The Bible Salesman (19 page)

“We’ve got to do some careful planning,” said Clearwater. “This guy is a big operator like the one we just did, and it’ll be another three hundred for you. And we need to do it right. We’re scheduled to do it Wednesday, but I want to do it today. We got to prepare good for this one. This doctor in Drain is the bookkeeper and banker for the car-theft ring part of this operation. He keeps the money, and he also does all the bullet removals, operations, plastic surgery, and all that. We’ve got to come up with some kind of inventive way to get in his house with him there, so he can open the safe for us. He’s got a maid that stays at his house all day, so it will have to be at night. He takes his retarded son to baseball games every Monday and Wednesday afternoon, drops him off, then picks him up. I’ve got a general plan.”

Henry noticed a tone he hadn’t heard before — something that sounded a little bit like being scared of something. The plantation safe had been fun, hadn’t it? They’d had to improvise. Maybe Clearwater didn’t like that part. He seemed different. He’d always seemed bigger than life. Now he seemed not quite so big.

“What’ll it be after that?” asked Henry.

“A vacation. You can buy a car, go see your girlfriend. Leave me a phone number up in North Carolina and I’ll call you in a week or two.”

They talked through their plan, stopped for lunch and then at a clothing store to shop for Henry’s disguise. He was going to have to dress up like a girl.

In the early afternoon, they arrived in Drain and Henry pulled over and got out of the car a hundred yards prior to a motel with a small palm tree beside a neon sign, bullock’s motel, free shower and tv. A neon rooster hung in the window — red, blue, and yellow.

They were to meet in Clearwater’s room before Clear-water went to the ball game, where the doctor and his son would be.

Henry tapped on the door and Clearwater unlocked it. In the room was a bed, table, two chairs, a television — like Henry’s, except Clearwater’s bedspread was green instead of brown.

“Does your TV work?” asked Henry.

“I ain’t interested in it. We got to talk over a couple of things before this gig.”

Henry noticed Clearwater’s canvas bag and other things against a wall. On the table was an open road map, two hand-drawn maps, and a grocery sack full of his disguise. Clearwater sat leaning back against the headboard, two pillows behind him, his legs stretched across the bed. He was wearing thin black socks.

“Have a seat. There beside the maps. When we finish up tomorrow night, I’ll be taking his car because we already know it’s stolen, and you follow me south out of town and keep that way, or west then around to south, or north then south.” Henry looked on the big road map for a northeasterly route. Route 71. Didn’t 71 lead up to . . . yes, Jeffries.

“What the hell are you looking at?” said Clearwater.

“The map.”

“You just need what I drew on there. And be a girl that don’t talk. Get the clothes outen that bag. It should all go pretty smooth. He’ll open the safe and give us what’s in there. I’ll turn it over to the FBI. Questions?”

“I can’t think of any.”

“I’ll be back in about an hour or two. You wait here.”

Just after the ball game was over, Clearwater caught up with the doctor and his son at the doctor’s car, introduced himself as Major Frank Arnold, retired, and after a short, friendly conversation explained quietly that his niece, Roberta, was pregnant by either her father or a cousin — or an uncle. She needed an abortion as soon as possible. He could pay more than top dollar.

The doctor told Major Arnold where he lived and said to bring Roberta to his house that night at eleven. He said that they could park behind a church two houses down and follow the back alleyway.

Wearing the dress, wig, hat, and makeup, Henry walked along the alleyway toward the doctor’s house. His throat was terribly dry. Something was wrong.

Ten minutes earlier he had been loading his stuff into the Chrysler trunk. There lay a brand-new car jack with a tag taped onto it: Chrysler Sales, Drain, Georgia. The tape placement — across the sprockets — showed the jack hadn’t been used. But the spare tire . . . it was not new like it had been. What? He walked around the car. The white sidewall, front right, was slightly green — brand-new: the spare! But they hadn’t had a flat. A realization began . . . a series . . .

Clearwater, carrying his canvas bag, walked beside Henry. Henry had not spoken. He was not supposed to. He wasn’t sure if he could. Fireflies blinked off and on along the dark alleyway and in the backyards of fine large homes.

A series of memories had plopped into an order like the reversed film of a building collapsing: The brand-new car jack. The spare tire now on the car. Mrs. Finley’s story about the murder and the car jack. Clearwater taking something into the woods that night, after saying he was going to the truck stop for a drink
.

Clearwater pushed open a tall metal gate. Off to the side stood a two-story garage with a light over the door shining down onto the car Henry knew they were supposed to take — a cream-colored Cadillac, facing the garage. He could run, but Clearwater probably had a gun.

“There’s the car,” said Clearwater. “You drive the Chrysler, remember.”

On the screened-in back porch Clearwater pushed a doorbell button, and from inside came a sound like a telephone ring. Henry looked around. Against a wall was a porch swing that hadn’t been hung. Against another wall were several cardboard boxes with green pineapples printed on the side. Should he just charge off the porch? No. He’d wait for a better chance to run.

The door opened and a man stood dressed in a white jacket with a stethoscope in the front pocket. He held a cup of coffee or something that released a trace of steam. “Come in, Major. Roberta.”

“Doctor,” said Clearwater. “How you doing?”

“Fine. Come right in.”

“She don’t talk much,” said Clearwater, “but she’s got a real sweet disposition. I got some of her things here in the bag.”

“Come through to my study,” said the doctor. They were in a large kitchen with counters and cabinets all the way around. Henry noticed a toaster, big and silver, that plugged into the wall, and there was a coffeepot that had an electric cord.
Where could he run to? He had to think. Think very clearly, slowly. Get it right
. They walked through a breakfast room, a sitting room, and a living room, and then into a study with books lining the walls. The room looked like an expensive hotel lobby. On a coffee table in front of a leather couch sat a beveled glass pitcher of ice water and two glasses.

“Have a seat there on the couch and have a drink of water if you like,” said the doctor. He sat in a big leather chair across from the couch. “I’ll explain the procedure.”

Clearwater leaned forward, opened his canvas bag, pulled out his snub-nosed .38, and pointed it at the doctor. “We won’t be needing any explaining, Doctor. But we do need you to open your safe, and we’d like you to do that as quickly as possible.”

“Is this a joke?” asked the doctor. His face held a half smile but also a look of new knowledge.

“No, it’s not a joke,” said Clearwater.

A door opened behind Henry.

Clearwater bolted up and moved to where he could see everybody at once.

It was the son.

“Get back in your room, Randy,” said the doctor.

Randy was dressed in blue pajamas and wore a denim jacket with Sunday school attendance medals and men’s service club buttons — Elks, Sertoma, Moose. His round face sat on wide shoulders, his brown hair was cropped short, his mouth hung open. He held a teddy bear. He was trying to talk.

Henry thought of Yancy. When he saw that Randy was coming for him, he stood, stepped over the coffee table, stopped between the doctor and Clearwater. Randy kept coming, his brown eyes open wide in surprise and delight.

“Get back in your room, I said,” said the doctor.

Clearwater moved again — to cover the doctor. He watched as Randy gripped a large quantity of cloth on a sleeve of Henry’s dress. Randy was smiling and making grunting noises.

“Sometimes he’s difficult,” said the doctor.

“This would be a bad time for that,” said Clearwater. “Just stand there and be still,” he said to Henry. “Let him hold your sleeve. And sir, you need to open your safe right away.”

“Turn me loose,” Henry said to Randy.

“You be quiet,” snapped Clearwater.

The doctor, still seated, said, “Randy, you behave yourself. Major Arnold, I don’t have a safe.”

“I think you do. You don’t bank anywhere around here.”

“I invest my money in stocks.”

“Stocks?”

“My maid delivers all my cash to a financial adviser every Friday. There is no safe, sir. I can show you the paperwork, the stock market paperwork, in my top desk drawer over there.” He stood.

“Sit back down!” And then to Henry: “And you sit down on the couch.” He motioned with the gun.

Henry was down in something too deep to see out of. And this Randy wouldn’t turn loose his sleeve.

With Randy attached, Henry moved back around the coffee table and sat. Randy stood, holding Henry’s arm, which was raised as if Henry had a question for a teacher.

“There is no safe,” said the doctor. “And I’m expecting another patient.” He looked at his watch. “Before long.”

“Well, you work too fast.” Then to Henry: “Go get some pillowcases. Anything that will hold money.”

“He’s holding on to me.”

“Take him with you,” said Clearwater. “Back in there where he came out of.”

Henry walked, with Randy holding on, into a bedroom. He gathered two pillowcases and a laundry bag and returned to the study. Randy held to his dress sleeve.

Clearwater said, “Go get the Chrysler and bring it up to the gate.”

“He won’t turn loose.”

“Get rid of him.”

“Where’s the keys?” said Henry.

“There’s a set under the floor mat.”

When Henry and Randy got to the back door, Henry saw car keys on a nail. The Cadillac. He got them. With Randy attached, he opened the back door to the warm night; onto the back porch, through the screen door. He realized he’d picked up Clearwater’s canvas bag.

“Oroof,” Randy said. He turned loose Henry’s sleeve.

Henry looked at the car keys in his hand, headed toward the driver’s door, slipped in behind the steering wheel, dropped the bag onto the seat beside him.

Randy was opening the passenger door.

“Don’t get in,” said Henry.

Randy got in anyway.

Henry thought about getting out, then started the engine, turned on the headlights, backed into the alley, drove past the Chrysler, stopped, backed up. He wanted his stuff. He found the Chrysler keys, opened the trunk, loaded his suitcase and valise into the backseat of the Cadillac, got back behind the steering wheel, pulled onto the street.

The plan was to circle south and head north, but he needed to head northeast — on 71.

The car jack. He needed to think that through again. He needed to get rid of that canvas bag, didn’t he? Why? Why should he keep it? The bad guys would know Clearwater had been undercover. Was he undercover? No. He’d been stealing all along. And Henry had too. Clearwater murdered a man. Maybe the man was a criminal. What if that was it? Who was Blinky? If the truck driver was a criminal, Clearwater would not have buried that car jack.

In the doctor’s house, Clearwater was feeling things fall apart. He was going to have to kidnap the son of a bitch. A patient would be there at midnight, with her mother and father. He’d seen the appointment book. The doctor had pulled it from his pocket and handed it to him. On the back porch, standing behind the doctor, Clearwater looked for the Chrysler at the gate. It wasn’t there, and the Cadillac . . . was . . . What had happened flashed into his brain, and he awaited the full realization like waiting for the sound of a giant tree that had just fallen far across a field.

The doctor called out, “Randy. Randy?”

“Walk through that gate, Doctor,” said Clearwater. “I need to chase down that son of a bitch Bible salesman. He’s on Seventy-one north. I can’t let him loose on the world.”

Henry remembered that to get on Highway 71 he’d have to cross the railroad track on Main Street, drive along beside it, then cross the track a second time. There. Yes. The sign said he was on 71. What could he tell Marleen? He had to get to her. It was a right long ways. He could stop at a police station. He pressed on the gas pedal. He glanced at Randy, sitting with his arms between his legs.

Then he knew exactly what he had to do. He had to go back.

No, he didn’t. He’d keep going until the next town. He’d go straight to the police station. He watched the needle go past seventy on a straightaway. He slowed for a curve. He couldn’t remember how far he had to go before the next town. He wanted to go home. He had to get back into Drain and call the police. Of course. That was the thing to do. He could not lose. They would contact the FBI and everything would be good. They might even give him a job for sure.

He turned onto a dirt road and stopped. What if the car-theft gang came after him? That’s who Clearwater was with all along. He needed to get rid of the canvas bag. He reached for it, felt something hard in there, in the bag — sure enough. He unzipped the bag and reached in. A jacket and . . . a pistol. Would he need it? The bad guys wouldn’t mess around. Maybe Clearwater
was
with the FBI. What if he was? “Dear Jesus,” he prayed. “Guide and direct me.” He’d keep the gun under his belt. He still had on the dress. He walked into the woods a ways with the bag and dropped it. What about Randy? One thing at a time. He remembered Carson always carrying two guns in his belt when they played cowboys and Indians. He remembered wanting to be an Indian.

Back in the car, headed back to Drain, he pressed the gas pedal, watched the needle move to sixty, turned the radio dial, and stopped it on a station where he heard a familiar sound. “Do you know who that is?” he asked Randy. He would just talk for a minute.

Randy looked at him and then at the radio.

“That’s Hank Williams. ‘Why Don’t You Love Me.’ ”