Short Money (25 page)

Anderson tossed back his fourth Scotch and soda and grinned. “By God,” he said, “I did it!”

“You sure did,” said George Murphy.

“I took the son-of-a-bitch!”

“With one shot,” said Murphy. “An elk that size, that’s not easy. Must’ve been a heart shot, the way he dropped.”

“Christ, I don’t even remember aiming. I was shaking in my pants.”

“You looked pretty cool to me,” Murphy said. This was not his favorite thing. But it was business. Sitting around watching one of his clients get drunk, reliving the hunt, shooting the damned thing over and over again, like working the remote on a VCR. You had to let them do it, have a few drinks, get the whole experience burned into their brains. It was always the same. He wished Anderson would hurry up and wind down.

“I can’t wait to hang that sucker up. It’s going right over the fireplace, no matter what Patty says.”

George doubted that, but he said nothing. He was having trouble staying with Anderson’s jubilant mood. Now that he’d taken care of the elk problem, Shawn’s disappearance hung on him. Unpleasant imaginings buzzed gnatlike in his mind. He would brush them away, but they would gather strength and return. Flashes of Shawn and Bellweather. He was anxious to hear from Ricky, who had gone to pay Nate Bellweather a visit. With any luck, he would find both Bellweathers, and Shawn.

“You think it’ll go over four hundred points?”

“I guaranteed it, didn’t I?” In fact, he had measured Number One’s antlers the day they’d found him dead in the north pasture. The rack had scored out at four hundred eighteen points. “Fact, I betcha it’ll go over four fifteen.”

Anderson gaped. “No shit? Four fifteen. That’ll make the record book.” He poured himself another slug of Scotch, this time skipping the soda water. “What a great hunt,” he said.

George Murphy smiled, thinking back to that morning, when he and Ricky had spent two hours rigging the dead elk, hanging it in a jerry-rigged harness from the limb of the old oak. It had worked perfectly. The snowstorm had been a stroke of luck. In clear weather, even an idiot like Anderson might not have been fooled. He thought back to the first time Number One had been shot. Killed by a slug from a single-shot .22. That in itself was remarkable, that a fifteen-hundred-pound animal could be felled by a bit of soft lead no larger than a corn kernel. He felt an unexpected wave of pride for his son, the hunter.

Anderson was asking about the mount, wanting to know how long it would take.

“You tell Ollie I sent you,” George said. “He’ll give you the good service.”

Amanda Murphy walked into the lodge, holding the cordless phone, a peculiar expression on her face. His heart jumped. Was it Ricky? So soon? He’d left only an hour and a half ago, but the way Ricky drove, anything was possible.

Mandy thrust the phone at him, antenna first. Murphy took it, smiled apologetically at Anderson, put the phone to his ear, and grunted a hello into the mouthpiece.

“George Murphy?”

“That’s right,” he admitted. Mandy was peering at him intently.

“This is David Getter. I’m an attorney.”

“Yeah?” He gave Mandy a look. She crossed her arms and gave it right back to him. “What can I do for you?” he asked. “Somebody gonna sue me?”

“I understand your son ran away,” Getter said.

Murphy sat up straight. “Yeah?” He stood, walked toward his office. He wasn’t sure he knew where this conversation was going to go, but it would be better if Steve Anderson didn’t hear it.

“I’m calling on behalf of a client who wishes to inquire about the reward.”

“Reward? What reward?” He reached his office, closed the door.

“You aren’t offering a reward for the safe return of your son?”

“How would you like to tell me who your client is?”

“He has asked to remain anonymous.”

“But we both know which piece of dogshit we’re talking about, don’t we, Mr. Getter?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t discuss my client’s identity.”

Murphy sat in his chair, closed his eyes. “Tell me what you want, Mr. Getter.”

“Ah, yes …My client has reason to believe that if you were to offer a reward of, say, three hundred thousand dollars, there would be a very good chance that he could locate your son.”

Murphy couldn’t believe it, but there it was. The son-of-a-bitch was asking for ransom. “Mind if I ask how you came up with that figure?”

“It’s my client’s suggestion. I’m simply passing it on to you.”

“Are you sure you want to do this, Mr. Getter?”

“I don’t understand.”

George said, “Let me tell you something. If my son were to suddenly show up here on my doorstep, I would not be ungrateful. I might even pay over a small reward. But if I thought he had been kidnapped and if I was forced to ransom him … well, I might hold a grudge. You know what I mean.”

Getter cleared his throat. “My client asked me to tell you that … ah … the matter is not open to negotiation.”

“I see. I’m going to have to think about it. How can I get in touch with you?”

“I’ll call you back.” The line went dead. Murphy opened his eyes. His mother was standing in the doorway to his office, her eyes crackling. “I could feel him,” she said. “I could smell the taint.”

There are characters wearing hockey masks in low-budget teen-exploitation movies who show more care with sharp instruments. It sounded like a bunch of grade-school boys playing with Jell-O.

—A PHYSICIAN, AFTER VIEWING A LIPOSUCTION PROCEDURE

T
HE RECEPTIONIST AT THE
West End Clinic wanted to know if he had an appointment.

“No, I don’t,” Crow told her. “It’s a personal matter. I’m trying to locate Dr. Bellweather. It’s important.”

The receptionist pursed her collagen-inflated lips and asked him to have a seat. Crow had a seat. He picked up an
Architectural Digest
and flipped through the pages, looking at each photo. He saw little he liked and nothing he could afford. A moment later, a tired-looking man with tortoiseshell glasses entered the waiting room and approached him.

“I’m Dr. Neal. What can we do for you?”

Crow put down the magazine. “I’m looking for Dr. Bellweather.”

“Are you one of his patients?”

“I’ve been doing some work for him.”

“I’m sorry, but Dr. Bellweather is no longer associated with this clinic.”

“Do you know where I can find him?”

Dr. Neal shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry, but I don’t.”

“Was there some problem?” Crow asked.

“I really can’t say.”

“I understand,” said Crow, who didn’t. Another thought occurred to him. “By the way, Dr. Bellweather told me I’d be paid through the clinic. Could you look and see whether there’s a check here for me?” It was a long shot but worth asking.

Dr. Neal solemnly shook his head.

“You won’t look, or there’s no check?”

“Both,” said the doctor. He clicked on a smile and held it until Crow turned and left the clinic.

Shawn climbed into the Jag and immediately started playing with the radio, while Dr. Bellweather stowed his bag in the trunk. Nate stood in the driveway, arms crossed over his flannel shirt, face expressionless.

“You gonna be okay?” he asked.

“I’ll send you a postcard,” Bellweather said.

The front door opened, and Ginny stuck her head out. “Nate, you get inside. You’ll freeze to death without a coat.”

Nate started back toward the house.

“She has you trained,” the doctor said.

Nate said, “Fuck you, Nels.” He entered the house without looking back. The doctor climbed into his car, put it in gear, backed out onto the street.

“You know what you should do?” Shawn asked.

“No, I don’t.”

“You should do like my dad does with his money.”

Bellweather smiled indulgently, shifted to first, started toward the freeway. “Oh? And what does he do?”

“You should save your money. What my dad does is, when he gets a bunch of money he saves some of it. Then when he needs money he always has some.”

Doc gave Shawn an appraising look. “Stuffs it in his mattress, I suppose.”

Shawn knew he shouldn’t be telling his dad’s secrets, but Doc looked so interested and impressed, he couldn’t stop himself. “He puts it in his safe,” he said.

“George has a safe?”

Shawn nodded. He had the doctor’s full attention now. “It’s my secret ’heritance. I saw him put some money in it one time, and he made me promise not to tell my uncle or Grandy. I bet he has a million dollars. You know where it is?”

Bellweather shook his head.

“You know Louise, his pig? She’s got this, like, little door in one side.”

Doc took his foot off the gas. “Louise? Are you talking about that stuffed pig he has in his office?”

Shawn nodded. “You should do that. Get a safe for your money, so you don’t run out. That would be the smart thing to do.”

Andrea put through another call from Bellweather.

“Well?”

“I talked to him,” Getter said. “He was upset.”

“I bet he was.” Bellweather laughed, hitting a high note that caused Getter to jerk the phone away from his ear. “So what did he say?”

“What do you think? He wants his boy back.”

“And?”

“I told him what it would cost, and he said he’d have to think about it.”

Bellweather did not reply. Getter let him hang for ten seconds, then said, “I called him back.”

“Don’t pull my chain, Dave.”

“I’m not. He’s agreed to our terms, with one exception.”

“What would that be?”

“He wants to meet us at the ranch.”

“That’s funny. Did you laugh?”

“I said we’d get back to him.”

“Good. Let him stew for a couple hours, then call him back and tell him you’ll meet him halfway. Tell him you’ll meet him at Birdy’s.”

“Meet him? Hey, I’m just handling the phone calls. I thought you understood that.”

“I’m not paying this kind of money for phone work. You have to be there.”

“I don’t want to get within ten miles of that kid.”

“Don’t worry about it. You tell George to meet you at Birdy’s. Tomorrow morning, ten o’clock. I’ll be a few minutes away, at a phone. I’ll call a little after ten. All you have to do is tell me if he’s there and if he has the money. Then you tell him that I’m on my way. Then you leave.”

“And what are you going to do?”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“You’re right. I don’t want to know anything.”

“That’s very lawyerly of you.”

“How do I get my share?”

“I’ll get it to you.”

“I don’t know that I’m comfortable with that.”

Bellweather laughed. “If you want, you can wait at Birdy’s.”

Getter cleared his throat. “I’ll have to think about that.”

“Fine. You think about it. In the meantime, set up the meeting.” Bellweather broke the connection.

Getter sat behind his desk, staring at his diploma on the wall. Every few minutes, he checked his watch. At four-fifteen, he put on his suit jacket and overcoat. Forget Bellweather. He had more important things to do. Maybe he would make the call to Murphy later, if he felt like it.

“I’m gone for the day, Andrea,” he said. “Stay with the phone till five, okay? If Mary calls again, tell her I’m in a meeting.”

Andrea watched him leave without comment.

Thirty minutes later, Getter was beginning to feel much better, and shortly after four fifty-three he enjoyed five and one quarter seconds of genital-centered ecstasy. He was so pleased with himself he tipped Sinnamon an extra twenty bucks and didn’t even bother to put his tie back on or button his overcoat when he walked out of the steamy confines of Myoka’s Health Club and into the chilly winter predusk. A few flakes of snow drifted down, striking the black, salted surface of the street, melting on contact. He noticed a man standing directly in front of him, blocking his exit, holding a small yellow box in front of his face. Getter hesitated, not sure what he was seeing, when a tiny, bright light flashed in his eyes.

Crow said, “These are great. You walk into a store, pay them nine ninety-five plus tax, and you walk out with a cardboard camera all loaded up and ready to shoot. It’s even got a flash.” He grinned, looked through the camera, and snapped off another shot of Dave Getter standing in front of Myoka’s Health Club. “Of course, I don’t know about the quality. If they’re any good, I’ll make sure you and Mary get copies.”

Getter slowly buttoned his overcoat. “This is low, even for you, Joe.” He walked around Crow and headed down the sidewalk toward his Mercedes.

Crow put the disposable camera in his coat pocket and followed. “I agree,” he said. “I’ve been feeling sort of low. So what?”

Getter stopped and turned around. “What do you want?”

“You know what I want. I want to know where Bellweather is. I want to know why his house is posted.”

“I’m doing some legal work for Myoka. Those pictures you took, they don’t mean a thing.”

Crow smiled. The fact that Getter was bothering to tell him the photos weren’t important meant that they were. “I know that, Dave. I probably won’t even bother to get them developed.”

“Good.” Getter buried his hands in his coat pockets and walked away. The snow was coming down harder, dotting the shoulders of his overcoat.

Crow fell in beside him, saying, “This snow is supposed to get worse. I hear they’re really getting hit out west of here.”

“How awful.” He stopped beside his Mercedes. “You know, I was thinking. Bellweather is your client too. We both have his interests at heart, right?”

“Of course,” said Crow.

“I suppose a little shared information—just between us—maybe it would be a good thing.”

“Do you think so?”

Getter nodded, as though considering a clever suggestion. “Look, I can’t tell you where he is, because I don’t know. As you know, he’s having a little problem with the IRS.”

“I gathered as much, seeing as they’ve seized his property.”

“Yes. It’s been an ongoing problem for him.”

“You’re telling me he’s hiding from the IRS?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t. He’s got three lawsuits pending against him, a half million owing in back taxes, and a number of creditors, including you and me. I wouldn’t be in his shoes for anything.”