Джеймс Грейди - The Best American Mystery Stories 2002

Fielder didn’t move.

“Will you calm down? I swear.” Shorty nodded toward the open door.

“I should get back to the restaurant,” Fielder said. “I think I left the broiler on.”

“Get in the fucking car, Professor.”

Fielder gazed at the dark portal waiting from him. He looked at Shorty. He released a ragged breath and sagged.

Shorty followed him in and slammed the door. Leather creaked beneath him as Fielder scooted over in the seat to make room. Shorty reached up and flicked a switch above their heads. On came an overhead light, yellow and blinding.

“You two smell like french fries,” said the voice from the seat across from him.

The voice belonged to a slim man. Gray hair, impeccably trimmed, an angular face with shallow crow’s-feet at the corners of the eyes. The man wore a western-cut suit with ostrich boots. He sat with one arm draped across the back of the seat, a drink in a cut-glass tumbler resting at his knee.

“Professor Fielder,” the man said, leaning forward to extend a hand. “My name is Joseph King. How do you do?”

Fielder looked at Shorty, who tossed him a wink.

He shook the man’s hand and said, “Mr. King.”

“Call me Joe. My father was Mr. King, as the saying goes.” King grinned and gestured toward a cabinet built into the side panel of the limo. “Care for a drink? Whatever you like, we probably have it around here somewhere.”

“No, thank you.” Stephen cleared his throat.

“Professor, I sense that you’re uncomfortable. I’d guess you’re probably wondering why we’re all here.”

“How do you people know I’m a professor?”

“Actually,” said Happy Joe, “if I’m not mistaken, that verb is now past tense, isn’t it?”

Suddenly Fielder felt supremely conscious of his filthy apron.

“I know a fair amount about this and that,” Happy Joe King said. “For example, I know you are forty-four years of age. I know you fared poorly — let’s face it — in a divorce settlement some months ago. You have one child, a girl, sixteen, name of Andrea, goes to Northeast High. Straight A’s. College prep.” Ice clicked against glass as King sipped his drink. “As for college, you were tenure track yourself, but are now in breach of your contract with the university here. I infer that you’re too proud to let the utilities get shut off but not too proud to take a job flipping burgers for minimum wage. You’re also being sued over some money. Burkholder Foundation, is it?” King glanced at Shorty.

Shorty nodded. “Right. Burkholder.”

“I understand they’re less than pleased with the product of some research they funded. Or lack thereof, as the case may be.”

Stephen felt a cold knot behind his breastbone. “How do you know all of this?”

“Let’s just say I make it a point to thoroughly background all potential employees.”

“I’m sorry,” Fielder said. “I don’t understand.”

“It would seem,” said Happy Joe King, sipping again from his glass, “that you and I are in a position to help each other.”

Fielder said nothing.

“On the one hand,” King continued, “you’ve managed to accrue a somewhat unfortunate debt to me. On the other, it so happens that I find myself in need of a person with your specialized skills.”

“You need a fry cook?”

Shorty laughed beside him. Even Happy Joe King seemed amused. He crunched an ice cube. “I’m afraid those aren’t the particular skills to which I was referring.”

“Oh.” Stephen sat, feeling like an idiot. He hadn’t been trying to be clever. He truly didn’t understand.

“Allow me to clarify. As you may know, I’m something of an entrepreneur. My holdings are — well, let’s say my holdings are somewhat diversified. Being diversified, as they are, my professional success depends to a considerable degree on what some might consider a sophisticated accounting system. Don’t misunderstand: I realize the workaday bookkeeping we’re talking about here is a dip in the kiddie pool to a man of your training. But you’d be surprised how difficult it is to find qualified personnel in this area.”

“Mr. King...”

“Professor. Please. I’ve told you: call me Joe.”

“But I don’t...”

“Bottom line,” Happy Joe King went on, “this is what I’m able to do for you. I’m able to settle your unfulfilled obligation with the Burkholder people. I’m able to buy out the remainder of your contract with the university. Finally — and from your perspective, perhaps most importantly — I’m able to set aside your not-inconsiderable monetary arrearage to me. I’m able to offer all of these things in exchange for your exclusive service in the position of Chief Financial Officer of my various business ventures.” King gestured with his drink. “I think you’ll agree that I offer an extremely competitive benefits package.”

For a long, echoing minute, Stephen just sat, smelling like french fries, staring at some vague point between himself and Happy Joe King. Shorty said nothing. Happy Joe King said nothing.

All Fielder could think to say was, “Don’t you already have an accountant?”

“I did, yes. For many years.” King’s tone conveyed regret. “I’m sorry to say that your predecessor is no longer able to fulfill his duties due to health reasons.”

“Health reasons?”

“He got something in his eye,” Shorty explained.

Fielder looked at the collector. “He got something in his eye?”

Shorty shrugged. “Manner of speaking.”

“The important thing,” Joe King said, “is that your eyes are perfectly fine. And I don’t just go around offering executive positions to every Tom, Dick, and Harry with a mark in the books. The important thing is that you have something to offer me. And that I have something to offer you. We can help each other.” King raised his glass. “So. Professor Fielder. Can I get you that drink?”

It was as if Fielder’s lips formed the words without his permission.

“I can’t,” he heard himself say.

Happy Joe King’s eyes darkened. “Pardon?”

“I... Mr. King, I can’t. I would. But I just... I just can’t.”

King glanced at Shorty again. He looked at Fielder. He did not look happy. “Forgive me for saying so, Professor, but that’s a dumbfuck answer for a fellow in your position. I don’t mind admitting I didn’t expect such dumbfuckery from you. Shorty?”

“Yup.”

“Did you?”

“I gotta say,” Shorty said, sounding amazed, “no.”

“You don’t understand,” Fielder said quickly. “It’s not... I wouldn’t... I’m just unable. Truly.”

A quiet, awful minute passed.

“It’s the numbers. I don’t know how to explain it.” He looked at King with a feeling of impending doom. “I’m not your man.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Joe King finally said.

“I really am sorry.”

King sat quietly. He swirled his drink. “Are you quite sure you wouldn’t like to reconsider?”

“I don’t... it’s not that...” Fielder sighed. “I have a condition known as Nonspecific Acalculia.”

“Forgive me, but what did you just say?”

“Says he has nonspecific genitalia,” Shorty told him, then narrowed his eyes at Fielder. “You some kinda homo?”

“Acalculia,” Fielder repeated. “It means that I can’t...” He struggled, gave up. What was the use?

Happy Joe King said nothing.

“Mr. King,” Fielder said, “please don’t think the generosity of your offer is lost on me.”

King nodded along, appraising him.

Fielder drew in a breath and forced himself to ask the question he didn’t want Happy Joe King to answer. “What happens under these circumstances? Being the case that I’m unable to accept the... position?”