Wonders Never Cease (29 page)

She just stared down at her cup.

“This deal I've been working on—it really was for both of us. And it still is—that's what I wanted to tell you. Even though you're kicking me out, I won't back out on you. A promise is a promise. You and Leah need this money, and I'll make sure you get it.”

Natalie slowly turned and looked at him. “Why, you miserable little weasel.”

“What?”

“I know what you're doing. You told me what you did to Liv Hayden, and now you're worried—if I kick you out, what's to keep me from turning you in? I could do it too—I could tell the authorities that I just found out what you did and that's why I threw you out. The only guarantee you have that I won't tell is if I take money from you—then I'm part of it too.”

“Why do you have to twist everything? I try to do something nice for you and—”

“Forget it, Kemp. I don't want your money.”

“Be reasonable, Natalie. You don't even earn enough to pay the rent by yourself.”

“Leah and I will get by somehow—we always have. And as for turning you in, well—you'll just have to wonder. There's no telling what I might do in the mood I'm in.”

“That would be a big mistake,” Kemp said.

“It wouldn't be the first one I've made with you. Now—don't you have some packing to do?”

38

T
he three men quietly sipped their afternoon coffees around an outdoor table at the Starbucks on North Robertson in Beverly Hills. Wes Kalamar had ordered a triple caramel macchiato, while the more senior Mort Biederman made a calorie-conscious selection: coffee, black, no sugar. Tino sipped an espresso from a tiny porcelain cup; when he lifted the cup his gold-ringed pinky finger pointed into the air like a cell phone antenna.

“This place sure beats O'Hara's,” Wes said. “What a bad choice that was.”

“There's less vomiting,” Biederman said. “It improves the ambience.”

“Speaking of bad choices, where's Kemp this morning? Doesn't he get off at seven? He's late.”

“He isn't coming,” Tino said. “I didn't invite him.”

“Why not?”

“Because I think it's time the three of us had a talk—privately.” He pulled an envelope from his blazer pocket and laid it on the table.

“What's that?”

“A cashier's check for a million dollars—I'll be dropping it off to our friend at UCLA tomorrow morning. Take a look if you like; you don't see a check that big very often.”

Biederman slipped two fingers into the envelope and peeked inside. “How in the world did you manage to come up with a million in just twelve hours?”

“I made a few calls. I know people.”

Wes lowered his voice. “Do you think we can trust that ‘Emmet' character?”

“Of course not. But he won't tell.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he's smart and he knows when he should be satisfied—unlike Bobby. Forget the old man—he's not our problem. Bobby is our problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bobby has become more of a liability than an asset to us. He's undisciplined; he has no mind for business; he doesn't think through the consequences of his actions. Now he's put the rest of us at risk. We need to do something about that.”

“What can we do?”

“We can let him go.”

“You mean . . .
fire
him?”

“The man who starts a business is not necessarily the best qualified to run it. Bobby's entire contribution to this venture was on the front end—he possessed technical expertise. He's like a man who constructs a factory for you; once the factory is completed, you send him on his way. You don't keep him on to run the operation—that's not his gift.”

“But this whole thing was his idea.”

“The sources who loaned me that million will want their money back—with substantial interest—and they will not accept excuses or delays. I obtained this money at great personal risk because we had no choice and because I believe in the profitability of our venture. But I am now at risk;
we
are now at risk. Do you understand what I'm telling you?”

Both men nodded.

“Bobby owes me a great deal of money already, and he's been very poor about repaying his debts in the past. Have you seen his new car? Bobby loves the good life; at the rate he's going he'll probably spend his entire portion of the profits before he's even earned them. The three of us will have to do better; we need to do whatever we can to ensure timely repayment of our debt.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Bobby owns a one-third interest in this business venture of ours. I think it might be time for the three of us to redistribute our capital.”

“You mean—cut him out?”

“Yes.”

“And what happens to his third?” Biederman asked.

“First it will go to repay our two-million-dollar debt; after that it will go to repay what Bobby owes me.”

“
Two
million? You only borrowed one to pay off the old man.”

“Interest, gentlemen. You don't get a million dollars overnight for nothing.”

“Wow,” Wes whispered, and a long silence followed. Then: “Okay, two million plus Kemp's debt to you. But after we pay off the debt—what happens to the rest of Kemp's third?”

“It belongs to me.”

“But that could be millions more,” Wes said. “Why should we just hand it over to you?”

“Because you owe me.” He picked up the envelope. “If I tear up this check, you'll both go to prison.”

“So will you.”

“Exactly. We're in this together now, and that makes me more than just an investor—that makes me a full partner. I'm taking my share of the risk; I want my share of the rewards.”

“But a
third
?”

“
Bobby's
third. Bobby has added a great deal of unnecessary expense to this venture; shouldn't he bear that burden alone? Why should we split the remaining profits four ways when we can split three?”

“But—what will Kemp say?”

“It doesn't matter.”

“But there's no telling what he might do.”

“Yes—that is a problem.”

“But how will you tell him? What will you say?”

“I'll stop by his house and have a talk with him. You two have so much on your plates already—you don't need another problem right now. Let me worry about Bobby. As our angel would say—
forget about it
.”

39

H
ey, Charlie, have you got a minute?”

Charles Armantrout looked up from his desk to find Matt Callahan standing in his office doorway. He turned around to his window and parted the venetian blinds that he always kept shut to keep the afternoon sun from turning his tiny office into an oven; he saw the thinning carpool line and the last of the children slinging backpacks into cars that quickly and silently pulled away. “School's out already? How time flies when you're having fun.”

Matt pulled out a chair and sat down. “I get the feeling you're not too crazy about this job.”

“You have to be a little crazy to take a job like this,” Armantrout replied. “The work is menial, the hours are impossible, and the pay is downright insulting.”

“Then why did you take it?”

Armantrout sank a little lower in his chair. “I have a bachelor's in psychology. Need I say more?”

“My undergrad's in philosophy. Tell me about it.”

“So you're stuck here too.”

“Not me—I always wanted to be a teacher.”

Armantrout looked bewildered. “You're pulling my leg, right?”

“Nope. I had a couple of teachers who made a big impact on my life. I wanted the chance to do the same for someone else.”

“And the hours? The pay?”

Matt shrugged. “Some jobs you do because you love them. Some jobs are just worth doing.”

“An idealist,” Armantrout said. “What's that old saying? ‘If you're not an idealist when you're twenty, you have no heart. If you're still an idealist when you're forty, you have no mind.'”

Matt smiled. “I take it you're not an idealist then.”

Armantrout groaned. “I lost my illusions a long time ago, thank you very much. I consider myself a realist.”

“A ‘realist,'” Matt said. “What does that mean exactly?”

“It means I see life as it is—not as I wish it was.”

“Not the way people see it around here.”

Armantrout just smiled.

“I'm curious about something,” Matt said. “Don't you find it a little awkward being a realist around all these idealists? It's an Episcopal school, after all; these are people of faith.”

“I find it a bit suffocating at times,” Armantrout said, “but I do what I can to introduce a more balanced perspective.”

“A more realistic perspective,” Matt said.

“Exactly.”

“A perspective on life as it really is.”

“As I said.”

“On life as
you
think it is.”

“What about you, Callahan? You have to be around some of these ‘people of faith' too. Are you one of them? Are you a believer?”

Matt paused. “I'm not sure yet. I'm still working on that one.”

Armantrout made an obvious glance at the clock. “Did you just drop by for a philosophical discussion, Mr. Callahan? Because it's getting late. Maybe another time.”

“I wanted to talk to you about Leah Pelton.”

“What about her?”

“I'm not sure we're approaching her the right way. I'm not sure we're being fair.”

“We? Or me?”

“I got together with her mom a couple Sundays ago. We met at a park near her house. She said something that's been bothering me ever since. She asked me a question—sort of like the one you just did, only a little different. She asked me if I was
willing
to believe.”

“Willing to believe what?”

“That's just it—it doesn't matter what. She said you have to at least be
willing
to believe something before you can actually believe it—you have to at least be open to the possibility of an idea or you'll never even consider it. It reminded me of something from one of my philosophy courses—something they called ‘defeater beliefs.' We all hold certain beliefs we assume to be true—beliefs that make it impossible for us to believe in other things. They
defeat
other beliefs.”

“For example?”

“Suppose I plan to do research on UFOs—but suppose I'm convinced in advance that there can't be life on any other planet. What am I going to conclude when I look at all the evidence? That UFOs are all optical illusions or secret government projects—but under no circumstances will I ever consider that they might be visitors from another planet. I can't consider that—my defeater belief makes it impossible.”

“When there could, in fact, be life on other planets.”

“Exactly. The question to ask is, ‘Where did I get my defeater belief—and can I be sure it's true?' Because if it's wrong, it'll keep me from considering other things that might be true.”

Armantrout slowly smiled. “Fascinating—but are we talking about UFOs here?”

Matt paused. “No. We're talking about Leah Pelton.”

“I had a feeling. Go on.”

“Leah thinks she saw an angel—and we automatically think she has an emotional problem or a brain disorder. Why is that?”

“Because those are the only logical possibilities.”

“Are they? Isn't there another possibility we might be overlooking?”

“Such as?”

“Isn't it possible that Leah actually did see an angel?”

Armantrout tipped his head forward and peered at Matt over the top of his glasses. “An angel. A chubby little cherub with rosy cheeks and curly blond hair in a diaper. The kind you see on Valentine's cards.”

“C'mon, Charlie, that's just a caricature. I'm talking about a real angel here—some sort of divine being—a messenger from God. Isn't it possible?”

“No. It's not.”

“Why not?”

“Because there is no God. No God, no messenger—it's that simple.”

“But that's your defeater belief—don't you see? What if there is a God? What if you're wrong about that?”

Armantrout shook his head. “I appreciate the lesson in philosophy; now let me give you one from my own field—psychology. Freud said that people have a tendency to project their wishes onto the real world until their wishes become confused with reality. In other words, people believe what they believe largely because they want to.”

“And you think I want to believe in angels?”

“No—I think you want to believe in Natalie Pelton.”

Matt didn't reply.

“You said you met with Ms. Pelton on a Sunday—in a park—near her home. Do you often meet with parents on weekends, Mr. Callahan? That sounds a bit like a social call if you ask me. Not that I blame you; Natalie Pelton is a very attractive woman—though I believe she's currently involved with someone, if I remember correctly.”

Matt felt his face flush a little. “What are you saying, Charlie?”

“I'm simply asking a question: Are you attracted to Natalie Pelton?”

Matt hesitated. “Yes. I am. But that doesn't mean—”

“It means your emotions are clouding your better judgment. That's not a criticism—it's just human nature. Natalie Pelton desperately wants to believe that there's nothing wrong with her child. Who can blame her for that? She's willing to believe anything right now—even the ridiculous notion that her child has actually seen an angel.”

“And me?”

“You want to support Natalie in her belief. That makes you willing to entertain ideas that you know deep down are absurd.”