Keep the Change

23

Joe drove to Billings on Tuesday to meet with an attorney for the Continental Divide Insurance Company. He dressed in a coat and tie and parked the old flatbed far enough away to dissolve association with it by the time he reached the office. He was early.

He walked into the Hart-Albin store to use up a few minutes and collect his thoughts. He strolled through the toiletries section, admiring the beautiful young women who sold perfumes and intimate soaps, and who tried the delicate atomizers on one another. He sprayed some sample cologne on himself. The glass display cases revealed an Arabic world of indulgence. He tried more cologne. He invented biographies for the salesladies. Reared on hog farms or in the families of railroad mechanics, each greeted her discovery by the perfume manager with an effulgent blossoming. He politely tested one last cologne with a sweaty squeeze of the bulb. A musky, faraway penumbra engulfed him, quite startling in its power.

Time to go to the lawyer. He crossed the street, walked half a block north, and entered the offices. He announced himself to the secretary and immediately the lawyer, Gene Bowen, appeared at his door and gestured Joe inside with a handful of papers. Bowen was a lean, harried-looking man, plainly bright and short of time.

Bowen moved around behind his desk. Joe sat in a comfortable chair in front of it. Bowen rested his chin on his hands and let Joe begin. “My Uncle Smitty, Smith Starling—”

“Yes,” said Bowen decisively, suddenly wrinkling his nose. Joe was astonished at the lawyer’s reaction to the mention of Smitty’s name. “Is that you? What is that?” Then Joe understood Bowen’s reaction.

“Canoe.”

“You what?”

“Canoe. It’s a cologne. And a couple of others. Musk was one.”

“Very well. Go ahead. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“My Uncle Smitty—”

“Would you be offended if I opened a window?”

“Not at all.”

Bowen got up and struggled with the window behind his desk without freeing it. “I’m gonna end up with a fucking hernia—”

“Here, let me help.”

They got on either side of the window and heaved upward as hard as they could. Bowen pulled his face to one side and wrinkled his nose fiercely. “It’s not as if it was some kind of animal droppings,” Joe said.

The bottom of the window casement tore free; wood fragments and dried putty flew across Bowen’s desk. His finger was bleeding. He walked around and opened his door. “Let that air out while I get a Band-Aid.”

The secretary poked her head in. “What’s going on in here?”

“We had a little trouble with the window.”

“I’d better ring up maintenance.” Turning to Joe, she asked, “May I ask what you’re wearing?”

Joe was getting angry. “I mixed a few scents, trying them out. But socially speaking, I’ve had better luck shitting my pants.”

Bowen returned and went straight to his desk. “Leave that open, Mildred,” he said to the secretary, pointing at the door. “Let’s try to bear down and get through this as fast as we can. Okay, ‘Smitty’ is your uncle. Smitty’s got his tail in a crack. You want to help Smitty. Why?”

“I have an aunt who I like very much. She depends on him. They are like a little couple.”

“They are.”

“Yes.”

“And what does she do?”

“She is a retired schoolteacher.”

“So, she has a pension?”

“A small one, and a small income from a small family ranch.”

“Which belongs to?”

“Uh, to Lureen. To my aunt.”

“And Mister Smitty got his stake in the shrimp business by?”

“Mortgaging the ranch.”

Bowen sucked on a paper clip pensively.

“It’s none of my business, Mr. Starling. But why don’t you let this wonderful fellow just go to jail?”

“I’m pursuing my aunt’s interests, as I see them, as best I can.”

“Okay,” said Bowen, dropping his hands to the desk decisively. “I sense that we can speak to one another with candor.”

“I sense the same,” said Joe earnestly.

“May I be very direct with you?”

“Please.”

“Joe, your aftershave stinks to high heaven.”

“I really can’t do anything about that now.”

“As to Mister Smitty, yes, we can try to get the charges dropped. Yes, I foresee that being a discussable possibility. Under this scenario, Smitty fails to recoup the thirty thousand. In addition to which, the insurance company is out of pocket, I am guessing, another thirty, in fees, and in ascribable overhead.”

“What overhead?”

“They’ve got twelve floors in Denver.”

“I see. Well, look, let’s examine the cost of dropping this. You get me some specifics and I’ll try to sell it to my uncle.”

“But remember, he doesn’t have to buy it,” said Bowen. “He can go to jail.”

“I admit it’s tempting,” said Joe.

“The first time he stoops for the Lifebuoy in those big showers, he’s going to meet some very nice Indians.”

“Like I say,” said Joe, “the temptation is there.”