Plain Heathen Mischief

by Martin Clark

  “I guess we’ll see,” she replied. “It’s not like they’ll give you life or something. You’re smart to come forward, and everyone will appreciate your trying to help. But you’re not going to walk away with a new suit, reward money and a certificate of commendation from the president. You can’t break the law and act as you please and then have it all wiped clean because you’re finally telling the truth and promising not to sin again. The legal world’s a little different than the religious world in that regard. We still punish you even if you ask to be forgiven.”

  “You can assure them I’ll be honest and cooperative.” Joel hesitated. “But I’ll only speak with you. There’s no reason from them to call or come by or park in the driveway or harass me at work.”

  “Your prerogative,” Lynette said.

  “Thank you, Ms. Allen,” Sophie said. “Please take care of Joel. He’s not a bad man.”

  Lynette picked up a yellow pencil and relaxed in her chair. She targeted Joel with the eraser end, held the lead tip between her thumb and index finger. “Maybe not. But I can’t see where he’s been a real good one, either.”

  “But you’ll look after him?” Sophie pleaded.

  “I’ll honor my job, as I warned you going in. I’ll try my best to see he gets what he deserves, no more and no less. And, yes, I’ll probably do a little extra for him, though it will be because of Dixon and you, not because of anything particularly noble I’ve discovered about the Reverend King.”

  Despite Joel’s requests to the contrary, Hobbes and his posse were at the Station when he arrived for his shift, and they were infuriated because he refused to speak with them and told them point-blank to quit badgering him. For whatever reason, they phoned early the next morning and made a trip to the house to pound on the door and deliver more threats, but they still didn’t arrest him. Not long after they roared off, Sophie arrived home unexpectedly, schlepping through the kitchen with a sick Baker and a pharmacy bag full of pills and cough syrup. She put him in bed, poured herself a glass of orange juice and decided not to return to work, pointing out that it would be a bunch of driving for nothing. She called her boss and let him know, then tossed the cordless phone on the sofa.

  “He’s got a bad fever,” she said. “Almost a hundred and one.”

  “Anything I can do?” Joel volunteered.

  “Nope,” she said. “A lot of kids at school have the same crud—it’s a four- or five-day bug, I’m told.”

  “Poor guy,” Joel said.

  “I’ve got a date tomorrow evening, but if he’s still running a temperature, I’ll cancel.”

  “You want me to stay with him? I can see if Sarah will give me the night off.”

  “No. I already have a baby-sitter, but I don’t want to leave him if he feels bad. In fact, I probably should call now and let Raleigh know.”

  “How’s that progressing?” Joel asked. “Must be okay if you’re still seeing him.”

  “Yeah, well, so far, so good. He seems like a nice man and has passed most of the important tests so far. He opens the car door for me; he listens more than he talks; he has custody of his kid; he doesn’t refer to his ex as a dumbass or a slut; and when I checked his bathroom cabinet, there were no tampons or women’s perfumes or antidepressants or Acyclovir prescriptions.”

  “I’m not familiar with the last item.”

  “Herpes medication,” Sophie informed him. “Plus his tub was clean, no grime or hair in the drain, and his towels weren’t stinky.”

  “Pretty high standards,” he kidded her.

  “Actually they are.”

  “So you looked in his cabinets? Without his knowing?”

  “Damn right I did. In my opinion, the finest resume available. And I don’t recall his telling me not to.” She finished her juice and set the glass on the floor.

  “Good luck. Hope he pans out for you.”

  “I’m having fun and taking it one day at a time. It’s difficult to trust someone, but there’s a lot to be lost if I don’t try. Seeing what’s happened to you has made me realize that life is short and tricky. I might as well enjoy it.”

  “I’m glad I could be helpful.”

  “Yeah, the supreme example of how I don’t want to wind up.” She winked. “And you? You’re not in chains, so I assume there’s nothing to report?”

  “Hobbes and his crew stopped by work yesterday and then came out here this afternoon, but I ignored them and sent them packing. According to the information Hobbes bellowed from behind the door, Lynette has arranged a meeting for tomorrow. I’ll check with her, but that would make sense.”

  “Did he say what they wanted? Or what they had in mind for you?”

  “No,” Joel said.

  “Did he sound angry?” she asked.

  “It wasn’t a bridge-bid tone, so I’d have to say he’s rankled, yes.”

  “Damn, Joel. I’m worried sick about you. I wish I’d . . . I’d . . . I don’t know. I wish I hadn’t leaned on you so hard to come clean. Now I’m afraid you’re going to get screwed.”

  “I’ve prayed and confessed my sins and petitioned for forgiveness. Your advice was splendid. I’m okay, better than I’ve been.”

  “Splendid?” she mocked him.

  “Splendid,” he smiled.

  “I hate to keep going back and forth and changing my mind and switching advice, but I’m scared to death for you. One minute something seems right, the next minute it seems stupid.”

  “At a minimum, I won’t fall into any more trouble or make things worse.”

  Sophie started to answer him and was interrupted by the phone. She stretched to the last cushion and grabbed the receiver by the antenna, held it to her ear. She said hello and said yes twice and then blocked the lower part of the phone with her hand. “It’s Lisa Dillen,” she whispered. “She sounds upset.”

  Joel took the phone, and Lisa rushed through what her attorney had already detailed, describing her child’s handicap and the hardships a conviction would bring to their household, imploring Joel to help her. Karl had promised to undergo counseling, she told him, and it was her life and her decision and why was everyone so determined to butt in? She would be the one punished if Karl got convicted, she and her children. She was the so-called victim, and she was satisfied, so why—why—couldn’t this end?

  “Ma’am, I’ve got to be honest with you,” Joel answered. “I’m going to iron my good shirt, drive into town, take the oath and tell the truth. And the truth is the man beat you.”

  “But he won’t ever again. And it’s no one else’s business.”

  “Lynette Allen’s a fair woman—maybe if Karl were to plead guilty, she’d try to find a compromise everyone could accept.”

  There was a voice in the background, spotty and uneven, difficult to understand. Joel strained to hear, and then Karl appeared on the line, hot and seething right off the bat. “Listen, you piece of shit,” he stormed, “I’ll ruin your life if you don’t get with the program. We’ve found out the ugly particulars about you and how you enjoy screwing teenage girls, what a freakin’ joke you are. My lawyer told you what we’re prepared to say, and we’re not kidding you. You want a monster lawsuit, you keep right on spouting your bullshit version, and I’ll own you and your buddy’s crummy business.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you, Karl. You’re planning a suit? What are you going to say?”

  “Either you say Lisa started it, or I’ll nail you with splittin’ her head. Just like Mr. Hudgins promised you.” He was still raging.

  “Oh. Well, you did hit her, Karl. Punched her like a yellow coward,” Joel baited him. “Struck a girl.”

  “And when I get a chance, I’ll give you twice what she got, fisherman. You hear me?”

  “I do.” Joel was exuberant. “And I’m guessing a few others do too, you fool.” He didn’t listen any longer, simply held the phone at arm’s length and motioned for his sister to take it while Karl’s scratchy, long-distance rants bled from the earpiece and died
unheard, rose and dissolved into nothing. “Here,” he said. “I’m not usually a fan of cursing, but this sorry scum needs a good talkin’ to. Lay it to him. Try to remember we’re bugged and the FBI’s listening. He’s already admitted everything, so it’s all sport from here on out. Catharsis.”

  Sophie snatched the phone and lit into Karl, called him a “baby-dicked shithead” for starters, and Joel huddled beside her and laughed and giggled like a gleeful teenager who’d discovered the combination to the family liquor cabinet, enjoyed her going toe-to-toe with Karl, found it perfect that the wife-beater was getting flogged by a smart, fearless woman who had a construction worker’s knack for profanity and the courage of a Trojan foot soldier.

  nineteen

  The meeting with Hobbes, Starke, and Woods took place at Lynette’s office, late in the evening, at eight o’clock. Sarah became understanding when Joel explained he was an important witness in a court proceeding— spousal abuse, he informed her, true enough but misleading—and needed an hour of personal time to confer with the authorities. She told him not to hurry, and Frankie promised he’d pull double duty until Joel returned to the Station. Lynette was waiting in the lobby of the Missoula County Courthouse, let him through the oversize security doors and locked the entrance behind them. It appeared everyone had departed for the day— offices were dark, passageways were empty and a headphoned janitor was buffing the floor with an electric machine, the brushes whirling, the cord stretching thirty feet to a receptacle at the opposite end of the hall. Lynette didn’t speak as she guided Joel through the somber, musty corridors, staying a stride ahead of him—a detached distance that made it apparent she had no desire for cordiality or friendly chitchat.

  The five of them convened in a windowless conference room with an oblong table, seedy chairs, bluish carpet and ineffective fluorescent lighting. Joel was relieved to discover his probation officer hadn’t been invited; there was no sign of Howard, and Joel was grateful the slithering probation newt wouldn’t be involved in negotiating his fate. Everyone except Lynette Allen had a file or folder, and everyone was immaculately dressed, especially Anna Starke, who was wearing a fashionable suit and heels that seemed too expensive and suggestive for government work in Washington and were certainly remarkable for Missoula. They all stood as Joel and Lynette entered the room and sat after offering strained, perfunctory greetings. Hobbes uttered a bare “good evening,” had difficulty with even that meager politeness.

  Hobbes had assumed the head of the table, and he took the lead in speaking to Joel. Hobbes’s overcoat was obsessively folded and draped over the seat next to him, his file shut but within convenient reach. “So, Mr. King,” he said, “you finally decided to honor us with your presence.”

  “I’ve always been willing to help.”

  Hobbes sped through the standard warnings and rights, and Joel had now heard them so many times that he actually recited the last phrase along with Hobbes—“one will be appointed for you,” he mouthed simultaneously with the agent. “I know the drill,” Joel remarked.

  “Ms. Allen has detailed your story to us,” Hobbes said.

  “Okay.”

  “As I understand it, you’re telling us you obtained the Jewish Museum jewelry from one Sa’ad X. Sa’ad and one Edmund Brooks to use as bait in an insurance scam, then returned the items to them.”

  “That’s it in a nutshell,” Joel replied.

  “I see. And you have no proof except the two letters you’ve already provided to Ms. Allen?”

  “I mentioned to her I was at the Mirage playing blackjack with them. I’d hoped the security recordings would confirm we were there.”

  Hobbes surveyed the table before responding. “We have the cassettes. They do show you, Sa’ad and Brooks. Along with your wholesome dates for the night.”

  “Hey—I’d never seen that girl before, didn’t invite her, didn’t lay a hand on her and went home alone. Are we clear on that?”

  “Whatever,” Hobbes answered.

  “So you know I’m being honest,” Joel said. “The tapes bear me out.”

  “The tapes show what they show,” Hobbes said. “You and your buddies gambling and cavorting with trashy women. The tape, the letters and a buck will buy us a junior bacon cheeseburger at Wendy’s, tax not included.”

  “I’m sorry I don’t have more evidence. But I’m telling the truth.”

  “We believe you are,” Anna Starke said, her voice throaty and rich. “The agency has confirmed that Mr. Abel Crane does in fact own a Las Vegas cleaning business. His given name, of course, isn’t Abel Crane. He performs this service for the thirty-thousand-square-foot mansion of one of our old friends, Mr. Peter Van Heiss. Mr. Van Heiss loves fine art and has been on the fringe of many suspect exchanges and disappearances.”

  “Well, there you go,” Joel said, relieved.

  She leaned closer, and her watchband grazed the table. “But I’m afraid we’re nowhere near the payoff, Mr. King.” She adjusted the watch, pushing it underneath her cuff.

  “Exactly. My opinion exactly,” said Woods.

  “We’d get a complete shredding if we went to trial with what we have now,” Hobbes said. He stared at Joel, allowed himself a smile that evolved into a chuckling taunt. “You guys—what colossal screwups. Steal—excuse me, borrow—jewelry that turns out to be hot as a two-dollar pistol. What’re the odds, huh? You must be feeling pretty stupid. The gang that couldn’t shoot straight.”

  “To be honest, Mr. Hobbes, I’ve simply tried to forget it and remedy matters to the best of my ability.” Joel glowered at him. “And I’m sick and tired of your ridicule. I’m ready to take my punishment, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit here while you demean my efforts to set things straight.” It was the first time Joel could recall using profanity since he was a seminary student.

  “I don’t need a lesson on manners and respect from a petty swindler and a child molester.” Hobbes’s voice and expression were implacable. “You can like it or not like it, and it’s all the same to me.”

  Lynette was seated next to Joel. “I’m not sure this is productive, gentlemen,” she said. “It’s fair to say everyone is aware of your efforts, Mr. King. It’s also fair to say they’re somewhat self-serving and calculated. But there’s no need to dwell on the topic any longer, is there? And there’s no need to be anything but professional and civil. At this juncture, the question is how to best accomplish our respective goals. Mr. King, you want the least possible punishment, and the government hopes to recover the painting and arrest those responsible for its theft.”

  “I hope everyone present realizes I’m in charge of this investigation,” Hobbes said.

  “No one has intimated otherwise,” Lynette answered, her tone matching his.

  “Don’t you think we’ve got enough for a warrant?” Woods suggested. “We’ve got Mr. King’s statement, we know he had the ring, his story checks, he has these letters—how much more do you folks need? I’d apply for a warrant, go to Vegas and toss this guy Van Heiss’s domicile.”

  “And if we miss?” Hobbes said. “If the painting’s gone or if we can’t find it, we’re history. The ring might be at his house, but it doesn’t follow that the Chagall will be. We reveal our hand too early and we’re hosed. Van Heiss could abscond overseas or unload the painting. We know he has it; now we need to know exactly where he has it.”

  “Bust him on the ring,” Woods said.

  “We don’t want the ring,” Anna Starke explained. “Besides, he probably has bogus papers and will swear he obtained it legitimately. It would be impossible to do that with the Chagall.”

  “Why would anyone want a painting he couldn’t display?” Joel asked, looking at Anna Starke for an answer.

  “To own it, to possess it, to have something spectacular and rare that no one else can duplicate. To be in the same room with genius. It’s hardly about displaying it, Mr. King. These people are far beyond that. There’s a whole subculture that lives and breathes fine
art. Why do legitimate collectors pay millions for pieces that will never see the light of day? It’s not like you’re going to hang the Rubens above the poker table at the hunting cabin or put it in your den, even if you acquired it honestly.”

  “Seems strange to me,” Joel replied.

  “Try this: If you, clergyman that you are, could have Martin Luther or John Calvin or Christ himself secretly live in your basement, wouldn’t you do it? Damn straight you would.” Anna Starke’s tone was didactic, bordered on condescension. “For goodness sakes, people maim each other over Beanie Babies and Depression glass and Secretariat decanters and playoff tickets, and you’re asking me why someone would steal a permanent glimpse into sheer, unique loveliness?”

  “Maybe,” Hobbes sneered, “the illustration would be more instructive for Mr. King if you gave him a chance to meet, say, Larry Flynt or the last living Sadducee.”

  “What—you take a basic religion class at night school while you were completing your GED?” Joel smirked at Hobbes.

  “Yeah,” Hobbes answered. “Probably the same course they teach at the pokey. Adult education, it’s called. You’ll have the opportunity for a refresher real soon.”

  “How about the ring? Strange your guy’d be so careless there,” Woods interrupted, trying to maintain the peace.

  “The perils of a bimbo wife,” Hobbes suggested. He continued to sear Joel but halted their tit-for-tat.

  “And let’s not forget,” Starke said, “that the jewelry was stolen from their safe. It’s not as if she strolled into the FBI office with the red sister around her neck on a chain. Plus, it’s the kind of item he could give her and she could wear in certain circles without any suspicion. Out of context, the ring is fairly nondescript. It’s not too incriminating unless you have the whole puzzle arranged, although I would imagine our friend Peter told his ditzy wife to keep it under lock and key until the furor died down.”