The Scared Stiff

50

Arturo said, “Are you crazy? Turn yourself in?”

“It’s the only way,” I said. “If Lola’s in trouble somehow, it’s only because of the money. If I say I’m alive, there won’t be any money, and she won’t be in trouble anymore.”

“And you don’t get the money.”

“But I get Lola,” I said. “She and me, once we’re together, we’ll figure something else out. There’s always a scheme somewhere.”

“Hold on, hermano,” he said. “If you say you’re alive, Lola goes to jail.”

“No, she doesn’t,” I assured him. “What I say is, it was a kind of a prank, the marriage wasn’t getting along, I wanted to start over, a whole new life, I did it all myself, Lola didn’t know a thing about it. She put in the claim because she thought I was really dead.”

He considered me. He considered the situation. He said, “All this because the phone got turned off.”

“The message,” I said.

He nodded. “Yeah. But what if it ain’t a message?”

“Come on, Arturo,” I said. “What else is it?”

“She found a guy, like we both thought,” he said, “and they took off, and she turned off the phone like it was, you know, automatic. Like make it neat, like people do. What if it’s that?”

“I still turn myself in,” I said, “and she still doesn’t get the money.”

“Only this time she goes to jail,” he said.

I shook my head. “Come on, Arturo, I love her, you know that, no matter what happens. I don’t want Lola in jail. My story’s the same, no matter what.”

He seemed dubious. He said, “What are you gonna do, go tell Rafez?”

“Not on your life,” I said. “He’d put me in jail just out of spite.”

“So what then?” he wanted to know. “How you gonna do this thing, when you’re down here?”

“Leon Kaplan,” I told him. “The insurance investigator. Did he leave a card here, a business card?”

“Yeah, I think so,” he said, looking vaguely this way and that way at the room. “It’s around someplace.”

“Could we find it, do you think?”

“I dunno. But, if you call him, and you tell him you ain’t dead, it’s you go to jail.”

“No, I don’t,” I said. “The second they don’t have to pay out the money, they lose interest. They’re not gonna pursue me all the way down here. I tried something and it didn’t work, and that’s the end of it.”

“That’s a risk, man,” he said.

“I’ve gotta take care of Lola, Arturo,” I told him. “Don’t you feel the same way?”

He sighed and got to his feet. All this time I’d been pacing, and he’d been sitting there watching me, like a slow-motion tennis match. Now he got up and said, “Lemme ask Mamá, maybe she knows where that card is.”

“Thank you, Arturo.”

He started toward the kitchen, then turned back to nod at me and say, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Lola married the right guy,” he said.

I grinned; I couldn’t help it. “You bet,” I said.

“That isn’t always so easy to see, you know,” he said, and went away to the kitchen.

I paced. I paced. I rehearsed the story I would tell Leon Kaplan. I even threw in some gestures, though I knew the effect would be lost over the telephone.

Arturo came back, holding a small white business card. “It was in Mamá’s missal,” he said.

“Well, because it answers our prayers,” I explained, and took the card, and looked at it. Blue letters on white. Mostly it was about the insurance company, their logo and their name and their corporate address, but in the lower right was Kaplan’s name and his business number.

I sat on the sofa next to the phone. I noticed, when I picked up the receiver, my hands were trembling slightly. That’s okay, we just go forward, we don’t worry about that little electrical storm of panic around the edges, we just do this and then it’s done.

I dialed the number. I waited forever, and then a female voice came on and rattled off the company name in such a robotic way I thought at first it was a machine. But it was a receptionist, to whom I said, “Leon Kaplan, please.”

“May I ask who is calling?”

“Barry Lee,” I said.

Across the living room, Arturo sat down heavily in an armchair and watched me.

“One moment,” she said.

It was actually three or four moments, and then she came back on the line to say, “Would you repeat that name, please?”

“Barry Lee,” I said. “Would you like me to spell it?”

“No, that’s all right. And where are you calling from, please?”

“Guerrera, in South America.”

“One moment, please.”

This time, it was one very short moment, and then Kaplan’s voice was there, rasping in my ear: “Who is this?”

“Mr. Kaplan,” I said, “I owe you an apology. I was trying to get out of that marriage, I wanted to start over, a brand new life, I did that hoax, I faked my own death, my wife knew absolutely nothing about—”

“What the hell are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’m Barry Lee and I’m not really dead,” I told him. “And I just found out my wife put in a claim on my life insurance. I forgot all about that insurance, and I don’t want anybody to think Lola’s trying to defraud anybody, she’s as—”

“Is this some kind of hoax?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m telling you, I’m still alive.”

“Who is this?” he demanded.

“It’s Barry Lee, I’ve told—”

“Barry Lee is dead!”

“He is not. I am not.”

“You damn well better be,” he snarled. “What do you think you’re trying to pull?”

I was bewildered. “Mr. Kaplan,” I said, “I thought you’d be pleased to know the company doesn’t—”

And then I got it. All at once, I could hear Señora de Paula’s voice: “Leon is just wonderful at catching the bad boys. And the reason he’s wonderful is, he’s a bad boy himself. I’m sometimes surprised he switched sides.” And Kaplan himself: “Maybe I was never given a good enough offer on the other side.”

It was him. Leon Kaplan, insurance investigator.

Had he pulled this kind of thing before? Well, he was in the middle of it this time. I could see it. He had something, he’d found something, he knew something, and he’d decided the scam was so solid he could let it ride and count himself in and profit from it. Nobody else would ever need to know Barry Lee wasn’t dead. He could take — what, half? — from the “widow” or she’d go to jail.

He’d make her sign something, wouldn’t he? So he’d have more control over her. Make her move into a motel or somewhere, monitor the phone calls, let her know if she calls Guerrera she goes to jail. So by the time I’d figure it out, it would be too late.

Except, she sent me a message. She counted on me to read it, and by God I read it.

“Hello?” His voice was harsh but wary.

“Mr. Kaplan,” I said, “you seemed like such a decent guy when we had dinner together, but here you are preying on a poor widow.”

“What?”

“Mr. Kaplan,” I said, “my next phone call, if I have to make a next phone call, will be to the police, and as part of my confession, I’ll admit that you were in on it from the beginning, that’s why you and I had dinner together. I’ll tell them—”

“We never had dinner together!”

“We did,” I said. “With the de Paulas, at Casa Montana Mojoca. I was using the fake identity you’d given me, Keith Emory. And I’ll tell the police—”

There was a brief strangling sound down the phone line.

I said, “Mr. Kaplan? Are you there?”

“You... you—”

“Yes, well, listen,” I said. “Pay attention. You were in the scheme from the beginning, you promised us you’d arrange it so you’d handle the case, even though it wasn’t assigned to you — you did that, remember? You said you’d make sure it went through the company investigation without a hitch — and you did, even after that anonymous letter came in. That’s the story I’ll tell in my next phone call, to the police.”

“You’ll go to jail!”

“I’ll be calling from Guerrera,” I said. “But I probably won’t stay in Guerrera. That’s all right, I’ll give the police enough details so they won’t need me around to get the goods on you.”

“You son of a bitch,” he growled, “you’re supposed to be dead.”

“Well, here’s what I’ll do,” I offered. “It’s quarter to five, down here. Now, if I get a phone call from Lola by quarter to seven, saying she’s free and happy, she’s got every penny of that money, she’s got whatever evidence you had hanging over her, you’re never going to pester either of us ever again, and she’ll be on the next plane down here, then I’ll be so busy getting ready for her that I won’t have time to make that phone call to the police. You see what I mean?”

“I’m not sure I can—”

“I don’t care, Mr. Kaplan,” I said. “Quarter to seven. Otherwise, you’re gonna find out if all those awful stories you’ve heard about prison are true.” And I hung up.

Arturo put his beer down to applaud me. “Hermano,” he said, “you got that doped out. You did it. You’re pretty grade-A smart.”

“Thank you, Arturo,” I said modestly.

“Lemme get you a beer,” he said.

“At seven o’clock,” I told him. “Then, one way or the other, up or down, I’ll drink every beer in the house.”