13 Leslie

The rain had let up long enough in Hot Springs for Leslie Grimes to welcome Pastor Randy out onto his sprawling back deck overlooking Lake Hamilton. The good pastor came to talk to Leslie about his work as an entrepreneur, a philanthropist, a father, a husband, and most importantly a Christian. Pastor Randy's faith segments were viewed by millions of people across the globe on YouTube and translated into sixteen different languages, according to Leslie's wife of forty-three years, Roberta, and their grandson, Leslie III.

The sunset behind the Grimeses' Mediterranean Revival house was nearly perfect, spreading a lovely orange light across the lake like a scene out of the Old Testament. The two men were seated at a table, very low-key and conversational. Pastor Randy, dressed in all black like Johnny Cash, beamed with health and charity as he congratulated Leslie on his latest million-dollar gift to Oral Roberts University. A crew had set up a small camera on a tripod and looped a lapel mic up under Leslie's navy blazer with gold buttons.

"Your generosity is overwhelming," Pastor Randy said. "Just where does that come from, Mr. Grimes?"

"Probably my mother," Grimes said, closing his eyes. "Mother thought of her family and her community before she ever thought of herself. My daddy was a door-to-door Bible salesman, and we got by day to day, week to week. He was a good man who drank a lot. Mother kept us all straight. I don't remember her owning more than two dresses at a time. I can still see them hanging on spindly wire hangers in her closet, threadbare and faded from drying in the sun. She instilled a love of hard work, generosity, and Christ in all of us."

"And it was your mother who loaned you and your wife two thousand dollars to start up Tomes and Treasures?"

"Right in downtown Blytheville by the seed and feed," he said. "My momma had been saving that money for years. We began with Easter gifts and then moved into engraving Bibles and selling silk flowers, inspirational gifts, and such. And over the last few decades, we've grown it into a multibillion-dollar business with over nine hundred stores across this great nation."

"Incredible," Pastor Randy said. "Just incredible."

"We are truly blessed."

"Amen," Pastor Randy said.

"Amen," Leslie said. "I couldn't have done it without Roberta. We've been married more than forty years. We have a brood of grandkids and even great-grandkids now. We met through our church where we were both helping with the Christmas pageant and recognized our mutual love of arts and crafts. Our first enterprise together was selling Easter baskets and then sugar eggs with dioramas inside. She had a talent. Not only would you see the Easter bunny and chicks cavorting about the tulips, but Jesus as well, high atop of Calvary. Folks came from all over Arkansas for them."

"Some might wonder how a person can be both a Christian and a billionaire," Pastor Randy said.

"Well, I'm a Christian who just happens to run a billion-dollar business," he said. "But Tomes and Treasures belongs to Him. Not to me. Me and Mrs. Grimes are just the stewards. We all are on this earth for just a speck of time, but some things are everlasting, like God's holy word. Finding a way to explain the concrete evidence of the Bible and its message for all people has been my calling."

"Sounds like a major announcement from the foundation."

Grimes offered a sly grin and nodded. "An awful big announcement is coming. It's taken some time, but I feel it will be my legacy."

He was about to tell more about the impending gift from the Leslie and Roberta Grimes Foundation for the Family when everyone heard a tremendous ruckus down by the docks. A man was yelling profanities and threats over the chugging of a boat motor. Pastor Randy told the videographer to stop and Grimes untangled himself from the microphone, winding his way down the marble staircase to find two of his security people and his publicist arguing with a bear of a man who appeared to have only one arm. He figured they'd gotten into him about fishing too close to his dock, but when he turned to Grimes, Grimes darn well knew this was something else entirely.

"Mr. Grimes, I've come a fur piece to talk to you."

"Talk to my assistant."

"Sure thing, Leslie," the one-armed man said. "But I figured you'd rather talk about the whereabouts of Peter Collinson with the man's partner."

"You work with Peter Collinson?"

"Every damn day since 9/11," he said. "Now let me tie up this fucking boat and let's get to gettin'."

"Please," Leslie Grimes said. "Won't you come inside?"

"What's wrong with this fancy-ass porch?" asked the one-armed man. "It ain't raining no more."

"I thought we could speak in private," he said. "About Peter."

"Peter Collinson is a fucking liar," the one-armed man said. "He cornholed us both and I'm the only chance you got to getting square."

"I don't care for that kind of language," Grimes said. "This is my family's home."

"I don't give a good goddamn what you want, Mr. Grimes," the man said. "I'm not here to teach fucking Sunday school. I'm here to talk about business. Your business. Did you, or did you not, have Peter put a foot up my ass and move heaven and earth to get you some Conex container direct out of Istanbul and on the night train to Memphis?"

Grimes shushed him as he held one of his French doors wide open and ushered the man to follow him into the kitchen. A place that Roberta always referred to as Grimes Diner, where they fed the grandkids pancakes and hot dogs on a long granite bar top adorned with ice-cream parlor stools.

"Please sit down."

"I'd just as soon stand up," the man said, pushing past Grimes. He was a brute of a fella, a bull of a man, as Leslie's dear mother would've said. He looked like a defensive tackle for the Razorbacks or maybe a mountain man. That was it, he looked like an even larger version of that Dan Haggerty on Grizzly Adams. A man so big and bearded he could wrestle bears up in the mountains even with his obvious physical defect.

"Took a long time to get here," he said.

"You said you came from Memphis."

"I didn't start in Memphis, Q-Tip," he said. "I barely got out of Istanbul with my nut sack. Ended up on a cargo ship that smelled like ass crack and feet all the way to Cairo and then flew to London and then back to Atlanta. I have to admit, the Atlanta airport was the worst of it. Folks talk about Dallas–Fort Worth, but Atlanta is the real asshole of this country."

The man had opened his refrigerator and started to rummage through the inside as if he were a member of the Grimes family. Leslie had seen his second-youngest grandson, Broderick, aka Scooter, do the very same thing. But little Scooter searching for last night's chocolate pie was endearing. This man searching through the contents of his refrigerator felt as invasive as getting a colonoscopy with a garden hose.

"Damn," he said. "That's a good-looking porterhouse."

"My cook said it's enough to feed the whole family."

"She must be stupid as fuck," the man said. "Y'all got some seasonings? Dale's sauce or some of that Tony Chachere?"

Grimes pointed to the cabinetry above the Viking stove. The man rummaged around until he hooked out a container of garlic salt.

"Did you get my messages?"

"Is your name Jack Dumas?"

The one-armed man smiled. He removed the hunk of beef, roughly the size of an Asian elephant ear, and poured the garlic salt out on the meat. "In the flesh," he said. "How come you didn't call me back?"

"You didn't mention Peter Collinson," he said. "You told my assistant you needed to talk business with me. I run a very large company, Mr. Dumas. I get calls like that every day."

"But you remembered my name," he said. "That's good."

"Well," Grimes said, "I guess I should've recognized you. I was told you used a great deal of profanity. And used the Lord's name in vain a number of times."

Dumas pulled out a large cast-iron skillet and set it on the stovetop, clicking the gas up to high. Leslie wanted to tell him there was a much better way to cook that steak, outside on the propane grill set into the Italian marble. But instead he took a seat at the kitchen bar where Roberta served him a boiled egg and a slice of gluten-free toast each morning. Gluten didn't agree with him at all. Since he'd gotten on that new diet that Roberta found in AARP magazine, he'd dropped fifteen pounds in the blink of an eye. He might even fit back into his old swim trunks come springtime.

"Why are you here, Mr. Dumas?"

"Well," he said, adding some oil to the skillet, "don't you want to get your shit back?"

"Excuse me?"

"You're acting like some confused old man who's just walked into the picture show late," he said. "If you haven't figured it out yet, Peter Collinson is dead. I worked for the man for ten fuckin' years. I know him better than I knew my own daddy, who was a worthless piece of shit, by the way."

"Perhaps you should forgive him."

"Peter?"

"Your daddy."

"Who the hell cares?" he asked, setting the meat into the skillet. The meat started to sizzle. "Yesterday's news. They're both dead, Leslie. And here's the deal. As Peter's right-hand man"—Dumas held up his right hook and smiled—"I am your best goddamn chance in the world of getting your treasure back."

"Mr. Dumas," Grimes said, surprised by the sound of his own voice, "please. My wife will be down any moment and won't stand for that kind of talk."

"You're awful calm for a man who's put so much effort in hauling a load of junk from the other side of the planet only to let it all slide down the shitter."

The kitchen had started to fill with smoke and the fire alarm started its high-pitched beeping. Dumas grabbed a broom and beat the stuffing out of the alarm, shattering it onto the floor.

Grimes walked over to the French doors and closed them with a sharp click. His staff had left them alone as instructed, but Pastor Randy and his crew had remained on the Italianate patio watching the last of the sunset.

"Thank you for your concern," Grimes said. "But Mr. Collinson is alive and well. A trusted mutual friend has been in touch and told me everything has been worked out."

"A trusted mutual friend?" he said. "Ha. Peter Collinson doesn't have any friends."

"Would you like to take that steak with you?" Grimes said. He was feeling back in charge again, knowing this was just a simple redneck shakedown. "Maybe a doggie bag? I'm sorry you traveled all this way."

"I'm the only one who knows about this fucking Conex," he said. "I know what's in it and just what it means to you. And I know how and when it will arrive in Memphis. Why don't you ask this trusted friend all that?"

"I most certainly will."

"Because when you figure out you've been double cornholed, don't come crying back to me," Dumas said, flipping the steak. "The price of delivery only gets higher by the hour, Leslie. And now that Peter is taking a goddamn dirt nap, I feel I'm free to offer the contents to other parties."

Grimes felt himself sweating a little bit and rubbed his brow with his fingers. The sun was nearly down, and shadows had fallen across the wide patio and out into the lake.

"You said you know the contents?"

Dumas ambled over from the Viking range and stared across the bar at Grimes. He looked back over his shoulder at the smoking skillet and outside to the gathering of Pastor Randy's crew and some of Leslie's personal staff. He'd told them all to give him a minute, but now it had been far longer than a minute. The lights had cut on out on the deck, lighting up the fig and fruit trees, a special time of day that made him think of the Garden of Gethsemane.

Jack Dumas leaned across the bar, Leslie recoiling as he felt the scratchiness of the man's stubble against his cheek. The man whispered two very important words in his ear. The man spoke Greek.

"Did I stutter?"

Leslie's mouth had gone dry. "I need to make some phone calls."

"And so do I," he said. "My patience is being strained."

The man walked back to the range and turned off the gas, pulling the steak off the hot skillet and setting it in the center of the kitchen island to cool.

"How's your faith, Mr. Dumas?"

"Oh, you know," he said. "Folks say there are no atheists in foxholes."

"And in your experience, is that true?"

"Don't know," he said, mulling over the question. "Never been in one. My combat's either been staring down the looking glass or hand to hand. I once killed me a hadji with a Coca-Cola bottle."

"Can you give me a few hours?"

The man didn't even ask for any cutlery, only picked up the big, bloody piece of meat and started eating right off the bone. "How about I come back around in the morning," Dumas said, chewing with his mouth open. "If you're not interested, Peter gave me a list of other folks who'd be glad to put out."

"This man came into my home and ate a porterhouse over my sink," Grimes said.

It was an hour later, Jack Dumas had disappeared, and Grimes had spent the last half hour making excuses to Pastor Randy about the intrusion. He'd barely been able to compose himself and talk fifteen minutes more about the Leslie and Roberta Grimes Foundation for the Family, the one-armed man's foul words still echoing in his ears.

"I never heard of a Jack Dumas," Joanna Grayson said. "And Peter confided in me every small detail. It sounds like some kind of poor shakedown artist. I think you'd do best to stay away from him."

"But he knows."

"I doubt it," she said. "I'm the only one who knows. He may have heard something, but trust me, Leslie. I've been importing valuables from all over the globe since I left the film business. I've worked with both Sotheby's and Christie's. I once handed over a pair of ruby earrings to Liz Taylor that were as big as golf balls. You are more than welcome to check my credentials. My god. You wouldn't have even heard of Peter if it hadn't been for me. As far as him being dead, that's an absolute fabrication. I just spoke to Peter this morning. He's been overseeing every detail of the shipment and will be in touch shortly."

"He smelled awful."

"Pardon?"

"This man smelled like the inside of a horse barn," he said. "He used language and manners that were horrific. He called me Q-Tip and attempted to push me around in my own home. He ate a bloody steak with his bare hands."

"Well," Joanna said, sounding as if she was walking and talking at the same time. Her breathing sounded a little labored over the phone. "I would increase security at your home and stay close to the phone. I promise we will be arranging final details once your shipment clears customs."

"If."

"Yes, yes," Joanna said. "I know there were a few issues before, darling. But every, and I mean every, consideration has been taken. The devil lives in the details."

"The devil is everywhere, Miss Grayson," Grimes said, looking down at the empty blackened skillet. Nothing left but the porterhouse bone and fat congealing white and purple. "I don't like people knowing my business."

"I don't know this Jack Dumas," she said. "Let's just all calm down and take a deep breath, and soon your lovely home will be filled with all the treasures of Ali Baba."

The comment about Ali Baba caught Leslie off guard. He looked to the skillet again and then the empty patio, "Ali Baba was a thief," he said. "I'd like to think of us as crusaders."

"Yes, yes, love," she said. "Crusaders. Absolutely. Ta-ta."