She smiled again. “You should really talk to him about that.”
Our lunches came, medium-to-small by Minnesota standards but hearty enough. The wine helped wash down my steak. And give me time to think up a new tack.
“Here’s the thing, Connie-may I call you Connie?” I’ve been waiting all my life to say that to a woman, a sad confession. She gave permission. “I was going to write off this whole trip on my income taxes. But without a hotel bill, it makes it a bit sticky. Herb is an accountant, he’ll probably find a way, but I need documentation. Now, I’m not saying I want to pay the bill.” I laughed, har-har: silly sly fox that I am.
She looked perplexed. I elaborated, spinning. “Let me back up. Are you giving Herb some documentation for this trip? A receipt or something? Because he is in the hospital and I need to get things arranged for him.”
“It’s an odd request, Aaron. But taxes are of course a big deal. You can’t deduct your gambling losses unless you show you’ve actually been to Las Vegas?”
“Something like that.” I ordered her more wine. I had no idea what I was talking about.
After I paid the bill (praise the lord for Comping Connie, the total was $95 plus tip), I followed her back to her office, waiting by the receptionist for her to make a few calls. I’m sure she would have preferred I disappear, but I couldn’t take that chance. I called my room to see if I had any messages. There was one, from the hospital.
“This is Aggie Webb, I’m a nurse on Four Central. It’s about three-thirty. I thought you should know that Herbert Monroe has checked himself out of the hospital AMA. That is, ‘against medical advice.’ I hope he’s okay but please tell him to be checked by his personal physician as soon as he gets home.”
I dialed the hospital. The nurse said the doctor had seen Herb about two and told him he had to stay another two or three days. After the doctor left, Herb got into his clothes and checked himself out, bandaged head and all. She was ticked off about his bullheadedness. I sympathized with her, then promised to get the knucklehead to a doctor at home.
When Connie came back out, I was pacing the small reception area. I stopped and took a breath. She had no documents in her lovely slim hands.
“I’ve made a few calls.” She crossed her arms, showing mehow busy she was. “It took more than a few, really. It’s funny.” She frowned. “I can’t help you with your tax receipts. That would be illegal, you know. But I can tell you that your brother-in-law did some accounting for our CEO. This was his way of saying thank you.”
“For the CEO? What’s his name?”
“Matthew Birdsong.”
“I’ve heard of him. Wasn’t there a big article about him in some magazine?”
“Forbes. He’s a very bright man. We’re very lucky to have him.”
She apologized for not being able to tell me more, then shook my hand. Which was nice. As I left I realized that falling for somebody who looks like your ex-wife is as stupid as going on a trip with your brother-in-law. Even when the brother-in-law vanishes into thin air.
Herb never came back to the hotel. I waited for him in the room for four hours, watching golf tournaments and C-SPAN, got hungry, went to a restaurant with a view of the front doors. I ate, I drank, he never came in. I thought maybe I missed him on my trip to the men’s room, but he wasn’t upstairs. He wasn’t in any of the bars. He wasn’t playing blackjack. I drove back to the hospital, half-expecting to see him slumped on a curb somewhere. Had the pistol-whippers gotten their greasy hands on him again? Should I call the cops? I didn’t want to call my sister and tell her now I’d lost the sorry bastard.
The next morning was as hot and dry and Herb-less as the day before. I went out to the parking lot to report him missing to the cops. But the Dodge-or rather its occupants-had other ideas.
There were two of them, just like Herb’s story. One was going through the trunk, he had the spare tire and tool kit on the asphalt. The other one stood in an open passenger door.
“Hey!” I said slyly. “That’s my car.”
The one under the trunk lid moved quickly, securing my shirt at the collar before I noticed he was close. He had long black hair and a chiseled face. Was I back in a Western again? I managed to squeak out, “Who the hell are you?”
He threw me against the car. “Where’s the money?”
“What money?” Isn’t that the standard response? This was sosurreal I felt detached, except where my spine was rubbing the fender. “If Herb took some money from you, he didn’t tell me about it.”
“Where is he?”
“I was just going to report him missing. He’s AWOL.”
The second man came into my line of sight and spat on me. “White scum.” The saliva ran down my cheek. I had plenty of humiliation in the Army, but this was a first. The two men were both bigger than me, the spitter in a ragged flannel shirt with many broken snaps and the big one, the strangler, in a black Sturgis Rally T-shirt. Their types were not unknown to me; lots of Native Americans lived in North Central Minnesota.
I wriggled a bit, making the big one in the T-shirt tighten his grip of my throat “Hey,” I croaked. “I haven’t done anything to you, eh? I don’t know where he is. Or his money.”
The big one looked at the Flannel Shirt, who had braids and a thick neck. They both looked at me. This repeated, as if they were discussing me silently. Finally they let me up. I could hear my words, the way I’d reverted to the old phraseology of the countryside in my panic. I wiped the spit off with my sleeve.
“Wh-where’re you guys from?” I rubbed my neck. “Crow Wing?”
The big one went for me again and I dropped my arms. No use struggling. “Just a guess. I live near there.” My arms were pinned to Dodge’s hot metal. “I like to go up there. It’s pretty country. In the-the fall, you know, when the leaves turn.”
Rally Shirt squinted at me in close-up. I readied for another lougie. His breath smelled like coffee. I tried to imagine all of us having a cup back home, shooting the breeze at one of the old cafes in the small towns around St. Cloud. I was suddenly very homesick.
“Tell you the truth-if you find Herb, you can beat him to a pulp for me. Break his arms. Be my guest.”
The younger one, Flannel Shirt, started to laugh, a chuckle bubbling up from his well-toned chest. Rally Shirt loosened his grip as he caught the laughter, letting me go to wipe tears from his eyes. I stood where I was, smiling like a deer in headlights.
Finally the big one slowed down enough to say, “Get the fuck out of here.”
I sidled away, back toward the safety of the hotel. When I wastwo car lengths away, I turned back. They were still chuckling.
“Say, I was wondering. What did Herb do to you guys? Did he steal some money?”
Flannel Shirt turned. “What the fuck you think?”
“Right. But how?”
“His numbers,” the other said. “Juggling the books.”
“He’s your accountant?”
They looked at me like the stupid white scum I was that day. Stupid and white came easily, the scum was courtesy of them. As they walked away, the big one kicked the side of the Dodge with a very large motorcycle boot, leaving a dent that would cost me plenty.
Back in the room I took another shower and called the cops. I reported Herbert Monroe missing and my rental car burglarized and vandalized. The paperwork took the rest of the day, even though the cops came out to the hotel to see the damage. The car got a lot more attention than Herb. Apparently people disappeared from Las Vegas with a fair regularity.
Sometime in late afternoon I called Cynthia to break the news. No answer, just: “the number you have called has been disconnected or is no longer in service.” I stared at the receiver, sitting on the edge of my bed, and listened to the recording six times. Then I hung up and sang my sister’s favorite song. End of whose world, sis?