Short Money (18 page)

George examined Crow’s face. “I’m looking for my son,” he said.

“Here?” Crow asked. “I don’t get it.” The words had hardly left his lips when Ricky jammed the barrel of his revolver, all his speed and weight behind it, into Crow’s lower back. His kidney exploded with pain, his body snapped back, his shins cracked against the underside of the counter, the stool flew off to the side, and Crow hit the floor with his shoulder. He felt the pain slicing up through his abdomen, striking the base of his skull with audible force. The small fragment of his mind that was still working thought that he had been shot. He could hear voices.

“That wasn’t necessary, Ricky.”

“Bullshit. The son-of-a-bitch has it coming, and more.”

“Well now you just ease off there. Let’s talk to the man, see what he has to say, okay?”

Crow heard the words, decoded them. All he could think was, If I’ve been shot, how come my ears aren’t ringing? He opened his eyes and saw greenish gray carpeting. The pain was rapidly localizing. He reached back, expecting the hot liquid feel of blood. Nothing. He realized that he had just taken a kidney punch, a blood pisser for sure, but knowing that he wasn’t carrying a slug of lead in his abdomen made the pain tolerable. He pushed himself onto his hands and knees, looked up at George.

“Are you all right?” George asked. He sounded genuinely concerned. “Can you stand up?”

Crow straightened his back, turned and looked at Ricky.

“He gets excited sometimes,” George said. “Don’t worry about it. Pick up that stool and sit down. I just need to ask you a few questions.”

Crow climbed to his feet, his abdomen twisted to the left. Keeping Ricky in his field of vision, he picked up the stool and sat, the wooden seat ice cold on his bare buttocks. His towel had fallen off, but it no longer seemed important.

George leaned across the counter and spoke, his large lips squeezing out the words. “All I want is my son. I want to know where he is.”

“I don’t know where he is,” Crow said, watching Ricky.

“I want him back.”

“Look, I don’t know anything about this.” Crow pronounced the words carefully, wanting to be absolutely clear. “I’ve never seen your boy. All I know about him is what you told me.”

George reached back and pulled out a wallet, flipped it open, and pointed a thick finger at a small color photo of a chubby, dark-haired boy. “Shawn,” he said.

Crow shook his head.

George sat back, picked up the ice cream, spooned another ounce into his mouth. His eyes got smaller. “Then tell me where I can find Nelly Bell.”

“I have no idea,” Crow said. “I was supposed to see him tonight, but when I got there he was gone. Someone had broken in. A window was broken.”

“Yes, he has better locks on his doors than you do. Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“He has Shawn.”

“It’s news to me. What makes you think he’s got him?”

“We found his Vikings cap. Right on Nelly Bell’s kitchen counter. Where is he, Crow? Where is Bellweather?”

Crow hated to repeat himself. “I told you,” he said, shaking his head, “I don’t—” He saw Ricky moving and brought his arm up, this time catching the gun butt on his left triceps, a hard blow that spun him off the stool and numbed his arm. Ricky swung again, a vicious backhand that clipped Crow on the chin as he staggered back, then he connected with his boot, a perfect Tony Lama shot to Crow’s dangling testicles. Crow doubled up and hit the floor with his face.

Ricky followed through with a series of nasty kicks to the gut and ribs, which Crow hardly noticed—for the moment, his universe began and ended with his balls.

“That’s enough, Ricky. Leave him alone.”

“I say we pop ’im.”

“Get out! Now! Let me and him talk, okay? The important thing is we find Shawn. You kill him, it ain’t gonna do us any good.”

Crow heard the shuffle of boots on carpet, heard the door open and close. He wanted to throw up, but that would hurt too. Every muscle in his body had gone rigid; he could feel his heart pulsing waves of pain up his abdomen and down every limb. He heard George Murphy’s voice.

“I’m really sorry about that, Officer Crow. Ricky’s upset about his nephew, as I’m sure you can imagine. Would you like some ice cream? A glass of water?”

Days or seconds later, Crow opened his eyes and acquired a sitting position. He looked down at his crotch. Things were still attached, but the pain filled his lower abdomen. He lifted his head. Out of focus. He squeezed his eyes closed, which hurt, then opened them, which also hurt. George Murphy’s face—friendly, solicitous, caring—hung before him.

“Are you all right?”

Crow looked around. His apartment appeared normal. The walls weren’t covered with blood. For some reason this surprised him. The only thing out of place was the big man sitting in his kitchen.

“Ricky’s gone,” George said.

Crow touched his chin. It felt pulpy and tender. Ricky gone? His mind, churning, produced a moment of regret. How could he kill a man who was gone?

“Are you sure you don’t want some ice cream?” George was holding out a spoon. Ice cream dripped on the countertop. Crow fixed his gaze on the spoon but did not move or reply. Murphy shrugged and ate the ice cream. “Let me ask you something,” he said. “Are you still working for Nelly Bell?”

Crow shook his head slowly. He opened and closed his jaw. It seemed to be working. “I don’t think so,” he said. It was a true and—more important—a safe response. His voice sounded and felt awful, like bubbles rising through sand.

“Then you need a job, right?”

“No.”

“I want you to find my son.”

“I don’t know where your son is,” Crow said.

“I believe you. I really do. If I didn’t, I would have let Ricky keep kicking you. Ricky gets excited. You have to understand that about him. He’s convinced that you took Shawn. I personally don’t believe it. I don’t think you would do a thing like that. Besides, when I watched you drive away you were alone.” Murphy paused, his brow contracted. “Maybe you don’t know where he is, but I think you can find him. You do that sort of thing, right? You find people.”

“Call the cops,” Crow suggested. “They do that sort of thing too.” His left arm was hurting now, a sharper sensation that cut through the throbbing in his gut. He stood up, grabbing the counter for support.

“Take it easy now,” George said, standing and reaching out a hand to steady him. Crow brushed it away. George shook his head sadly. “Look, I don’t want the police involved here. It’s nothing we can’t take care of—me, you, and Ricky. I’ll pay you for your time, of course.”

“That’s what Bellweather said.”

“Really? He hasn’t paid you? Then you’ll be looking for him anyway, won’t you? That’s good. Let me know when you find him.” Murphy grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. Crow almost collapsed. “Tell you what,” Murphy said, his hand on the doorknob. “If I find him first, I’ll collect your money for you. How much does he owe you?”

Crow staggered toward the sofa bed, lowered himself to the mattress. “Two hundred dollars.”

“Two hundred? You must work cheap.”

Crow bent forward, as if he was about to vomit, slipped his hand into the pile of clothing, came out with the Taurus. He aimed it at Murphy’s belly.

“Fuck you,” he said. Not brilliant, but to the point.

Murphy laughed. “I can tell you’re upset. We’ll talk about this again tomorrow.” He opened the door. “I have to get going. Let me know if you find anything, okay?”

“Fuck you,” Crow said again. It felt good to say it, even if he was repeating himself.

Murphy said, “Good night, Officer Crow.” He closed the door.

She’s got eyes in the back of my head
.

—SEAN MURPHY’S JOURNAL

A
MANDA MADE THE BEST
pancakes. Thick, tasty, and about a quarter pound each. A couple of them would keep a man moving till lunchtime, and if his bowels were sluggish, they’d move those too. George Murphy cut his stack into wedges, applied a half cup of Log Cabin syrup, and loaded them methodically into his mouth. Ricky cut his with the edge of his fork, a bite at a time, butter and a sprinkle of sugar, but no syrup. Amanda stood at the stove and watched. She liked to watch the boys eat. When they had both finished devouring their stacks, she quietly poured them another round of hot coffee.

George was in one of his moods.

Everybody knew that Ricky had a short fuse, and people had said the same thing about her. But George had his moods too. Ever since he was a little kid, good-natured most of the time, he did what she told him, worked hard—but there was a devil inside him. Amanda had learned to leave him alone when he was like this. Let him stew, and he’d get over it Don’t ask him any questions; don’t try to tell him what to do.

She knew he was worried. Last night they’d come home late, without the boy. So far, neither George nor Ricky had seen fit to let her know what they had learned. She watched George sipping his coffee, glaring down at his syrup-covered plate. He didn’t look like he was going to talk anytime soon, so she addressed her question to Ricky.

“How’d it go last night?” she asked.

“Nelly Bell’s got Shawn. We found his cap,” Ricky said.

George lowered his chin; his jaw pulsed. He dipped his finger in the pool of syrup remaining on his plate, licked it. Amanda could see the warning signs. This was not the same peanut-butter-eating George Murphy she had whacked across the forehead with a spoon. She tried something like that now, he might bust her one. Still, she persisted.

“You talk to that friend of yours? That Crow man?”

“He ain’t my friend,” Ricky said. “And he didn’t tell us nothing.”

“He doesn’t know anything,” George growled.

“Bullshit,” Ricky muttered.

George dropped his coffee, and his arm shot out. The back of his fingers raked audibly across Ricky’s cheek, the coffee cup hit the edge of his plate and shattered.

Ricky shouted something unintelligible, jumped up, and backed away, holding a hand to his face. His chair crashed to the floor. Amanda reached back and grabbed her spatula. Ricky took his hand from his face, looked at it.

“You oughta cut those nails, bro.”

George blinked at the mess on the table as though its origin were a complete mystery.

Amanda watched the coffee drip off the edge of the table. Her momentary fear turned to anger. “You want that boy to grow up a man, you better find him quick, George Washington Murphy,” she said. “You got that fat son-in-law of mine out lookin’?”

“Orlan? What good would that do? Nelly Bell’s in Minneapolis or someplace. He ain’t even in Orlan’s county.”

“So send him to Minneapolis.”

“We send Orlan to the cities, who knows what kind of trouble he’d get hisself into.”

“Least he’d be out lookin’.” Amanda, her chin raised, gripped the spatula. George reached out and took it from his mother’s hand.

“We’ll find him, Mandy. We’ll find them both.” He put a hand on his mother’s forearm and squeezed gently. “I’ve got that fellow Crow working on it. Might be he’s found the boy already.”

Amanda said, “Well, if you won’t call him, I will. What’s the use of having a cop in the family if you don’t use him?”

“Call him if you want, for all the good it’ll do. Meantime, I got a dead elk to sell.” George turned and lumbered out of the kitchen. She heard him walk down the hall, slam the door to his office.

“What’s his problem?” Ricky dabbed at the scratch on his cheek with a napkin.

Amanda shook her head and set about cleaning up the broken coffee cup. “I don’t know for sure,” she said. “Only I think I better cook him up a batch of prunes, just to be on the safe side.”

On the third ring, Crow awakened. He counted the rings without moving, without opening his eyes. The phone rang eight times. After the echoes faded, Crow slowly opened his mouth and worked his jaw from side to side. Yes, it hurt. He opened his eyes and blinked at the ceiling until the texture came into focus, rolled his eyes from side to side. He turned his head to the left, toward the kitchenette. No Murphys there. Sunlight glared through the window over the sink. He lifted his head and looked at the locked and chained door. He looked to the right. Nothing. Nobody here but Joe Crow. He looked down his body. His right arm ended in a hand, in the hand was a revolver, the Taurus, his index finger on the trigger. He pulled his finger out of the trigger guard and let his head fall back. He was lucky he hadn’t shot himself in the foot during the night. He imagined what it would be like to wake up that way, two or three toes suddenly blown to hamburger and bone chips.

He didn’t want to move. To move would hurt. It would probably hurt a lot.

The telephone started to ring again. This time he turned his head and watched it, two feet away on the end table. It looked exactly the same ringing as it did silent. It persisted for ten rings. Crow closed his eyes.

Inevitably, boredom overcame inertia. He rolled onto his side, swung his feet out past the edge of the mattress, and sat up. The pain from his injuries was not as great as he had feared, but a wave of nausea caught him by surprise. He staggered into the bathroom and vomited a few paltry ounces of bile into the toilet.

The telephone rang. Crow sat naked on the cold floor, fascinated by the patterns he saw in the bathroom tiles, listening.

Sally Jessy had found two couples who had been married over ten years without ever consummating their marriage. Somehow, they had felt the need to go before a national television audience to defend their lifestyles. The two men did not have a lot to say. Uniformly wooden-faced, they both said, in so many words, that they simply were not interested in sex. They wanted a friend, a cook, and a companion. The wives both took somewhat more complicated positions. They claimed to be interested in sex but not in having intercourse. They claimed to like to “cuddle,” whatever that was, and they wished their husbands would do more of it. One of the women was an avid reader of romance novels, the other a family counselor.

The studio audience was aghast. The spectacle of four married middle-aged virgins brought forth a tide of concern. Had they consulted physicians? Didn’t they want children? Were they saying that sex was bad? The two couples became defensive and angry. Sally Jessy looked tired.