All The Bells on Earth (38 page)

“You deserve a little luck,” Walt said. “You work hard.”

“So do you. We both work hard. And this is
our
luck, isn’t it?”

“Sure,” Walt said. “But I’d like to contribute a little bit of it once in a while too. Especially around Christmas.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” she said. “And anyway, Mr. Peetenpaul’s in charge of making Christmas green this year. We can lean on the MasterCard and take care of it later when Mr. Peentenpaul antes up the cash.”

“Pete ’n Paul?”

“The giant man who’s buying the lots.”

“That
can’t
be his name. He sounds like a Mounds bar.”

“He’s eaten a few, I think. I guess it’s a Dutch name—all one word, Peetenpaul. He says to call him Mr. Peet. He’s got this voice like you wouldn’t believe, like he eats sandpaper.”

“How big?” Walt asked, suddenly suspicious—the size, the voice, the impossible name….

“I don’t know. A couple inches taller than you, I guess.”

“Grizzly-looking guy, with a beard? He wasn’t dressed like a postman, was he?”

“A postman? No. Why do you ask? Why would he be dressed like a postman, for God’s sake?”

“Nothing. No reason. It sounded like someone I know, that’s all.”

“You know a giant postman?”

“Met one recently.”

“Well, this was no postman. He was driving a pickup truck, but it was new and expensive. He was dressed for the office, too—very stylish for such a big man. I guess you could say he was overdressed.”

“Like he was playing a role?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing.”

They lay there in the darkness. Walt listened to the rain ping against the sheet-metal chimney cap. The sound of the droplets radiated down through the flue so that it sounded like it was raining in the bedroom itself.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked him suddenly.

“I’m thinking that the Lotto’s sixty million dollars tonight. I’d like to win. I’d spend the money like an idiot.”

“If our special numbers came up, and you didn’t have a ticket, what would you do?”

“I dunno. Curse my fate, I guess. Then later I’d tell the story every chance I got. What it would do is turn me into a bore.”

“You wouldn’t jump out of a window?”

“Not over money.”

“Good.” She was silent for a moment. Then she asked, “What
would
make you jump out of a window?”

“Shame,” he said, not having to think twice about it. “If I was Jack I’d jump out a window.”

“If you were Jack, you wouldn’t have any shame.” For a moment she didn’t say anything, then she said, “So did you buy a ticket?”

“A ticket?”

“For the Lotto.”

“Sure,” Walt said. “No quick-pick, just our lucky numbers. You don’t want to dilute your luck when there’s big money on the line.”

“Good thinking,” she said.

After another few minutes of silence he realized that Ivy was asleep, her breathing regular and soft. The house was quiet except for the sound of the rain. His thoughts slowly turned in his head, thoughts about winning the Lotto, about found money in a sack. Lots of money. Sixty million iron men. What was that worth, fractioned out over whatever it was—twenty years? He pictured Henry and Jinx back in Honolulu again, decked out in aloha clothes and leis and wearing go-aheads from Long’s Drugs, listening to Don Ho music on a Friday night in Waikiki. Palm trees, trade winds, the scent of flowers on the air….

Money: what was it but a means to an end? It was a door, wasn’t it? Why treat it like a poisonous snake? You open the door and step through, into Oz or Candyland or somewhere.

He thought about the bluebird, buried out under the stepping-stone, down in the dirt with the ants and the earthworms. “Sixty bucks,” he whispered. In his mind he made it a wish. It was easier than he thought, just like with the lingerie this afternoon. A thrill ran through him, a shudder.

That’s all, just the sixty-dollar win. What was that?—four measly numbers in the Lotto? Sixty lousy dollars would just about pay him back for what Mrs. Biggs had taken him for. He wouldn’t be greedy. And it was safe enough for a simple test. The odds against winning it without help were tremendous. The odds of
calling
your win must be nearly infinitely bad.

So if he won, he would know, absolutely, and he would resign himself …

… he would resign himself to making a decision. And you didn’t make that kind of decision unless you were sure of yourself.

“You’ll ride to the Devil in comfort.”

He heard Henry’s voice in his mind.

And then, for no reason at all, he suddenly recalled watching Nora and Eddie say their prayers before going to bed, God-blessing Mr. Argyle along with everyone else.

How long had it been since Walt had said his prayers?

He was struck with the uncanny idea that he just had—but to whom?

He pushed the idea out of his mind, then turned over to go to sleep.

And all the bells on earth did ring, on Christmas Day in the morning….

“I S
AW
T
HREE
S
HIPS
A-S
AILING
”
T
RADITIONAL
C
HRISTMAS
C
AROL

M
AHONEY AND
B
ENTLEY HEADED
up Shaffer Street toward the Holy Spirit Catholic Church. Bentley was dog-tired. They’d been out since eight o’clock, bell-ringing through the neighborhoods. The wind was blowing hard, and the sky was wild, the clouds torn to pieces by the wind, scattered stars winking and blinking in the clear parts.

“There’s Orion.” Mahoney pointed his finger at the heavens.

Bentley looked, but he couldn’t make anything out. “I’ll take your word for it,” he said. “I never could see constellations. I suspect they’re a hoax. I can spot the dipper and the Seven Sisters, which might as well be seven anything—the Seven Santini Brothers.”

“That attitude’s a pity,” Mahoney said. “Sometimes I imagine they’re celestial seashells arranged on a beach.”

“That’s real artistic,” Bentley said. “I admire that kind of talk.”

Mahoney squinted one eye at him and took something out of his pocket. “Nip?”

“Pardon me?”

The priest held out a silver pint flask. “Scotch? Little belt after a long night’s work?”

“No,” Bentley said, waving it away. “Thanks, but I guess not.”

“Well, fine.” Mahoney tilted a swallow down his throat and put the flask back into his coat. “Teetotaler, eh?”

“You make it sound like a crime.”

“You make it sound like a virtue.”

“Well, it comes tolerably close to being a virtue. But, no, I’m not teetotaler. I used to take a drink now and then, in company.”

“This liquor,” Mahoney said, tapping the flask with his finger, “is what they call a single malt Scotch.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Bentley said, listening to their footfalls on the sidewalk. “I know what malt Scotch is.”

The rain began to fall now, and without saying another word both of them set off jogging toward the church, cutting across the street toward a rear door. Mahoney hauled a key ring out of his pocket and unlocked the dead bolt, letting them both into the sacristy.

“Man, that’s rain!” Bentley said. Father Mahoney hauled off his dripping trenchcoat and hung it on a peg in the vestibule, then unhitched the bells from around his waist and set them on the desk along with his Benedictus bell. Bentley did the same. The rain poured down outside, drumming against the plywood cutouts that filled the two window arches where the stained glass had been removed for repair. The room smelled of fresh paint.

“So you’re a Scotch man?” the priest said, sitting down at the desk. He waved at a nearby chair, and Bentley dragged it across and sat down too.

“Used to be a Scotch man. I’m descended from John Knox.”

“Is that a fact?” Mahoney said. “The Presbyter himself?
Good
for you. I’ll take a small drink in honor of your illustrious ancestor despite what we all know about him.”

“Scourge of the Papists,” Bentley said. “Maybe I’ll take one little blast, in recollection of how your crowd turned a good man into a galley slave.” He took the flask and poured a swallow down his throat, wishing he had something in his stomach.

Mahoney nodded and took the flask back. “The thing is,” he said, “when you’re using Protestants as galley slaves, you need a
lot
of them—half a dozen to an oar. Knox wasn’t worth much when it came to real labor. He was mainly a talker.” Mahoney put his feet on the desk and yanked at his collar, loosening it up.

“Well, he was a
good
talker,” Bentley said. “He changed it all, the whole course of human destiny. The whole megillah.”

“Magilla Gorilla,” Mahoney said, nodding somberly and tasting the Scotch again.

Bentley took the flask from him, and for a time they sat there in silence, passing it back and forth. Bentley abruptly felt tremendously tired, worn out, and the Scotch had the effect of a hot bath on his muscles. “Here’s to all the people out there,” he said finally, “who are doing the best they damn well can.”

“Amen,” Mahoney said.

Bentley felt the whiskey in his guts now, like a living heat, and he moved his shoulders to loosen up.

“John Knox wore bobby sox,” Mahoney said, giggling.

Bentley snickered, then glared at him theatrically. Then, in his best Bing Crosby impersonation, he sang, “Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral …” and then cut it off and snickered again. His teeth felt rubbery, and his head was heavy. He turned the flask over and pretended to read something on the bottom. “The Pep Boys,” he said. “Well, I’ll be dipped in a sack of dung, that’s a high-class flask.” He winked, handing it back to Mahoney.

The phone rang then—two rings, then nothing. Bentley stood blinking at it for a moment, suddenly regretting the Scotch.

“He’s moving,” Bentley said. He stepped across and switched off the light. The sudden darkness seemed to amplify the sound of the rain, and for a moment neither man spoke. Light from the garden lanterns filtered in through the two remaining windows, casting a dim, rainy shadow onto the linoleum floor.

“He won’t come here,” Father Mahoney said. “Not as early as this.”

“Maybe,” Bentley said. “But we ought to be ready for him anyway. He knows we’re moving against him in earnest now. Edna Hepplewhite is staying with Mrs. Simms, up near Pitcher Park. If he turns up Almond, past the park, she’ll …”

The phone rang again—one ring and then silence.

“That’s Edna!” Bentley said. “That’s the signal. Argyle just passed the Simms place. He’s making his rounds. You’re probably right about him not coming here, but we’d better get up there into the tower anyway and wait for the go-ahead.” Bentley swung the sacristy door open. Through the hallway window the rainy street shone in the glow of the streetlamps. It wasn’t even midnight. Argyle would have to be a desperate man to break into the bell tower now. How desperate was he? Bentley half wished that he had a baseball bat instead of a Polaroid camera.

“Front door locked?” Bentley kept his voice low even though there was no one except Mahoney to hear him.

“Locked but not bolted. He can get in with a credit card if he wants to. We’ll leave this one the same.” Father Mahoney picked up the two cameras waiting on the desk along with a couple of penlights. He handed one of each to Bentley. Then the two of them set out through the darkened church, heading toward the door that led into the bell tower.

Bentley shivered. He felt a little sick to his stomach.

“Top or bottom?” Bentley asked.

“Top, I guess,” Mahoney said. “Unless you want it.”

“Well, I’m a younger man.”

“Yeah, but you’re tired,” Mahoney said. “You don’t eat enough fish and you drink too much.”

“Yeah, but if he kills me I don’t mind. I’m right with the Lord. You, on the other hand, have a lot to atone for, being Catholic.”

“Probably you’re right,” Father Mahoney said, smiling and winking. “But if he kills you, at least there’ll be a priest standing by to steer your soul toward heaven. If he kills me there won’t be anybody around but a Protestant.”

“That’s right,” Bentley said. “A
live
one. Go ahead on up. You know the drill.”

“I know the drill,” Mahoney said. “You hold up your end. I’ll be fine.”

“How long will we give him?”

“An hour?”

“An hour it is. For heaven’s sake, don’t fall asleep either. And if the phone rings three times, it’ll be Edna calling to say Argyle’s gone home. That’s the all-clear.”

“Good enough,” Mahoney said. He turned around and opened the tower door, shining his penlight on the ladder. He stepped inside and climbed slowly up into the darkness. Bentley swung the door shut, the hinges creaking, then turned around and slipped into the little broom closet next to the tower door. He switched on the penlight and sat down in the kitchen chair that he’d put there earlier, then shined the penlight around to get his bearings before switching the light out. Even the faintest light under the door would scare Argyle off. Or worse. He put the penlight into his shirt pocket and lay the camera in his lap, wishing that the chair had a cushion on it.