The Killing of Butterfly Joe Page 22

  ‘Four hesperons?’

  ‘We got all the Big Four. Five times over.’

  ‘Vanessa virginiensis. Large copper. Palos Verdes blue?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Homerus.’

  ‘Six.’

  ‘How have you preserved your collection?’

  ‘Good old-fashioned mahogany drawers and moth balls.’

  ‘The climate in the Catskills must be a disaster for that kind of preservation.’

  ‘My sister’s scruplous, sir.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  Roth’s continued ability to see and accept Joe as an equal was being tested to the seams and they were beginning to tear. I could see his sense of entitlement and superiority returning, firstly around the mouth, where the humble smile had turned to a superior sneer, and then in the way he now addressed Joe. He could no longer disguise his suspicion toward the upstart country boy and the thinly veiled prejudice he had just beneath that. I could read his mind and it was saying: ‘Where did this damn hick get these treasures?’

  ‘Astonishing. There’s no doubting the brilliance of the collection. I think it’s time you explained how you came by it, Mr Bosco.’

  Maybe using Joe’s surname was a genuine mistake, but there was a big shift in the way Roth carried himself now and I’m not sure Joe noticed it. The way he said ‘it’s time you explained’! As though Joe had done something wrong by owning it; and the way it was ‘Mr Bosco’ now that we were drawing near to the business end of our visit. I began to feel a defensiveness for Joe rising up, as well as alarm that he might suddenly take exception to being talked down to like this.

  ‘How did someone like you . . . come by such a thing? No offence.’

  ‘None taken, Truman.’

  In this version Joe had his father disappear in a gulch in Colombia. He described him as having a beard and long hair. Always wearing shorts and able to speak five languages. Joe cleverly made the five-winged morphos the central characters of his tale, knowing full well that it was these mythical critters that held the key to the deal. As Joe told Roth about his father, Roth started to hunch his back with the tension, his face grimacing. When Joe was done he could wait no longer.

  ‘Let me see them.’

  Joe lifted his ‘big deal case’ onto the light box. And Joe – again, I am not sure it was a ploy – was teasing things out. As he fiddled with the combination locks of his attaché case he seemed to forget the number.

  ‘Now let’s see . . . . Did I change it?’

  He chuntered on whilst turning the dials through various combinations.

  ‘Truman. You will not be disappointed. When you see them. They seem at first glance no different to their twenty-dollar cousins. And then you see it. The magical fifth wing.’

  Roth’s expression as Joe fiddled with the locks! You’d think that case contained life’s elixir. His eyes grew, as if trying to X-ray through the fake lizard skin to the treasures within.

  ‘I’m sure it was 3344 . . . Mary, did you change . . . ?’

  And then the right lock clicked open. And then the left.

  When Joe opened the case he (miraculously) had the sense to remain silent and let his precious butterflies speak. Roth looked in and stared for a minute before saying anything. His face was a mix of venal craving and innocent wonder; for a few seconds his privilege, his sense of entitlement, the jaded boredom of the impossible-to-impress super-rich evaporated. His reaction was not much more sophisticated than a child wanting the thing they didn’t have in the shop window. Until that moment, Roth had everything he wanted in the world; he had it all ordered and categorized, had all his Ming ducks in a row. Here was something we had that he didn’t and wanted. How quickly he reverted to being the man whose ancestors had ‘squished’ people to get what they wanted. The slow erosion of manners and kindness in Roth was fascinating to watch.

  ‘How much for these and the entire collection?’

  It was absurd – but perhaps a good thing! – that we had not discussed money in any serious way, other than a notional ‘we’ll get hundreds of thousands if we find the right collector’; and the precedent of having got $50,000 for a set of Big Four. Joe took in a large gulp of air and let it out through his nostrils. He stroked his chin, doing a terrible impersonation of a hard-nosed businessman. At first I thought, don’t do this, Joe. Not with Roth. Don’t haggle. He’d never had a more willing or wealthier purchaser. He wants the collection. He has the money. Just name your price. But Joe continued to stroke his beardless chin and then, worryingly, scratch the scars on his hands. Finally, he looked to me. As if to say, ‘What do you think, Rip?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, Truman,’ he said. ‘I had a number in my mind.’

  ‘Name the number.’

  ‘I can’t. I can’t remember what it was.’

  ‘A bit like the combination locks,’ Roth said. ‘Give me a ballpark?’

  Either this was a brilliant tactic or Edith was right: Joe was a terrible negotiator.

  Roth was thinking that Joe had no idea and I was sure he thought he could take advantage of this God-loving country boy who’d be happy with anything more than a few thousand.

  ‘I’ll pay you $150,000 for the morphos and the collection, subject to verification.’

  Joe was nodding. I could see he was on the verge of accepting this (in my view, derisory) offer.

  ‘Well. That’s an interesting number, Truman.’

  ‘But not the number we discussed, Joe,’ I said. And then I turned to Roth and decided to take over. ‘I think it has to be a million dollars, Mr Roth,’ I said. ‘As we discussed, Joe. Yes? Back at the house. With Isabelle and your mother. One million dollars for the entire collection. The swallowtails alone are worth a hundred and fifty thousand.’

  I stayed quiet then, not from cunning but from pure amazement that I’d said it. There are larger sums of money in this world, like two million dollars, but they don’t have the same ring as a million dollars, and when it comes to deals it’s the ring of it that matters. ‘I made a million dollars today.’ To be able to say that! Well, who gets to say that?

  Roth said nothing. Although he was well past the point of being ruffled by the sound that a million dollars makes, he still had the bully genes of his ancestors coursing in his blood.

  Joe was chewing his lip. Oh God. He seemed to be in a trance. I couldn’t look at Mary but I could feel her interjection coming. Joe cleared his throat and I thought he was going to offer Roth a lower price!

  ‘Your offer is very gen . . .’

  ‘A million dollars for the entire collection,’ I repeated. ‘A collection that includes a butterfly that no one in the world has, Mr Roth.’

  ‘For that I’d want all twenty-four five-wings.’

  The lust of the incomplete allows for no mercy.

  ‘All twenty-four? Joe? Do you think Isabelle would be happy to let all twenty-four go?’

  Joe was speechless, which was helpful.

  ‘Damn straight,’ Mary said.

  ‘We are on a promise not to sell all the five-wings.’

  ‘Isabelle don’t have the final say so on this,’ Mary said.

  ‘Who has the final say so?’ Roth asked.

  ‘We all do,’ I said. ‘It needs to be unanimous. And I say a million for everything.’

  ‘Well?’ Roth asked. ‘Would a million dollars do it, Joe?’

  A million dollars would do it. A million dollars should do it. A million dollars usually did do it, for most people in most situations: the ransom on the kidnapped daughter; the hitman for the assassination of a despot; the prize winner of the lottery. Yes, everyone has their price and a million dollars usually does it. And yet here was Joe – the same Joe who had been scrambling for years to make a hundred bucks here, seventy-seven there – on the cusp of making more money that he’d dreamed of (maybe the exact amount he’d dreamed of) and standing there like a giant mummy.

  Roth turned to Foster who hovered so stealthily you didn’t
know he was there until Roth asked him to do something. ‘Foster, would you go to my safe and bring one million dollars in cash?’

  Foster left the room and reappeared five minutes later with the money on a silver platter. It was vulgar but sublimely effective. I had not seen a million dollars. It looked exactly the right size to me. Roth took a wad from a block of one hundred hundred-dollar bills.

  ‘Smell it. Something my grandfather taught me: the best way to tell money is real.’

  We each took turns in smelling the wad. One thick band of a hundred hundred-dollar bills. The money had a bummy smell, like varnished cheese. Roth handed the ten thousand to Joe.

  ‘This is yours. A non-refundable deposit of ten thousand dollars. The rest you will get when my people verify the collection. We can tie up the deal in New York next month, on a date that is convenient. And I’ll throw in a case of wine for you, Mr Jones.’ His mouth was dry; you could hear it. Was he going to offer more? Probably not. He could see that it wasn’t about the money. He’d guessed the million to be the summit no trailer trash could turn down no matter how talented and charismatic they were.

  ‘I think that is a very good offer, Mr Roth,’ I said.

  ‘Damn straight,’ Mary said.

  And then Joe put his hand out. Steady and strong. And Roth put his mitt into Joe’s and they shook on it.

  ‘A million dollars for the entire collection,’ Roth said.

  ‘A million dollars for the entire collection.’

  ‘Subject to verification.’

  ‘Subject to verification.’

  ‘Deal.’

  ‘Deal.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘Amen.’

  — Rip? Rip. Wake up!

  — Joe?

  — Wake up, Rip!

  — Joe?

  — Yes!

  — You’re alive?

  — Of course I’m alive.

  — What are you doing here?

  — I’ve come to set you free. You ain’t guilty, Rip. Your sins have been washed clean away.

  — You really are alive, Joe?

  — Sure. Feel.

  — And . . . we’re free?

  — They couldn’t pin any of it on you in the end.

  — Where’s Larson?

  — He sent me in here. To bring you the good news. He thought I should be the one to tell you. You don’t believe it?

  — I don’t know. I’m so tired.

  — You need a little respair, Rip.

  — Respair?

  — Sure. That feeling of new hope you get after despair. You need fresh air, Rip. The Good Theology of cold water and sunshine. That’ll wake you up. And then we start over.

  — With what? We lost everything. You lost everything. In the fire.

  — That’s super-negative talking there. You never lose everything. If life shows you anything it’s that it comes again. You ready? You got your things?

  — I don’t have much.

  — Where we’re going you don’t need anything . . .

  *

  — Mr Jones?

  — Larson?

  — It’s me. Sorry to wake you.

  — What time is it?

  — It’s ten. I brought you coffee. And the cinnamon buns you like. Plus I got the pens you asked for.

  — Thanks.

  — You OK? You were having a dream there.

  — I . . . was. About my friend. Again.

  — Butterfly Joe?

  — Yeah. He told me he was alive. And that I was going to be set free.

  — Let’s hope that’s one of those prophetic dreams. I sent the postcards to your mother. ‘The green, green grass of Wyoming.’ You seen more of this country than me. You OK? You been sleeping a lot.

  — I didn’t sleep well when I was a child. I’m making up for it. Plus this writing is tiring.

  — How’s it coming?

  — Slowly. There’s a lot to remember. Everything hinges on my ability to remember things correctly. Then I wonder if I am remembering a particular thing as it was or because I want to remember it that way. Then I’m afraid I’m muddling my memories and dreams. The dreams I’m having in this place – so vivid. Then I have this other thought that I’m not really awake. I mean, when Rip Van Winkle woke up after twenty years he must have had doubts that he was really awake. That it was just another dream. During the twenty years he was asleep he must have had dreams within the dream, including dreams where he thought he was waking up from a dream but was still in the dream. You think I’m going crazy, Larson?

  — Maybe you should stay away from dreams, son.

  — The sheriff said to write down everything that is relevant to the case. ‘Down to the smallest detail.’ The lawyer said to ‘remember without prejudice’. Who can do that? Remembering and recalling things without prejudice is an impossibility. This idea that I can stand outside of myself and see me as someone else, without the knowledge of what was to come, is a fiction. A total fiction.

  — Woah. Take a deep breath. You’re overthinking this. From what I read, I’d say you are remembering plenty.

  — It’s enough detail?

  — It’s plenty. It’s plenty.

  — What then? You’re looking at me.

  — A couple of things are puzzling me. Guy like you, reading all these books, and spends a whole lotta time dipping inside people’s heads figuring out what you’re thinking and what they’re thinking. How did you not see what was coming?

  — It was hard to. If you were there, in the moment.

  — But there was signs all around. You said it yourself.

  — I only understood them when it was too late.

  — Wise after the event.

  — Not wise enough. Hindsight won’t get me out of here, Larson.

  — Well keep going. You may not have cases to sell but you still got a case to make.

  — I like that.

  — I’ll give it to ya for free. You’re writing a book there. I see you got chapters and everything.

  — It helps me make sense of it. Order it. It’s not quite the book I had in mind.

  — What did you have in mind?

  — It doesn’t matter now.

  — Try me.

  — I had this notion I’d write an account of my travels in America, in verse, like The Odyssey.

  — Can’t say I know it.

  — It’s a tale of an epic journey made by a Greek hero. The hero is trying to get home and what should have taken a week takes ten years. Things happen.

  — So, this hero. Does he make it?

  — Yes.

  — Well, I hope you make it home, son. And let’s hope it don’t take as long as the Greek.

  — I could lose the best years of my life, Larson.

  — Hey. Tears won’t help. You got to hold your nerve. You got to hold your nerve and then you will remember things better. There’s a lot riding on you doing that. You are your own witness. Right now you are the only witness. It’s your story, and no one else can tell it. Remember that.

  IV.

  And so we made a killing

  On the Road out West

  Took dough from the Wizard

  For a dead man’s chest,

  ’Cept the man weren’t dead

  In the strictest sense

  And the million ain’t raised

  Till the collector collects.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  In which we head home feeling like millionaires.

  Oh the whooping as we exited the Wizard’s property in the valeted Chuick, now two shades of blue lighter and smelling of lemons. We’d tried to remain cool when Roth agreed to pay a million dollars for the entire collection, lest our celebrating show us to be happy hicks scraping by rather than experienced business people for whom million-dollar deals were two-a-penny, dime-a-dozen. Joe’s parting line even made it sound as though Roth had got a bargain:

  ‘Truman, you sure know how to do a deal. I guess that’s why you’re the t
rillionaire and I’m the hick.’

  ‘I don’t know what you are, Joe Bosco. But you are no hick. Of that I am certain. And your friend has a ruthless streak – watch him.’

  Walking to the car we clenched our hands and held our arms straight down to keep our fists from pumping; the held-in hysteria forced little squealing noises from us like air trapped in a pipe. We just about managed to keep it together until we were through the main gates where we let rip with a pure hollering that was like the ecstatic praise of revivalists.

  ‘Waaaah! Rip! When you asked him for a million I thought: “Oh my Lord, what are you doin’? He will surely throw us out the door.” But he didn’t blink. Not once.’

  ‘But the way you hesitated, Joe. I thought you were doing that to make it look like it wasn’t enough. As though you wanted more!’

  ‘It weren’t a strategy, Rip. I think I was drunk. Really couldn’t think. And then I just couldn’t believe what you said. A million!’

  ‘He was patronizing you, Joe. He was waiting to see if you had the hick mentality. He thought he’d buy the collection for peanuts. These rich are tightwads. It’s how they get to where they got. And I knew how much the collection was worth. Even Isabelle would have wanted more than $150,000. And he wanted them. He really, really wanted them.’

  ‘Oh God he did. He wanted those little five-winged freaks more than any person wanted anything. Did you see his face?’

  ‘Of course! I knew he would pay whatever we asked. And I thought, the more we ask for the more seriously he’ll take us. It had to be a proper amount. A million is peanuts for a man like Roth.’

  ‘It’s horse feed!’

  ‘It’s chicken feed!’

  ‘It’s fish food!’

  ‘It’s small change.’

  ‘It’s diddly squat.’

  ‘It’s crumbs from the table.’

  ‘It’s nothin’!’

  ‘It’s dick!’

  ‘It’s a game-changer, Rip. It’s a game-changer.’

  ‘We made a killing, Joe.’

  ‘We killed it, Rip!’

  ‘A million dollars, Joe. A fucking million!’

  The deal had exceeded my expectations – by about a million dollars. That is to say, I – like everyone else in Joe’s family – hadn’t taken the possibility of him selling the collection seriously. I don’t think Joe himself really did, and nor did he know how much he wanted for it. In the heart of his own exaggerating heart I think he’d have taken Roth’s opening offer.