Getting Old Will Haunt You

by Rita Lakin

  ‘Then what happens?’

  ‘How should I know? Sol wasn’t in the bathroom with him.’

  ‘I meant when he came out.’ Idiot.

  ‘He comes out of the bar, whistling. And orders another beer.’

  ‘Where is the call or text from?’ Oy, this is like pulling teeth out of a squirrel.

  ‘He says, Miami. He has a friend who got in touch to say hello. He quickly says it’s a guy so Sol knows he’s lying. Besides, you don’t blush all over when you’re talking about a guy. And he’s grinning from ear to ear.’

  ‘But he didn’t go anywhere after Sol and the guys left on that trip. What’s the big deal?’

  Tessie is sly, ‘However … he left, poof, right after your gang took off for Key West. He’s gone overnight, and Lola is trying to pretend he’s still around.’

  ‘Wow, did Sol say anything else when he was in that bar … the deli bar?’

  She smiles wickedly. ‘My Sol said,’ murdering the French, ‘“Shersay la female”. That call was from some broad.’

  She walks off, head high, ‘See ya at the pancake house.’

  EIGHTEEN

  The Rest of the Day Off

  I give Bella and Sophie a choice. Some sightseeing? The beach? Or a movie. Visit any of the places Evvie read about in the travel book? Go wandering on their own? They surprise me and suggest seeing a movie. They probably need something quiet to erase the mind-blowing latest experience with our ghost. Some lightweight movie with no big messages. Ditto, for dinner. No evening exploring, either. An early night in and much-needed sleep.

  We split up. They take a cab to a movie theater while I drive over to the nearest library with Evvie, who of course, is at my side. We have a quiz on our minds.

  It’s been a long time since I studied the Arts in college. And an equally long time since I was a librarian.

  Evvie and I are equipped with computers for Google searching. Though I intend to peruse the books on the shelves for a crash course in reminding me of the life and works of the famous, or should I say infamous, novelist-adventurer, Mr Hemingway. Not my Papa.

  I am still simmering over his demand to test my knowledge of him, instead of giving me the information we need. Crazy, all of this. As if there really is a dead writer, with his spirit still hanging around. With a deadly clue. It’s a strange out-of-body experience we are having.

  I really do wish Ida was with us. Would she take any of this seriously? Why are we taking this seriously? Why aren’t we on our way home right this minute?

  I’m making a guess as to what will happen at our next meeting. I expect the big, important dead man to do what he’s done all his life. To prove himself better, smarter, stronger than anyone else. I have to find the way to defeat him. A mighty task, which calls for a plan. Plan A, and if that fails, a plan B.

  So, here we are at the library. Evvie has been given the job of noting oddities about Papa and listing them in her computer. I watch her studying. At various times she giggles, or cries out in disbelief, ‘Omigod. He couldn’t. He didn’t. But he did. All those marriages, divorces, affairs, world travel, wars. Famous friends and famous enemies. Battles, real and imagined. The suicide attempts …’

  I tell her to keep going. Knowledge is power. But does power work with a ghost?

  The astonishing part of all this, is that I am actually expecting a ghost to take me on in this quiz thing.

  I’ll handle what he throws at us. But then he’s got to answer my one and only quiz question. What did he witness on Robert Strand’s boat? I’ll bet he’s going to say his spirit hung over the boat and watched a crime being committed? Oh, stop mumbling to yourself.

  We spend hours doing research. And yes, indeed, he had an amazing life. Such highs and lows. Tremendously impressive, the number of books and stories and articles he wrote. The awards he received. The bad things; so many illnesses, so accident-prone, his alcoholism that finally destroyed him. It lost him his friends, it took away his ability to write, and eventually he became depressed and paranoid. His bizarre mother. His father who committed suicide; and years later, he killed himself. Wow!

  When we decide we’d had enough of our quick re-education course, which by now depresses us, Evvie has only one thing to say. She sums it up. ‘Let’s get out of here, I need a drink.’

  I look up, wondering if he’s hovering over us right now. Only Bella would know.

  We meet up with Sophie and Bella later, back at the B&B.

  Evvie asks, ‘So what movie did you see?’

  Bella, ‘I don’t remember the name of it.’ Sophie nods in agreement.

  I ask, ‘What was it about?’

  Sophie, ‘Vampires. Sucking the blood out of pretty blond actresses’ necks.’

  Evvie is surprised. ‘You both hate violent movies. Especially anything with vampires. Why did you choose that?’

  Bella says, ‘It was the only one playing.’

  Sophie jumps in, ‘Not to worry. We closed our eyes in all the bad parts.’

  Teresa is still avoiding us.

  Tomorrow will be quite a challenge.

  NINETEEN

  Another Phone Call. Now About Midnight

  ‘Gladdy. Did I wake you?’

  I grope for the phone, eyes still shut. ‘Ida, is that you?’

  ‘You were expecting maybe George Clooney? Of course it’s me.’

  Looking at a clock, whispering so I won’t wake Evvie. ‘It’s midnight.’

  ‘Really? Time does fly when you’re making progress.’

  ‘Does that mean you’ve found Hy?’

  ‘Not yet, but I’m getting closer.’

  Yawn, ‘Can it wait ’til morning, then report all your news?’

  ‘I suppose, but I feel like I’m excited this minute, and don’t want any grass to grow between my toenails. I just have one question.’

  More yawns, ‘Hurry, my eyelids are drooping; my mind is at zero brainpower.’

  Talking quickly, Ida states, ‘I found out that Hy has run off to Miami and I think he’s with a woman. What should I do?’

  ‘He’s with Lola?’ Half-asleep, I’m slurring my words.

  ‘No, I was just with Lola, it’s definitely another woman.’

  I manage to open one eye at this. ‘Hy Binder, cheating on Lola? The mind boggles. Not possible.’

  ‘Why not, he’s a man, isn’t he?’

  ‘Why? Not? Because Hy is a yellow-bellied coward-man. He knows Lola would slash him ’til he bled, if he strayed.’

  ‘Get this, you’ll love it. Just before he disappeared, he bought Lola an expensive present. Something he hardly ever did before. What does that tell you?’

  ‘That’s sounds like male guilt. Guys give wives expensive gifts when they’re hiding something. When they’re up to no good.’

  Ida agrees. ‘That’s just what I thought. He’s got a girlfriend. And he’s run off to be with her. Wow.’

  ‘And that was your one question. Goodnight.’

  ‘No, no, that was just an aside. That doesn’t count. My question is, since Miami is large, how do I find him there?’

  ‘mmddkjfvkjfl.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  More yawns, ‘Sorry. I was falling asleep. Do you have Hy’s cell number?’

  ‘Yeah, but he isn’t answering.’

  ‘If he’s with another woman, he would never answer. Death would be on the other end of the line.’

  ‘Gladdy, I could use your help. What should I do?’

  ‘Easy-peasy. Call Morrie Langford and he’ll track him down for you.’

  ‘That’s a wonderful idea. I would never have thought about it. Thanks. How about you and the girls? How was your meeting with the mysterious witness? … Gladdy?’

  No answer. Ida is chagrined. Gladdy is asleep again, snoring.

  Ida grins and hangs up. ‘Easy-peasy.’

  TWENTY

  The Cop and the Acting Detective

  Day Three

  Ida is still wearing her C
olumbo raincoat. She is finally out of the house, wearing one of her usual gray pantsuit outfits under the coat.

  By appointment, she’s in Morrie Langford’s office at the local police station. Morrie offers Ida a cup of coffee. He sits at his desk drinking his.

  Ida sips and sighs, happy with the brew and his company. ‘This is so nice of you to take time off to see me.’ Ida, the grump, knows when to curb her vitriol and play nice. Especially with Gladdy’s good-looking cop son-in-law.

  ‘My pleasure. So Gladdy suggested I could help you out. Where is she, by the way?’

  ‘In Key West, on a new case.’

  ‘Lucky them. It’s a beautiful place. And they’ll see some wonderful sights.’

  Ida, not wanting to hear more about what she’s missing, gets on with it, ‘I know you can help me.’

  ‘About that raincoat …’

  Ida, chagrined, ‘Oh, no, not you, too.’ Disappointed, ‘Say it! You’re gonna tell me it’s not raining …’

  ‘No, I was just trying to remember who used to wear that kind of coat, it was somebody famous.’

  Ida is about to give him the answer, but he holds up his hand to prevent her from spoiling his fun.

  ‘No, let me guess. Wait a minute. It’s coming back to me. On the tip of my tongue.’ Excited, ‘Columbo! The TV detective! Of course! I loved that show.’

  Ida is amazed, ‘You did? But that show was way before your time. You were a kid when that show was on.’

  ‘I saw every retro re-run. He was the guy! Always looked like an unmade bed, and even though he had a glass eye, he always got his perp.’

  Ida is in seventh heaven. She’s finally met someone with her good taste.

  Morrie walks away from his desk, pulls up a chair and sits closer to Ida. He’s on her same wavelength. With arms rotating, he rides merrily back into his boyhood. ‘Remember the episode when Jack Cassidy was the murderer? Murder by the Book. He wanted to get rid of his untalented writing partner …’

  Ida jumps in. ‘And what about when Anne Baxter plays a famous actress in Requiem for a Star?’

  Morrie, ‘Yeah, Columbo was crazy about Annie; she was his favorite actress …’

  Ida, ‘And she thinks she’s killing her blackmailer, but she kills the wrong person …’

  Morrie sighs blissfully; ‘I think my all-time favorite was with Johnny Cash …’

  Ida, ‘And Ida Lupino, my namesake.’

  Morrie, ‘He plays this gospel singer …’

  The two of them are in TV memory heaven. Morrie adds, ‘And Marty Sheen in Lovely, But Lethal. And Rod Steiger in Strange Bedfellows!’

  ‘That show was so great. I never wanted to miss one.’

  ‘Me, neither. When my mom asked me why I watched, I told her it was because Columbo was such a shrewd investigator. I wanted to be like him when I grew up.’

  They both are laughing so boisterously, they are almost unaware of the young officer who suddenly appears at Morrie’s office door, jabbing importantly at his watch. Time to go. This pulls Morrie out of his happy reverie.

  He stands up. ‘I could go on forever, but speaking of perps, I need to get back to my job. Quick, tell me what you need.’

  Ida takes out the jagged piece of newspaper with Hy’s cell phone number.

  ‘Hy Binder is missing and I’m on that case of trying to find him. Gladdy said you can track him down.’

  ‘Hy? Of all people. You want us to call an APB or BOLO to find him if he’s in trouble?’

  Ida grins, ‘Nah, I’ll bet he’s DOM.’ She can speak with initials, too.

  ‘DOM? That’s a new one to me.’

  Ida slyly, ‘Dirty Old Man things. I’ll bet.’

  Morrie grins and nods. ‘You think?’

  She watches him do something magical on his computer, then goes across the room to where a printer lives, which then prints the information out for her.

  As he hands the page to her, ‘Looks like this address is in a trailer park. The owner or renter name is Bloom. Good luck, Ida.’ Musing, ‘Hy Binder, I wonder what mischief that funny little guy is up to.’

  Ida heads for the door. ‘I intend to soon find out. Thanks, Morrie. It’s been fun.’

  ‘Yeah, for me, too.’

  Ida makes the dramatic stop at the door, hands on hips, ‘Just one more thing …’

  Both of them burst into laughter at Columbo’s signature exit line.

  Ida walks out of Morrie’s office in a wonderful mood. Hy better watch out. Here she comes. Ready or not. Easy-peasy.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Ida Hires a Driver, Julio Really?

  Ida is suffering a frustrating day. She’s having an inner soliloquy: She has an address for Hy. And a name with whom he’s staying. A perfect win-win situation. Go down there; drag that momzer back home where he belongs. She’ll make a pack of money for the team, and she’ll carry it out alone; doing it her way. She hums a few bars of the Sinatra favorite, then stops herself, glum at her negative thoughts. Not so easy, after all.

  Of course, she can just give Morrie’s information to Lola, and let the chips fall where they may. Her job would be done. She can envision a situation where Lola takes a gun, drives down to that Miami address, catches Hy, quivering in his love nest. The two of them, hiding under the sheets, begging for mercy; just don’t shoot us. There is no mercy. Lola blasts away at the sinful couple. Bang. Bang. Two dead bodies. With the offended wife, wearing black, crying out, ‘I’m glad I did it! I’m glad!’

  It would make all the newspapers the next day. All over the Internet for people who have computers. Millions of hits as the teenagers would say. Killer Lola will then get hate mail and equally as much mail congratulating her for giving the devil his due. Ah, sweet daydreams, these are.

  But Lola doesn’t have a gun, and she doesn’t drive either. Besides, Hy has their only car with him. And the truth is, she wouldn’t hurt a fly; she’s not really the type. So, she’d have to call a cab and go down there, needing to stop to pay the cabby, somehow ruins the whole effect. All in all, unworkable.

  Besides, what would she, Ida, get out of that? Nothing. Nada. And anyway, no way; she is not giving up this opportunity. This gift, this opportunity is hers. She will be the one bringing back the cheating husband. The joy it will be to see the terrified face of Hy when he faces her. The soon-to-be famous bounty hunter, Ida Franz; her name in all the newspapers, showing the philandering husband brought to his knees in front of the enraged, suffering wife. Sweet moment that will be for Ida.

  Lola will thank her a thousand times. Gladdy will proud of her for doing it all on her own.

  And that’s her problem. She has no means of getting to Hy, either. She doesn’t own a car anymore. Not that she’d ever want to drive again. Traffic has gotten worse, and so have her eyes. And, yeah, maybe her coordination is a little rusty. And, let’s face it, she can hardly drag her body in and out of a chair these days, let alone a car. If an accident happened, she’d never get out of a car in time; she’d be toast!

  She gave up her license five years ago, when she bumped into another car. Such a little bump, but that touchy Motor Vehicles decided because of her age, her driving days were over. That accident was a nothing! Anyone would call it hitting a tap on his rear end. Not a scratch, well maybe his auto got a tiny dent, a ding, hardly noticeable, and right away, that bum driver was geshreying, ‘Whiplash! I’m in pain! Call an ambulance!’

  She can’t take a taxi. What if she needs to spend hours there or more than a day? Way too expensive to go back and forth. And overnight? Hotels cost money. But she needs someone to drive her. Can’t ask her neighbors. No way will she ask any one of those cheapskates for a favor. Not in this lifetime.

  She’s heard about driving companies, Ubers and Lyfts, but she doesn’t have an iPhone so she sure doesn’t have apps. What is she supposed to do, grow wings and fly? She’s so frustrated.

  What’s left? Hire her own private driver. That’s it. Eureka!

  The fact tha
t there aren’t any private driver listings in the phone book is a surprise. Now that people use computers; she understands that’s where most people advertise. No help to her in her chosen tech-free world. No apps available for her.

  She has to depend on ads in a local throwaway rag; the cheap shoppers guide, with its get-it-free ads and free coupons. Coupons for nothing she would ever want. After perusing one useless ad after another useless ad – no, she doesn’t want to buy a wig or start karate lessons or take a mud massage – she manages to find a listing, at last, in a hard-to-find corner on a back page. ‘Private Drivers’ cries out to her in bold letters; trolling for customers:

  Seniors; Give up that stone around your neck! Sell your car!

  No more huge gas prices!

  No more expensive insurance!

  Be free! Hire someone honest and reliable!

  A lot of bold letters and too many exclamation points! All that jazz with very few drivers listed. That does not bode well. Crackpots advertise in this freebee.

  The first three calls make her want to tear her hair out.

  One guy only drives around Fort Lauderdale. No he won’t go a mile further. Another one speaks what she can only guess is Chinese. Time wasted trying to understand each other. A nutcase wants five hundred dollars a day. What the hell!

  Only one more phone call and that’s the end of the meager listings. And then she’s out of luck.

  Blah. Blah. Blah. What’s with this guy? She thinks he’s speaking Spanish. Then he switches to English; which she hardly understands. Then they do this dance. She says, ‘Watta ya charge?’ and he says, ‘What’ll you pay?’ He wants to bargain? He thinks he’s dealing with some dumb dame. He’ll be sorry.

  She feels him out, her bargaining technique like a slithering eel – slow and slippery. ‘So, sir, what do you usually get per hour?’

  ‘It varies.’ It sounds like he says – vareeece.

  Wanna play games? He’s met his match in Ida Franz. ‘What’s the best money you ever were paid per hour?’

  ‘Fifty dollars?’ He knows how to say money in perfect English.