Free Mr. Splitfoot by Samantha Hunt

Mr. Bell sits on his case still wearing his burgundy suit. Yellow weeds are flattened and dried by the tides. He’s tossing rocks into the river. “Amigos.” He stands to greet them. “A powerful confluence here.” He jerks his chin out to the water. “Though the power isn’t necessarily visible to the naked eye, this land looks forgotten, but I assure you, we’re standing at a most important place. You know the history of this great canal?”
    Ruth shakes her head no.
    “This is where north and south meet east and west. From here”—he points one way—“New York City and the Atlantic. And there”—his finger follows the curve of the river up—“the rest of the country. A passage through antiquity: Utica, Rome, and Syracuse. Tonawanda by way of Crescent, Tribes Hill, Canajoharie, May’s Point, Lyons, Palmyra, Macedon, to Buffalo. Each lock is a miracle of engineering built with nary an engineer. The excavated dirt formed a towpath beside the canal beaten flat by the mules who built New York State. These days, though, the canal doesn’t get much use.”
    Ruth, Nat, and Mr. Bell stare down the Mohawk. “‘Low bridge,’” Mr. Bell sings out, but he is met with blank looks. He has to explain. “That’s where you sing, ‘Everybody down.’ Don’t you know that song?”
    “No,” Ruth says. “Sorry.”
    “‘Fifteen Miles on the Erie Canal’?”
    “Sorry.”
    Nat jerks his chin. “What’s in the case?” He’s almost rude. Perhaps he’s worried that Ruth likes Mr. Bell too much. The three of them stand around the suitcase, hands clasped like farmers admiring a prized pumpkin. Finally Mr. Bell flops the case open.
    “There’s nothing in there,” Ruth says. It is empty save for its soiled pink taffeta lining.
    “No, there’s not.”
    “What was in there? What were you selling?”
    “There’s never been anything in there. I carry an empty case.”
    “Why?”
    “It gives me a reason to knock on people’s doors, ask them questions. You already understand the potential in empty space and curious customers. Empty space made you two agree to meet me, a strange man in an abandoned location. Why would you do that?”
    No one, besides an outraged bird, makes a sound.
    “Empty space lures your customers into a dark and dreary basement. Why?”
    “What kind of questions do you ask?”
    “Whatever I need to know.” Mr. Bell claps his hands, smiles.
    “Like?”
    Mr. Bell squats as a catcher. He rubs his hands over his face, preparing his snake oil for presentation. “Do you have life insurance? Do you have a son? Do you own any property in Florida?” He straightens. “Just as examples.”
    “Why do you want to know those things?”
    “Information enables me to shape my con, to make something from nothing.”
    “Pardon?”
    “I am a con man.” He offers himself to them without a filter, opening arms. “This is how I make my living, separating fools from their money.”
    “But we don’t have any money.”
    “And I am not conning you.”
    “Did you con Father Arthur?”
    Mr. Bell snickers. “As a man of faith, he’s already familiar with my tricks.”
    “So why’d you want to talk to us?”
    “For you, in my suitcase, I have a proposition.”
    Nat and Ruth bend closer to the empty case, peering inside again.
    “No,” Mr. Bell says. “I’m speaking metaphorically.”
    They stand.
    “I should like to become your manager.”
    “That’s what’s in the case?”
    Ruth sees a small path to the river, a muddy slide down to the water. “What will you manage?”
    “Your careers as seers, mediums, psychics. I’ll collect an audience. I’ll be a barker of sorts. You’re familiar with the term?”
    No. “Yes.”
    “I meet a lot of people.” Mr. Bell doesn’t have to convince them. Up close, in the light of day, he’s pocked with experience and some rough-looking tattoos. Mr. Bell still hasn’t told them his first name. “Many of these people would be interested in your