Chump Change (17 page)

The slamming door had broken two of the dog’s teeth off in my arm. Took the ER people the better part of forty minutes to dig em out and then sew me back together. I looked down at the bloody teeth on the surgical tray and grinned. I knew it was petty, and that the animal rights crowd would have roasted me for it, but I somehow felt better knowing that the mutt was suffering his share of the discomfort.

Everything from my elbow down was wrapped in one of those bright blue horse bandages that seemed to have replaced adhesive tape a few years back. Although I recognized the fact that it was a technological step forward, it somehow made me feel like I ought to be running at Pimlico on Saturday.

Pulling a cell phone from your right-hand pants pocket while using only your left hand is not only
tr
è
s
awkward, but rumored to be illegal in seven southern states. By the time I’d pulled it off, even the hardened ER staff were hiding their amusement.

I asked the ER receptionist for the name of the local cab company and was in the process of dialing the number when I had a sudden spasm of lucidity and instead walked down the hall to the elevator, rode it two floors down to Critical Care, and stepped off.

She’d moved two chairs to the right, and found herself a friend, but otherwise Sarah Jane was exactly where I’d left her yesterday. The friend was about her age. Big portly guy, with a male-pattern bald spot threatening to envelop his ears, and a pair of gold-rimmed specs that seemed way too small for his face. They’d appropriated a couple of chairs from across the waiting room, turned them backwards, and were using them as a makeshift desk.

She sensed my approach and looked up.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

“What happened to you?”

“Little accident,” I said.

I thought she was going to press for details, but instead, she bowed her head. “Olley had another episode,” she said.

I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t bother to try.

She stared at the floor for a moment and then realized she hadn’t handled the introductions. “Fred,” she said, “this is Mr. Waterman. He was one of the young men who helped get Olley to the hospital.” She clamped an affectionate hand on the man’s shoulder and looked at me. “This is Fred Simmons,” she said. “Fred is our attorney.” She ran her eyes over the room. Looked like she’d awakened to find herself in a spaceship. “We’re trying to figure out how we’re going to pay for all this.”

“Like trying to stuff ten pounds of sand in a five-pound bag,” Fred Simmons said.

“We been over it every which way,” Sarah Jane said disgustedly.

“Social Security will pay for some of it, won’t they?” I asked.

The muscles around her jaw tightened.

“We don’t get it,” she said. “Olley don’t want to be on the government dole.”

I sat down on the chair next to her, cradling my damaged arm against my chest. “I don’t mean any disrespect, Sarah Jane . . . but it might be a good time to take another look at that decision.”

“He’s my husband” was all she said, before looking away.

“Won’t help in the short run anyway,” Fred said. He waved a pudgy hand around the room. “You know these people . . . first two things they want to know are what’s wrong with you and who’s gonna pay the bill.”

“Fred says we’re gonna have to sell the ranch,” she said bitterly.

“Anybody other than Keeler interested?” I asked.

“Nobody who’s got the money,” the lawyer said. “Way things are . . . tight as money is . . . somebody’s gonna have to have the cash in hand. No responsible financial institution is going to loan that kind of money in this kind of market.”

“It’ll kill him,” Sarah Jane declared. “I sell the ranch to those Keeler people, it’ll kill Olley Hardvigsen sure as summer follows spring.”

Fred picked up an official-looking document from the chair in front of Sarah Jane.

“They own another eighty acres over by Pigeon Roost, but that ain’t going to begin to cover this dog and pony show . . . even if we could sell it, which we probably can’t do in a timely manner. What with the Feds involved, the average real estate transaction in this part of the country takes about eighteen months. By the time they research water rights and homestead filings . . .” He waved himself off with a disgusted hand. “You know the goddamn government,” he said.

“I might have an idea.” The words were out of my mouth so quickly, I nearly looked around to see who said it.

“We’re all ears,” the lawyer said.

I laid it out for them. Fred Simmons was shaking his jowls back and forth before I was halfway through.

“You been drinkin?” he asked, only half joking. “That’s crazy.”

Sarah Jane reached out and put a restraining hand on his knee, but she was glaring straight at me. “You are a first-class troublemaker, aren’t you?” she asked.

I thought about it. “I guess, in this case, that might be true,” I allowed.

She thought it over. “This is about Gordon, isn’t it?” she asked finally.

“Yes,” I said. “I think it is.”

“You think those Keeler folks had something to do with . . . what happened?”

“Yeah . . . I’m pretty much sure of it.”

She looked over at the lawyer. “Draw up the paperwork, Fred,” she told him. “I’ll sign it, first thing tomorrow.”

Rachel’s landline never goes to voice mail.

Tonight, she picked up on the second ring.

“Hey,” she said. “How goes the road trip?”

“Getting a little prickly,” I admitted.

“Doesn’t it always?” she asked.

“If I’m doing my job right.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“I’m about to really piss off a bunch of people.”

She caught my tone. “Dangerous people?”

“People who stand to lose everything,” I said.

“Those are, by definition, dangerous people.”

“I’m going to be here for a while.”

“What’s ‘a while’?”

“A week . . . maybe two.”

“I’ll miss you.”

“Yeah,” I mumbled, “. . . me too.”

“Everything okay?”

I thought it over. “First thing in the morning, things are gonna get un-okay in a big hurry.”

“Be careful. I need you back.”

I said I would, and then we spent another ten minutes kissy-facing through the rest of the conversation, until I heard Keith futzing with the motel room door trying to get in and I told her I had to go.

“Be careful,” she said again and then hung up.

I started the Blazer as Keith shoveled the last of the apple strudel Pop-Tart into his mouth, dusting the sugar from his fingers. “Where we headed?” he wanted to know.

“Gonna see a man about a ranch,” I said.

At that moment, looking across the seat at him sitting there with crumbs on his chin, I realized that recent events had perhaps pushed our little quest into areas that the kid hadn’t bargained for, so I slid the Blazer to the curb and jammed it into park. “Listen . . . Keith . . . things are about to get seriously hairy.”

“Like what?” he asked.

“We’re about to stick our heads into the lion’s mouth, and I’m not sure this is quite what you signed up for.”

“I signed up to find out what happened to Gordon Stanley.”

“So far we’ve managed to make a few waves. Sometime later today it’s about to become a tsunami.”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“I’m trying to tell you that thus far this has been a bit of a lark, compared to what it’s about to become. Up till now, as far as you’re concerned, it’s been detect in the morning and bounce around all night with Ginny.”

His face hardened. “Something wrong with that?”

“I think things are about to get way too tense for romance.”

“What say we let me be the judge of that?” he snapped.

Lust had him by the throat. I could feel it. There was no dealing with him on the subject of Ginny. Might as well be talking to a goddamn stone.

“What say we don’t put Irene and Ginny in any unnecessary danger?” I tried.

He didn’t want to hear about it. He nodded at my semi-useless arm. “You got that on a date with Irene, didn’t you? Maybe you ought to practice what you preach,” he suggested.

“I’m serious,” I said.

“I thought we were going to see a man about a ranch.”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out Fred Simmons’s business card.

“Here,” I said, handing him the card. “Punch this address into the GPS.”

“Initial on the red. Sign on the yellow,” Fred Simmons said.

From the look of the lawyer’s satchel face, he’d been up all night drawing up the paperwork. I got busy scribbling in all the proper places.

“There’s gonna be a shitstorm . . . ya know that, doncha?” Fred said.

“I expect you’re right,” I said.

“For the record,” he said, “this transaction is taking place against my professional advice. Far as I’m concerned, it’s nuts.”

“Maybe you ought to tell Sarah Jane,” I suggested.

“Believe me, son, I tried. But once that woman makes up her mind, you might as well be talking to the wind.”

I flipped a page and went back to scribbling.

“You know anything about running a cattle ranch?” he asked.

“Nope. But I know a few people who do.”

“People willing to put their asses on the line for ya?”

“Guess I’m about to find out,” I said.

“About five minutes after I file these papers down at the courthouse, the grapevine is gonna be buzzin like a hornet’s nest.”

“I know.”

“You ain’t gonna have a lot of allies around this town. Most everybody round here sees this Keeler project as an economic savior. They’re not gonna take kindly to you gumming up the works.”

“I’m a stranger in a strange land,” I said as I signed the bottom of the last page.

“What you are now is the executive director of The Flying H Corporation. You have an option to buy the ranch at the specified price, anytime within the next one hundred and twenty days, during which time you will hold full powers of attorney for both Olley and Sarah Jane Hardvigsen.”

I looked up. “Why power of attorney?” I asked.

“
Cause those Keeler folks . . . once they get wind of this . . . they’re gonna have lawyers crawlin over this document like cockroaches in a corn crib. Only way to keep it airtight is for Sarah Jane to make you her executor. Fewer loopholes in probate law. Best of all, it moves any action from civil court to probate court, which, around here, is a circuit court, and’s backed up the better part of a year. They couldn’t even get a preliminary hearing until next fall.”

“Can we find her a condo or something here in town?”

“Already did. Got her a furnished house three blocks from the hospital.”

I looked over at Keith, who was dozing in a battered Morris chair.

“Good,” I said. “That’s good.” I stood up. “Take your time filing the papers. I’ve got a few things I’d like to do before the shit hits the fan.”

“Gotta be filed today. It’s the law.”

“Late today.”

“That’ll work,” he told me.

“You get that other paperwork I asked for?”

He pulled open the top drawer of his desk and produced a fistful of government forms. “She’s gonna hate this,” he said.