PART FIFTEEN
(Published in 1999)
You couldn’t miss it, really. Not very far down County #13, right close to the road and standing there all shiny and new in the middle of a big clearing is a two story, log house of considerable size with big windows all over it—fire number 3397.
Roy hits the brakes and we slide past the driveway. He backs up and we turn in. There aren’t any tracks there ahead of us. It’s 12:30 Sunday afternoon. The oldies station plays “The Name Game.”
Ginny, Ginny, bo Pinny banana pana fo Finny, fee fi mo Minny… Ginny.
And the there she is, like sweet berry pie, staring out at me from the huge picture window on the main floor. Cute little red cheeks like I remember them, only now without the tears.
She doesn’t look happy to see me. Her arms are folded tight across her chest and her eyes have that frantic, helpless look I remember so well.
I think, for a second, that I should leave Roy in the car, but I say to hell with that and invite him inside instead. Fuck the Moser’s. If they’d been answering their telephone instead of using that fucking answering machine, it wouldn’t have to be like this. Roy is my compadre now. We’ve been through some shit together. He doesn’t have to know about the banks and all that, but he is going to come in and warm up—maybe have a drink if he wants, while I pick up the cabbage. Or is it lettuce?
Ginny has the door open before I even touch the fancy brass knocker. She gives me a hug that smells of brandy and nerves.
“Jesus Donny, honey. Am I glad you finally got here. Everything is falling apart, Donny, they got Stu…. They—”
“Settle down Virginia,” I say to her in that deep baritone that used to calm her down. This time it’s not working on either of us. “You can tell me inside. I want you to meet my good friend Roy. He’s been kind enough to drive me up here.” Roy nods politely. “Roy, this is Ginny Burns.” She raises her eyebrows at me. “I’m sorry. Ginny Moser—now. I forgot for a minute.”
“Hello,” Roy says. “I hope you don’t mind if I come in and dry off a while. We witnessed a little traffic mishap down the road and I got a little wet, standing out there in the weather.”
“Of course,” Ginny says, bucking up a little. “Maybe one of you can get a fire going. A fire does cheer you up on a day like this.”
“Injun make fire,” Roy says, “white folks talk important business, organize things.”
We go up a small set of carpeted steps into a huge living room with picture windows on two sides and dark, natural woodwork everywhere. I stand there gaping: A thick, dark-stained, wood staircase leads upstairs. It’s an open ceiling plan, and the second floor has a railed catwalk that offers a view of the giant stone fireplace. There is a big skylight in the high ceiling. All I can see is snow coming down.
Roy is bending over the hearth when Ginny puts her arm in mine and leads me into a den at a back corner of the house. We sit down in padded, green wicker chairs in a glassed-in room overlooking the forest. The painted eyes of a fake deer stare back at us from the puffy white yard. Before we even sit down, Ginny puts her arms around my neck and pulls my mouth down to hers. Her tongue works against mine and stirs up old feelings, so I push her away. Salty kisses again, mama.
She starts sobbing. “They got Stu, Donny. The cops got Stu in jail, in Nebraska. They stopped him for speeding and they found the money and guns in the trunk. What are we going to do, Donny? What are we going to do?”
“Hang on here, hang on. What was he doing in Nebraska? Why did the stupid cocksucker have to be speeding?” My gut is on fire.
“He was seeing his brother. Jamie was helping him wash some of the money and working on some of the guns. Fitting silencers and stuff. ’Cause Stu and Jamie are going to team up now that you’re retiring.”
“I told you that son of a bitch Jamie was trouble. He’s a fucking alcoholic, for one thing. He smokes crack, for another. He’s got no discipline—and he’s a thief. I told fucking Stuart that I wanted all my money up here waiting for me. I told him that goddamn Jamie would bring us down. I fucking—”
“He wants me to go down and bail him out.” She’s still whimpering: “All I’ve got is cash. But it’s all clean.”
“You bail him out with cash, they’re going to pop you, too.”
“I talked to a lawyer back in Indianapolis who Stu told me to call. He said that as long as the money is clean there’s nothing they can do to me. They might hold me for a night and try and sweat me, but they won’t be able to keep me there. I got the name of a shyster in Omaha, name of Burton, I can call if they lock me up.”
“How much cash you got here at the house, Ginny?” Stomach is doing flip-flops. Out in the yard the snow is coming down harder and harder. The wind howls and whines against the glass.
My fucking money isn’t here.
“Goddamn it Ginny, I want my cut. Is this some scam of yours? You and Stu? Goddamn it. You know—I really need to get far away from both of you.” I look at her and she’s the poster girl of pathos. “Okay then, tell me how much you got here?”
“Almost three hundred grand, I think.” She dabs her eyes with a Kleenex. “I’ll need a hundred and ten for Stu’s bond. They set it at a million one.”
“Stu finally broke the million mark… one of his lifelong goals. But Jesus fucking Christ, Virginia, three hundred grand is not even close to what I got coming. Are you sure this isn’t some sort of scam? You come playing me with tears and kisses, knowing how easy it is for you? Thinking I’m going to believe anything comes out of your pretty little mouth?”
She laughs bitterly and blows her nose and goes over to a bookshelf in the corner. There are no books inside. She takes a strip of newspaper off the top shelf and brings it to me.
Duluth News Tribune, March 14 Edition: HOVLAND MAN ARRESTED IN NEBRASKA ON FIREARMS VIOLATIONS—1.6 MILLION IN TRUNK—POSSIBLE “OVERCOAT” BANK ROBBER, SAYS FBI.
The shit really had hit the fan.
(To be continued)
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