a scam artist and an impostor, Patrick was studying
community ecology, a branch of biology; he specialized in beetles and spiders. With his
inquiring mind and prankish disposition, Patrick offered a plausible version of the life that Hogue might have led if going straight had been an option. Their exchange revealed some of the family weirdness that had helped to shape Jim, as well as some of the plans that had been
interrupted by his arrest in Tucson.
“So you got caught, eh?” Patrick asked. “Hanging out at the Barnes & Noble?”
“Yeah,” Jim admitted.
Patrick laughed. “I expected you’d be a little more sneaky, Jim.” Hogue allowed that he
hadn’t been sneaky enough.
“I heard you tried to call Grandma,” Patrick said. Hogue said that he had tried to call his mother, but that he hadn’t been able to get through. “You know Grandma, you called collect and she wasn’t gonna take those charges,” Patrick snorted. “So let’s cut to the chase here. Are you calling for something, or are you just calling to say hi?”
When Hogue didn’t answer, Patrick tried a different tack. “Did you hear Betty died?” he
asked, referring to Hogue’s full sister. Jim had heard the news.
“You know I’ve been going over to Russia, and I have a fiancée over there,” he added.
What he wanted was for his nephew to call Irina and tell her that he had been killed in a car crash. Patrick tended in practice to emulate the behavior of his father’s straight-arrow parents, and was not enthusiastic about lying to his uncle’s fiancée—a real person, whom Hogue met on a trip he took to Russia with a few other men from Telluride, who had joined together for the purpose of finding wives. “Well, this might be one of the better times to come clean,” Patrick suggested.
“I don’t know how long I’m gonna be here, and I just can’t keep her tied up like that,”
Hogue objected. “You get where I’m coming from, right? It’s kind of a moral dilemma.” When
Patrick suggested that his fiancée might show up to the funeral or want to visit Hogue’s grave, his uncle showed that he had thought things through. “No, she can’t get a visa,” he said. Then he lowered the ante.
“Well how about a coma?” he asked hopefully.
Patrick laughed. “A Google search on you comes up now like you wouldn’t believe,” he
said.
“Yeah. I understand,” Hogue answered.
Unwilling to give up on his fantasy, Hogue then called Salentre back. “I’m gonna have to
have somebody tell her I died in a car crash, or I’m in a coma or something,” he said, hoping to convince his old cell mate to call Irina.
“Tell her you’re being detained right now,” his ex-cell mate dryly suggested.
“No, no, no. That never works.”
“She’ll write you letters then,” Salentre teased. “I’m not gonna tell her you died,” he said.
“I’ll tell her that you won’t be seeing her for a while.”
“That’s worse than anything,” Hogue objected. Salentre’s patience was wearing thin.
“Where’d you find her, in a mail-order catalogue?” he asked. Hogue answered that he
had met her in Russia at a party.
“Oh, yeah?” Salentre asked. “Well, that’s the least of your problems right now.”
“Damn, I wish Jack would get here and get those credit cards, start running them up,
maxing them out,” Hogue said. But the opportunity to run up bad debts on his personal credit cards was long since past. A few days later, he was flown back to Telluride in a sleek private jet belonging to the governor of the state of Colorado. Except for the fact that he was shackled and handcuffed, and dressed in an orange prison shirt, the flight was exactly as Jim might have imagined it. The beard he had grown in jail was neatly trimmed for the flight. He never said a word, preferring to keep what remained of his tattered mystery intact. Once or twice, he took a few sips from a bottle of Nestle water. For most
community ecology, a branch of biology; he specialized in beetles and spiders. With his
inquiring mind and prankish disposition, Patrick offered a plausible version of the life that Hogue might have led if going straight had been an option. Their exchange revealed some of the family weirdness that had helped to shape Jim, as well as some of the plans that had been
interrupted by his arrest in Tucson.
“So you got caught, eh?” Patrick asked. “Hanging out at the Barnes & Noble?”
“Yeah,” Jim admitted.
Patrick laughed. “I expected you’d be a little more sneaky, Jim.” Hogue allowed that he
hadn’t been sneaky enough.
“I heard you tried to call Grandma,” Patrick said. Hogue said that he had tried to call his mother, but that he hadn’t been able to get through. “You know Grandma, you called collect and she wasn’t gonna take those charges,” Patrick snorted. “So let’s cut to the chase here. Are you calling for something, or are you just calling to say hi?”
When Hogue didn’t answer, Patrick tried a different tack. “Did you hear Betty died?” he
asked, referring to Hogue’s full sister. Jim had heard the news.
“You know I’ve been going over to Russia, and I have a fiancée over there,” he added.
What he wanted was for his nephew to call Irina and tell her that he had been killed in a car crash. Patrick tended in practice to emulate the behavior of his father’s straight-arrow parents, and was not enthusiastic about lying to his uncle’s fiancée—a real person, whom Hogue met on a trip he took to Russia with a few other men from Telluride, who had joined together for the purpose of finding wives. “Well, this might be one of the better times to come clean,” Patrick suggested.
“I don’t know how long I’m gonna be here, and I just can’t keep her tied up like that,”
Hogue objected. “You get where I’m coming from, right? It’s kind of a moral dilemma.” When
Patrick suggested that his fiancée might show up to the funeral or want to visit Hogue’s grave, his uncle showed that he had thought things through. “No, she can’t get a visa,” he said. Then he lowered the ante.
“Well how about a coma?” he asked hopefully.
Patrick laughed. “A Google search on you comes up now like you wouldn’t believe,” he
said.
“Yeah. I understand,” Hogue answered.
Unwilling to give up on his fantasy, Hogue then called Salentre back. “I’m gonna have to
have somebody tell her I died in a car crash, or I’m in a coma or something,” he said, hoping to convince his old cell mate to call Irina.
“Tell her you’re being detained right now,” his ex-cell mate dryly suggested.
“No, no, no. That never works.”
“She’ll write you letters then,” Salentre teased. “I’m not gonna tell her you died,” he said.
“I’ll tell her that you won’t be seeing her for a while.”
“That’s worse than anything,” Hogue objected. Salentre’s patience was wearing thin.
“Where’d you find her, in a mail-order catalogue?” he asked. Hogue answered that he
had met her in Russia at a party.
“Oh, yeah?” Salentre asked. “Well, that’s the least of your problems right now.”
“Damn, I wish Jack would get here and get those credit cards, start running them up,
maxing them out,” Hogue said. But the opportunity to run up bad debts on his personal credit cards was long since past. A few days later, he was flown back to Telluride in a sleek private jet belonging to the governor of the state of Colorado. Except for the fact that he was shackled and handcuffed, and dressed in an orange prison shirt, the flight was exactly as Jim might have imagined it. The beard he had grown in jail was neatly trimmed for the flight. He never said a word, preferring to keep what remained of his tattered mystery intact. Once or twice, he took a few sips from a bottle of Nestle water. For most
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