Known Dead_ A Novel - Donald Harstad [86]
‘‘They always had the same handouts. Always the same shit, you know. I mean, the small parts would change, like the names of the people who were getting screwed, and the examples. But it was always really the same thing.’’
‘‘Like a theme?’’ I asked.
‘‘Yeah,’’ she said. ‘‘Like that. Like with the black helicopters and stuff. Same theme.’’
‘‘They were into the black choppers too?’’
‘‘Oh, yeah. Some people saw black helicopters just about every day, or so they said. They think it’s some foreign government, I guess, spying on ’em.’’
‘‘That’s what they said they were?’’ I asked.
‘‘Yeah. But you were supposed to know, you know? They’d just say ‘black’ and you’d just nod, like ‘oh, yeah, I know.’ It was weird. I mean, some of the nicest people, even the old women, would get goin’ on that.’’
‘‘Okay . . .’’ I glanced at Hester. ‘‘Sort of like they were talking about the weather?’’
‘‘Oh, no. They get, like, really excited about that black shit . . .’’
Being bored, she hadn’t paid too much attention to the names of the people who seemed to be in charge of the particular meetings, or the ones with the handouts. Except for one, whom she got to know because he ate with the Stritch contingent many, many times. Wilford Jeschonek. From Minnesota, as far as she knew. He was a lawyer. He’d told her so.
‘‘Oh, yeah, he was givin’ Herman all this advice about how to invest and such.’’
‘‘Investments?’’ asked Hester. ‘‘And did Herman give him any money?’’
‘‘Sure. He sold the third farm. Remember?’’ She was asking me. And I did. It had made the local paper, because Herman had claimed he was being forced off the farm by the Federal Land Bank people. It hadn’t been true, he just owed them money. A lot less than he got for the farm, if I remembered correctly.
‘‘After the sale, he borrowed all he could on the other two farms, and then he bought a lot of . . . oh, what do you call those things?’’
I spread my hands, palms up. ‘‘A little more specific?’’ I grinned.
‘‘Yeah,’’ said Melissa, grinning back. ‘‘Like, when you buy part of something, that a lot of other people bought too . . .’’
‘‘Shares?’’ asked Hester.
‘‘Yeah, that’s it! Shares. Shares in a whole bunch of gold kept in some foreign country . . .’’
‘‘And then,’’ I asked her, ‘‘he would get certificates saying that he owned so much gold in such and such a bank in South America? That he could redeem it in fifteen years for ten times the face value?’’
‘‘That’s right . . . how did you know about that?’’
‘‘Been lots of fraud cases like that, Melissa. Lots.’’
‘‘Fraud? You mean it isn’t true?’’
‘‘Nope. The ‘investors’ never see a cent. It just disappears, mainly because there isn’t any gold in the first place.’’
I noticed the beginning of the stricken look just a little too late to soften the blow.
‘‘Melissa, you and Bill didn’t . . .’’
Her face was blotchy red, and she was very near tears. ‘‘Yeah, we did. Just about everything we made on the farm.’’ She took a deep breath and gestured at her clothes. ‘‘That’s why I dress like this . . . why we have a piece of shit pickup . . .’’
‘‘I’m sorry, Melissa. I didn’t know.’’
‘‘That fuckin’ Herman!’’
I had to agree with that. Not only had he shot at her, he’d managed to get all her money flushed down a toilet, along with his own. If she’d been sticking it out thinking of a possible inheritance from both farms . . .
We had to give her a long break with her mother before we could get the interview back on track. While she was outside, I called Sally, checking where our favorite FBI agent was. On his way to Maitland, as a matter of fact. With a bunch of ‘‘material.’’ Excellent. I wanted him to talk with Melissa, especially about the financial stuff. He was much more familiar with that sort of thing than either