Lucky You (25 page)

Not an innocent man, to be sure; an evil little shit. Yet still precious in the eyes of a benevolent God.

That was a sin Katie could not tolerate, if she hoped to save herself. What to do now?

In the mirror the diamond necklace glinted like a tiny star among her many freckles. Of course it was nothing but a bribe to ensure her silence, but dear God, was it gorgeous.

The bathroom door opened and out came her husband with
The Register
folded under one arm.

“Art, we need to talk.”

“Yes, we do. Let’s go to the kitchen.”

Katie was relieved. The bedroom was no place to drop the bomb.

She noticed her hands fluttering as she filled the coffeemaker. Over her shoulder she heard Arthur say, “Katherine, I’ve decided to retire from the bench. How would you like to live in the islands?”

Slowly she turned. “What?”

“I’ve had enough. The job is killing me,” he said. “I’m up for reelection next year but I don’t have the stomach for another campaign. I’m burned out, Katie.”

All she could think to say was: “We can’t afford to retire, Art.”

“Thank you, Ms. Dean Witter, but I beg to differ.”

In that acid tone of voice that Katie had come to despise.

“Shocking as it may seem,” the judge went on, “I made a few modest investments without consulting you. One of them’s paid off very handsomely, to the tune of a quarter-million dollars.”

Katie gave no outward sign of being impressed, but it was a struggle to remain composed. “What kind of investment?”

“A unit trust. It’s a bit complicated to explain.”

“I bet.”

“Real estate, Katherine.”

She made the coffee and poured a cup for Arthur.

“You’re forty-three years old and ready to retire.”

“The American dream,” said the judge, smacking his lips.

“Why the islands? And which islands?” Katie, thinking: I can’t even get him to take me to the beach.

Arthur Battenkill said, “Roy Tigert has offered to loan us his bungalow in the Bahamas. At Marsh Harbour, just to see if we like it. If we don’t, we’ll try someplace else—the Caymans or Saint Thomas.”

Katie was speechless. Bungalow in the Bahamas—it sounded like a vaudeville song.

Awkwardly her husband reached across the table and stroked her cheek. “I know things haven’t been perfect around here—we need to make a change, Katherine, to save what we’ve got. We’ll go away and start over, you and me, with nobody else to worry about.”

Meaning Tom Krome—or Art’s secretaries?

Katie asked, “When?”

“Right away.”

“Oh.”

“Remember how much you liked Nassau?”

“I’ve never been there, Arthur. That must’ve been Willow.”

The judge sucked desperately at his coffee.

Katie said, “This isn’t about saving our marriage, it’s about Tommy’s house burning down with a dead body inside. You’re scared shitless because it’s your fault.”

Arthur Battenkill Jr. stared blankly into his cup. “You’ve developed quite an imagination, Katherine.”

“You’re running away. Admit it, Arthur. You stole some getaway money, and now you want to leave the country. Do you think I’m stupid?”

“No,” said the judge, “I think you’re practical.”

On that same Monday morning, the fourth of December, the real estate office of Clara Markham received an unexpected visitor: Bernard Squires, investment manager for the Central Midwest Brotherhood of Grouters, Spacklers and Drywallers International. He’d flown to Florida on a private Gulfstream jet, chartered for him by Richard “The Icepick” Tar-bone. The mission of Bernard Squires was to place a large deposit on the Simmons Wood property, thereby locking it up for the union pension fund from which the Tarbone crime family regularly stole. After driving through Grange, Bernard Squires felt more confident than ever that the shopping mall planned for Simmons Wood could be devised to fail both plausibly and exorbitantly.

“We spoke on the phone,” he said to Clara Markham.

“Yes, of course” she said, “but I’m afraid I’ve got nothing new to report.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

Clara Markham asked if Squires could come back later, as she had an important closing to attend.

Squires was courteous but insistent. “I doubt it’s as important as this,” he said, and positioned a black eelskin briefcase on her desk.

The real estate agent had never seen so much cash; neat, tight bundles of fifties and hundreds. Somewhere among the sweet-smelling stacks, Clara knew, was her commission; probably the largest she’d ever see.

“This is to show how serious we are about acquiring the property,” Squires explained, “and to expedite the negotiations. The people I represent are eager to get started immediately.”

Clara Markham was in a bind. She’d heard nothing over the weekend from JoLayne Lucks. Their friendship was close—and JoLayne was an absolute saint with Kenny, Clara’s beloved Persian—but the real estate agent couldn’t permit her personal feelings to jeopardize such a huge deal.

She waved a hand above the cash and said, “This is very impressive, Mr. Squires, but I must tell you I’m expecting a counteroffer.”

“Really?”

“There’s nothing in writing yet, but I’ve been assured it’s on the way.”

Squires seemed amused. “All right.” With a well-practiced motion he quietly closed the briefcase. “We’re prepared to match any reasonable counteroffer. In the meantime, I’d ask that you contact your clients and let them know how committed we are to this project.”

Clara Markham said, “Absolutely. First thing after lunch.”

“What’s wrong with right now?”

“I … I’m not sure I can reach them.”

“Let’s try,” said Bernard Squires.

Clara Markham saw that stalling was fruitless; the man wouldn’t return to Chicago without an answer. Bernard Squires settled crisply into a chair while she telephoned the attorney for the estate of Lighthorse Simmons. Five minutes later the attorney called back, having patched together a conference call with Lighthorse’s two profligate heirs—his son, Leander Simmons, and his daughter, Janine Simmons Robinson. Leander dabbled in fossil fuels and Thoroughbreds; Janine spent her money on exotic surgeries and renovating vacation houses.

Leaning close to the speakerphone, Clara Markham carefully summarized the union’s offer for Simmons Wood, the key detail being the figure of $3 million.

“In addition,” she concluded, “Mr. Squires has delivered to my office a substantial cash deposit.”

On the other end, Leander Simmons piped, “How much?” He whistled when the real estate agent told him.

An old pro at conference calls, Bernard Squires raised his voice just enough to he heard: “We wanted everyone to know how serious we are.”

“Well, you got
my
attention,” said Janine Simmons Robinson.

“Me, too,” her brother said.

On behalf of JoLayne Lucks and the doomed wildlife of Simmons Wood, Clara Markham felt compelled to say: “Mr. Squires and his group want to build a shopping mall on your father’s land.”

“With a playground in the atrium,” Squires added coolly.

“And a Mediterranean fountain in front,” the attorney chimed, “with real ducks and geese. It’ll be a terrific attraction for your little town.”

From the speakerphone came the instant reaction of Leander Simmons: “Personally, I don’t give a shit if you guys want to dig a coal mine. How about you, Sis?”

Said Janine: “Hey, three million bucks is three million bucks.”

“Exactly. So what the hell are we waiting for?” Leander demanded. “Just do it.”

Bernard Squires said, “We’re ready to go. However, Ms. Markham informs me there may be another offer.”

“From who?” asked Janine Simmons Robinson.

“How much?” asked her brother.

Clara Markham said, “It’s a local investor. I intended to call you as soon as I received the papers, but they haven’t arrived.”

“Then screw it,” said the attorney. “Let’s go with Squires.”

“Whatever you wish.”

“Now just hold on a second.” It was Leander Simmons. “What’s the big rush?”

He smelled more money. Bernard Squires’ expression blackened at the prospect of a bidding duel. Clara Markham noticed some fresh veins pulsing in his neck.

As it happened, Janine Simmons Robinson was on the same opportunistic wavelength as her brother. “What’s the harm in waiting a couple three days?” she said. “See what these other folks have in mind.”

“It’s your call,” said their attorney. Then: “Ms. Markham, will you get back to us as soon as you hear something—say, no later than Wednesday?”

“How about tomorrow,” said Bernard Squires.

“Wednesday,” said Leander Simmons and his sister in unison.

There was a series of clicks, then the speaker box went silent. Clara Markham looked apologetically first at Bernard Squires, then at the eel-skin briefcase on her desk. “I’ll deposit this in our escrow account,” she said, “right away.”

Gravely Squires rose from the chair.

“You don’t strike me as a deceitful person,” he said, “the sort who’d try to jack up her commission by cooking up phony counteroffers.”

“I’m not a sneak,” said Clara Markham, “nor am I an imbecile. Simmons Wood will be my biggest deal of the year, Mr. Squires. I wouldn’t risk blowing the whole enchilada for a few extra bucks.”

He believed her. He’d seen the town; it was a miracle she hadn’t starved to death.

“A local investor, you said.”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t suppose you’d be kind enough to tell me the name.”

“I’m afraid I can’t, Mister Squires.”

“But you’re confident they’ve got some resources.”

“They do,” said Clara Markham, thinking: Last I heard.

Shiner’s mother overslept. The road machines woke her.

Hurriedly she squeezed into the bridal gown, snatched her parasol and sailed out the door. By the time she reached the intersection of Sebring Street and the highway, it was too late. The Department of Transportation was ready to pave the Road-Stain Jesus.

Shiner’s mother shrieked and hopped about like a costumed circus monkey. She spat in the face of the crew foreman and used her parasol to stab ineffectively at the driver of the steamroller. Ultimately she flung herself facedown upon the holy splotch and refused to budge for the machines.

“Pave me, too, you godless bastards!” she cried. “Let me be one with my Savior!”

The crew foreman wiped off his cheek and signaled for his men to halt work. He telephoned the sheriffs office and said: “There’s a crazy witch in a wedding dress out here humping the road. What do I do?”

Two deputies arrived, followed later by a television truck.

Shiner’s mother was kissing the pavement, on the place she imagined to be Jesus’ forehead. “Don’t you worry, Son of God,” she kept saying. “I’m right here. I’m not goin’ nowheres!” Her devotion to the stain was remarkable, considering its downwind proximity to a flattened opossum.

A vanload of worried-looking pilgrims arrived, but the deputies ordered them to stay out of the right-of-way. Shiner’s mother raised her head and said: “That’s the collection box on top of the cooler. Help yourselves to a Sprite!”

By now traffic was blocked in both directions. The crew foreman, who was from Tampa and unfamiliar with the local lore, asked the deputies if there was a mental institution in town.

“Naw, but we’re overdue,” said one of them.

They each grabbed an arm and hoisted Shiner’s mother off the highway. “He’s watching! He sees you!” she screamed.

The deputies deposited her in the cage of a patrol car and chased the curious tourists away. Before continuing with the paving job, the crew foreman and his men assembled in a loose semicircle at the center line. They were trying to figure out what the lunatic biddy was ranting about.

Bending over the stain, the foreman said, “If that’s Jesus Christ, I’m Long Dong Silver.”

“Hell, it’s fuckin’ brake fluid,” declared one of his men, a mechanic.

“Oil,” asserted another.

Then the driver of the steamroller said: ““From here it kinda looks like a woman. If you close one eye, a naked woman on a camel.”

That was it for the foreman. “Back to work,” he snapped.

The TV crew stayed for the paving. They got an excellent close-up of the Road-Stain Jesus disappearing beneath a rolling black crust of hot asphalt. The scene was deftly crosscut with a shot of a young pilgrim sniffling into a Kleenex as if grieving. In reality she was merely trying to stave off dead-opossum fumes.

The story ran on the noon news out of Orlando. It opened with videotape of Shiner’s mother, tenderly smooching the sacred smudge. Joan anxiously phoned Roddy at work. “There’s TV people in town. What if they hear about the turtle shrine?”

“Pretend we don’t know him,” Roddy said.

“But he’s my brother.”