and Sa’ad. Either they’d betrayed him as part of the scam or something had gone awry or the police in Las Vegas were on his heels, eager to discuss the missing ring. Had to be it. He briefly shut his eyes and sucked down a breath, went limp against the chair. “Okay,” he said. Or maybe it had to do with Christy, seeing her at the mall, violating his probation; perhaps word of that mistake had reached the Virginia authorities.
“Thank you for coming, Mr.
King,” she said. “On such short notice.”
“Sure. I came as soon as Mr. Howard called.” Leaving the state without permission—that could be it if Howard had found out about Vegas and was proving a point, delivering a shot of payback for the threats about early release. Or maybe he had simply concocted a dirty drug screen or made up a violation from whole cloth. Right now, he’d gladly take either of those and be delighted. Insurance fraud had to be bad, serious, a federal offense.
“I’m here to speak to you about a case, Mr. King,” Lynette said.
And I’ve become such a con and crook and poor probationer, Joel thought, that I’m left with far too many possibilities to know which one you’re here to discuss. Could be one of many. “What case?” he asked.
“Ah, a case you’re involved in and can assist us with.”
“I’m sure Mr. King wants to be helpful,” Howard remarked.
“I do. If I can,” Joel said warily. He didn’t look at the woman beside him.
“As Mr. Howard mentioned, I work with the county attorney’s office here in Missoula.” Lynette craned her neck, attempting to engage Joel.
He stared at his shoes, relocated his feet. One of the laces was untied, and the string ends were frayed and starting to unravel. “Right,” he said and didn’t dare look at her.
“I prosecute primarily domestic crimes,” she told him.
“Oh, okay,” Joel said, distracted, not really listening, still afraid of what was in the offing.
“I understand you might have witnessed a crime. A Lisa Dillen was attacked by her husband, a man by the name of Karl Dillen. They’re from South Carolina and took a float trip with you not too long ago.”
Joel was counting the eyelets in his shoe. Two, three, four . . . and he stopped, caught up with Lynette Allen’s words as they passed through his ears and into his muddled brain. He popped up and faced her, full of relief and surprise. “A witness?”
