and would make an intelligent man order another one. But there was nothing, only a few testimonials at the end regarding the huge sums of money that people had made by putting Hefernin’s “philosophy” into practice. The Reverend Bentley’s tracts looked positively useful by comparison. Bentley nearly always promised you something final and discernible, an actual destination. It was generally always Hell, but at least he was decisive about it.
Walt turned the pamphlet over finally and looked at the business address. It took him a moment to make sense out of it, for it to sink in that the address was local—a post office box in Santa Ana. Why that was so startling he couldn’t say; southern California was no doubt the capital of mail fraud, probably of every sort of fraud.
The door opened and Uncle Henry looked in, carrying the newspaper, which was so completely taken apart that it looked like it had thirty or forty sections to it.
“I stepped out for some air and noticed the light was on in here.”
“Good,” Walt said. “I just put on some coffee. Sleep okay?”
“Well, not badly, anyway. It gets a little cramped in there after a few weeks. And the toilet …” He waved his hand, dismissing the toilet with a gesture. “I see you’ve been reading Dr. Hefernin.” He poured himself a cup of coffee out of the pot, widening his eyes at Walt, who nodded.
“Very interesting material in these pamphlets,” Walt said.
“That there is. We’ve established quite a correspondence, Aaron and I—first-name basis. And I can guarantee you that if you query the man you’ll get a prompt response. That’s another one of Hefernin’s requirements—promptitude.”
“I read about that,” Walt lied, gesturing toward the bench. “I’m in agreement with the man there.” He shoved the pamphlets back into their envelope. There was the bare chance that if they were out of sight, they’d be out of mind, at least for the moment. “I see you’ve brought the newspaper. Anything earthshaking in the headlines?”
“Local interest story, actually.” Henry laid the paper on the bench. On the front page was a two-column article about the death of Murray LeRoy and the coincidental fire a few hours later that destroyed his house….
“Say,” Henry said, “I’m about starved.”
There was a photo of an alley downtown, nearly flooded with rainwater, people standing around, a man holding out a single white shoe hung with tassels. Walt read it through, hardly able to believe what he saw, remembering the way that Argyle had emphasized the second syllable of LeRoy’s name when he’d stood talking to his cronies on the front porch last night.
Walt looked at Henry, finally making sense out of his words. “Sure,” he said, skimming the rest of the article. LeRoy’s house had burned when a gas leak was ignited by a pilot light. The man had apparently stored kerosene in his cellar, and the whole place had gone up so fast and hot that there’d been no saving it, although the fire department had prevented the nearby houses from burning.
“What about a couple of sinkers?” Henry asked. “After that dinner last night …” He shook his head. “Oh, it was good, mind you. Nothing wrong with it. Jinx is dead right—penny saved, penny earned, as they say. There’s no reason the same thing shouldn’t go for calories, in a way.” He widened his eyes, as if he knew he was lying through his teeth. “I’ve been eating like that for weeks now.”
“Boyd’s All-Niter?” Walt asked, reaching for the lights.
“Just what I was thinking. We’ll spend a few of those calories we saved last night.”
At the last moment Walt decided to leave the lights on, just for safety. If there was going to be another break-in, it would probably come soon. He snapped the padlock shut, and the two of them walked down the drive without speaking, past the now darkened motor home toward where the Suburban sat parked on the street. Just then
Walt turned the pamphlet over finally and looked at the business address. It took him a moment to make sense out of it, for it to sink in that the address was local—a post office box in Santa Ana. Why that was so startling he couldn’t say; southern California was no doubt the capital of mail fraud, probably of every sort of fraud.
The door opened and Uncle Henry looked in, carrying the newspaper, which was so completely taken apart that it looked like it had thirty or forty sections to it.
“I stepped out for some air and noticed the light was on in here.”
“Good,” Walt said. “I just put on some coffee. Sleep okay?”
“Well, not badly, anyway. It gets a little cramped in there after a few weeks. And the toilet …” He waved his hand, dismissing the toilet with a gesture. “I see you’ve been reading Dr. Hefernin.” He poured himself a cup of coffee out of the pot, widening his eyes at Walt, who nodded.
“Very interesting material in these pamphlets,” Walt said.
“That there is. We’ve established quite a correspondence, Aaron and I—first-name basis. And I can guarantee you that if you query the man you’ll get a prompt response. That’s another one of Hefernin’s requirements—promptitude.”
“I read about that,” Walt lied, gesturing toward the bench. “I’m in agreement with the man there.” He shoved the pamphlets back into their envelope. There was the bare chance that if they were out of sight, they’d be out of mind, at least for the moment. “I see you’ve brought the newspaper. Anything earthshaking in the headlines?”
“Local interest story, actually.” Henry laid the paper on the bench. On the front page was a two-column article about the death of Murray LeRoy and the coincidental fire a few hours later that destroyed his house….
“Say,” Henry said, “I’m about starved.”
There was a photo of an alley downtown, nearly flooded with rainwater, people standing around, a man holding out a single white shoe hung with tassels. Walt read it through, hardly able to believe what he saw, remembering the way that Argyle had emphasized the second syllable of LeRoy’s name when he’d stood talking to his cronies on the front porch last night.
Walt looked at Henry, finally making sense out of his words. “Sure,” he said, skimming the rest of the article. LeRoy’s house had burned when a gas leak was ignited by a pilot light. The man had apparently stored kerosene in his cellar, and the whole place had gone up so fast and hot that there’d been no saving it, although the fire department had prevented the nearby houses from burning.
“What about a couple of sinkers?” Henry asked. “After that dinner last night …” He shook his head. “Oh, it was good, mind you. Nothing wrong with it. Jinx is dead right—penny saved, penny earned, as they say. There’s no reason the same thing shouldn’t go for calories, in a way.” He widened his eyes, as if he knew he was lying through his teeth. “I’ve been eating like that for weeks now.”
“Boyd’s All-Niter?” Walt asked, reaching for the lights.
“Just what I was thinking. We’ll spend a few of those calories we saved last night.”
At the last moment Walt decided to leave the lights on, just for safety. If there was going to be another break-in, it would probably come soon. He snapped the padlock shut, and the two of them walked down the drive without speaking, past the now darkened motor home toward where the Suburban sat parked on the street. Just then
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