by Mike Faricy
“Yeah,” a raspy voice answered, and an image of the crabby fat guy flashed in my mind. I heard a horn honk on the other end of the line, suggesting he was driving while talking on the phone, which was against the law in Minnesota.
“Good afternoon, thank you for taking my call. We’re calling regarding a tenant of yours at nine forty-seven Burr Street, and—”
“Is this the cops?”
“We have some questions regarding an individual by the name of Mr. Eli Cummings.”
“Cummings? Let me tell you. You should arrest that son-of-a-bitch. He skipped out on two months’ rent. Left my apartment in a terrible mess, and it’s going to cost me a hell of a lot of money to repair the damage.”
“If we can get ahold of him, we could certainly add that to our list of offenses. Now our records indicate he resided in unit number 2, is that correct?”
“Yeah, he was only there for four months, owed me two months rent, and ran out.”
“Any idea where he may have gone?”
“Where? Hell, if I knew the answer to that, I’d be there looking for him right now.”
“Do you have any information on next of kin or a place of employment?”
“Place of employment? Who the hell would hire that loser? When he disappeared, I called the job site he’d listed, and they told me they’d never heard of him— my fault for not following through to begin with. I knew the bastard was shady from the moment I first laid eyes on him. Being a nice guy, I rented a gorgeous unit to him anyway, and now I’m paying the price, damn it.”
Images of the ‘gorgeous unit’ flashed in my mind. The single cabinet with the hot plate, the sawhorses, whatever it was splattered across the wall and floor, the grungy hall and the room with the grimy mattress on the floor and the red curtain nailed to the wall covering the closet. “It’s absolutely unfair, sir. If I may, I’ll make a note of your phone number, and should we get hold of Mr. Cummings, we’ll contact you.”
“That would be great. Can I charge him interest on the outstanding rent?”
“Absolutely. In fact, that’s one of the ways we can help. Now, all we have to do is send a city inspector over to inspect the premises for any code violations. I’ll file a request and get that procedure underway immediately—”
“Wait a minute, did you say a city inspector?”
“Thank you for your time, sir.”
“Wait a damn minute. I don’t want—”
I disconnected and quickly blocked his number. I heard the staircase creaking, a moment later the office door opened, and a red-faced Louie entered. He gave me a slight wave, set his briefcase on the picnic table, and settled into his desk chair. I grabbed his coffee mug, dumped the remnants in the sink, and poured what was left in the pot into his mug. Once I set the mug down, he slid it over and then sipped and grimaced for the next three or four minutes.
“How’s your day going?” he eventually asked and pushed the mug off to the side.
“Still trying to locate this Cummings character Tubby wants me to find.”
“You’re going to turn him over to Tubby Gustafson?”
“You kidding? If that news got out, I could be listed as an accessory to murder. No, I’d just give the guy a heads-up and tell him to leave town. Maybe wait a couple of days and tell Tubby I couldn’t find him.”
“But no luck so far?”
“None. Just got off the line with his former landlord. Apparently, Cummings lied about his place of employment. Wherever it was, they’d never heard of the guy. Not that the landlord is any great shakes. The apartment was a real dive, and the landlord is a major jerk.”
Louie nodded, suggesting the two maybe went hand in hand. “You interested in going over to The Spot for one?”
“I’d love to, but I’m helping some folks at the high school, so I’d better take a pass,” I said, not wanting to tell Louie I was back in high school detention. “If I can finish up at a decent time, I may stop down, but it wouldn’t be until sometime after eight.”
“I don’t even want to know what you got yourself into. If you feel like it, I’ll probably still be there.”
Chapter 9
As I pulled into the parking lot at my old high school, it didn’t look like much had changed other than the fact I was driving my own car. Eight cars were parked in the area marked for staff, including Barbara’s red SUV. I parked at the far end of the lotand felt like I was sneaking in as I climbed out of my car.
There were four cars in the main parking lot with a half-dozen kids hanging around, but I couldn’t tell if they were waiting until six to come into the detention meeting or if they were just hanging around after one of the team practices.
Rather than entering the building through the main door, I headed for the door that led to the cafeteria. Fortunately, it was unlocked, and as I stepped into the building, I was immediately transported back twenty years. The place looked pretty much the same other than the metal detectors positioned on either side of the entrance, a sign of the times, I guess.
I walked down the hallway. Buff-colored student lockers with black combination locks lined both sides of the hall. It was a short thirty-foot walk to the double doors that led to the cafeteria. I pulled the door open and stepped in. Dozens of Formica topped tables were neatly arranged with five chairs on either side. Over in the far corner, seven people, five women and two guys, all turned as one to see who had just entered.
Fortunately, one of the women was Barbara, and she waved a hand and called, “Over here, Dev, join us.”
I headed over to the table, not recognizing any of the people sitting with Barbara. “Any trouble finding the place?” Barbara asked, then laughed. “This is the man I was telling you about, Dev Haskell. He’s offered to join us for a semester to help out. Dev went to school here.”
“Yeah, but wisely, the school never mentions me,” I said, which brought smiles to almost everyone seated.
“Dev,” Barbara said, “this is Marjorie Murphy and…” She went around the table, introducing everyone. I got a smile and a nod in every case, but one, a guy named Harold Kennedy gave a half-frown as he nodded. I wondered if maybe his father was the chemistry teacher whose desk I’d placed the dog poop in my senior year.
“Nice to meet you,” I said once Barbara was finished. I looked at everyone around the table and studied Kennedy for a long moment. I pulled up a chair and listened for all of five minutes before two girls walked in, and everyone stood and hurried to different tables.
“All right, Dev, why don’t you grab the table next to me? The students go to someone for specific help, like Harold for chemistry, or Rosa for Spanish, or they head for a table that doesn’t already have someone. You’re going to be the last person they’ll go to only because they don’t know you yet. Don’t be discouraged. In their own way, they’re still somewhat shy. Once the word is out on you, you’ll be very busy. Here you can use this,” she said, handing me a yellow legal tablet and a pen.
She wasn’t kidding about me being the last person. There were two or three students waiting at every table except mine and, at no surprise, Harold Kennedy’s. The door opened, and a pretty girl walked in. She looked at the various tables with students waiting and then chose me instead of Harold Kennedy, making a beeline in my direction.
“How’s it going,” she said, pulling a chair out and sitting across from me. “Who are you? I haven’t seen you around here before.”
“Yeah, well, I graduated from here about twenty years ago, but I got a notice that said I skipped a detention, and I still had to serve it, or they were going to revoke my graduation.”
Her eyes widened as she leaned forward, gave a quick look around, and half-whispered, “Really?”
“No, just kidding.”
“Oh man, that was good. You got me, dude.”
“So what brings you in here on a nice night like tonight?” I asked.
“I’m having some real problems with a paper I’m supposed to write, and it has to be
three thousand words long.”
“Okay, so how far along are you?”
“I got two words down so far. My name, Ramona Williams.”
“Mmm-mmm, I hate to tell you this, Ramona, but I’m not sure your name is going to count.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“I wish. Hey, I’ve been there. So what topic did they give you to write about?”
“Well, that’s part of the problem. She didn’t give us a topic. We’re supposed to come up with one, and I just can’t.”
“What do you like to do?”
“Huh?”
“If you can write about anything you want, why don’t you pick something you like to do? You into a certain kind of books, you know romance or horror or—”
“That sounds like the same thing,” she said and laughed.
“Yeah, there are times,” I said, recalling my last text from Gladys. “But what do you like? Maybe a particular kind of music or a band. You like looking at clothes or hairstyles. Do you know how tattoos are done?”
“Tattoos?”
“Just throwing out ideas, here. I didn’t say you have to get one.”
“No, no, I really like tattoos, my boyfriend, well, ex-boyfriend had one. A great big pair of wings across his shoulders. It turned out to be about the only good thing about the guy.”
“Well, maybe you could write about tattoos. There’s all sorts of information and images online you could check out.”
“Mmm-mmm, yeah, my mom can’t afford internet access in our apartment, and we don’t have a computer anyway, so that’s kind of out.”
“You got a driver’s license?”
“No, not till next year, then I’m blowing out of this town.”
“You take the city bus?”
“You kidding? Every day, but I don’t want to write about being on the bus. Talk about boring.”
“Yeah, I get that. You live near here.”
“Kind of,” she said, suddenly sounding cautious.
“I’m just thinking. I got a pal with a tattoo shop. He’s pretty good. He’s won all sorts of awards and contests. He’s got at least a half-dozen albums full of original tattoo designs. If you want, I could call him and see if he’d talk to you, and you could write about that, or I know a lady who runs a bakery and—”
“I’d love the tattoo dude. That would be so awesome.”
“You want me to call him?”
“Yeah, please, that would be really cool.”
“Okay, hang on. I’ll do it right now.” I pulled out my phone and speed-dialed my pal Dennis Richards. He answered almost immediately.
“Dev Haskell? To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Hey, Dennis, too long since we spoke. I’m calling to ask a favor.”
“Fire away.”
“I’ve got a friend named Ramona and—”
“She looking to get inked in a private area?”
“No, actually she’s looking to write a high school paper on tattoos. Would there be any chance she could talk to you?”
“You kidding? I’d love it. Have her stop down any time.”
“I’ll pass this on to her, Dennis. Much appreciated.”
“You still showing up at The Spot?”
“Yeah, I office right across the street from there.”
“Good, I’ll stop in one of these nights and you can buy me a beer,” he said.
“Consider it done. Hey, give me your address,” I said then wrote it down on the back of one of my business cards, and we disconnected.
“What’d he say?” Ramona asked.
“He said he’d love to have you stop by.” I slid my business card across the table to her. “Here’s my card. His name and address are on the back along with his cellphone number.”
She turned my card over and read Dennis’s information. “Inkredible, that’s the studio’s name?”
“Yeah, it’s kind of famous.”
She nodded. “I’ve heard of it. Oh, this is going to be so cool. Thanks so much.” She turned my card over as she stood. “You’re a private investigator, Mr. Haskell?”
“You can call me Dev, and yeah, that’s what I do.”
“Like in the movies?”
“Nothing that crazy, actually, I’m a pretty boring guy. Good luck talking to Dennis. He’s a good guy. Nice to meet you, Ramona. You let me know how the paper turns out.”
“I will. I promise. Thanks again, dude,” she said and hurried out the door.
Chapter 10
Two more students ended up at my table, only because no one else was available. One wanted help with an algebra equation, which immediately informed me she knew more than I did. Fortunately, some kid was just leaving another table, and I strongly suggested she would be better served by the individual over there. She must have been, because as she left, she smiled and gave me a thumbs-up. A ninth-grader got stuck talking to me about social studies and the American Revolution, and I think I more or less held my own in that conversation.
Things clearly began to slow down after 7:30, and by 8:00, there were just two students finishing up. Everyone stayed seated at their tables for another ten minutes until the students left. Apparently, they always met at Tiffany’s for a post-session conference. I decided I would hurry home to let Morton out and then join them. While they were still talking, I headed out the door and ran into a student just coming in. He was a lean kid with dark curly hair and blue eyes. Based on his clothes, I figured grunge was apparently his thing.
“Oh, hey, I think they’re pretty much finished for tonight. Anything I can help you with?”
“Oh, umm, no, not really. I just have to turn something into Ms. Jackson. I had to leave school early this afternoon and missed her class.”
“She’s right inside, can’t miss her,” I said and headed out the door.
I went out to my car and drove home. Morton was watching out the window as I pulled up. He met me at the front door. We went for a two-block walk. I let him back into the house and headed over to Tiffany’s on Ford Parkway.
The official name of the place is Tiffany’s Sports Lounge. Fortunately, it was a pleasant enough evening and the group was assembled at two outdoor tables. Barbara waved me over as soon as I stepped out of the parking lot. A number of glasses of white wine rested on the tables. I ordered a beer. Interestingly, Harold Kennedy wasn’t in the group, and over the next hour, I never heard anything suggesting he was missed.
People chatted about various students. Collectively, the group was old enough that there was a good chance they knew and possibly had even taught one or both parents of the kids that had stopped in tonight.
I asked the woman next to me if Harold Kennedy’s father had taught at the school. She replied with a yes that suggested no further questions on the subject were needed.
I looked at the woman across the table from me and asked, “Excuse me, are you, Ms. Jackson?”
She smiled and said, “Please, call me Janet. Your name is Don?”
“No Dev, short for Devlin. Nice to meet you. I wanted to ask if the boy at the end of the evening was able to turn in his paper to you.”
She got a confused look on her face and said, “A boy tonight?”
I explained the situation, running into the kid as I headed out the door.
“That doesn’t make any sense. I retired four years ago. I occasionally sub for a day or two, but no one has to turn in a paper to me. Almost all of us are retired, well except for Harold, I think you met him and then Ann sitting down at the end of the table. Are you sure you got the name correct?”
“Yeah, he said Ms. Jackson. Is there someone else with the same name?”
She shook her head and said, “No, no one else by that name. I’m the only one.”
“Hmm, I must have misunderstood. I was in a hurry to get home and let my dog out.”
“Sometimes it can be a long night, a very long night. How did things go for you?”
“Fine. Barbara warned me it would take
some time, but I talked to a couple of nice students. One girl had an algebra question. She was a ninth-grader, and it was instantly apparent she knew way more than I did. Fortunately, she hurried over to another table and I think got the answer she wanted.”
I actually stayed for two beers and walked Barbara to her car. “Well, how did the first night go?” she asked.
“You know, a lot better than I expected. Nice kids, great group of people.”
“So, you’ll be back?”
“Oh, yeah, wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Liar,” she said but then smiled. “Thanks for coming tonight, and as I said, word will spread among the students, and you’ll suddenly have a line of them waiting to talk to you about everything. Just be prepared. All of a sudden, you’ll be handing out non-school advice, and that can sometimes get a little dicey. When that happens, we usually recommend they speak to one of the school counselors.”
“That seems to make perfect sense.” I held the car door for her as she climbed in.
“Oh, Dev,” she said, pulling a manila envelope off the passenger seat. “Don’t open this until you get home. Something I found rummaging around in my files this afternoon.”
The envelope had some weight to it, and I said, “What’s this, a list of things I did wrong in school?”
“You’re not to open that until you get home. That’s all I’m going to say. Thanks again for coming this evening.”
“Thanks for suggesting it,” I said and waved as she drove off. I thought about going home but decided maybe just one at The Spot wouldn’t be such a bad idea. I tossed the envelope on the passenger seat and pulled out of the parking lot.
At no surprise, Louie was seated on his favorite stool at the end of the bar. Mike nodded at me and poured a beer as I headed toward Louie. He lowered the newspaper he was reading as I approached.
“So, did you tell some kid the secret way into the girl’s locker room?”
“No, Louie, if you must know, I was helping students. I arranged an interview for a girl writing a paper and directed another girl over to someone who knew about algebra.”