Midwife in the Tire Swing
Chapter 24—The Spamish Prisoner
Ed Hobart lived on the second floor of a garage in an apartment originally built for Harvey Knowles’ mother-in-law. She had died of a stroke while trying to call the dispatcher over at the sheriff’s department from the corner payphone, too afraid of falling to get past the second step on the steep outside stairs. The stairs were the only entrance to the apartment and slick with ice four months out of twelve. “What if there’s a fire?” Ed asked.
“You don’t smoke,” Knowles said.
“Then there won’t be any fire,” Knowles replied. He kicked in with a brace of fire extinguishers plus a rope ladder all coiled and ready in its factory carton to seal the deal. That a woman had died where he slept did not bother Ed.
“You’re getting the apartment cheap. Because of the bike.” Harvey Knowles was a rehabilitator of classic automobiles; his pride and joy, a 1973 2.4-litre Porsche 911 that he had painted, buffed and polished in layers of Bermuda Blue, could stay where it was. At full rent its parking space would have gone with the apartment. “You can leave your bike in the garage in winter. A cool tool is one thing...” Harvey had to have heard about his breakup with Sue, everyone had. “...freezing your balls to a bicycle seat when it’s twenty below is another.”
Ed granted that was about right. He moved into the flat of the deceased mother-in-law.
Most mornings Ed rode the bike to work. There was the government truck with University plates for his use and a metered account at Sunrise Mobile for gas. Most mornings—most cold mornings—his first stop before the Wilco was the truck in its slot behind the laundromat. He started it up and left the heater fan going on high. From there Ed pedaled to the Wilco where he presented a manly, woodsy jack-of-all-trades healthy-living exterior to Theo Arsenault. “Double lattes, extra sugar. Two.” Ed left the bike locked in the stanchion at the Wilco and headed for the government truck. When he returned with the lattes, government gas would have made the truck’s interior toasty warm. Directing the hot air stream of the blower motor toward his knees, he held one coffee between them while he pried back the plastic lid of the other. Rich aromatic winds of equatorial mountain plantations filled the cab. Ed sipped.
On those days when Ed got to work before Heidi he returned to the diner and sat in a corner booth, watching her arrive and settle in across the street. She appeared in first one window, than another—the early morning putting to right things that had been let slide the day before. Heidi sat at her desk and reached to turn on her computer. Was that skin? Ed hoped for a flash of female presence below her throat, some loose buttons. Heidi looked up; Ed ducked behind the Wilco’s window frame, pulling himself away from possible exposure as a peeping Tom. After a pause, he slipped forward cautiously. Nope, not caught, just the phone, Heidi was talking. “Maine State Agricultural Extension,” she would say. What she said when they were both in the office, “The Incredible Farm Service Agency, state your business please,” was just to piss him off, a show of free spirit to undermine the pecking order.
Heidi Nichols was Ed Hobart’s second in command. The term secretary did not quite apply as Heidi had pointed out on her first day. “I have a DVM with a specialty in microbiology and immunology from the Cornell University College of Veterinary Medicine.” Ed held a master’s degree in soil science from the state university system. He leaned forward to look over her shoulder. “And you are obsessed with tits,” said Heidi. She did not move or cover up.
Ed was struggling not to look down. He tried to bluff it out. “Sure. You are the titular office manager. What else? Feet? And genitalia are pretty homely.”
“Yours maybe... but feet. Whatever, you’re the boss.”
Heidi was now back at the computer, most likely checking e-mails. She fired up her printer and unlocked the bottom file drawer of her desk. And withdrew a pile of manila folders. Ed watched as she arranged pages from the folders in neat piles on her desktop. Heidi peered into the computer screen, squinted, then extracted a set of half-frame reading glasses from the desk. She put them on, squinted again, breathed on them and polished them on her shirt front. Ahh, yes. There were buttons undone.
“Who is Heidi?” Sarah didn’t know what she expected. A denial, an awkward silence.
“My author,” Jerry answered immediately—no pause, no hemming, no hawing. No blush.
“That’s right. She writes the letters, I buy the lists and send them out. I collect the money and we split 50-50.”
“Hold on. She writes... letters. Who the hell to? And money?” The last word was hushed, drawn out. Outside on the street from up and over the sills of Sarah’s basement windows, two kids rode by on electric scooters. Both were using cell phones and wearing helmets. One was shouting into his phone, “Every time I bear down on the accelerator it makes a funny grinding noise.”
“Everyone.” Jerry had been reading the Post. He folded the pages over to convert its tabloid folio into a quarto. “Gang Killed People for Their Fat,” an inside headline called. He waved the folded newspaper, “...and not money, not really. No. Well, yes.”
“Nice. No money but some money is coming in or going out. I am hearing this right? This is evading the question. Who is Heidi?”
“Then again, why the Red Sox? Who’s Yehudi? Get this.” Jerry read from the Post, “‘A gang in the remote Peruvian jungle has been killing people for their fat, police charged Thursday, draining it from their corpses and offering it on the black market for use in cosmetics.’ Puts Jenny Craig in a whole new light.”
“Off topic. I can recall asking if Heidi is the ‘Other Woman?’”
“Heidi is another woman. I have never met her face to face; anonymity is convenient. I met Heidi in an online writer’s workshop. We were the only ones who owned up to not trying to write the great American novel. And the money is pocket change, really. Gift certificates—the equivalent of a blue collar bearer bond in 15, 25, 50 and 100 dollar face values—Amazon, Walmart, Mr. Goodwrench, Broadway shows and Burger Kings anywhere. They’re the commercial paper of the Interboobs. I cruise the card exchanges and reinvest our gift cards instead of turning them over into hard goods. Or broker them off in job lots. As close to an untraceable money transfer as you can get. Sounds so dark and devious, exactly why I didn’t tell you. The whole thing brings a small but steady stream of cash, eventually. And for nothing as strenuous as getting to the post office to cash the money orders. Enough to give us a couple of hundred dollars a month to split. I declare it on my income tax.”
“Upstanding of you. You list your occupation as...”
“Author’s representative.” Jerry riffled through the stack of manila folders on the table. He pulled one labeled “Spamish Prisoner” from the bottom of the stack.
“Read one. This is all Heidi’s stuff. Brilliant, I’d say. But of course I’m on the payroll.”
“...so your opinions are unreliable.”
“She’s a poet of spam—got the rhythms down pat: sloppy syntax, inappropriate grammar, the whole mishigas.” Jerry indicated a folder in Sarah’s hand. “That’s Pulitzer grade stuff. We’ve made a few thousand dollars on it and we’re only getting started.”
“E-mail scams; I am shocked. And just when I thought I could trust people.”
“You are being sarcastic. Well, they will try to close us down. The feds will crack bitcoin, eventually. Or outflank it, buy into it and make it the new base currency of the Federal Reserve. But gift certificates?—not a chance in hell. That’s what makes it so great. Our stuff is so obviously a scam, no one in their right mind would give us a second thought. We don’t ask for money for ourselves. People send us money without being asked. We ran it by a lawyer.”
“You are underwriting your postgraduate studies by scamming old ladies in Peoria.”
“This is art. Peoria will soon be under five feet of water—like the late Cretaceous, hot and wet. Whatever life ever existed there will be forgotten, along with Peorian mores, folkways and survival skills. We don’t ask for money; they send it. If an alpha male from the nearest hunting pack brings down a straggler there’s always enough left for us little folk to scavenge.”
“Peoria, Illinois. Survival skills. Like?”
“OK. Siphoning gas, shoplifting.”
“Peoria. Margaret Mead spent years in Samoa, that’s hot and wet. Where did you do your field work?”
“Coney Island, Rockaway. On the beach, me and my laptop. Research takes time. A good year of it, eating Nathan’s hot dogs and picking at sand flea bites.”
“The feds will be knocking at the door any minute now,” said Sarah. “You are a swindler. Preying on the hopes and aspirations of unsuspecting...”
“No. Sarah, Sarah, if some sucker sends his hard-earned cash to the addresses we post—clearly marked as bogus, by the way—that’s their problem. Well-meaning folks send us coffee table books, riding mowers, and gift certificates. And then they sit back and wait, full of pride at having done the right thing—for the next asteroid impact, organic meatloaf at McDonald’s—they’re just not sure what. Oh yes, the merchandise is drop-shipped with no return address to a warehouse in Midlothian, Ohio where a second tier of sales associates fences it off at forty cents on the dollar. It’s patriotic, too. We have a disabled combat vet supervising there in Ohio. PTSD, a guy named Ian Emory.”
“Huh. I have a nephew by that name. Or half-brother, the jury is still out on that one, but he’s supposed to be dead. Life in New England gets complicated; it’s the long winters. You’re going to get caught, the both of you. No matter how slick you are at cooking the books, the cops have endless hours to piss away at taxpayer expense.” Sarah allowed herself to fall backwards into a sling chair. “People send you money because you’re nice. Cool, if you have an automatic algorithm somewhere that separates the irretrievably dumb from the borderline dropouts.”
“They want to get caught; it gives them validation for their purposeless lives. Our work is a social outreach for the good.”
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