“You know what I want? Does anybody know what I want?” Fischer asked. “Nine years with an engagement ring but no wedding?”
Skinner said, “Uh, what do you want, Janet?”
Fischer looked at Van Den Berg. “I want a cut of those Legos, that’s what I want, Larry.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Van Den Berg said. He stalked out, across the porch, across the yard. He ignored the line of sweet-smelling lilacs.
Fischer shouted after him, “I want my key.”
They watched him go, and when he was out of sight, Holland said, “I think we’re okay.”
Fischer said, “I’m sitting here thinking about it, and you know what? I do want a cut of those Legos. Nine years. What am I supposed to do now?”
Skinner said, “Jennie, you’re the prettiest girl in the county, and one of the smartest. You’ll have all kinds of dating opportunities now that Larry won’t be around. I’d bet you a hundred dollars thatyou’ll have a husband and a kid in two years, and a whole happy life.”
Fischer said, “Stick it up your ass, Skinner.”
—
Skinner and Holland left, satisfied that they’d fended off the threat from Van Den Berg. Fischer sat on her two-cushion couch and thought about her nine lost years. She was now making great money down at Skinner & Holland, but who knew how long that would last? Van Den Berg was a man who liked his beer—make that beers, plural—and she’d bet that sooner or later he’d start talking about who the Virgin Mary resembled.
If those Legos were worth a half million, and if the Van Den Bergs were selling them for twenty-five percent of their retail value, like Skinner thought, they’d be getting a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars, no tax. And if they were worth a million, they’d be getting two hundred and fifty thousand.
The longer she thought about it, the angrier she got—nine years!—until she finally put on her jacket and walked over to Van Den Berg’s house. There, she pounded on the door until a still-angry Van Den Berg opened up, and demanded, “What do you want?”
“Nine years back, Larry, that’s what I want. You have been fooling around on me the whole time. That gentleman’s club out by Cheyenne, where you stop both coming and going, that’s no better than a whorehouse. I want my key. And I want some of that Lego money.”
Van Den Berg had a beer in his left hand, and it wasn’t the first of the day. He glowered at her, then said, “There ain’t no more money. The Legos are long gone.”
She knew he was lying because Skinner had maneuveredaround the woodlot while Ralph Van Den Berg was hauling the Legos to his house for packing, and she could see from Skinner’s video that the truck was still more than half-full.
“You’re lying, Larry. We got photographic proof.”
“That fuckin’...” He pushed the door open. “I’m not gonna stand here, arguing. You better come in.”
She stepped inside as he stepped back, and she said, “All I want is my share.”
“Tell you what I’ll give you,” he said. “How about this?”
He hit her right in the eye—hard—and she bounced off the door, and then he hit her in the mouth, and she fell down. “Now, get the fuck out of here,” he said, kicking her hip. He was wearing steel-toed trucker boots, and she felt as though her hip had broken.
She tried to crawl away, and wailed, “Don’t, don’t, Larry... Don’t, please...”
He kicked her again, and she cried out, and as she crawled back through the door, he kicked her in the butt, and said, “Come back, and I’ll fuck you up. You tell your Skinner and Holland the same thing. They fuck with me, I’ll fuck with them. Now, get the fuck out of my yard.”
Fischer managed to get to her feet. Her hip burned like fire, and she hobbled back to her house, crying as she went. At her house, she looked at herself in the mirror and began to weep, for her nine years, for her hopes that she’d have two or three bouncing babies by now. Maybe she wept even a little for Larry.
12
Virgil woke early but lay in bed, thinking about Sherlock Holmes and that whole Holmes thing—that once you’ve eliminated the impossible, then whatever remains, must be the truth. What Holmes never admitted was that there is a vast universe of the possible, and sorting through all the possibilities is often impossible. Holmes would have been better off, Virgil thought, working with the Flowers Maxims:
If it’s criminal, it’s either stupid or crazy.
Stupid people usually have guns, crazy people always do.
In a choice between stupid and crazy, first investigate the stupid, because stupid is more common than crazy.
In many cases, stupid is also more dangerous than crazy. You could sometimes talk to crazy, but there’s no dealing with stupid.
