And for the next sixteen months, MacFarland and Rufus were practically inseparable.
Then, one day, 533 days ago, MacFarland had decided to sober up. He left the streets, the park benches, and the alleys that had been his home and tried to make a fresh start. It was difficult. His first meeting at Alcoholics Anonymous was painful, but he stuck to it. He found the courage to reach out to Stefanie, the younger sister of his departed wife. Stefanie had tried to help him several times during the previous two years, but each time he had rebuked her, as he rejected everyone who tried to give him a hand. But this time he accepted her help.
Stefanie located a small apartment, west of Broadway. It was primarily a working class neighborhood. She helped him get his truck back, re-establish his relationship with his bank, where he discovered quite to his surprise that he and Nicole had a joint account that he had been unaware of. Imagine that. At the time he hadn't given it much thought, but over the ensuing months, he had often wondered about that account.
There wasn't a huge amount of money in the account, but certainly more than MacFarland had expected. Nearly eighteen thousand dollars. He invested half of it in his hot dog cart, obtained the necessary licenses and permits, and then set himself up as an independent businessman.
Once he had what seemed like a quasi-dependable income stream, he set out to find Rufus Headley. Rufus had been pleased to see his former companion, even more pleased when he learned that MacFarland had been 95 days sober. But when MacFarland proposed that Rufus give up his homeless existence, the old Vietnam vet had become withdrawn. "Thank you, boss, but I don't think that's the life for me. I’m not sure I would be comfortable on a real bed, and the idea of four walls really frightens me, boss. I kinda like bein’ out where I can see the stars at night."
"Rufus, I really want you to stay with me. Maybe not all the time. But when it's cold or when you have no place to go. I've got a real nice place right now, a studio. Just a mattress on the floor right now, so it's not really a bed. Think about it, man, think about it. Will you?"
"Of course, boss, I'll keep it in mind. Always good to have a spare hidey-hole where you can get away from the enemy, you know? But I have me a real good place right now, on the South Platte. Nobody else knows about it, because I got it camouflaged. Even the kids can't find it. An’ it's really warm, even in the winter. I'm alright, boss. You don't gotta worry about me."
But MacFarland did worry about him.
All the time.
Chapter 6
Tuesday, December 1, 1734 Hours
The drizzle started at about three in the afternoon. a light curtain of rain that veiled everything off in the distance. Fortunately there was no wind, but MacFarland decided to shut down his cart and head home. He checked with Gomez, who won their daily competition by about forty dollars. MacFarland didn't bother mentioning that he had given away at least that much in free food and cash to Rufus, a couple named Kirk and Gracie, a few others that MacFarland recognized but did not know, and a black man with the unlikely name of Bosworth. "Lord Bosworth, if you please!” That was why MacFarland rarely won their competition, since he felt an obligation to take care of his small coterie of homeless friends. Of course, MacFarland knew that Gomez had his own group of special people to take care of--his wife Francesca and a whole swarm of kids, none of whose names MacFarland was ever able to remember.
The drizzle had turned into a heavy downpour by the time he pulled up to the parking space behind the garage. Fortunately it was still empty, so he drove in and parked. He sat in his truck for a few minutes, listening to the rain drumming on the roof of his truck. Days like this, he wished he had a garage in which to sequester his cart. Rain wouldn't do it too much damage, but even so, the more it was left out in the elements, the more worn out it became. Then he laughed at himself. "Here I’m thinking like an average middle class bloke, worrying about protecting my assets!" he said aloud. "I have come a long way."
He bailed out of the truck and hurried around the carport towards his apartment.
And stopped.
Sagging on the lawn at the foot of the stairs that led up to his apartment was his mattress, card table and chairs, and piles of his clothes. Worst of all, his entire collection of language tapes, CDs, and books had been scattered over the sodden grass. Rain bounced off the CD covers and soaked into the soggy paperbacks.
What the hell is going on?
He grabbed one of the boxes that held his clothes and quickly salvaged as many of the tapes and CDs as he could. The books were already waterlogged, but perhaps they would dry out. He dumped them in the box, then carried it back to his truck. He made several more trips, trying to rescue his clothes and any other personal items that would fit in the cab of his truck.
The mattress and other furniture were not worth saving, so he just left them where they soaked. The television had been unceremoniously dumped on its screen, and water was collecting inside of it. Clearly ruined, though he had to admit it was no great loss. He went up to his apartment where he found an eviction notice taped to the door. The landlord had already changed the lock, so he was unable to get inside. All of his cooking supplies, his prize set of knives, everything related to his business, was still inside the apartment. Trying to contain his anger, he headed back downstairs and hurried over to the manager's office.
The manager of the complex was not in. Of course. When was Mike Salazar ever in the office? The only person present was Shawna Jones, an attractive, young black woman who was often the only human face of management. As usual, Shawna had plugs in her ears and was bobbing to some hip hop beat.
"Oh, Mr. MacFarland!" she said as he stepped through the door, pulling the plugs from her ears. "I am so sorry this had to happen to you! I tried to stop it, honest I did, but it was out of my control!"
Clearly she knew he had been evicted, but the rest of her remarks were puzzling.
"Why was I evicted?" he asked. "I’m current on paying my rent. And there has been no notice that I have violated the terms of my lease.”
"I don't know anything about any of that, Mr. MacFarland. All I know is that Mr. Salazar got a call saying that you were a criminal--are you really a criminal?--and that you was supposed to be evicted. Some men showed up with a policeman and a court order saying it was okay to remove all your stuff. I’m so sorry it had to be on a day like today, I really am."
"A court order? Who would have gotten a court order? Did Salazar go to court? Why didn't he talk to me first?"
"I don't think it was Mr. Salazar's doing, Mr. MacFarland. I think the owners did this."
"Owners? What owners? Doesn't Mike Salazar own this building?"
"Oh, no, sir, he's just the manager. I don't know who the real owners are. I've never met them. Maybe they are in California or something."
It was pretty clear to MacFarland that Shawna didn't really know much about what was going on. In fact, it looked like the entire eviction was timed so that anyone who might know anything at all was not available.
"Well, I want my deposit back," insisted MacFarland.
Shawna looked troubled and started biting her lip. "I will tell Mr. Salazar that you want it back, Mr. MacFarland. But I wouldn't count on it. The men who moved all your stuff said the apartment was pretty filthy and you would probably lose your deposit to pay for cleaning it up. But I’ll tell him anyway. You should get your deposit back, after what they did to you."
MacFarland stood still for several moments, just staring at Shawna. Finally, muttering "Incredible!" he turned and headed back to his truck.
He sat in his truck for nearly half an hour, just staring at the rain pouring down, trying to figure out what his next steps should be. He noticed that most of his kitchen supplies had not been with the rest of his possessions. He wasn't sure how he would cook tomorrow’s hot dogs and brats without his pans and racks. He wondered if they were still in the kitchen, and he even considered breaking into the apartment to see if they were there. After
all, they were his belongings.
Shaking his head, he put a CD into the player and drove off.
MacFarland drove around for about an hour. The rain finally stopped. The headlights of cars glistening on the wet pavement seemed almost festive, but MacFarland was not in a festive mood. Where should he go? He supposed he could find a motel and spend the night there. He drove towards Lincoln and turned north. When he arrived downtown, he turned east on Colfax. Once he passed East High School, he began to look out for a motel. Finally, after another twenty or thirty blocks, he pulled into a parking lot of the Colfax Inn and went to the office to register.
"You can't park that in the lot," said the manager, gesturing out the window at his truck and trailer. "You'll take up too many of my spaces. I got a business to run here, you know."
There was only one other car in the lot--probably the manager’s. MacFarland didn't think the motel would be filling up, but who knew, maybe miracles did happen every day on Colfax.
"How about if I disconnect the trailer and put it in a separate space?"
The manager squinched up his mouth, given the difficulty of the decision processes going on in his brain. "How about another ten bucks for the extra space?"
MacFarland scowled but pulled out another bill and dropped it on the counter.
The manager slipped the ten dollar bill in his pocket and handed a key to MacFarland. "Room 202.”
MacFarland went outside, unhooked his trailer, and then parked in the empty space next to it.
As he climbed into bed later that night, he wondered idly what else could go wrong in his life. Then he remembered that he was supposed to go to an AA meeting this evening.
It was the first meeting he had skipped in over seventy-two weeks. Is this how your life falls apart, he asked himself.
Chapter 7
Wednesday, December 2, 0800 Hours
When dawn broke, MacFarland just lay in bed, staring into the dark shadows of the unfamiliar room. He had no product to prepare. He estimated that he still had about one hundred dollars’ worth of product in his apartment. Well, that’s lost, he thought. Besides, how would I cook it?
There seemed to be no point in getting out of bed. After a few minutes, however, guilt and shame drove him to get up and head for the shower. He found an elfin bar of soap and some cheap shampoo and he spent a lot of time soaping himself and scrubbing his hair. He didn't have any of his other toiletries, so he couldn't shave or even brush his teeth. He would have to go shopping pretty soon, he decided. He wanted to extend his stay at the motel, but he didn't have enough cash to cover any more than one more night. He would have to go to the bank and see if he could get some money out of his nearly empty savings account.
As much as he didn't want to make the call, he knew he had to contact Stefanie. She had invited him over for Christmas dinner, he reminded himself. Perhaps this meant that she would be more willing to help him. Not that she wouldn't be willing to do whatever she could. But for some unknown reason, he and Stefanie always found themselves confronting one another. He attributed their frequent tussles to her petty concern for propriety. She claimed it was because he was so stubborn. "I'm not stubborn," he would say. "I just have values."
He postponed the call for as long as he could. Finally, after going to the nearby Walgreens, and after getting some money from his bank, he found that he had run out of excuses. He pressed her number on his phone and waited for her to answer.
"What's up, Mark? This isn't a very good time to call. I've got to take the kids to school."
He hesitated only a fraction of a second. "Stef, I've got some problems. I need your help."
There was a brief moment of silence on the other end. "What sort of problems?"
"I've been evicted from my apartment."
"What? Haven't you been paying the rent? Were you late? Are you drinking again, Mark?"
"No, I'm not drinking! And I wasn’t late."
"Tell me the truth, Mark. You know how I hate lying."
"Damn it, Stef, I’m telling the truth. I haven't touched a drop in almost two years."
"So why did you get evicted?"
"God, I have no idea! There was no notice, no warnings. I just got home yesterday and there was all my stuff, sitting out on the back lawn, getting soaked."
"When did they put it out? When it was raining?"
"It probably wasn't raining when they put it out," he said, not able to keep the annoyance out of his voice. Leave it to Stefanie to focus on the most trivial part of a problem. "Who cares when they put it out? The result is the same. They kicked me out of my apartment.”
"Don't snap at me, Mark! I am just trying to understand what is going on. People don't just get evicted, not unless they've broken the terms of their lease or done something wrong. You know you're not the most responsible person on this planet."
MacFarland tried to control his temper. "I haven't done anything wrong. I haven't violated my lease, Stefanie. I don't know why they evicted me. The Goddamn manager wasn't there, just some poor twit who didn't know squat about what was going on. If I want to find out anything, I have to get hold of the manager. Let me get my hands on him, and I will get some answers."
"Don't do anything stupid, Mark. You can't afford any more trouble."
"Who the fuck cares? How can things get any more worse than they are now?"
Stefanie ignored his outburst. "So what are you going to do now? Where are you? Did you sleep in your truck last night?"
"No, I am staying at the Colfax Inn for the night. I think I can afford to stay here one more night."
"And then what?"
MacFarland hesitated. He hated asking anyone for help, especially Stefanie. He also knew that Randy would not appreciate Stefanie helping him. Well, fuck Randy, thought MacFarland. I’m desperate.
"I need a place to stay, Stef," he finally said.
Silence. Then Stefanie said hesitantly, "You know I want to help you, Mark. Maybe I could go talk to the Manager, pay the rent. There's got to be something that we can do."
"I already paid the fucking rent for this month, Stef. How many times do I have to say that? Aren't you listening to me?”
Why had he even bothered calling? Every conversation with Stefanie ended up this way. He had often gotten the same response from Nicole. He always suspected that just because they had college degrees, and he didn't, they felt they were superior to him. Neither of them had ever said so to his face, but a certain tone of voice conveyed more than words.
There were times when he thought it too.
"Don't you have friends you can stay with?" asked Stefanie.
MacFarland rolled his eyes, thankful that she couldn't see him. "Most of my friends are homeless, Stefanie. Or are you suggesting that I go back and live on the street?"
"No, no, I wasn't suggesting anything of the sort," said Stefanie hastily. "It's just I don't know what to say, Mark. We don't have any room here, though if you needed to, you could spend a night or two on the couch."
"Don't you have a basement?" MacFarland asked. "I could put a cot down there."
"I don't think that would be such a good idea," replied Stefanie hesitantly. "I am not sure that Randy would be too happy with you here. You know, around the kids."
MacFarland was taken aback by her comment. "What, because I was a drunk? You think that I might get drunk around the kids or something? For Christ's sake, Stef, what kind of an asshole do you think I am?"
"I don't know, Mark. Let me talk it over with Randy and see what we can do."
"Don't bother, I'll find somewhere else to stay. A park bench would be more inviting that your place!"
He disconnected the phone and threw it on the bed. It was only when he found himself looking around the room, hoping to find a bottle of Scotch that he realized just how upset he really was.
Chapter 8
Wednesday, December 2, 1000 Hours
There was only one recourse open to MacFarland. He had to locate Salazar and find out directly from the source why he was evicted. Salazar didn't live in the apartment building he managed. MacFarland wished he had known that before he rented the apartment. He harbored an innate suspicion of absentee landlords.
He would be able to get an address for Salazar if he could get access to a computer. Unfortunately, all of his possessions were either sold off or were in storage. He didn't know what had been put into storage and had never had the motivation to find out. He wasn't even sure he knew where the key to the storage unit was. Then he realized he didn't even know where the storage unit was located. Hopefully that was a piece of information that Stefanie could provide to him.
That is, she could if she ever talked to him again.
There was one place where he could get access to a computer. He headed west on Colfax until he found the combination bar and coffee shop that he was looking for.
The owner of Her Bar, Jody B, looked like a biker chick. Her arms were sleeved in bright, garish tattoos. MacFarland had it on good authority, but no direct personal knowledge, that the tattoos covered much of her torso. MacFarland wasn't certain if she had ever been part of a biker gang. She was sporting a tee shirt with two women kissing and the caption, “I’m not gay but my girlfriend is.” In this part of Denver, sexual diversity was quite common.
"Hi Mac, it's been a while since you've been here," said Jody B.
"I've been trying to stay open seven days a week, though I have been reconsidering being out on Sundays. The only thing that keeps me there is that my friends need to eat every day. I don't make much money on Sunday, but at least I feel I'm performing a civic purpose."
Jody B laughed. "You won't get rich with that attitude, Mac. What can I get you?"
"Well, coffee and a favor. Do you have a computer I can use?"
Jody B poured a cup of coffee and placed it on the counter in front of him. She got a container of half and half and placed it next to the coffee. "Sure. You can use mine. Doing anything illegal?"
"As a matter of fact, I am. I need to access the DMV database."
The Avid Angler - The Hot Dog Detective (A Denver Detective Cozy Mystery) Page 3