Free Mr. Splitfoot by Samantha Hunt Page A

services.”
    “What are those?”
    “Contacting the dead. Or putting on a good show.”
    “You don’t believe in ghosts?” she asks.
    “No.”
    “You will once you sit with him.”
    “I doubt it.”
    “Why would we let you manage us after you’ve admitted to being a con man?”
    “Like likes like.” When he smiles, his teeth are strong.
    “You mean we’re con men also?”
    “Yes.”
    “Nat’s for real.”
    “To you.”
    “So you don’t believe in anything?”
    Mr. Bell grins. “My beliefs are of a fossilized nature. Petrified. Luckily, my beliefs matter little. I’m a businessman, and if you say so, we’re in business.”
    The river currents churn like something thicker: oil, booze, or blood.
    “You must be rich.”
    “No.”
    “You went to college?” She’s looking for any advantage he might have over her.
    “No. Why?”
    “There are no atheists in foxholes.”
    He smiles at her turn of phrase. “Not so, young lady. I can see the stars from this trench. Regardless of its extraordinary depths. Why? What do you believe?”
    “Birds. Jesus.” She leaves Nat’s name off the list for now.
    “A Christian.”
    “No. I just like the man.”
    “The man Jesus?”
    “That’s the one.”
    Mr. Bell smiles as if she’s a cute kid, as if he’s far older than he is. “Do we have a deal?” he asks Nat, but Nat looks to Ruth.
    She studies the river. It’s hard to read. “OK,” she tells them. “A manager. Why not? We’ve got nothing to lose.”
    Mr. Bell lets loose a small whoop. He swings the empty case, orbiting himself before letting go of its handle. It lands in the river with a sucking splash, floating downstream on its way to a new life in the big city.
     
    Mr. Bell buys milk at a pharmacy in Colonie. Nat and Ruth wait in the car. His strength already lifts them. He drives them to a fish fry. He leaves the milk in the warm car. The restaurant is decorated in a horseracing theme. The booths are made to look like paddocks, each one crowned with a portrait, a thoroughbred in his prime: Black Susan, King’s Ransom, Secretariat. The restaurant is dark. A person could take his lunch here and avoid the sunshine.
    “On this spot”—Mr. Bell drives a fingertip onto the table—“Mother Ann shook her thing.”
    “What are you talking about?” Ruth intends the question in the broadest sense, like, Where did you come from? Why do you talk so funny? How did you find us?
    “Mother Ann, aka Ann Lee, led the United Society of Believers in Christ’s Second Appearing. You know them by their nickname, the Shakers?”
    “Shakers?”
    “Christians like yourself.”
    “I told you, we’re not Christians. Father Arthur is.”
    “Right. So the Shakers were into ecstatic dancing, hand-built furniture, gender equality, round barns, celibacy in preparation for the kingdom. ’Tis a gift to be simple.”
    “You’re a Shaker?”
    “No.” The waitress appears. “Three orders of cod. Tartar sauce.” Mr. Bell orders for all of them. “My treat.”
    “Fries?” the waitress asks.
    “Fries”—Mr. Bell rolls the word back to her—“are for kids.” And because they are not kids, except in the eyes of the state, Nat and Ruth quickly refuse similar offers of French fries.
    A man enters the restaurant. He brushes off the hostess, scanning the room for the choicest table. He takes a seat at the counter, slowly spinning his stool. On each revolution, he stares at Ruth. Her clothes, her scar. She’s used to it.
    “You need some instruction,” Mr. Bell says.
    “In what?”
    “Deceit. I can provide this. You lovelies do your basement reckoning for an audience. Top dollar for a sit with you and your spooks. And let’s bring it out of the basement.”
    “Interesting.” Nat steals a word from Mr. Bell.
    “It’s not deceit,” Ruth reminds him.
    The man on the stool has stopped spinning. He now stares at Ruth openly, directly, smiling bright. She notices his sideburns.
    Mr. Bell winks at her