Two Much!

13

When Charlie Hillerman came bulging in, after the slithering departure of Volpinex, I was hurriedly but calmly writing a check. “Okay Art,” Charlie announced, coming over to lean over my desk and show me his biceps, “I figured it out you’re always in town on Wednesday, and I’m here to tell—”

“Here you are, Charlie.”

He took the check, and glared at it. “If you think you can fob me off with another partial pay—” He stopped, dead, and stared at the check.

“Not at all, Charlie,” I said. “That’s payment in full.”

He sank into the chair lately defiled by Volpinex. “Holy God,” he said. “Who do I kill?”

“Just the reverse,” I said.

He frowned at me, his natural suspicion returning. Snapping the check with his finger, he said, “Is this any good?”

“Of course it is. Charlie, you remember telling me about the time you did the dollar-bill card for F&A?”

“Sure. ‘If you want to sleep here, George, you’ll need ten of those.’ What about it?”

“You did such a good job the Treasury people came around,” I reminded him. “F&A couldn’t distribute.”

He nodded, sulky at the memory. “And I never got paid.”

“That’s what you get for dealing for a schlock outfit, Charlie. Stick with me and you’ll be okay.”

“Huh,” he said.

“The point is,” I said, “I’ve got a Birthday you’re perfect for.”

His natural truculence was creased by a pleat of curiosity. “What is it?”

“I understand when you were born — three wise men left town.”

“Not bad,” he said.

“It’s encouragement like that keeps me going, Charlie.”

“What’s the picture?”

“The card is a photostat of a birth certificate.”

He frowned, not seeing it; in truth, it wasn’t a very good idea. “Yeah?” he said.

From the bottom left drawer of my desk I took the photostat of my birth certificate I’d sent for when I got my passport; you never know when you might want to leave the country. Extending it across the desk, I said, “We’ll use mine. That way, there won’t be any lawsuits.”

“Yeah?” He took the photostat and studied it, not charmed. “What do you need me for?”

“Well, I don’t want it exactly mine, do I? You’ve got gray inks for the background, white inks for the lettering, you can make a couple minor changes. So it’s sort of Everyman.”

His stubby finger poked the stat. “John Doe in here?”

“No, that’s too cute. We can leave my last name, it’s common enough, something you find around the garage. Change the first name, let’s see, something with six letters, hmmmmmmm...”

“Joseph?”

“Joseph Dodge.” I pondered that. “Joe Dodge. Wasn’t there somebody famous named Joe Dodge?”

“Was there?” Charlie in thought looked like a Bassett hound.

“How about...” I said, “how about Robert? That ought to fit.”

“Okay.”

“And listen,” I said. “Change the birth time. You know, let’s not give anything away to these astrology freaks.”

He frowned massively at me. “What?”

“Just do it, Charlie,” I said. “Think of it as a personal quirk.”

He shrugged. “If you say so. Any particular date?”

“Oh, leave the date,” I said airily. “No sense changing everything. Just make the birth time, oh, I don’t know, say twelve minutes later. And then the rest you can leave just the way it is.”

“So there’s just the two changes, right? Arthur to Robert, and five seventeen to five twenty-nine.”

“Right. When do you suppose you could have it?”

“When do you suppose I could get paid for it?”

“On delivery.”

If he frowned any deeper his head would crack open like a coconut. “You been robbin’ liquor stores?”

“I’m trying to maintain faith with my artists. When could you have it?”

“This afternoon. How much do I get for it?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Wrong. Forty.”

“For an hour’s work? Even hookers don’t get that much.”

“Thirty,” he said.

“I’m on a tight budget, Charlie,” I said. “If I have to go above twenty-five I won’t be able to pay you right away. I mean, if you’re willing to wait—”

“I’ll take the twenty-five,” he said.