“Charlie? Are you still there?”
“I’m here. And yeah, I can keep a secret. As long as you’re not going to tell me you killed someone and the body’s in that shed.”
It was his turn to be silent, but I didn’t have to ask if he was still there; I could hear his raspy breathing.
“Nothing like that, but these are big secrets. We’ll talk tomorrow. You seem like a straight arrow. I hope to Christ I’m right about that. We’ll see. Now how much am I in the bucket for with you and your father?”
“Do you mean how much have we spent? Not that much. The groceries were the most. Couple of hundred in all, I guess. I saved the receipts—”
“There’s also your time. If you mean to help me, you need to be paid. How does five hundred a week sound?”
I was flabbergasted. “Mr. Bowditch… Howard… you don’t have to pay me anything. I’m glad to—”
“The workman is worthy of his hire. Book of Luke. Five hundred a week, and if things work out, a year-end bonus. All right?”
Whatever he’d done in his working life, it hadn’t been digging ditches. He was comfortable with what Donald Trump calls the art of the deal, which meant he was comfortable overriding objections. And my objections were pretty weak. I’d made a promise to God, but if Mr. Bowditch wanted to pay me while I fulfilled that promise, I didn’t see any conflict. Plus, as my father was always reminding me, I had college to think about.
“Charlie? Do we have a deal?”
“If it works out, I guess we do.” Although if he turned out to be a serial killer after all, I wasn’t going to keep his secrets for five hundred dollars a week. For that it would take at least a thousand. （Joke.） “Thank you. I wasn’t expecting anyth—”
“I know that,” he interrupted. An ace interrupter was Mr. Howard Bowditch. “In some ways you’re quite a charming young man. A straight arrow, as I said.”
I wondered if he’d still think so if he knew that one day while we were skipping school, the Bird Man and I had found a cell phone in Highland Park and called in a bomb threat to Stevens Elementary. His idea, but I went along with it.
“There’s a flour cannister in the kitchen. You may have seen it.” Not only had I seen it, he’d mentioned it to me, although he might have forgotten; he’d been in a lot of pain at the time. There was money in it, he’d said, then said it was empty. Said he forgot.
“Sure.”
“Take seven hundred dollars out of it, five as your first week’s wages and two for expenses to date.”
“Are you sure—”
“Yes. And if you think it’s bribe money, maybe sweetening you up for some outrageous request… it’s not. Services rendered, Charlie. Services rendered. About that you can be perfectly straight with your father. About anything we might discuss in the future, no. I’m aware it’s a lot to ask.”
“As long as it’s not a crime,” I said, then amended it. “Not a bad crime.”
“Can you come to the hospital around three?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll say good evening. Please give Radar a pat from the stupid old man who should have stayed off that ladder.”
He hung up. I gave Radar several pats on the head and a couple of long strokes, nape to tail. She rolled over to have her belly rubbed. I was happy to oblige. Then I went into the kitchen and took the top off the flour cannister.
It was stuffed with money. There was a jumble of bills on top, mostly tens and twenties, a few fives and ones. I pulled them out. They made a fair-sized heap on the counter. Below the loose bills were banded stacks of fifties and hundreds. The bands were stamped FIRST CITIZENS BANK in purple ink. I pulled them out, too, and it took some wiggling because they were really crammed in there. Six banded stacks of fifties, ten to each. Five banded stacks of hundreds, also ten to a stack.
Radar had come out into the kitchen and was sitting by her food dish, looking at me with her ears pricked. “Holy shit, girl. This is eight thousand dollars, and that’s not counting the stuff on top.”
I counted out seven hundred dollars from the loose bills, neatened them, folded them over, and put the wad in my pocket, where they made a bulge. It was at least ten times the amount of money I’d ever had on my person. I picked up the banded bundles, started to put them back in the cannister, then paused. There were three little pellets in the bottom, kind of reddish. I had seen one of those before, in the medicine cabinet. I tipped them out and held them in the palm of my hand. I thought they were too heavy to be BBs, and if I was right in what I was thinking, it might go a long way toward explaining the source of Mr. Bowditch’s income.