by Paul Bishop
“Have you ever had to use that?” He pointed to the .32. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d worn it because the leather shoulder holster matched my skirt.
“Once.” I hung my head, as though the memory was too sad to discuss.
Questions from the audience were coming in spurts: “I’ve read that being a private investigator is boring, lots of routine, paperwork, photographs of cracks in sidewalks...you know.”
“The agency I work for specializes in people, not pavement. We track down deadbeats who owe child support, runaway kids...that kind of thing. And I’ve only been licensed a year. Guess I haven’t had enough time to get bored.”
The next question dealt with the great-grandmother’s sex life and I zoned off, wondering if it was true the camera would add an additional ten pounds to my hips.
When I got to the office the day after the show ran on TV, Jan and Ken stood beside their desks and applauded.
I smiled, took a slow bow, and blew them each a kiss. “Please, be seated. I’ll walk among you common folk and sign autographs later.”
“Roberta,” Harry called from his office.
“Robbie,” I shouted. I hate the name Roberta, especially the way my boss, Harry Winsted, says it.
I sat across from Harry in a leather chair, crossed my legs, and waited for him to tell me how lousy I was on Donahue. The more shit Harry gives me, the better I know I’m doing.
“Saw you on Donahue. That number about your pipsqueak .32 was great stuff. Makes us look big time.”
“Just doin’ my job, boss.”
“Well, it’s back to the real world, kid. I got a job needs your special touch.” He picked up a folder from the table behind him. “Name’s James Tanner. Seems the bastard skipped town with his three-year-old son, and the wife’s not getting enough help from the police to suit her.” He tossed the file at me.
I reached out, caught it without looking away from Harry’s beady little eyes. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. You look fat on TV.”
“Love you, too.” I made a point to slam the glass door as I exited Harry’s office. The glass rumbles, and he always flinches. With my back turned, I waved over my shoulder.
After reading through the file, I found James Lucias Tanner was all of twenty years old. He’d got married when he was seventeen, to a pregnant sixteen-year-old from the right side of the tracks. It was her family money paying for this investigation. After a series of bad career moves, James finally landed work as a manager at the Touchless Car Wash over on Dodge.
I made a note to check out Kevin Tanner’s preschool.
The next day I drove to La Petite Academy, in Millard. I expected to see rows of toddlers dressed in red uniforms. Good soldiers with teeny, tiny swords tucked inside their Pampers and baggy coveralls. Instead, I found a neat room full of partitioned activities. The smell of paste and warm milk reminded me of my own kindergarten class. I’d called ahead for an appointment with Kevin’s teacher. I made my way to her office, which was located in the back of the main room.
“Ms. Kelly?” I extended my hand.
“Ms. Stanton. I saw you yesterday on Donahue.”
A fan. “It was taped weeks ago.” I assumed a modest smile.
“I enjoyed it a lot. Is being a private investigator really exciting?”
I shrugged, surveyed the room cluttered with Nerf balls and blocks. “I do get to go to some very exotic locales.”
She laughed. However, her smile curved downward into a sad pout when I asked about Kevin Tanner.
“Kevin’s such a sweetie. All the children and teachers miss him. But his father—what a creep. Always came in here dirty and mean. Such a mouth on him. Tattoos all over, including a green and black snake on one hand, which spelled out the name Donna. Kevin’s mother is Lynn. The man’s a pig.”
Good, she was a real talker. All I had to do was sit back, nod, and wait for recess.
Ms. Kelly told me, down to the rip in his seams, what James Tanner had been wearing the day he kidnapped Kevin. She described how the backseat of Tanner’s car was littered with Burger King and Taco Bell wrappers. But best of all, Ms. Kelly’s anal-retentive memory recalled a bumper sticker—a Mary Kay pink design telling every tailgater that inside was a representative. And the pink coffee mug Ms. Kelly saw stuck to the dashboard was stenciled with the name Amy.
By the time I got back to my apartment, it was eight o’clock. The red light winked at me from the answering machine. I punched the gray button. The tape rewound, then replayed. My father’s voice shouted from inside the machine, frantic.
“It’s your mother. Jesus, she almost died! We’re at the hospital. What am I going to do...” His sobs were cut off by the infernal beep.
The next message started. It was Dad again. “For God’s sake, it’s five. Your mother’s in radiation. I’m at Christ Community. They’ve assigned a specialist. I don’t know what...”
The beep disconnected his agony, but before I could call information for the number in Chicago, the phone rang.
I grabbed the receiver, startled. “Hello?”
“Where the hell have you been? I’ve called twice.”
“Dad, I just got home.”
“We were having lunch. All of a sudden she couldn’t breathe, grabbed her chest, turned an awful color, and just crumpled. I got her in the car and rushed to the Emergency Room. She almost died.” He choked on his fear. “I can’t lose her.”
I maintained an artificial calm, not even allowing the idea of my mother’s death to seep into my brain. “Could it be pneumonia?”
“Haven’t you understood a word I’ve said? She’s in radiation. The X-rays show there’s a spot on her lung. But the technician said we caught it in time and your mother’s so strong. You know how strong she is. Robbie?”
Cancer.
“Yes, Dad. I know.” Thirty-five years had taught me well. Agree and listen. That’s all Dad ever required. Nod, smile, be Daddy’s little girl. I played the part so well, I sometimes lost my adult self in the charade.
“What am I going to do?”
“I’ll come up and—”
“No, we’ll be fine. We’re fine.”
“Have you called Delia?”
“I’ll do it now, while I’m waiting. Talk to you later.” The connection broke.
Tears welled behind my eyes, refusing to roll down my cheeks. Mother always said she’d live to be one hundred.
“I’m holding you to your promise,” I whispered to her from five hundred miles away.
After staring at my scuffed floor tiles for half an hour, I couldn’t wait any longer. I called my sister.
She sniffed. “Dad just called.”
“What should we do?”
“I couldn’t go up there even if I wanted to. The shop’s busy. With Halloween coming, I’m swamped with fittings and special orders. Then there’s Homecoming gowns.”
“And I just started a new case. If I can wrap it up, I’ll go see what’s happening.”
“Thanks. You know how Daddy gets. He blows everything out of proportion. Maybe it’s not that bad.”
“Maybe.” I hoped, but deep inside I knew the truth.
The leaves seemed particularly vivid as I walked to my car. The apartment complex I live in offered covered parking, for an additional fee, of course. While my car is protected from the rain and ice, birds love to poop on it as they huddle above on steel beams supporting the ceiling. I cursed the black and white blobs covering my blue paint job. The morning was mild, and I could smell burning leaves. Someone dared defy the law, and I applauded them. What was autumn without that toasty aroma clinging to orange and yellow leaves?
Ken was using the computer when I entered the office. He glanced up and grinned. “Get any last night?”
“Why do you ask me that stupid question every single morning?”
“Because I want to know if you got any.”
“Sleazeball.” I punched his arm as I walked to my desk.
I admit it—I’m computer-unfriendly. I admit, too, I’ve depended upon the knowledge of others when accessing or exiting a screen. I still needed to pick Ken’s brain.
“I’m sorry. You’re not a sleazeball. You’re just scum. Better?”
“I knew you’d come around. Take a look. This is great.”
Reluctantly, I stood behind him as he pushed keys with the artistry of Liberace. “All we have to do is punch in a last name and we practically get a pint of blood.”
“Could you try Tanner and see what comes up?”
Before I could turn for the file, the screen displayed twelve Tanners in the Omaha metropolitan area.
“First name?” Ken asked.
“James L.”
“Bingo! We got your credit ratings, places of employment, marital status, number of children, pets, even a ring size from a recent purchase at Zales.”
“Can you print it out for me?”
“No,” he scolded. “I showed you how to print something. Do it yourself.”
“Kenny.” I pulled his ear. He loves it when I pull his ear. “Kenny, sweetheart, you’re right there, in front of the thing. Please?”
“This is the last time.” He pushed some more keys and the printer started to life.
“Thank you very much,” I said in my best Shirley Temple voice. He also loves it when I talk like a little girl. Hell, if it’ll get the computer work done, I’ll talk like Donald Duck.
I sat up straight behind my cheap desk and studied the printout. In between reviewing blue and white lines of tedious, boring statistics, I suddenly remembered Amy and let my feet do the walking to the yellow pages. I flipped to Cosmetics. There were four Independent Sales Directors listed. One of them was named Amy Schaefer. I jotted down her number and address and stood to return the book to its shelf. Passing Ken’s desk, I poked his shoulder. “I bet I crack this case and don’t even have to use a computer. Brains, ole bean. Human brains beat your computer friend any day.”
“You’re the most bullheaded—”
“Careful,” I warned.
“—woman I’ve ever known. You belong back in the dark age.”
“When men were men...”
“Careful,” he warned right back.
Omaha has a small-town feel to it. Tractors frequent busy streets, cowboys visit from out West when there’s a cattle auction or rodeo. People are friendly and move in second gear instead of third. But with a population of half a million, a symphony, a ballet company, museums, and great shopping, it also has a big-city mix.
I turned onto L Street and took it to Seventy-second. Making a right onto Grover, I found the apartment complex where Amy Schaefer lived. I backtracked to the Holiday Inn and dialed her number from a phone in the lobby.
After three rings, a timid voice answered.
“Amy Schaefer?”
“Yes. Who’s calling?” She was a regular church mouse.
“Let’s just say James is a special friend of mine.”
“Where do you know Jimmy from?”
“We’ve been friends a long time. We met at…” Think, think. I looked across the street and saw a sign for a lounge named Jodhpurs. “Jodhpurs,” I said. “It was twofer night, ladies were free. You know how cheap he is.” Was she buying any of this? From all the fast-food wrappers in his car, I figured the guy was not a big spender.
“Why are you telling me all this?”
“Jimmy’s been begging me to come back to him, but after he told me about you, no way.”
“You know so much about me, and I don’t even know your name.” She waited.
“It’s Donna.”
Suddenly her schoolmarm act exploded across the phone. “That son of a bitch!”
“Calm down,” I said. “The way I figure it, us women…broads…should stick together.”
When she slammed down the receiver, my head felt as though it had been shot at from close range. She was mad! Hell hath no fury and all that jazz.
I dashed to my car and swung back onto Grover. Parking across from the Grover Square Apartments, I saw a woman come stamping across the lot toward a pink Cadillac.
As she screeched into traffic and across an intersection. I floored the accelerator as the light turned yellow, and chased her. Then a Trailways bus pulled out of the McDonald’s parking lot.
Amy swerved, the car between us rammed into her rear bumper. I jerked my steering wheel to the right, hoping no cars were in that lane or riding my tail. The last thing I saw as I passed the accident was one screaming woman, a busload of Japanese tourists snapping pictures, and a salesman-type male calling the police from his car phone. I hate those things.
“Damn,” I hissed, rubbernecking as I passed the scene. I was hungry, frustrated, and had a headache that wouldn’t quit.
While I hate the plastic trappings of twentieth-century life, I do love the simple pleasures. Like mail, for instance. And as I poked through my mailbox and found only an ad for a new beauty salon, I felt cheated.
The apartment seemed cold. I hiked up the heat. Rummaging through the refrigerator, I looked for the chili left over from last night. The bowl had worked itself to the back of the middle shelf. I scooped a heaping portion into a smaller bowl and put my lunch into the microwave.
The microwave is another simple pleasure. It also fits under the category of twentieth-century conveniences. I use it, each time giving thanks I don’t get contaminated from the radiation or whatever flies around in there to produce heat. If I should one day wake up to find all microwaves have disappeared, I’d survive. I don’t depend on the convenience. That’s the difference—the mindset. I enjoy the convenience while knowing one power outage will not upset my life. Dad taught us don’t depend on anything or anyone and you’ll never be disappointed.
Dad.
I looked across the room. The answering machine was blinking. As I programmed the time into the oven, I realized my headache was fierce and went for some aspirin before listening to messages.
After gulping a last swig of water, I reluctantly pressed the gray button.
Beep.
“This is Mrs. Calhoun from American Express. Your account is now two months past due, and we were wondering if a payment had been made. Please call me at 800-555-9100.”
Beep.
“Ro-ber-ta,” Harry whined. “Some guy called. Says he’s your father. He’s been calling every fifteen minutes. Sounds weird. Give me a call, okay? Roberta?”
Beep.
“Just got a frantic call from Dad.” It was Delia. “He’s kidnapping Mother from the hospital. Call me!”
Beep. Rewind.
I pulled the phone over to the table, set my place for lunch, then poured a Coke over lots of ice. I dialed Delia’s number. She answered on the first ring.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“No. I don’t know what’s going on. I talked with Mother’s nurse—the doctor wasn’t available. She said when Dad brought Mother in, she was barely breathing. They thought they’d lose her right there. What the hell have they been doing all this time? I’ve called and called and no one’s home. I’m scared.”
“Calm down,” I advised with my mouth full. “If the doctor let her go home, she wasn’t kidnapped. I’ll talk to him and call you back.”
“I think one of us should go up there.” She was suddenly the frightened little sister. I knew which one of us would be going to Chicago.
“Your father needs help, Miss Stanton.” It was the first thing Dr. Blair said after I identified myself.
“I’ve known that for a long time.” I bet he thought I was kidding. “But right now, I’m more concerned about my mother.”
“I can appreciate your position. Your mother’s a heavy smoker. Maybe if she’d come in sooner.” He took a breath then dove right in. “Your mother has lung cancer.”
“Should she be home now?”
“She responde
d very well to treatment, and your father understands how important it is she come in twice a week for it. When she regains some of her strength, we can start her on chemotherapy.”
“And then? After the chemo?” I really didn’t want to hear his answer.
“Six months, a year. A year and a half—tops.”
I had to hang up, quickly. “Thank you.”
I ran to the bathroom, unsure if I was going to cry or collapse, but feeling the bathroom was the direction to head. I ended up sitting on the edge of the tub, holding my head in my hands, rocking back and forth until the panic passed. I thought I was going to die.
Delia took the news better than I had, or maybe she just pretended. It’s hard to figure her out sometimes. While she stands five feet seven, I barely reach five feet four inches. She has dark hair—I’m light. She explodes over situations I find amusing and laughs when I want to scream.
We had agreed I would fly to Chicago. I’d have to be the eyes and ears for both of us now.
I called Harry and told him about my near-miss with Amy Schaefer. He grumbled until I added in the news about my mother.
“Geez, kid,” he sighed. “You do what has to be done. Family comes first. I’ll sit on this Tanner case until you get back.”
“Thanks, Harry. Thanks a lot.”
“Hey, no skin off my ass.”
I couldn’t tell if Dad was happy to see me. He’d always made me feel as though I was intruding. Most times he looked annoyed.
“What are you doing here?” He stood behind the storm door talking through the screen.
“Can I come in?”
“Sure.” He held the door open. “It’s just this is such a surprise.”