Short Money (8 page)

It was just as well. He’d already decided to take the job. He really did need the money. Even if the doctor was only enjoying a paranoid fantasy, he seemed to be able to afford it.

After Bellweather retired, secure in the knowledge that the ever vigilant Joe Crow was keeping him safe from the predations of the Murphy clan, Crow wandered the first floor, inspecting Bellweather’s various possessions and trying to guess what each item had cost. The white living room gave him the creeps. In its own way, it was scarier than Bellweather’s trophy room. True, the office was full of dead animal parts—but in the living room, nothing had ever been alive.

The more he looked around, the more neglected the place looked. Dust balls gathered in the corners, faint gray trails crossed the carpeted floors. The few plants were dead or dying. The place needed a housekeeper. The guy had plenty of money—why didn’t he hire a cleaning service?

A door off the kitchen led downstairs into a finished basement, complete with game room, bar, and workshop. The shop tools all had come from the same store, probably all bought on the same day. The table saw blade still had a label glued to it. All the hand tools were shiny and appeared to be unused. It looked as though Bellweather had bought himself a complete home workshop on a whim, had it installed, forgotten about it.

The billiard table had seen some use, but not much. Crow made a few shots but found the game uninteresting without pockets to shoot for. Like squash, billiards had an aristocratic tang to it that made him uncomfortable. He wandered back upstairs into the kitchen and stared at the floor for a few minutes. Crow was no expert, but this was one beautiful tile job. Every tile was slightly different, each had the sort of character that usually came only with great age and use. Must have cost a fortune. Apparently there was money to be made in the liposuction business.

Behind the kitchen, a set of French doors led into a large room that featured the same white carpeting as the front parlor, but this room had been stripped of its furniture—only a few dents in the carpet and an ugly floor lamp remained. It was too bad, because it had the nicest view in the house. One entire wall was windowed, looking out over a long, snow-covered backyard that led down to the frozen lake, gray and still in the moonless night, crisscrossed by the darker lines of snowmobile trails, dotted with black icehouses. Crow stood staring out past his reflection, imagining how it would look in the summer, with sunlight and boats and warm breezes and jumping fish.

Amanda Murphy had not slept well since the night of Sean’s first heart attack, back in ’74. After his second coronary, three years later, when the Good Lord finally took him, she had thought, even in her grief, that the one good thing was that now he was gone she could get a good night’s sleep, not be clinging fitfully to awareness all night long, listening to him respire, hearing every wheezy breath as though it were his last. But Sean’s death had changed nothing. The awareness that immortality had passed her family by was enough to ruin her sleep every night for the rest of her life. Her dreams became more vivid and disturbing with every birthday. Thank the Good Lord she was pushing seventy-five and would not have too many more nights of lying awake alone in bed. She hoped she would go before any of her three children.

Amanda sat up in bed and looked out the window of her room. The sky was low and dark, her view of the woods a study in tangled charcoal against the paler gray of snow-covered earth. Winters were the worst. The nights were so long. She could see the three Talking Lake Ranch snowmobiles lined up outside the lodge, and the old Ford pickup truck with the plow. Ricky’s Hummer was gone. Now where would that boy be, middle of the night? Out chasing some waitress, no doubt. She wasn’t going to think about it. Whatever he did, the Good Lord would forgive him. Boys will be boys. She felt for her slippers, wiggled her toes into their fuzzy interior, and shuffled down the hall toward the kitchen, to heat a cup of cider. Maybe have a shot of Jim Beam with it, which would put her down for an hour or two, at least. Get her closer to the dawn.

George, her elder son, was sitting at the kitchen table in his plaid flannel nightshirt, eating Skippy peanut butter straight from the jar. He looked up as she entered, loaded up his tablespoon, inserted it into his mouth. The thick smell of peanut butter hung in the air.

“You’re gonna get fat,” Amanda said. She would have preferred to have the kitchen to herself. With George there, she would have to skip the Jim Beam. George had this idea that old women shouldn’t drink. Not that he could stop her, but there would be a scene. Hot cider would have to do.

“’M already fad,” mumbled George.

Amanda opened the refrigerator and took out a plastic jug of apple cider, filled a mug, and put it in the microwave for two minutes. She distrusted microwave ovens on general principles, but George’s wife—thank the Good Lord she was finally gone—had bought one, and Amanda now found herself using it daily. While her cider was heating, she watched her peanut-butter-eating son. George was right; he was getting fat. Strong, healthy, and only forty-nine years old, but definitely carrying a few extra pounds around the middle. Not rail thin and nail hard like his daddy. Still, it wasn’t like him to be eating straight peanut butter at three A.M. George usually slept like a bear. Something was bothering him.

The microwave dinged. Amanda took her steaming mug and sat down across from him. She blew across the hot surface of the cider, took a cautious sip. It was very hot, but it smelled wonderful. George screwed the top back onto the peanut butter jar. She watched his cheeks writhe as he worked his tongue around in his mouth, cleaning his teeth. He was a good-looking boy, she decided. Fat as a prize hog, but strong, and he had his father’s eyes.

“Trouble sleepin’?” he asked.

Amanda snorted. She always had trouble sleeping, as he well knew. She had complained about it every single morning for the past two decades.

“I ain’t the only one sitting here in the middle of the God-blest night,” she snapped.

Her words set him back a few inches. It still amazed her, the effect she could have on her boys. Ninety-four pounds to his three hundred, and she could still knock him off his chair with a few sharp words.

“Sorry, Mandy,” he said. He sounded like a boy again. Only difference was, over the past four decades the title Mommy had evolved into Mandy. “Ricky’s took off. I’m worried he’s gonna get himself in trouble. Nelly Bell is back, you know.”

“Ricky told me.”

“I was hoping he’d just disappear.”

“He’s an evil man.”

“I know, Mandy, but he’s a long ways away. He won’t bother us again. We oughta just forget about him.”

“He’s laid a taint on our family. Who will punish him? Who will do the Good Lord’s work?”

George shook his head. “It better not be Ricky. I don’t know how many times old Orlan will be able to cover for him. Besides, it’s not going to make a goddamn bit of difference to Shawn. What’s done is done.”

Amanda pressed her lips together so hard she could feel them buzz. “The doctor laid a taint. Ricky is a good son.”

“He’s a goddamn fool,” George said.

She grabbed the spoon out of George’s hand and whacked him on the forehead.

“Ow! Mandy, that hurt!”

“I won’t have language like that in my kitchen, George Washington Murphy. You can’t sleep, that’s fine by me but I’ll be buttered and toasted if you think I’m going to sit here, three o’clock in the God-blest morning, and listen to your cussing!”

George leaned back, pressing his hand against his forehead.

“I’m gonna have a big lump, right in the middle of my forehead.”

“Boy, you’re gonna have more’n that if you don’t learn to talk better.” Now she was all het up. She stood and got the bottle of Jim Beam out of the cupboard next to the sink, poured two fingers into a water glass, brought it to the table, took an angry sip. “Don’t you say a word,” she said.

George looked at the glass of whiskey, gave his head a slow shake, and opened the peanut butter jar.

Crow jerked his head up and popped his eyelids open. He was sitting at the kitchen counter. Had he been asleep? He blinked; his eyes felt stiff and dry. His watch read 3:47. Something had startled him—the creak of tires on cold snow. He stood and listened. A thrumming, the low sound of a large engine. A snowplow? It sounded close, as if it was right outside. Crow walked quickly to one of the front windows, peered past the edge of the curtain. A Hummer with a camouflage paint job sat parked in the driveway, idling. He could see a man in the driver’s seat, Ricky Murphy, staring fixedly at the door. Crow felt under his jacket for his gun, snug in its worn shoulder holster. The familiar grip felt good in his palm. The smooth texture of duct tape. He looked again through the window. Ricky was still sitting there, not doing anything yet, just looking.

What did he think he was going to do? Crow watched for a minute. Ricky lifted something to his mouth, tipped his head back. Drinking a beer. Crow considered his options. He could simply wait and see what happened. Or he could call the cops, let them deal with it. That would be the smart thing to do.

He moved away from the window, walked back through the house to the kitchen, picked up the phone. His hand hovered over the keypad. What would happen if he called the cops? Not much. If they showed up while Ricky was still there, what would they do? Give him a ticket for the open can of beer? It didn’t seem sufficient. Would they act on Bellweather’s earlier complaint? Probably not, seeing as Ricky had a solid alibi, vouched for by the chief of the Big River police. He put down the phone and let himself out through the back door. The deep snow immediately filled his shoes. He circled the house, trudging through knee-deep snow, and approached the drive, shielded by a low hedge. The faint silhouette of Ricky’s hat shadowed the frosted rear window of the convertible top. Hoping his attention would remain on the front door, Crow climbed over the snowbank and approached the Hummer from the rear. He crept up to the back bumper, came around the driver’s side. Taking a slow, deep breath, he jerked the door open, grabbed Ricky’s collar, and pulled him out of the Hummer.

“Hey!” Ricky hit the ground with his shoulder. The Hummer lurched forward. Ricky rolled, grabbed for the revolver in his belt holster. Crow kicked as the revolver cleared the holster, hitting him in the elbow. The gun flew from Ricky’s hand, skidded across the icy driveway. Crow ran for the gun, scooped it up, and turned it on Ricky. It weighed about twice as much as his little Taurus.

Ricky climbed to his feet. “Crow?” Crow found the astonishment on his weasely face to be immensely gratifying. Ricky bent over, picked up his hat, wedged it back on his head. “The fuck you doin’ here, Crow?”

“Shut up.” He glanced back at the Hummer, which was still moving. Its wheels had been turned into the snowbank, which it climbed easily. Crow expected it to stall out at any moment, but the Hummer showed no sign of slowing. The driverless machine rolled easily through the two feet of snow, heading toward the other side of the circular driveway.

“That your car over there, Crow? I’d move it if I was you.”

It was on a collision course with his Rabbit. Crow ran after the possessed Hummer, which was picking up speed. He was still ten feet behind it when the three-ton vehicle ground into the Rabbit’s front bumper, pushing the smaller vehicle aside, then came to rest with its steel brush guard against the trunk of a three-foot-diameter elm tree. The engine coughed, died.

Crow stopped, his wing tips sliding on the icy driveway, turned back toward Ricky, who was right behind him, too close. Crow jabbed the barrel of the confiscated revolver into Ricky’s midsection.

“Oof.” A mist of beery breath filled the space between them. Ricky stumbled back, doubled over. He raised his head and said something Crow couldn’t understand, something not nice.

“Shut up,” Crow said. He held the gun out, looking down its long barrel. He couldn’t believe this. He’d had an accident, smashed up his car, and no one had been driving.

“Real fuckin’ swift, Crow,” Ricky wheezed. He stood up straight, breathing better now. “Musta knocked ’er inta gear when you pulled me outta there. I always knew you was a dumb shit.”

“I said shut up.” Crow held the gun trained on Ricky’s midsection. The trigger, a cold, insistent band of metal, pressed against the pad of his forefinger. He felt the blood gathering in his face, felt it swelling. He imagined doing it. Just letting it happen.

Ricky’s expression became uncertain. “Hey-y-y.” He took a step back. “Take it easy now, Crow. I was just sitting here having myself a little brewski. You gonna shoot me for that?”

“What are you doing here?” Crow heard the words coming out, level and clear, calmer than he felt. He shifted his stance, standing up straighter. His gun hand relaxed slightly.

Ricky rolled his shoulders and curled his upper lip. “Just thought I’d drop by and see how you cocksuckers live, Crow. I didn’t know you was hanging with old Nelly Bell. You and him got a little thing, hey, that’s your business.”

“What’s your problem with Dr. Bellweather?”

Ricky laughed. Crow cocked the revolver; it made a loud click, just like in the movies, but Ricky was not impressed. Whatever he had seen earlier in Crow’s face was gone. “I got no problems, Crow. You’re the one’s got problems.” Ricky turned up the collar of his parka and buried his hands in his pockets.

Crow became aware that he was standing outside, no hat or gloves, and it had to be ten or fifteen below zero. The gun metal sucked the heat from his fingers, his toes were numb, he began to shiver. One more try.

“Talk to me, Ricky. Why are you harassing this man?” He strained for an authoritative note, but his shivering carried through to his voice.

“Ha-rass-ing? That what you call it, Crow? You’re more fucked up than he is.” Ricky started toward the Hummer.

“Hold it right there,” Crow ordered.

“Screw you, Crow. It’s too fucking cold for this.” He stopped. “You gonna give me my gun back?”

Crow kept the big revolver trained on him. Ricky spat on the driveway, climbed into the Hummer, backed it away from the elm tree. He grinned through the window, flipped a left-handed bird, and rolled off down the driveway. Crow watched until the taillights turned onto Blueberry Trail and disappeared.