“I can’t do that. The money’s with someone else who’s not too happy it’s counterfeit.”
Jimmy starts to say more but his cell phone rings with those pompous bah bah bah bum Beethoven notes. It’s the phone he uses for business, the one he tells me never to touch. He picks it up and starts talking about money, but while he’s talking, I get the sick feeling that Tully’s going to demand his money back, counterfeit or not, way quicker than either of us anticipates. As I’m mulling over what might happen when Tully finds out about this fake cash, Jimmy’s call becomes contentious. He tells whomever he’s talking to that “you gave me forty-eight hours to come up with the money. Forty-eight hours!” but the man’s already switching boats on Jimmy. Whatever the money’s about—financing or something—the guy tells Jimmy he needs to come up with the financing right away. That, at least, is what I think the guy says. Jimmy screams. And then he asks, “Say, how’d you get my phone number?” to which I hear derisive laughter coming from the other end of the line.
The call ends, none to Jimmy’s satisfaction. He stands up and leans against the sliding glass windows, fuming.
“Who was that?” I ask, expecting to be told about some demanding client whose investment expectations are way too high.
“That was a private investigator, the guy who I gave Tully’s money to.”
I screw up my eyes at him. “You told me only suckers hire private investigators.”
“So sue me. I’m a sucker, okay?” Jimmy hunches his shoulders. “That’s who I am: a sucker.”
Chapter Thirty
JIM
Laurel’s hand is rough, her skin dried with fever, dehydration, and the demands of motherhood. As she drifts off to sleep again, I sing the pinnacle of Arlen and Mercer’s songs to her—“It’s Only a Paper Moon,” “Over the Rainbow,” “Jeepers Creepers,” and “Ac-cent-tchu-ate the Positive”—all of them born out of the Depression-era ethos of raise-your-chin-up, can-do optimism. If we’re to proceed happily through life, we need to embrace the lies that hover around us, collecting in every nook and cranny of our zeitgeist and our very being. From her slumbers, Laurel murmurs with what I choose to believe is delight over my performances, but I know my vocal limits—I’m no Sinatra, Bing Crosby, or even a serviceable Ray Eberle tenor. A casual listener might be forgiven for thinking the songs of the era died long ago, that people of Laurel’s generation wouldn’t recognize them, but how could any song that asks, “Where’d you get those peepers?” ever be outdated?
“Stay with me,” Laurel says, rubbing her eyes in a half-somnolent state, her voice yawny with sleep.
“I will, honey. Of course I will.”
“Stay with me. Stay with me until I wake up again.”
“Of course I will.” I pat her hand. “Of course I will.”
My inclination is to lie beside her, but as I pull the stem to the alarm clock so I can wake up in a few hours, my mind races. I’m also concerned for Anne Elise. She’s missing. I’ve been worrying about her ever since Trish phoned me with news of her kidnapping. I’ve vowed to myself to forevermore treat her as my own child. I’ve hardly been able to sleep, so worried have I been. My worrying isn’t made any easier by Laurel. She, too, needs my help. She breathes unevenly, the rhythm of her raspy whew-fruf-fruf breaths like water splattering from a rusty pump. No hospital in the world had any right to release her. She needs a sedative, something to give her a good spell of uninterrupted sleep so she can recover from her infection.
My conversation with Simpkins did not go well. He’s freaked out by the counterfeit money. Already he’s threatening lawsuits against me, threatening to turn the police on me. Why can’t he just flush the money down the toilet? Toss it in an incinerator, light a match, and watch the black smoke rise from a chimney? It’s impossible to tell good money from bad by the color of its ashes. Today. That’s how long he’s giving me. And then what? When I asked, he chuckled sardonically and slipped into a tough-guy voice. “Buddy, I’ve got ways of getting at you that are more immediate and more painful than anything the legal system can dish out, if you get my drift. You know what a kneecapping is?”
So I’m going to be kneecapped. Not by Simpkins, for I can’t see him with a vicious streak deep enough to do the job himself, but a man in his profession knows unsavory types, paid thugs who’d gladly fuck up my ambulatory abilities for a fee. Simpkins talks a good ethical game, but as soon as serious money enters into play, everyone’s ethics invariably take a hike.
“Are you still here?” Laurel murmurs.
“Sure, honey. But I need to leave in a few minutes,” I say, getting out of bed. I need to get good money to replace the bad that Simpkins is holding. Do I know where to get the money? Yes, but it’s not going to be easy. “I’ll be back, though. You can trust me.”
The call comes when I’m in my car, my cell phone showing an unrecognizable number that I mistake for being Simpkins’s or some minion he’s dispatched to whack or hack my knee to pieces. When I answer, I hear the voice of Jack Riggs over a wave of static so dense you’d think the voice was coming from the scratchiest of my old shellac 78s. An odd rhythmic, electronic pinging punctuates the call like the tick-tock of a metronome.
“Hey. Can I call you right back? We must have a bad line. I can hardly hear you.”
“No!” Jack says. The echo of other conversations bleeds through the background static on this line. Jack’s voice becomes clearer, but the posh quality I’ve long admired in his voice is absent. His words, his syllables, and even the ah-umms that punctuate his thoughtful pauses are slurred, mumbled, as if his lips were swollen or working off the effects of a dentist’s Novocain injection. “Don’t hang up on me. We need to talk.”
“Jack, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I . . . ah-umm . . . I heard the good news about you. About the baby. Tricia told me yesterday morning. She told me your good news. About your new baby. Congratulations!”
I feared Jack wouldn’t welcome the news, that he’d reject me or tell Trish to keep me away from her money. However, he’s happy. My heart stutters. He must realize I’ve been unfaithful to his daughter, but there’s no anger or cynicism in his voice, and it boggles my mind that Jack Riggs—the most sardonic octogenarian alive—could be so bighearted as to welcome the birth of a child born to his son-in-law’s mistress.
“You’re okay with this?”
“Course I’m okay with that. I couldn’t be happier for you. But that’s not why I’m calling.”
“Thank you, sir. This makes me glad. I can’t tell you how grateful I am for your understanding of the situation.”
“Roosters roost. That’s why I’m calling. Level with me, James. Are you doing all right financially?”
No man desires to admit he’s a deadbeat alcoholic loser, especially to his father-in-law, but prevarication is what makes the world go round. I tell Jack things couldn’t be finer for us, which is what he wants to hear. “Work is going well, all my investments—both for myself and for my clients—are coming up roses. Absolute roses!”
“I mean, do you have money set aside that’s separate and independent from Tricia’s accounts?”
“Trust me, Jack. We’re nobody’s fool. We’ve got a diverse portfolio. Money in her name. Money in my name. Money in both our names. Hey, Jack, what’s this all about?”
“Is it enough to tide you two over should something . . . ah-umm . . . happen to eradicate Tricia’s portfolio?”
“What’s this all about, sir? Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I already told you: roosters roost. That’s why I’m calling. I’m making sure you’ve got yourself covered. You’ll take care of Tricia, won’t you?”