Getting Sassy (26 page)

“You still work for that man?”

He shook his head. “He died about five years ago. But the business is still there.” Then he added, “Most of my clients are legit.”

“How do you know about money laundering?”

He twisted his mouth in good-natured annoyance. “Every CPA knows how to launder money. There’s a big difference between knowing how to do it and doing it.”

“I see.” I stared off toward the house, letting the colors blur and blend. I wanted this to be over. I wanted it to be Sunday, when either I’d have a sudden influx of cash or I’d be posing for my mug shot.

Beside me, Mick said, “We’re gonna make a great team.”

Right.

After leaving Mick’s I drove straight to the nearest box store and purchased a disposable cell phone. I felt a tad illicit paying for it in cash,
as though the clerk knew I had something to hide, and he would record the purchase on some “watch list” the moment I was out of sight. Then I went to another store and bought a voice changer. The clerk assured me that it would give me “endless” voice options. I had considered disguising my voice naturally, which I can do. When I was in high school, my girlfriend and I occasionally made prank phone calls using our “Arnold” voices. It came from somewhere deep in the throat where all the phlegm lived. We sounded a bit like Gollum, hobbit gone bad. But now I figured why risk it when someone had been thoughtful enough to invent the voice changer? Several years ago, I’d read an article advising women how to protect themselves, and one of these devices was recommended so a female voice would sound like a man’s when answering the phone. At the time, I thought it was a bit paranoid and never imagined myself buying one. But now I had to believe that no extortionist who knew what she was doing would leave home without it.

When I got home, I dug a wig from a box shoved into the corner of a closet shelf. It was a blond bob, which I’d purchased years ago in an attempt to find out if they did have more fun (not in my case), and then I plucked a pair of black slacks that I had worn three sizes ago from another corner of the closet. It was the only article of clothing I kept from my heavier days, and I kept it around to serve as a ghost of pounds past. If I ever fit into them again, I would have to have some serious words with myself. I’d wear a white blouse while waiting and bring a black, long-sleeved T-shirt to change into when I needed to be sneaking around in the dark.

The pants were still quite large, but if I wore panty hose with some stuffing, I could make them work. It would be warm, but I’d handle the discomfort. I also found a pair of old glasses that I could still see out of fairly well. They were no seamless bifocals, but I didn’t plan to do any reading that night. My eyesight is bad, and I require rather thick lenses, so normally I don’t leave the house without my contacts. Vanity was a necessary casualty of deception.

I tried on my disguise and, standing there in front of my full-length mirror, barely recognized myself. Just the look I was going for.

Wednesday had its ups and downs. But, by the end of the day, as I sat down with my scotch, I was as prepared for the Sassy caper as I possibly could be. I’d taken to referring to it as a “caper.” There was something about the word that implied frivolity and good-natured hijinks. “Extortion” sounded like what it was. In the morning I had cruised past Naomi and Nathan’s Catering, which was based in High Grove, a town about five miles east of Fowler. I wanted to know if Mick’s makeshift sign would stand a chance of passing muster.

It occupied a large portion of a strip mall and, in addition to private catering, it also had a nice deli open to the public. I picked up a price list, coffee, and, while I was at it, a black bean and corn salad that looked pretty tasty. The lettering on the one van parked in front of the shop was, as Mick promised, an unpretentious serif style font without a logo. Black lettering on white. It shouldn’t be difficult to produce a reasonable facsimile. Once again I had to wonder if Mick had the idea before it ever occurred to me. Maybe he already had the sign made and the truck hired. Seemed there’d never been much doubt in his mind that I would go along with this insanity.

Jack never called, and I wondered if he was put off by my canceling the “date” with my mother. Mostly, I hoped he hadn’t shown up there alone. I’d thought about calling him, and then figured what with all that was going on, I didn’t need to be pursuing romantic possibilities.

I tried to do some work on an article that was due on Monday. Strange the way I assumed my life would go on as before, with this goat thing just a bump in the road. But I found it hard to concentrate, and in the middle of a sentence, I opened a new document and typed three lines in 14-point Helvetica: five hundred thousand dollars, Phinny’s Tap, 1 p.m. I inserted a note card into my printer and hit the
“print” button. As the printer spit the card out, it occurred to me that I must be one sorry extortionist if I needed a cheat sheet for my ransom call. Well, I was. I hesitated, then decided I’d better print notes for each of the calls I would make. I hoped I wouldn’t need any of them, but didn’t want to be at a loss for words with Bull. I tucked these cards into my handbag, right between my new phone and the voice changer, and then deleted the Word documents without saving them.

Mick had come by at three o’clock to drive me out to Meyer’s farm. It was a straightforward route—even if it was a bit more than ten minutes from Bull’s. There were only two turns with prominent landmarks, but I paid close attention, seeing as there might be a goat bleating in my ear the next time I drove the route for real. As promised, Meyer’s brother was gone, so we had time to check the place out. There must have been a dozen of the pygmies, along with a couple of nubians, two horses and a llama. Several of the goats nuzzled up to me, and the rest regarded us with benign expressions. I didn’t push for interaction. I might not be a goat whisperer, but I also wasn’t a goat agitator.

I’d half expected Mick to ask me out to dinner, and I would have accepted. I really didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts and my nerves. Between Bix and me the edgy energy would have been unbearable. But when Mick dropped me off at my apartment, he said he’d call me in the morning and let me know where he’d drop off the panel truck. Then he hooked his forearm over the steering wheel and said, “I think that’s it.”

There had to be more. I shook my head. “When do I call Bull?”

He nodded. “Wait for me to call you first. I want to make sure the party has broken up and there aren’t people around when he takes your call.”

“Won’t he be looking for Sassy?”

Mick chuckled. “I doubt he’ll even know the goat is missing until he gets the call.”

That made sense. To Bull, Sassy was a peripheral.

“Okay,” I said. “Then I guess I’ll hear from you tomorrow.” This was where he was supposed to suggest dinner. But he just nodded and leaned back into his seat, watching me with an expression I couldn’t read.

He’d been quiet this whole afternoon, and I just wrote it off to nerves. But, really, what did he have to be nervous about? I was the one doing most of the work. Now he studied me with that unreadable gaze of his. Almost like he was looking through me, but not at anything specific.

“You okay?” I finally asked.

After a moment he said, “Yeah, just got a lot on my mind.”

“Gee,” I said. “So do I.”

“I know.” He shifted in his seat. “You’ll do fine tomorrow. Just get a good night’s sleep.”

“I’ll try,” I said, unfolding myself from the car. At that moment I had the unpleasant and vaguely familiar sensation I used to get when the guy told me he had a great time, but I knew he was never going to call me again. Mick would, of course, call me tomorrow as he promised. But our social foray had ended. That left me feeling used— at some point he’d decided that I was attractive to him only in terms of my usefulness—and also sad. I wondered at what point I had shifted from prospective lover to conspirator. It did little good to tell myself that he may just be the kind of person who didn’t like to mix work and pleasure.

But as I got ready for bed—a good hour ahead of my usual time— my head was jammed with whirling thoughts and images. I knew I’d have trouble sleeping, so I combed through my “medicine drawer” and found a bottle of over-the-counter sleep medication just barely past its expiration date. It did the trick. I was out shortly after my head hit the pillow. However, Morpheus chose to visit, and I spent the night dreaming about the heist and a shadowy figure that kept flitting in and out of my dreamscape. I didn’t remember much upon awakening, except that at some point Sassy began talking to me, and we had a long, interesting discussion on the afterlife.

At ten fifteen the next morning, my mother was waiting for me in the lobby. She seldom did this, preferring to have me call upon her. But I could tell by the way she stood as I walked in and barely gave me time to sign her out that she’d been looking forward to this séance with an eagerness I didn’t often see in her anymore. And sure enough, she was wearing her silk blouse.

On the way over she chatted about the dinner last night, saying that the macaroni and cheese needed salt, but that the rolls were warm. Then she said, “Oh, I forgot to tell you. We had a lovely visitor yesterday afternoon. He said he knew you.”

Fortunately, we were at a stop light, so I could turn toward her. “You did?”

“Yes. Now I can’t remember his name, but he knew you. He thought you were to meet him.” Her accusing eyes focused on mine. “But you didn’t.”

“Something came up.” I shifted into gear and moved ahead with the traffic. “Jack Landis.”

“Yes, that was his name.”

“I called him and left a message, but he must not have gotten it.”

“Well, he was delightful. Played guitar and had us singing along.”

I pictured him sitting in the middle of a circle of old people smiling as he strummed and sang. The residents—eighty percent of them women—singing along with the chorus of “Golden Slippers” and drinking in his looks and talent. I would have liked to have seen how he interacted with them.

“It made for a pleasant afternoon.”

“I’ll bet.” And what was I doing at the time? Planning a goat heist.

“You say he’s a friend of yours?”

“Sort of.”

“He’s quite handsome, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I guess he is.”

I could feel her watching me. “He seemed quite interested in you.”

And then, almost as an aside, she added, “Although I can’t imagine how he felt with you standing him up.”

“I’m sure he’s gotten my message by now.”

“Perhaps.” After a moment, she added, “Have you heard from him since?”

“I haven’t been home much,” I said, then leaped on the first subject that came to mind. “The séance. Have you thought about what you’re going to ask the, um, spirit?”

She didn’t answer right away, and so I said, “I think it’s got to be something he can answer with a yes or a no.” Then, I added, not without sarcasm, “Unless, of course, you both know Morse code.”

Glaring, she said, “Why do you take that tone with me?”

“It’s not you, Mom,” I said, sighing. “It’s just that I’m not at all sure this woman is legitimate.”

“Well, then all we’ll be wasting is my money.”

I thought about telling her I’d pay for it, but then decided that at this rate whatever it cost to speak to her late husband wasn’t going to make any difference.

Instead, I asked, “What was his favorite food?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, at the last séance, they had a Whopper and fries because the guy we were trying to contact had been a fan.”

“Hmm.” She seemed to be giving it serious thought. “I don’t recall what he had a special fondness for.”

“That’s okay. Probably doesn’t matter.”

“He did like the smell of gardenias.”

“Gardenias?” This small-time thug had a sensitive side.

I considered stopping at a florist shop, but figured the chances of them having gardenias on hand were slim, and we didn’t have time to waste. If Robert had been a Quarter-pounder guy, it would have been much easier.