All The Bells on Earth (25 page)

He closed the box, wondering if the flame had gone out. When he reopened it, the flame rose from the box again, as if drawn upward by the hinged lid. He put his hand into the fire: it was hot, all right. He closed it and opened it—same thing: the flame sprang to life without even a whisper. The damned thing was like a refrigerator light that came on the instant the door opened, but you could only speculate that it went out again when the door was shut.

Walt noticed a folded paper in the bottom of the cardboard carton, along with a flat plastic-wrapped package. He unfolded the paper, which turned out to be a paragraph of information on the brimstone, printed in a smeary sort of ink, as if in someone’s basement. “Brought back from the everlasting fires of Hell,” the paper read, “by intrepid explorers. Lights fireplaces, barbecues, cigars. Perfect for heating fondue. Useful as a night light….”

He put the paper down and picked up the plastic package. Inside was his “Get Out of Hell Free” card, a stiff, wallet-sized bit of paper with a place to sign his name. Along the edge were printed the words “Dilworth Catalogue Sales, Member in Good Standing,” and the card was signed by Denton Dilworth above a couple of lines guaranteeing the card’s authenticity. Beneath that were the words “not to be sold or reproduced.” On the back of the card was a drawing of the faces in the flame, the same as the ones on the top of the brimstone box, like souls going up in smoke. Walt slipped it into his wallet, then opened the big box.

The golden lampstand, he was surprised to find, was wired for electricity. Somehow he hadn’t counted on that kind of modern innovation. He screwed the several parts together, nicking the gilt paint when his screwdriver slipped. There was pot metal underneath, and the base, which was the heavy part, was a thin metal shell that hid a saucer-shaped lump of plaster of Paris. All in all the lamp resembled a tall, dietetic candelabra, and it required three candle-flame-shaped bulbs, not to exceed fifteen watts. The bulbs weren’t included in the price.

“What a haul,” Walt said out loud, stepping back to look at what he’d paid nearly forty dollars for. He tried to see something biblical in the lampstand, something apocalyptic, but the thing defeated him. Maybe he could give the brimstone to Uncle Henry as a Christmas gift.

Thirty minutes to go until the meeting with the man Vest at Coco’s, and Henry wasn’t home yet. He’d been gone all morning. Walt walked down toward the front yard, noticing just then that a car was pulling up at the curb—another government car, for heaven’s sake. It was apparently the post office again, hounding him. A woman got out, small and gray-haired, like someone’s old granny. She smiled brightly at him as she came up the driveway.

W
ALT AND
H
ENRY SAT
in a window booth at Coco’s, waiting for Sidney Vest, who would probably turn out to be another postal inspector. Unlike the big man, the woman this afternoon had been pleasant and undemanding—no threats, no jail talk. Her name, she’d told him, was Hepplewhite. When Walt had referred to the other inspector, she hadn’t stumbled. “Probably another operative,” she’d said, and then she’d given him her name and a phone number and left.

He glanced at Henry over the top of his water glass. Henry had the popes in a manila envelope. He was sparked up, looking over the menu like a trencherman, squinting his eyes and nodding, as if everything he saw looked first-rate. Something had given him an appetite. It was probably time to ask him outright about the Biggs woman, before lie did anything regrettable.

“I might try the chicken fried steak,” Henry said, winking at Walt and inclining his head toward the waitress, who was helping the people at the next booth. Henry leaned over and whispered, “Nice gams,” and darted his eyes a couple of times.

Walt nodded, although the word meant nothing to him. Gams?

Henry leaned back and picked his teeth with a wooden toothpick he’d pulled from the dispenser on the way in. He had the relaxed air of someone who was in for the long haul, who had the afternoon off and was going to do some real
eating.

“Women,” Henry said, heaving a sigh.

“Yes, indeed,” Walt said. He watched the street, looking out for a Lincoln Town Car.

“Who was that Italian woman, that blonde who ran for the senate or parliament or whatever the hell they’ve got over there? Reminded you of a couple of mush melons in a sack.”

Walt shook his head helplessly. “Italian woman?”

“She took off her clothes and climbed into a public fountain. It was all over the newspapers.”

“Oh, sure,” Walt said, remembering. “That was a few years ago. I think they call that a photo opportunity. What was her name?—something like Chicolina. I
think
that was it. I guess that was pretty much why they elected her, that prank with the fountain.”

“I’ve always liked the Italians,” Uncle Henry said. “They understand beauty, the female form.”

“Did you know it’s against the law to lie about a cheese over there?” Walt asked. “A Parmesan cheese
has
to be made in Parma. Over here you can make a Parmesan cheese in Iowa.”

“Now, the blonde women are from the north,” Henry said, “up around Switzerland … It’s the cooler climate that fleshes them out.” He gestured with both hands, winking heavily. “
Bella, bella
,” he said.

Walt grinned weakly. “Good pasta in the north.” Henry was full of beans. What was this, his hula-hula woman? Success? Anticipation? Certainly it was trouble with a capital T.

“I met a woman from Varese once….” Henry shook his head, as if the words had suddenly failed him, and Walt would have to imagine her.

“I wonder where your man Vest is,” Walt asked, still trying to shift the subject. He checked his watch.

“He’ll show,” Henry said. He put his arm across the top of the Naugahyde booth and stared out the window at the afternoon traffic. “Varese.” He rolled the word out of his mouth, stretching the second syllable.

Walt nodded.

“It was on a train.” Henry paused again, remembering. “We were riding down to Rome. Crowded as hell, and
hot
. It was the first of August, and every Frenchman in creation was on the train heading south, speaking out of their noses like they do.” He inclined his head at Walt. “Now, there’s nothing wrong with a Parisian woman, although they’re a little too thin.” He paused, looking as if he expected an argument on this one.

Walt widened his eyes. “I was only in Paris once—with Ivy, of course. We found a bed and breakfast on a little street called the Rue Serpente—fresh bread and jam in the morning. And the coffee!” He clucked in appreciation. “Good coffee in Italy, too.”

“Well, Jinx was in the first-class compartment, and I was out in the aisle getting some air, and here was this … this vision, absolute vision. Blonde like you wouldn’t believe. Biggest …” He gestured with both hands, nearly knocking over the water glasses, indicating something that flew in the face of gravity. “She was wearing her grandmother’s nightgown.”

Walt glanced over at the waitress, hoping that … She was staring at Henry with a fixed grin. Walt smiled and shook his head, wishing he could make the pinwheel sign around his ear. He’d have to leave her a hell of a tip.

“This woman Chicoletta reminded me of her,” Uncle Henry said. “She’s an Italian
type
. Now, in the south, there’s a touch of the Mediterranean in the women, a swarthiness. But in the north …”

Walt waited for the conclusion of the story, for what happened on the train full of Frenchmen, the woman in the nightgown, but Henry had abruptly fallen silent, perhaps lost in thought. “Did you meet this woman?” Walt asked.

“What woman?”

“On board the train. The woman from Varese.”

“Oh, no. No. Not really. She got out in Milan, and the train went on to Rome. We stayed on it.”

“And you never saw her again?”

“Never. I wouldn’t expect to, though. Never got back to Milan.”

“Then how did you know anything about her nightgown?”

“Well, she was
wearing
it. Here he comes!” Henry sat up straight and pointed out the window. An old green Torino was just angling into the parking lot. The paint was sun-faded, and the rear fender was banged up, with a taillight made out of duct tape and red cellophane. When the car hit the dip in the gutter, the entire rear end slammed down, as if the springs were shot, and a plume of black smoke exhaled from the tailpipe.

“I thought he was driving a Lincoln Town Car,” Walt said doubtfully. “Are you
sure
this is the guy?”

“One and the same,” Henry said. “I imagine that a man of his talents owns more than one vehicle. This is what you might call the practical art of understatement.”

Walt nodded. “Hefernin?”

Henry winked and nodded.

Vest rounded the corner of the building on foot and headed up the sidewalk, carrying a briefcase. Henry waved at him through the window. He was short and stocky and looked a little too much like a well-fed chipmunk. He moved ahead with a will, like a man with places to go and people to meet, a man who was running a half hour behind. He came in and sat down in the booth, next to Henry, who introduced him to Walt. Vest gestured immediately at the waitress, who came around now to take their order. Walt studied his menu, not quite wanting to meet her eye.

As soon as the waitress was gone, Henry hauled out the popes. He had an even dozen renditions—side views, front views, measurements and notes in the margins. Vest looked through them for about thirty seconds and handed them back.

“What do you think?” Henry asked.

“I think I know a man who can help you out,” Vest said. He drained his water glass with a noise that sounded like he was sucking the water through his teeth.

“Henry rather thought that you yourself were interested,” Walt said.

“Oh, I
am
, but I’ve got a few things hanging fire right now. Don’t count me out, though. Do you have a financial advisor, Mr. Stebbins?”

“I hardly have any finances,” Walt said. “About a nickel’s worth of advice would cover it.”

“All the more reason to take care of business,” Vest said. “Let me give you my card.” Vest handed over a business card, and Walt took out his wallet in order to put it inside. The little flip-flop plastic slipcase fell out, exposing his new Get-Out-of-Hell card.

“I can get you a twenty-six-percent return,” Vest said. “What are you making now, bank interest?”

Walt nodded, and just then Vest noticed the card. “Are you a current member?” he asked, tapping it with his finger.

“Well, yeah,” Walt said. “So it says here, anyway. It’s got the Dilworth signature.” He took the card out of its slip so Vest could see it more clearly.

“V.P.?”

“What? I’m sorry … ?”

“Are you a vice president?”

“No, I guess not. I just got the card, actually. I ordered a couple of items through a catalogue….”

Vest nodded broadly, then drew his own card from his wallet, tossing it onto the table. “I can get you started on the lamination process. There’s a twenty-dollar fee, but it’s worth its weight in gold. The connections are fabulous.”

“Connections?” Walt asked.

“Business connections. It’s the best twenty dollars you’ll ever spend.”

“
I’m
in,” Henry said, inspecting the card himself. He turned it over and stared at the faces.

“Actually,” Walt said, “I didn’t pay anything for this. It came free.”

“That’s what I’m telling you. Yours isn’t laminated. Take a look at mine. Take a look at this lamination.” He clicked it against the table. “It’s a chemically impregnated space-age plastic. It’s actually impervious to gamma rays. Won’t burn. Floats. What I’m talking about is having your card
activated
, cleared for takeoff.”

“Takeoff? What is it actually?”

Vest sat thinking for a moment. “It’s like … what? Like the Catholic thing—the scapular. They wear it around their necks, you know, for salvation. Now, this card,
I
call it insurance. You’re welcome to wear it around your neck, like the Catholics. I don’t know how a hole punch would affect the lamination, though…. You better hold off on that.”

“Why does all this sound preposterous to me?” Walt asked.

“I don’t know,” Vest said. “Do you own life insurance?”

Walt nodded.

“Nothing preposterous about that, is there?”

“I’m not sure,” Walt said. “There might be.”

“There’s where you’re wrong,” Vest told him. “A man can’t have too much insurance, not a family man like you. Take my word for it.”

Their lunches arrived. After Jinx’s meatloaf last night, Walt’s burger looked like heaven. Vest had ordered a top sirloin, fries, and a salad—the seven-ninety-five lunch. “Put aside a piece of that Harvest Pie for me, will you?” he asked the waitress.

“Anyone else for pie?” she asked.

Henry shrugged. “I’m about famished.”

“Looks like pie all around,” Vest said cheerfully. He picked up his water glass and peered into it for a moment. “Look,” he said seriously, setting down the glass. “Thursday night after Christmas there’s a meeting up on Batavia, at the union hall. I’m going to recommend it to you. It’s a business venture put together by three of the most successful men you or I will ever meet. It’s called the Plan for the Sensible Investor.”