Mary pressed the wrinkles from her skirt while Will shaved. “If my friends hear about last night, I’ll leave town.”
“The food was good. You’ll have to admit that.”
“That hussy was disgraceful.”
“Tell them about Jolson.”
“We should have come back here after the movie.”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“Do you think I should get one of those new pageboy cuts?”
“Like that young lady wore last night?”
Mary frowned.
“And a flask and some cigarettes, too, my dear. You’ll make a lovely flapper girl.” Will rolled his room receipt, hung it from his lips, and puffed away while he shuffled his version of the Charleston, all the way across the room.
Mary collapsed on the bed with laughter. “You’d look marvelous, my dear, in a knee-length skirt and a string of beads.”
Will cringed in terror at the suggestion, but soon joined her on the bed. “You’ll always be the most beautiful woman in Wisconsin no matter what you wear.” He pulled her close and kissed her tenderly.
After leaving Mary at the beauty parlor, Will stepped into The Branch Bank of Wisconsin. He picked the March 27, 1929, The Wall Street Journal off the table, scanned the front page, and read, “Charles Mitchell says his bank will keep lending. Market recovers.” Will didn’t know the market was down, but he wasn’t surprised.
A voice startled him. “Mr. O’Shaughnessy, you’re here to see me?”
A tall, bald, and corpulent man approached.
Will held the paper up. “I didn’t know the markets were off. I’ve avoided news the last few days.”
“Quite a scare, but I doubt it’s over. Are you in deep?”
“I took my money out last fall.”
“A smart man. I feel sorry for those buggers on margin. What can I do for you, Mr. O’Shaughnessy?”
Will dropped the Journal on the table and held out his hand. “Mr. Darch, David Tate said you could help me.” Will felt strength in the man’s grip.
“David sent you? A good man. We worked together for a while. I started as a broker.” He beckoned to Will as he turned away.
The small, sparse office smelled like cigar smoke. Darch walked to his large overstuffed roll out, pulled a smaller wheeled chair away from the desk, and motioned for Will to sit. “What is it that David thought I could do for you?”
“He says you’re an expert on scams.”
“I’ve seen them all, I suppose. And, yes, I advise worry.”
“It’s not me. It’s my dad. He’s been getting letters.”
“I bet I can tell you. They say the market will rise one week, fall the next.”
“You’ve gotten these mailings?”
“It’s an old con game.” Darch flicked the lid off his humidor, pulled out two cigars, and offered one to Will. “But it still attracts the naive.”
“No thanks. Only smoke a pipe.”
Darch dropped one big cigar into his container and fingered the other.
“I haven’t seen the letters, but Dad keeps getting them, and he says they’re right every time.”
“He’s one of the winners.” Darch paused. “It’s more accurate, I suppose, to say he’s a loser.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, it goes like this. The scam artist sends out, oh, say, twenty thousand letters. Half of them predict the market will rise in a given week, the other half that it will fall. Now he’s got ten thousand interested people.”
“And my dad was one of them.”
“But it doesn’t end there. He now sends letters to those ten thousand who already believe he may have special powers, and once again, he tells his story. Half the letters say the market will rise, the other half that it will fall.”
“Now he’s really got believers.”
“Yes, and by the time he’s repeated the process a half dozen times, he only has a few hundred left, but he’s got them by the short hairs. They’re ready to be fleeced.”
“I suppose he asks for money.”
“Oh, sure. He may ask them to pay for his advice, or worse yet, he’ll tell them to send money, probably lots of it, money he’ll invest for them.”
“How does he know the investors?”
“May be random. It seems everyone is eager for a hot tip these days. But sometimes he has a contact inside the stock exchange or a large brokerage office who gives him the names and addresses of the players.”
“Thank God that Dad doesn’t have the money to do much harm, but I better tell him.”
“The promise of sure, easy money has a terrible draw. He wouldn’t be the first one suckered into the morass.”
* * *
Will knew that he must tell his father about the scam. Thomas said that he wouldn’t send money. Nevertheless, Will worried. Maybe he could convince him to get out.
Will smelled the familiar barnyard aroma as Fanny approached his dad’s farm. The cow manure, corn silage, and hay dust blended into a pungent odor, one that would offend city folk, but it smelled like home to Will. He hitched Fanny to the post in front of the house, but he didn’t see his father. Now, late in October, Will knew the corn was in, the year’s harvest done, but it was too early for milking. He wasn’t likely to be in the barn or fields. Maybe the house. Even though he knew his boots were clean, out of habit Will slid them across the scraper at the door’s entrance. Seemed like his feet had a mind of their own. Strange how the body repeated old behaviors.
His mother pushed the door open before Will touched the handle. “Well, Will, this is a surprise. I thought you’d forgotten we live here. Seems you’re too busy to visit nowadays.”
Will ignored his mother’s complaint. “Best to pay no heed to what you don’t want to hear,” Mary had cautioned him. Of course, she didn’t countenance that when she had something to say.
“Is Dad in the house?”
“So you didn’t come to see your old mother?”
“Yes, Mother, I came to see you, too.” He knew Mary would object, but old habits die hard. “But first I must talk to Dad.”
Gertrude shrugged and pointed towards the pasture. “He’s out repairin’ fences.”
Will knew his mother wasn’t adequately appeased, but he’d already humored her more than Mary would have liked.
Will unhooked Fanny from the post and turned toward the lane. Fanny raised her head, whinnied, and picked up her pace. “So you know we’re home. It does feel good, now doesn’t it?” Will tugged on the reins. “Slow down, old girl.”
At the far fence line Will’s father stood on his wagon, maul in hand. Will marveled at his father’s strength. At sixty-nine, he still could swing a fourteen-pound hammer from his heels, and swing it harder than his sons. When Will got closer, he hollered, “Hey, Dad, got a minute?”
Thomas reached the maul toward Will. “Came to help, did you now? Here, son, show me how it’s done.”
“Don’t think I could lift it anymore. I do all my work from the bottom up, and not much of that since I hired help.”
“Gittin’ soft, are you?”
“I’ve got more pressing matters. Come on down.” Will took a flask from his jacket pocket and reached it towards his dad, who dropped the maul, sat on the wagon’s edge, and reached for the liquor.
“I thought that would get your attention.”
A ring-neck pheasant, wary of the pounding but spooked by the silence, flew from the tall weeds under the fence. Will couldn’t understand how people could shoot so beautiful a bird.
Thomas smacked his lips as he handed the flask back to Will. “One swig’s good for a dozen more posts.”
Will returned the container to his jacket without taking a drink.
“You haven’t gone dry on me now, have you, son?”
“Mary doesn’t like it.”
“Domestication’ll do that every time.” He took a tin of Red Man from the pocket of his OshKosh B’gosh bib overalls. “Have to beg for your treats, just like an old dog. Your mother doesn’t like my tobacco either.” He pasted a pinch inside his cheek.
“Dad, about those letters — ”
Thomas turned from Will and spat into the tall grass along the fence line.
“The ones that predict the market.”
“Oh, those.”
“Have you gotten more?”
“Don’t you worry about those letters, son. The market’s back up.”
“Did he ask for money?”
“He’s been right every time. Not missed once.”
“But did he ask for money?”
“Well, yes, but he’s always right. Never seen anything like it. Guy’s a genius.”
“Do you know how he does it?”
“S’pose he’s got powers.”
“Trickery, that’s what he’s got.”
“You say?”
Will explained how the correct predictions dwindled until the man had a small group convinced he couldn’t be wrong. “You certainly didn’t send him money, did you?”
“Where would I get money? Put mine in those stocks you recommended.”
“It’s time to sell those, too, I think. The market’s topside heavy.”
“Soon, Will. Farm income’s about to pick up. The House of Representatives passed a tariff resolution last May, and I read that Congress plans to put restrictions on imported goods any time now. Farm income’s bound to improve when we stop that foreign competition.”
“Don’t be so sure those tariffs will help. When your adversary’s barefoot but you’re stark naked, it’s not a good idea to stomp his toes. You didn’t send that man money, did you?”
“But the man’s Irish, you know.”
“What makes you think so?”
“He said he is.” Thomas dug a crumpled envelope from his coverall pocket, extracted a letter, and pointed to the last line. “See?” He handed it to Will.
Will read aloud, “‘Take it from another Irishman, there’s gold at the end of this rainbow.’” He threw the letter down. “He didn’t even sign it. Anyone can say he’s Irish.”
“Not many claiming to be Irish these days, not since the war. Why’d the man say so if he weren’t?”
“It’s addressed to O’Shaughnessy. You don’t suppose your name had anything to do with it, do you?”
Thomas picked the letter off the wagon and stuffed it into his pocket before he hoisted the maul.
“You promise you’ll see David and sell those stocks.”
“I’ll get to town next week. Won’t be comin’ through this Saturday.”
“The sooner the better.”
“The market’s been up the last four years. No need to drop everything now, is there?”