“I can’t prove he took money,” Angelica cried.
“That’s all right, dear. Knowing Carlos, I’m sure he did.”
“How’s the job?”
“I love it. Much nicer than my old one.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it. It makes me feel better about things.”
“Me, too. Goodnight, Angel.”
Bert—MONDAY
On Monday morning, Bert Shipton received a phone call. The speaker, who did not identify himself, offered Bert a large sum of money if he would come to Washington, D.C., and introduce the speaker to his wife.
“Benita?” blurted Bert.
“She is your wife?”
“Yeah. But, she’s not in Washington. She’s in Denver.”
“No, sir. She is pretending to be in Denver, but we believe she is actually in Washington. We would like to be introduced to her, and you can do this for us. We will pay you ten thousand dollars for your time and trouble.”
Ten thousand dollars! Bert’s mouth began to water. Ten thousand dollars! The best he’d read of in the want ads wouldn’t have netted him ten thousand in a year! Ten thousand would pay off the mortgage arrears. And ten thousand for doing almost nothing was a kick. He could buy into that.
“What d’you want me to do?”
“You will have yourself groomed. A barber shop? A shave and haircut? You will buy new clothing. A suit. Shoes. Other garments as needed. Then go to the airport and fly to Washington today. We will meet you there.”
Bert growled, “I don’t have money for clothes . . .”
“Mr. Shipton. Listen carefully. There is an envelope in your mailbox with money in it. If you go to a bar, if you have even one drink, the deal is off! We will ask your son to introduce us to Benita. If you want the money, you must stay sober.”
Bert grunted, almost dropping the phone in his eagerness to get to the mailbox. The envelope was there, a plain white one with his name on it, containing ten one-hundred-dollar bills. Enough to keep him floating for a long while. He wavered, shifting from foot to foot, thinking of excuses he might make, like he’d been robbed of the money, or lost it …
“If you drink,” said a voice at his ear, “the deal is off! And we’re watching, so you can’t lie to us.”
Bert jumped and stared around himself, seeing nothing but heat haze, rising off the pavement in wavering lines. Like a mirage, he told himself sternly. Just a mirage. Looks like all kinds of things, but it’s only a mirage.
He took the money, put it in his wallet, and went to the barber shop, where a few moments under a steaming towel made him feel slightly better. The steam gave him the idea of going to the baths, where a much younger Bert had occasionally sobered up. After that, he went to the men’s store in the nearest mall, where he outfitted himself as inexpensively as possible, off the rack. Every dollar spent on clothes was a dollar not spent on something more fun.
The sight of himself in the mirror, shaved, shorn, and decently clad, came as a shock. He’d worn a suit when he and Benita had been married. He’d worn a suit to the kids’ high school graduations, though he hadn’t planned on being outdone by his own kids in the education department and was indignant about that. And he’d worn a suit to Benita’s mother’s funeral, though the last thing he’d wanted to do right then was spend an afternoon thinking about that old bitch. Wearing a suit meant trouble, so far as Bert was concerned. Not a good omen, not good at all.
He bought two extra shirts, plus underwear and socks. At the corner drugstore he added a razor and a toothbrush to the shopping bag. There was still a ticket to Washington to buy, and airfares weren’t cheap, as Bert had found out last year when he’d priced roundtrips to California. Angelica had invited them to come, and he’d talked Benita out of it on the grounds they couldn’t afford two tickets and he didn’t want her traveling alone.
He found a taxi outside the nearest hotel and slumped in the seat, already exhausted, his hands shaking. “You all right?” asked the driver.