Page 44 of A Long Con

It was so fucking unexpected. How could Split have expected this construction worker to do something that unreal?

Royal and I released our handhold. I looked at him wide-eyed, and he seemed temporarily in shock too. It was probably only two seconds where we stood as still as the air before an earthquake. The moron continued honking at the barrier. That’s when it occurred to me, I knew the construction worker who had done these deeds.

It was Ira Hogshead.

When we regained our minds, we raced to the manhole. Steam billowed and obscured our view. As Royal dashed to a construction truck and rooted around, I finally saw Split about fifteen feet down. He reached up toward the street, and he was screaming.

“We’ll get you out of there, buddy!” I shouted.

I don’t know if he couldn’t hear me due to the hiss of the steam, but all he did was scream. He didn’t pronounce a single word to my knowledge. Royal came skittering back with a flashlight. Yes. Split just reached up—his cowboy hat had fallen off when he was tossed—with his mouth in a horrible O . His eyes seemed to have already turned into perfectly round bulbs of obsidian.

“What. The. Fuck,” murmured Royal.

I said, “That was Ira Hogshead. Did you notice that?”

“I sure did,” Royal agreed. “Hey!” I looked up and he was yelling at a sewer worker. “Get over here! Did you know a man just fell in your fucking manhole?”

The guy picked up the barrier from the middle of the street first. When he saw the sight Royal’s flashlight beam revealed, his mouth formed an O too. “What the hell? This manhole was covered! It’s three hundred degrees down there!”

“You got to shut off that steam,” Royal snarled.

The guy reached for a radio clipped to his belt. “We’ve got a guy down a manhole. We need to cut off the steam to get him out.”

I reached for my phone.

“Who you calling?” asked Royal.

“911, who else?”

“Wait.” Royal grabbed my wrist. “They’re gonna ask who did this, and we’re gonna get involved in a long scene.”

“But it’s Split! He’s burning to death down there! Did you hear what the construction guy said? Three hundred freaking degrees!”

“Let’s see what these workers can do. They’re used to manholes.”

I let myself be talked into working with the construction dudes, who were also not eager to get the cops involved. They taped off a larger perimeter to keep out the lookie-loos, and it took two hours for them to shut off the main. Even then, it was too hot down there for a rescuer to go in.

By then, Split’s skin looked leathery. It glistened with water beads. He seemed stuck in that position, reaching up toward us and the planet above. A thin outer layer of skin peeled from his hands, every inch of him shocking red, his mouth a blackened O. Still, he was alive. He screamed. I couldn’t stand it any longer.

I wrenched myself from the hubbub around the manhole. It occurred to me I hadn’t seen Royal in a few minutes. A reporter from some local rag asked me questions from beyond the yellow tape.

I lied, because Split was wanted by the FBI too. “His name is Hugh Dunnett,” I claimed sullenly. “He’s a famous art collector of Navajo artifacts. He lives in Taos. That’s all I know.”

“And who are you?” the reporter asked me.

I stuck out my lower lip. My eyes burned with an inner fire. “I’m Berkeley Moynihan. Just a moke from Rough and Ready, Arizona.”

Then I turned away, but didn’t want to face the manhole, so I crossed my arms in front of my chest and stared at a dusty storefront window displaying dusty pottery.

“Berkeley,” said Royal, shaking my shoulder. “You’re never gonna fucking believe this. I asked at Chip’s store about the rug. I showed them on my phone where you sketched that sample based upon O’Bell’s ink. Get this. The guy goes, ‘Oh, we sold that a couple hours ago.’ When I showed them a photo of Ira Hogshead, he’s all, ‘Yeah, that’s the guy.’”

“Fuck!” I fumed. “Every fucking step of the way we’re thwarted! We just can’t seem to do a damned thing right. And now we’ve gone and gotten Split killed.”

“Hey. We didn’t get Split killed. Ira Hogshead did, okay?”

Royal looked all watery. My eyes burned from the manhole steam. “Yeah but Split wouldn’t be walking down this shitty street if it weren’t for us.”

“Yes, he would. He knew just where to get that rug. He knew that no one knew it was Roosevelt’s rug so he could get it for pennies. What concerned me is how Hogshead tracked Split down. He didn’t seem to be tracking us, he seemed to be tracking Split. Which means he might’ve put a tracker on Split’s truck. I’m going back to where he parked it. You stay here. Get his phone off him if he comes out.”