Dead Man Below Deck

Chapter 8. Money Grows on Trees

The weather on Monday morning was nice as usual. After showering and putting the coffee on, I traipsed down to the convenience store to pick up the paper and bananas. When I got back to the condo, I took a quick peek under the deck to make sure no surprises had been deposited there by unknown benefactors. It was mercifully clear of corpses.

Betty and I read the newspaper, she still in bed and I in my chair. The Democratic Convention was scheduled to begin that evening in Boston. The Republicans were saying that the whole show was just a show. Which, of course, it was, as would be the Republican Convention in September.

The story about an unidentified dead fellow in Fort Atkinson still had not appeared in the paper. It was old news by now, so my guess was that it would not be reported in the Milwaukee paper at all. The slim chance that a reporter would call me for an interview had evaporated. Fifteen minutes of fame was allocated to us all. This must not have been the event that would give me my quarter hour.

The paper finished, I retired to the den for some much needed computing time. This time the ghost in the machine did not attempt demonic possession of my spirit, so it was every bit as relaxing as it should have been. My latest survey was giving up its secrets without too much difficulty. After learning that people who have a mentally ill family member are at greater risk of suffering from frequent mental distress themselves, I declared victory and quit.

It was about noon and I was eager to check in with my personal secret service agent. Hopping on my newly motorized bicycle, I zipped over to McDonald’s for a little discreet lurking. Agent Johnson did not appear. After fifteen minutes (patience had never been my strong suit), I motored home. Of course, there was some pedaling involved but not much.

Munching on a granola bar and slurping a Diet Coke, my brain began turning over the situation as it stood at the moment. The questions seemed to be these:

1. Was Jorgenson really the financier for the Fist of God?

2. How could I worm my way into his confidence enough to find out?

3. How could I accomplish number two without being detected as a spy?

4. What would happen to me if I was caught? This one did not bear thinking about. At this point another question occurred to me.

5. Why was Johnson listening in on my conversation at the Country Club with Jorgenson before I had agreed to spy for him? The answer to that question seemed obvious: Jorgenson was under surveillance and my presence was just fortuitous for him. But, frankly, I did not much like the idea that someone was listening to what I had to say without getting my permission first.

6. Was there any connection between the dead guy being under my deck and the Fist of God investigation? The answer to this one appeared to be ‘no,’ but the chances of two very odd circumstances happening to me in the same week were slim. After all, my life up to this point had been very quiet and uneventful. No connection between the two events was evident, but I had a nagging feeling that something had to tie them together.

At this point, I ran out of questions. And I definitely was short on answers. With a sigh, I returned to the computer for a chore that was no fun at all: online banking. It was something that you just had to do once in a while, like cleaning the toilet. Since our bills were going to our address in Texas, it was prudent of me to check my bank balance online periodically and to occasionally fire off payments for utilities and the like.

Doing the little chores life assigned us on schedule instead of putting them off was a sign of virtue and responsibility I had always felt. Of course, the people I would deride as procrastinators might just say that I was overly compulsive. In this case (as in so many others), my point of view on this issue was proven to be correct because a little surprise was waiting for me in the computer: an unexpected and unexplained deposit had appeared in my checking account. It could have been a deposit that I had forgotten to record, one that I had completely lost from my memory in regard to where the money came from and what it was for. After all, forgetfulness had always been part of my nature. On the other hand, even I would have trouble forgetting $100,000. Someone had deposited 100K in my bank account. For some reason, this struck me as odd. I thought about mentioning it to Betty, but she would just have said there was something dangerous about receiving 100K for no reason. She would probably want me to report it to somebody. And she would expect me to figure out to whom I should report the windfall. This was too difficult to deal with and no reason for urgency presented itself, so I just logged off and went on about my business. I could tell her about it later when I had more information. No need to worry the poor woman. Thinking of my dear wife, I knew just what would make her happy.

“Betty!”

‘Yes?”

“Let’s go over to Culver’s and get some ice cream?”

Silence. A moment later she was standing in the doorway. “Did you just say you want to walk to Culver’s for some ice cream?”

“Yup. Sound good to you?”

“Always. But what about your diet? You never want to break your diet.”

“Oh, we’ve been pretty good lately. We deserve a treat.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“Oh, nothing. Just feeling rich at the moment.”

So off we went for ice cream.