Short Money (9 page)

The front door was locked.

He had started back around the house, when the door opened. Bellweather in his flannel pajamas, cradling a shotgun, a pricey-looking double-barreled job with a carved stock and a gold-plated rib. “For a minute there I thought you were going to shoot him,” he said.

“It wasn’t necessary,” said Crow. He stomped the snow off his feet, slammed the door shut.

“Next time, it might be.”

Bellweather was trying to act cool, like it was no big deal that Ricky Murphy had shown up in his driveway. Crow didn’t buy the act. The doctor’s voice sounded different, and there were new lines on each side of his mouth. The man was scared. Crow tried to think of something reassuring to say but could only come up with, “Well, he’s gone now.”

Bellweather’s eyes drifted, looking for purchase. They settled on the gun hanging in Crow’s hand. “Nice gun,” he said. “What is it, a forty-four?”

“I don’t know.” All he knew for sure was that it was big, heavy, and cold.

“May I see it?”

Crow hesitated, then handed Bellweather the gun.

The doctor swung open the cylinder. “Forty-one mag Ruger. You’d’ve gone right through him with this baby.” He went through a rapid, confident ritual—unloading, dry firing to check the action, spinning the cylinder, showing Crow he knew his way around firearms, showing him he could handle it. He replaced the six long rounds in the cylinder, snapped it shut, returned the gun to Crow.

“Good weapon,” he said, pushing out his jaw. “Seven-inch barrel, plenty of stopping power. You going to keep it?”

“I’m sure as hell not going to give it back to him.”

A car drove by, a flash of headlights through the trees. Bellweather stiffened, grabbed his shotgun.

“Easy, Nels,” Crow said. “It’s just a car. Ricky’s gone.”

Bellweather licked his lips, smiled, and lowered his weapon. He took a breath and let it hiss out through his nose. “You believe me now, don’t you,” he said.

Crow nodded. “Yeah, I believe you. But I still don’t understand why they’re riding you.”

Bellweather regarded Crow with an undecided expression. “Neither do I,” he said. “And I’d prefer you did not call me that.”

“Call you what? Nels?”

“Yes. You will call me Doctor Bellweather.”

Crow took a long breath. Just when he was starting to feel all right about working for the guy, he punches another button.

Colonel Roosevelt’s son, Kermit, it seems, showed more enthusiasm than caution in the pursuit of African big game.

—HUNTING BIG GAME IN THE WILDS OF AFRICA—THRILLING ADVENTURES OF THE FAMOUS ROOSEVELT EXPEDITION

T
HE RUGER FELT HEAVY
and too large in his hand. Crow sat in Bellweather’s office and played with Ricky’s gun, aiming at the bison and the antelopes, making quiet popping sounds with his lips. The trigger was stiff and hard to pull. He aimed the unloaded gun at the bison’s snout, squeezed the trigger. The sharp, loud snap was absorbed by the suede walls.

“Kapow,” he whispered. Ricky Murphy’s visit had given Crow a second wind; he was wide-eyed and full of nervous energy. Bellweather had gone back to bed. Crow loaded the gun and pushed it into his belt. Why hadn’t he thought to confiscate Ricky’s holster while he was at it? For the third time that hour, he patrolled the first floor of the house. With a part of his mind he watched himself acting out, amused and somewhat embarrassed. Soon, he knew, he would crash. Fatigue poisons would reach critical mass in his bloodstream, and this jittery euphoria would give way to irritation, anger, or sleep. The digital clock on the kitchen stove read 4:54. In three more hours he would be escorting Doctor Bellweather to his clinic.

He peered, again, through the front window. Nothing but snow and darkness. No Hummer. No Ricky Murphy. He replayed the night in his memory. What he remembered most intensely was the way his finger had felt on the trigger, Ricky Murphy’s skinny, cowboy-hatted head in his sights. The memory had an edge to it, a metallic, cocaine bite that turned his teeth numb.

Crow pushed away from the door. The gun in his belt was digging at his groin. He pulled it out, sat down on one of the ice-white living room chairs, and set the Ruger on the end table. That felt better. He leaned back in the chair and examined the ornate chandelier. It was, after all, a very nice thing to look at, he decided. He closed his eyes, opened them to a galaxy of sparkles, closed them again.

The sound of running water awakened him. Shafts of early sunlight blasted past the curtains and caromed from the white walls; light from the chandelier now appeared dim and yellow. Crow leaned forward and let his head hang between his legs. He could hear padding sounds coming from upstairs. The brush of slippers on thick carpet. The muted howl of a hand-held hair dryer. He looked at his watch—eight o’clock. He went to the downstairs bathroom, sat on the toilet for what turned out to be no reason at all, washed his face, rubbed his teeth with his index finger, pushed his hair back behind his ears. It could be shorter, he thought. And cleaner. He would have to remember to bring a comb next time, and a toothbrush. Maybe even a change of clothes.

Bellweather’s idea of breakfast was a tall glass of orange-brown effluent that oozed noisily from his Juiceman 3000. Crow hadn’t paid much attention to what had gone into the machine, not understanding at the time that he would be forced to ingest it in liquid form. Now it was too late. He remembered that there had been a few carrots and something that looked like red lettuce.

“You don’t have any coffee?” he asked, glaring suspiciously at the thick fluid. It seemed to be moving in the glass, changing to a deeper shade of umber.

Bellweather took a heavy slug of juice. “Ahh,” he said. “Try it, Joe. This stuff’ll give you more energy than a whole pot of espresso.”

“I don’t think I want that much energy.” What the hell. He took a sip and quickly swallowed, like a child taking medicine. Tentatively, he tasted the coating that had remained on his tongue. It wasn’t bad, but he wasn’t going to admit it. He sipped his breakfast, staring down at the deep reddish brown ceramic floor tiles, which had far more character and beauty than Bellweather ever would.

“You like the tiles?”

“Yes, I do,” said Crow, happy to be able to give a straight answer for once.

“Spanish. My ex got them out of an old finca, over two hundred years old. Cost me thirty-six bucks a tile. That woman could spend money like the government.” He finished his juice. “Drink up. I have to get to the clinic. I have a nine-thirty.” He left the kitchen and returned a few seconds later wearing a heavy gray wool overcoat with a white fur collar. He pulled on a pair of matching gray driving gloves. “You ready?”

They backed out of the garage into cold, clear daylight. Crow’s Rabbit, its right quarter panel crushed into the wheel well, sparkled with new frost. Bellweather stared at it for several seconds, then said, “When we get to the clinic, I’ll have my receptionist call and get somebody out here to pull that metal away from your tire. I think you’ll be able to drive it then.” Shifting into first gear, he spun the wheels, fishtailed out onto Blueberry Trail, guided the Jaguar out of the Orchard Estates complex. He turned onto County Road 40 and accelerated, the twelve cylinders bringing the Jag quickly up to seventy. Icy, exhaust-scented wind sucked in through the hole in the rear window.

Crow sat back and watched the traffic. They followed the county road to I-394, merged with the eastbound traffic. Bellweather drove the Jaguar jerkily, accelerating or braking, shifting lanes at every opportunity but to no purpose. He started to hum “Lara’s Theme” from Dr. Zhivago. Crow tried to tune it out but failed.

“I have a problem,” Crow said.

The doctor stopped humming. “What?”

“I feel like you’re not telling me something.”

Bellweather pushed out a wet lower lip and raised his brows, but kept his eyes on the road. The humming resumed. Crow crossed his arms and waited.

A few seconds later, Bellweather asked, “What do you think I’m not telling you?”

“I’m having a hard time believing that you have no idea why Ricky Murphy is so interested in you.”

The doctor nodded. “I don’t blame you.” He downshifted to fourth gear and accelerated, backing off only when he was about to mount the bumper of a green minivan. “I’m having a difficult time with it myself. That altercation at Birdy’s last month, at first I was thinking it was a fluke, just Ricky having one of his psychotic episodes. Even the next day, when he called me on the phone, saying he was going to feed me my own testicles, I attributed it to some sort of chemical imbalance. I offered to write him a Prozac prescription, but he wasn’t interested. So I tried to call George, you know, thinking that he might be able to calm his little brother.”

“What did he say?”

“Amanda, the old lady, answered the phone, and when I identified myself … well, it was astonishing, actually.”

“Oh?”

“She launched into a tirade, all fire and brimstone and I would die in agony in the ashes of Gomorrah. Screeching. I had to hold the phone away from my ear. I couldn’t make any sense of it, and she wouldn’t put George on. The old lady’s crazy, you know, and that’s a medical opinion.”

“You never talked to George?”

“I called him a few times, but it was always Amanda who picked up. Believe me, it’s not just Ricky. It’s all of them. I even had David call out there. He was able to get through to George, but George said he had no idea what I was talking about. The whole family is disturbed, in my opinion.”

“Do you owe them any money?”

“A little, but I don’t think that’s the problem. I owe money to a lot of people. None of the others have started shooting at me.” He took a breath, let it hiss out from between compressed lips. “At least not yet.”

“How much do you owe them?”

“Not much. Ten, twenty thousand. He hasn’t even sent me a bill for that last hunt, the one where Ricky interrupted our little celebration by attacking me. It’s not the money, Joe. It’s something else. I’d like to know what it is as much as you do.”

Bellweather exited the freeway. He rolled through the stop sign at the end of the ramp, turned right.

Grow still suspected that Bellweather was withholding something. He said, thinking to test this theory, “You want me to look into it? See what I can find out?”

Bellweather said, “It’s not in your job description, Joe, but if you can learn something I’d appreciate it. Maybe some of your friends with the police in Big River will know something. If you want to put in a couple hours on it, make a few calls, just keep track of your time and I’ll take care of you.”

“I’ll ask around,” said Crow. “By the way, we haven’t talked about when I get paid.”

Bellweather turned into a parking lot. The building was small but with a pricey-looking marble facade. The only signage was a two-foot-wide brass plaque to the right of the double front doors:
WEST END CLINIC • PLASTIC AND RECONSTRUCTIVE SURGEONS.

“Would Wednesdays be all right? Your check will be issued through the clinic, and that’s our usual payday.”

Crow nodded, frowning. It would be a stretch, but as long as he knew the money was coming, he could make it.

“Good,” said Bellweather. “I’ll arrange to have your car put back in working order. You can take the Jaguar. I’ll have Nate pick me up later. Call me if you learn anything.” He opened the door and climbed out. “See you tonight?”

“Nine o’clock.” Crow got out, circled the car, slid behind the wheel.

Shawn Murphy propped the barrel of his single-shot .22 in the crook of a small branch that jutted shoulder high off the side of a naked basswood sapling. It fit perfectly. He pulled the butt of the rifle against his shoulder and lowered his head to the sights, aiming the rifle directly at a windfall ten yards away. He waited, trying to take his mind off the cold that penetrated his gloves. The thermometer had read ten degrees when he left the house half an hour ago. He couldn’t stay out too long—Grandy would be mad as hell if he frostbit his cheeks again.

The cottontail would come out soon. He had scared it up a few yards back, followed its zigzagging flight, and seen it duck into the windfall, a tangle of dead trees and brush. If he waited long enough it might poke its head out, give him a clear shot. It was the only game he’d seen all morning, and he was determined to bag it. So what if it was cold—he was a good hunter, and he wasn’t a wuss. He could beat the crap out of any kid in his class.

Shawn thought about Jimmy Svengaard, who had called him a fat-ass. Shawn had caught him and tackled him and sat on top of him until he started crying, and Mr. Lantermann had pulled him off and sent him home. He didn’t care. Shawn hated school anyway. None of the kids liked him, and he didn’t like them. He would rather go hunting. The only thing was, Grandy got really mad when he got kicked out, and his dad acted weird too, like he had done something stupid, which Shawn didn’t understand because his dad was fat too, and if somebody had called his dad a fat-ass they would for sure get knocked down and sat on—or worse.

Five minutes later, the rabbit had not yet appeared. Shawn’s hands were getting colder, and his cheeks had that heavy feeling, like slabs of ice. The heck with it. Shawn picked up a stick and heaved it at the windfall. His throw fell short, but the cottontail burst from cover, ran along the base of the chain-link fence, then ducked back into the woods before he could get his sights on it.

Shawn slapped a hand against his hip. This had to be the worst hunt ever. It was too cold. All the animals were holed up, waiting for warmer weather. He considered pursuing the rabbit. If he was very quiet, if he walked softly, he might be able to walk up on it, get a shot. He took a step, and then another, his Sorels riding atop the crusted snow. It was easy walking, as long as he could stay on the crust, but because of his weight he often broke through. He wished his dad would get him a pair of snowshoes. Better yet, a snowmobile of his own. His dad could be a real jerk sometimes. Shawn followed the nine-foot chainlink fence for fifty feet before his left foot broke through the crust and he was in snow up to his thighs. “Shit,” Shawn muttered. Once you broke through, it was hard to get back on top. He grabbed the fence to pull himself up, then he saw something large and dark a few yards in front of him and froze.