Judson Carmichael - The Scared Stiff

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.”

Wednesday, the day after my conversation with Leon Kaplan: for the first time ever, Arturo trusted me to drive his precious Impala. So here I was at General Luis Pozos International Airport, among the other cabs, waiting for the afternoon flight from New York. My white shirt was buttoned at neck and wrists, my saggy pants rode low on my skinny hips, and my mustache was growing out over my upper lip. I leaned against the hood of the Impala and grinned at the other cabbies, and they grinned at me.

Yesterday, it turned out Kaplan hadn’t needed the full two hours to undo his scheme. An hour and twenty minutes after I’d hung up on him the phone rang. Arturo answered, then extended the phone to me, grinning, saying, “It’s our sister.”

I took the phone. “Sis?”

“Oh, Felicio,” said that great familiar voice. “It’s so good to hear you.”

“And you,” I said, and it was. My knees tingled.

“Guess where I’ve been,” she said, sounding so chirpy and happy that I knew she must be really pissed off.

“I can’t imagine,” I said.

“Pine Plain!” she announced, as though it must be just the greatest place in the world.

I’d never heard of it. “Pine Plain? What’s that?”

“The most wonderful rehab center. They just take the best care of you.”

“Rehab?” I didn’t get it yet. “You mean you were in an accident?”

“Not that kind of rehab, silly,” she said.

Then I did get it. “Oh,” I said. “Detox.”

“That’s it! Our good friend Leon Kaplan just felt it would be good for me to sign myself in there for a few days.”

“Ah,” I said. And wasn’t that perfect. It’s the way to put yourself in jail, hold yourself captive. Stay there and nothing bad happens, leave and the shit hits the fan.

“He thought,” Lola went on, “Leon thought I’d just get in terrible trouble if I didn’t go for rehab, and I just had to write him a note and say I agreed with him.”

“Got it,” I said.

“And it’s really a very nice place,” she assured me. “You have your own individual room, and group therapy sessions, and really quite good food. No wine, of course.”

“Of course.”

“And you even have a telephone in your room, so you can make local calls.”

“Sure. Local calls. You wouldn’t want to disturb anybody far away.”

“That’s right,” she agreed.

“Well,” I said, “you’ve always been a great communicator.”

“I knew I could count on you,” she told me, and my heart swelled up.

I said, “So how are you now? You’re out of there? One hundred percent all right?”

“Six hundred thousand percent all right,” she said. “And I’m taking the plane tomorrow.”

“Oh! When, when?”

“Three twenty-five in the afternoon we land.”

“I’ll see you there,” I promised her, and so here I was, the next day, at the airport, and it was three-forty, and I hadn’t yet seen Lola because the plane was late, but who I did see was Rafez.

Off behind the taxis he was, stepping out of the police car he’d been in when he’d stopped me while I was chauffeuring Maria. He was dressed the same as that time too, in the white guayabera and black sunglasses and black cowboy hat with the gold star on the front. He also wore white chinos and white cowboy boots and his black holster, and he looked like a corrupted angel as he crossed toward me, a faint smile on his lips. Behind him, his partner remained in the car, watching us.

All the other cabbies turned away, moved off, hunched their shoulders, lowered their voices, became just subtly less present. Rafez ignored all that, which must have pleased them, and stopped in front of me to say, “Going somewhere?”

“Not yet,” I said. “But soon.”

“You’re waiting for the New York plane.”

“That’s right.”

“And am I waiting for it too?”

I grinned at him. “I think you are, yes.”