The Last Coin (36 page)

“That’s the long and the short of it. But they’ve failed, largely, in recent years, and what’s gone around, as they say, is coming around.”

Andrew sat for a moment, considering all this. Then he asked, “Who is Uncle Arthur?”

Pickett shrugged. “You know what I know, almost. It’s all there, isn’t it: the name, the murky past, the pigs, the farm animals, the phases of the moon, even the crossed ploughshares. For my money, every last dime of it, Uncle Arthur is Judas Iscariot.”

Andrew stood for a moment in unbelieving silence, then said, “But living in Seal Beach? In Leisure World? Driving an electronic car?”

“Why not?”

Now it was Andrew’s turn to shrug. Why not indeed? “And you think he’s hustling to—what?—keep Pennyman from collecting the coins?”

“That’s just what I think—to keep
anyone
from collecting the coins. Did you know that Pennyman was recently in the Middle East—at a time that corresponds exactly with all the mystical stuff, the rain of dead birds and the Jordan River flowing backward? What does that tell you about the impossible tide last week? About the sea gulls all over the street? Remember what Georgia said about the psychic disturbance in the area?”

“Are they still here, do you think? They weren’t in his room. We’d have found them.”

“Yeah, we would have. He wouldn’t keep them here, not now that he thinks we’re onto him. Where is it, by the way?” Pickett winked twice.

Andrew winked back. “That’ll be my little secret, won’t it? It’s safe. So tell me, what about Pfennig? What about Moneywort?”

“Caretakers, just as I’d suspected. In league with Uncle Arthur. Aunt Naomi, too, the way I figure it. She inherited the you-know-what from her late husband. You know the story. She’s lucky, though. She’s still alive.”

“Because she’s given the damned thing to me!”

Pickett shrugged. Then he started, as if he’d had a chill, and he slapped his hand on his knee. “I just thought of something,” he said. “Johnson was right—that morning down at the Potholder. It
was
pigs—back in Iowa, involved in the cow-pasture business. Of course it was pigs. And they took the man’s coin! Wouldn’t that cook you? I can’t stand the creep anyway. It was a lucky guess on his part, an eyes-shut home run. Anyway, what I’ve pieced together is that Pennyman traced all the Caretakers down and stole the coins from them, ruthlessly. It was just like I said with Pfennig. Robb found mention of two of the coins in the Apocrypha. They were never recovered after Iscariot hung himself unsuccessfully; they were buried by a remorseful priest in the potter’s field that’s mentioned in the Testaments. Without any doubt, a third coin is in the belly of that fish up in the Sound. How it got there I can’t begin to say. And do you know what? For my money that fish isn’t in the Sound at all anymore. He’s off the south coast, or on his way.

“The balance of the coins, we have to imagine, were scattered, and have been turning up far and wide and doing their mischief ever since. It was the coins that bestowed immortality on Judas Iscariot. That’s their effect. When he tried to hang himself, he couldn’t, and he set himself to a quite possibly endless lifetime of penance. He’s had a mission for two thousand years.”

“But he seems so happy, so cheerful, driving over lawns and all. You don’t suppose that piece of rope on his wall …”

“Of course I do. And why shouldn’t he be happy? He’s turned back around, hasn’t he? He wakes up every morning with a purpose. He’s been a moderate success at orchestrating a vast and intricate plan—up until now. Then his officers start to die, to be murdered, and here comes Pennyman, pocketing a coin here, two coins there …”

“It must have taken him ages. How old can he be? How old can
any
of these Caretakers be? I get the immortality part as far as Uncle Arthur is concerned, but why the rest of them?”

‘‘I’m not sure, but I suppose that possessing even a couple of the coins might have such an effect. And then there’s the fish elixir, isn’t there? I’ve got a few leads to run down there, including your Asian man on The Toledo.”

Andrew groaned. “I wish I could help. But with the cafe and all …” He swept his hand in a wide arc, gesturing at the stove. “And if I slipped out again, Rose would kill me. She’d pack my bag and leave it on the porch. I’m going to have to leave the fate of the world to you.”

“On the contrary,” said Pickett seriously. “As I see it, the world rests on the shoulders of the last of the Caretakers.”

“The last of the Caretakers?”

“Keep it well hid.”

“Oh,” said Andrew. “Yes. No wonder I’ve felt worn out. Call me Atlas.” But he said this last without much humor. It wasn’t very funny to him.

Pickett stared at his friend’s face. “Step over here by the window for half a mo. Let’s check the street.”

Half-dazed, Andrew followed his friend. The two of them stood in the light of a gibbous moon, which had risen above the ocean. The fog had dispersed, and moonlight shone through the window glass, casting an ivory glow over the rubbed oak of the table tops. Pickett stared at his friend’s forehead, but Andrew was lost in thought. “If we had a silver quarter and a bit of powdered ash … But it would mean your death if Pennyman saw the results.”

“He’s already played that trick,” said Andrew.

“When he did, he had the wrong man.”

“What was he looking for?”

“Stigmata, of a sort. There’s mention of it in the
Britannica
and in the Vancouver book, both. Sympathetic markings that the silver and the ash would cause to materialize. The markings would fade eventually, but for a time they’d be indelible.” Pickett produced another Xerox from his bundle, and read from it. “ ‘Such a mark was indeed supposed to be on the Wandering Jew’s forehead. Xemola says it was a red cross concealed by a black bandage, on which account the Inquisition vainly tried to find him.’ That’s the
Britannica
. Here’s from
The One Pig
, Robb’s translation of it. He’s written it out for me. ‘The mark of Iscariot can be drawn from the forehead of his followers by the use of silver and palm ash …’ ”

“His followers,” said Andrew, idly rubbing his forehead. “I’d never have pegged myself as a follower of anybody, and certainly not of Judas Iscariot.”

“He’s not the same man now as he was in the Testaments. And it’s not
you
who does the pegging anyway. You’re one of the chosen few. For the moment, you’re the
last
of the chosen few. Many are called,” Pickett said ponderously, “but few are chosen.” He shoved his Xeroxes and notes into his coat, reached for the doorknob, and said, “There’s a full moon on the night of the treasure hunt.”

“Is there?”

“That’s right. It’ll be a dangerous business. We can’t depend on Uncle Arthur then, not if all this phase-of-the-moon stuff is accurate. He’ll be feeble, doddering. Maybe outright loony. It’ll be up to us.”

“Up to us,” Andrew muttered as Pickett went out through the door, into the night. Andrew stood at the window, looking out at nothing, only vaguely seeing Pickett’s car whoosh away toward the highway. He turned and looked in at the kitchen, which was a mess of splattered roux and the remnants of chopped vegetables. Somehow the mundane notion of cleaning a kitchen, when set against the mystical knowledge that Pickett had revealed, made Andrew dizzy. He decanted the roux into lidded plastic tubs and shoved them into the refrigerator, working in a sort of haze. His back ached. He was tired out, and tomorrow would be worse. He would clean the kitchen in the morning. It was sleep he needed now. His eyes were drawn to the pint glass full of spoons. It seemed to glow and jiggle in the gloomy twilight of the cafe.

“The last of the Caretakers,” he breathed. “Maybe the single most important man in the world …”

The idea flitted around in his head like a sparrow, never really alighting anywhere long enough for him to grasp it, to study it, to draw some satisfaction from it. He went out and climbed wearily up the stairs, wishing he could tell Rose, but knowing he couldn’t.

William Ashbless
Myths of the Pacific Coast

William Shakespeare
The Tragedy of King Lear

T
HE TELEPHONE RANG
at five in the morning. Andrew groped for it, nearly pushing it off the nightstand. It was Pickett, whispering. He sounded desperate. There was trouble. He was in the basement of a Chinese restaurant, the Bamboo Paradise, down on Broadway, near Cherry.

“What?” said Andrew, half-groggy. “Speak up. What time is it?”

It sounded as if the phone banged against something on the other end, as if it had been dropped maybe. Then it was hung up; there was a click and a dial tone. Andrew swung around and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to think. It was barely daylight.

“Who was that?” Rose asked.

“No one. Pickett.”

She turned over and plumped up her pillow. “What for? More escaped zoo animals eating ravioli?”

Andrew forced a laugh in order to humor her. But this clearly wasn’t any laughing matter. The ax had fallen. The enemy was finally moving against them. Andrew wondered if it was the squid in the supporter that had set them off, if that had been the last straw. He stood up, picked his pants up off the floor, and pulled them on, squinting around the room for yesterday’s shirt.

“You’re not thinking of going out,” said Rose, waking up now. “Where?”

Andrew acted hearty, as if he’d had a little outing planned all along. “Fishing. There’s a warm current in. Fish’ll be biting like crazy.
You
were the one who advised it, after all, and now I’m just taking the advice. It’s simple as that. I’ll be back early.”

“But we’re opening today.
You’re
opening today.”

“No sweat,” said Andrew, tying his shoelaces. “I got it all squared away last night. It’s in the fridge. There’s a couple of veggies to chop for the salad and the dressing to whip up, but that’ll save for this afternoon. You might send Mrs. Gummidge in to tidy up the kitchen, though.”

Rose pushed herself up onto her elbows. “Mrs. Gummidge isn’t a maid. She’s a paying guest. The kitchen is a mess and you’re going out fishing?”

“Only for a bit. I’ll be back in no time, like I said. I’ve got to meet Pickett down at the Potholder before word leaks out that I’m coming. There won’t be a fish left this side of the Belmont Pier if I stop to scrub the kitchen down first. News travels fast in the ocean. Mr. Sardine tells Mr. Perch, Mr. Perch tells Mr. Flounder, Mr. Flounder tells Mr. Mackerel. Pretty soon it’s a fish exodus. You know how it is. They live in fear of me and Pickett.” He laughed, kissed her on the cheek, and went out before she had a chance to complain. He’d have to throw his fishing rod and tackle box into the Metropolitan, just to keep things straight. And this time he’d stop in at the fish market on the way home and buy a couple of cod or something to flesh out the gunnysack.

He was halfway down the stairs before he hesitated, turned, and crept back up, holding his breath. He tiptoed down the hallway to where the door of Pennyman’s room stood slightly ajar. The door didn’t creak; Andrew knew that. He pushed on the top panel, evenly and lightly. It swung open an inch, two inches. It was dark inside. Andrew was certain he could hear heavy breathing. A ghastly smell lingered in the air of the room, and Andrew wrinkled up his face at it, recognizing it. Could it still be the stink from Pickett’s opening the box in the drawer? Surely by now it would have faded …

Pennyman himself must have been at the box. Strange, thought Andrew, his eyes adjusting. There was Pennyman, asleep on the bed, the curtain open enough to reveal his face. Satisfied, Andrew left the door where it was and backed away down the hall.

Just then the phone rang again. Andrew gasped and staggered, hurrying toward the bedroom, hoping to God it was Pickett, talking sense this time. There was another half-ring and then silence followed by someone murmuring. He stopped to listen outside the bedroom door. Rose wasn’t talking to anyone; she was asleep again. It hadn’t been their phone at all. He loped to the stairs and then down them three at a time, as noislessly as he could, out through the kitchen door, ducking through the garage, grabbing his rod and tackle box, and sliding into the Metropolitan, shoving his rod in through the open window. He threw the car into gear and cranked the ignition, leaning on the gas smoothly as the engine caught and the car leaped forward. It had been Pennyman’s phone, and Pennyman had answered it.

In five minutes he was out on the Coast Highway, driving northwest, into Long Beach, wishing he’d brought—what? A gun? A ball bat? He had his pocketknife, a multi-bladed little toad-sticker. He could picture himself pulling the knife out, menacing thugs. How was that sort of thing done, exactly? Pickett was in trouble; there could be no doubt about that now. What was the restaurant called? The Bamboo something.

There was a fog bank out over the ocean. Andrew could see little trailing wisps of it stealing ashore as he sailed up Ocean Boulevard, the traffic lights still blinking yellow. Almost no one was out and about except him, which was moderately pleasing. He was a man with a mission. Maybe with a deadly mission. He recalled last night’s conversation with Pickett. He
should
have told Rose, informed her, very placidly but squinting with secret knowledge, that he’d become the most important man in the world, that the mystical weight of the millennia had fallen on his meager shoulders. By God, he was bent, but not broken. She would have sighed and shaken her head. Who’d have thought? Then when the phone rang at five o’clock in the morning it wouldn’t surprise her, although she’d react to the element of danger in it. “Do you have to go?” she’d say. “Stay with me another five minutes.”