by G. M. Ford
He slipped into his thoughts again and then snapped back. "Well, life goes on, you know. They settle in and start raising their own generation of barefoot children. There was a lot of work in the woods in those days. Not like today. Those two kids were doing pretty darn good. Cops had to come out once in a while to tell them to turn the Lynyrd Skynyrd down on a Friday night, and there was some talk that they were selling a little weed to their friends, but other than that, they were pretty much living the redneck version of the American dream."
I waited for him to regroup.
"That went on for about five years. Maybe a little longer. Wouldn't you know it? Talk about bad luck. The kid survived five years of setting choker, the most dangerous job in the civilized world, and a week after he gets promoted to faller, a freak wind blows one back at him. Poor kid was cold and stiff before they cut him out and got him to the hospital in South Bend. I guess, from what they tell me, the girl just came apart. The family had written her off for moving outside the valley, so there was no help there."
"So she's about twenty-one and alone," I said. "And the boy's five or six. Is that right?" "Yeah," he said. "But don't get me wrong. The girl was a long way from destitute. I mean she damn well should have been able to make it. She had Weyerhaeuser benefits, state benefits, the whole thing. Heck, she was probably making more money than half the folks in town." He stopped.
"But?"
"But she just couldn't stay away from the sauce," he said sadly. "She already had bad habits, and it was like losing Bobby Dunlap just set some animal loose inside her. I'd see her coming out of the liquor store at eleven in the morning, juiced to the ears, always holding that little boy by the hand. It was a damn shame," he said. He was nearing the end of his tale now, the lines coming more quickly. "She lost it all. The house. Sold the furniture. Everything. Drank it all up. Put it up her nose. I don't know. There's a lot of stories; I can't say for sure. Either way, she and the boy end up living at the old Raymond Hotel, which, believe you me, has never been any place to be raising a kid." He hesitated. "There was some talk about things she was doing to raise extra drinking money, but I don't want to go into that." Silence. The rest of it came out in a rush. "Well, one Saturday afternoon, the boy falls down the stairs at the hotel. Breaks his arm so bad they've got to screw it back together with a steel plate. Ambulance comes, carts him off. Nobody can find the mother. Cops go through the hotel, find her shacked up and shitfaced with some Chinaman on the fourth floor." I heard him breathe. "Well, that's when the state stepped in and took the boy from her. Said she was an unfit mother. Which I suppose she was."
"And?"
"Well, the boy went to a couple of foster families here in the county. That's a paper trail that's easy enough to follow. But then, about six months later he gets adopted, and the story ends."
"Sealed records?"
"Even more sealed than usual. No sooner would the county find the boy a foster home than Selena would find out about it and start showing up, making herself obnoxious to the families. Showing up drunk, demanding the boy back, threatening folks. That sort of thing. Ended up having a couple of restraining orders against her before she was through. Spent more than a few nights in the can over it, too. So, when the adoption came around, they made damned sure nobody was going to follow that trail."
"And Selena?"
"Left town," he said. "I can speak to that one personally. Saw her go with my own eyes. Blind drunk. Everything she owned wrapped in a bedroll on the back of a Harley-Davidson. Sittin' up there, if you can believe it, behind some yahoo with mom tattooed across his forehead."
"I believe it. And that's the last you heard of her?"
"Until that state investigator showed up saying they were thinking about declaring her dead."
"He say why?"
"Said it was confidential."
Thin ticks of plastic static could be heard above the silence of the line.
"Thanks," I said.
"Wish it was a happier tale," he said.
"Me, too."
"Excuse the old newspaperman in me, son, but I've got to know. Is there a story for me in here somewhere?"
"Could be," I said. I didn't make him ask. "If there is, I'll do the best I can to see to it that you get it first."
He made sure I had his home number, reminded me to fix my phone message, and said goodbye.
I shivered as I rose. I was stiff and sore from sitting in one place too long. In a spasm of optimism, I'd left the shades up and all the windows open when I'd left this afternoon. The apartment smelled cleaner than it had in months. The same dust seemed better, now that it had migrated to different places. The sheaf of papers I'd collected at the library and at Karen Mendolson's apartment had blown all over the floor, lending a festive air to the place. I stepped over them as I went around closing the windows and turning on the heat. As I passed the desk, I punched the button on the surge protector. I waited as the computer eeped to life, then set the modem about dialing my Internet carrier. Busy, as usual. I left it on perpetual redial and left the room.
I pulled a Beck's from the refrigerator and, using my free hand, scooped all the papers into a messy pile. I spent the next ten minutes at the kitchen table sipping beer and separating the research I'd done on Lukkas Terry from the stuff I'd taken from the girl's apartment.
I was still rearranging the material when I heard the unmistakable sound of a couple of modems swapping electronic spit. By the time I got to the desk, I was already on-line. I checked my E-mail. Doo tee dee doo. You have mail! One message:
Date: Sat 17 Feb 1996 00:00:18-0500 To: [email protected]
Sender: [email protected]. Subject: Mendolson Job
Leo, old buddy, nice to hear from you. Can always use a little work. Will drive up to the peninsula this weekend. Will have something for you by Mon. pm. Two days @ 250 per. + expen. Ok? Flash me back if anything about this is no good. Over and out.
Ron Miller [email protected]
I quit the mail program and was about to shut down altogether when I noticed the little pile of disks I'd liberated from Karen Mendolson's apartment. Plain black, double sided, double-density disks with no labels. I picked up the top disk and slipped it into the machine. Because she had a Mac at work, I figured she probably had one at home too. Not many people mess around with both. Sure enough, after a quick check for viruses, the little icon appeared on the screen: "Digest" was all it said. I double-clicked it open. It read:
Date: Thu, 14 Dec 1995 00:00:1-0500
Reply-To: Mystery Literature E-conference
Sender: Mystery Literature E-conference
From: Automatic digest processor
Subject: DOROTHYL Digest-12 Dec 1995 to 15
Feb 1995
118
To: Recipients of DOROTHYL digests
There are 25 messages totaling 1003 lines in this issue.
Topics of the day:]
1. Sayers' anti-semitism 2. J. A. Jance 1 3. comment on Valentines mysterys 4. Cleveland Pi's 5. Hindsight and DLS 6. A REAL Cyber-Mystery 7. Maclean's Wisdom 8. Help needed re Ellis Peters 9. Sayers attitudes
10. Edgars 11. Hardboiled vrs cozy debate 12. Richard Barre's new book 13. Twelve Monkeys 14. Dropshot 15. D. L Sayers 16. Think of England. 17. Quaker Mysteries 18. Lie Back and Think of England 19. WONDER BREAD 20. That Phrase Again 21. Howlers in Favorite Mysteries 22. Harlan Coben 23. Dotty Lantisemitism 24. Edgars/12 Monkies/Howlers 25.
I scrolled down to the first message:
DATE: Tues, 12 Dec 1995 18:29:42-0500 FROM: [email protected] SUBJECT: Sayers' anti-semitism
Flame me if you must, but I completely fail to see how one can be excused anti-semitic views merely because they were prevalent at the time. Some things do not change, and an abiding regard for the universal value of one's fellow human beings is most certain
ly one.
Lilly Rowan (Archie Goodwin's friend) aka Barbara Reynolds http://www.apox.com [email protected]
Hmm. I kept on. A review of a new mystery book by Seattle writer J. A. Jance. A request for anybody who knew of mysteries centering around Valentine's Day. Somebody inquiring about fictional PI's from Cleveland. It went on and on. And on and on.
Four cups of coffee and four hours later, I'd waded through all six disks. One through five had all been the same. A chronological record of some sort of compiled digest dedicated to discussing mystery fiction. The digest appeared to be called Dorothy L, apparently named after a famed writer named Dorothy L. Sayers, whose somewhat antiquated attitudes regarding Jews were, at least in the period between December 1995 and March 1995, engendering quite a heated debate as to whether current late-century standards should be grandmothered backward in time to include prewar dowagers. I was staying out of it.
I learned that Victorian mothers used to advise their soon-to-be-married daughters to "Lie back and think of England," that the movie 12 Monkeys had confused a hell of a lot of people, that somewhere out there there were probably mysteries that featured Chilean CPAs, that Dorothy L represented the cozy end of the cozy versus hard boiled debate, that the digest apparently originated at Kent State University, that an inordinate number of the subscribers were located either at universities or at libraries, that most of the participants seemed to be quite well educated and fairly articulate, and that many subscribers adopted what they called noms, using the name of one of their favorite fictional characters instead of their own. Finally, I learned that if someone got off the subject of mysteries or got too nasty with other subscribers, somebody using the nom Danger Mouse would step in and gently but firmly threaten to jettison the miscreant into blackest cyberspace.
The sixth disk was different. They were all messages to Dorothy L like the others, but these were all from the same person and all on the subject of Sayers's anti-Semitism. The first one read:
DATE: Tue, 19 Dec 1995 18:21: 42-0600
FROM: J. P. [email protected] SUBJECT: anti-semitism
Pleeeese. Spare me! How can you possibly think to transpose a modern set of values on a time fifty years distant? It's absurd. Ms. Sayers professes a set of values which were totally appropriate for a woman of her station in that time period. How dare you dismiss her work with a wave of your politically correct hand.
Sorry if I sound a little strident, but this particular thread seems to bring out the worst in me.
J. P. Beaumont (J. A. Jance's Seattle Detective.) Karen Mendolson:) J. P. [email protected] [email protected] com
Bingo. I'd seen these same messages as I'd worked my way through the journals. I scrolled my way to the end. All from either the library address or the America Online address that I now presumed to be Karen's apartment. All part of the great Sayers debate. The more of them I read, the more I liked Karen Mendolson. Any enemy of PC is a friend of mine. I returned the slide to the top, ejected the disk, and reinserted one of the others.
It took me two tries, but I found it. The E-mail address of this person called Danger Mouse. Seemed as good a place as any to start. I copied the address from the message, clicked open a new message of my own, and pasted in the address.
Date: Sat, 17 Feb 96 09:12:13 EST From: [email protected] Subject: This Digest To: [email protected]
Hello. I came across Dorothy L while surfing the web. Could you tell me more about it please.
Thanks,
Leo Waterman
Send. I stood and stretched. My shin throbbed. I could still feel the touch of those stairs I'd rolled down the other night. As I reached for the mouse to shut down the computer, someone began banging on my apartment door. Had to be Hector. Nobody else could get in. Hector Guiterrez was the superintendent of my apartment building, a banished Cuban whose negative attitude toward Castro's regime had earned him seven years in prison, fourteen days in a leaking boat, and another two years behind barbed wire in south Florida. Even after all these years in the land of the free and the home of the brave, Hector still harbored a deep, abiding distrust of authority figures. Hector was an ardent subscriber to the conspiratorial view of history. Everything was a plot. A new postman was a potential CIA agent. If he lost a sock in the dryer, he figured it was being microanalyzed in some underground laboratory.
Years ago, for reasons I'd never fully understood, Hector had unilaterally adopted me as a coconspirator. I'd never been totally clear as to whom we were conspiring against or to what ends, but it seemed to make Hector happy, which was good enough for me. Off the pig. Subvert the dominant paradigm. It was us against the world.
Sure enough. There he was, his boiled-egg head gleaming, his thick mustache, just beginning to show traces of gray, twitching furiously. He blustered past me into the room, waving a Federal Express envelope, taking laps around the coffee table, cutting the air with the envelope.
"Leo, jew chit. I got better tings to do dan chase abler you."
"Sorry, Hector. You should have called, man, I would have "
"Called? I chould hab called? Who de fock jew kidding? I been trying all damn day. You on that focking Web all de time. Not eeven da pope can call you, Leo. You out dere focking around all de time." He passed the envelope under my nose. "Dat's how dey get your brain. Dat's how dey control you. Dat's what dey gonna make happen. Gonna control your brain tru de wires."
I knew better than to ask exactly who "dey" was. Ask him that, and you could be here till dawn.
He stopped waving the envelope and pressed it against my chest with two hands. "Eeet come about one o'clock," he said. "I gotta run. Just got a call. My broder Rueben, you remember Rueben ''
I said I did. Rueben and I had once spent eighteen hours handcuffed to one another, but Hector seemed to feel that a mundane moment such as that was insufficient to engender recall.
"Hees daughter Elena, she just go into labor up at Providence. Rueben gonna be a grandpapa." He started for the door and then turned to wag a finger at me. "Jew see, dey could call me and tell me of dis, so I could be part of de joyous event. I'm not out dere on dat focking Web all de time. Si? Gotta go."
I stood with my back to the door, listening to Hector whistle his way down the hall. When the tweeting faded, I walked into the office and punched the button on the surge protector. The screen went black. The room fell silent. I wandered back into the kitchen, leaned my elbows on the counter, and pulled the strip on the envelope.
13
It wa there when I fired the machine up in the morning. The little musical tone announced that I had mail. I checked my electronic mailbox. One message.
Date: Sun, 18 Feb 96 14:45:42 EST
From: "Kara L. Robinson"
Subject: Re: Your query
To: Leo Waterman
Hi Leo,
DorothyL is an e-conference for the discussion of mystery literature, films and television. It is high traffic, enthusiastic and often overwhelming. The subscribers are extremely knowledgeable about mysteries and tend to welcome "newbies" with open arms. Just remember though, off-topic postings are severely frowned upon, as are flaming and general rudeness. Let me know if you want to know more.
Danger Mouse AKA Kara L. Robinson I went into the kitchen, started a pot of coffee, and returned to the office. I cracked my knuckles, stretched my back, and began to type.
Date: Sun, 18 Feb 96 08:17:56 EST
From: Leo Waterman
Subject: Re: Subscribing to DorothyL
To: "Kara L. Robinson"
Kara:
Thanks for the quick response. How do I get connected to DorothyL? Best, Leo Waterman
Short and sweet. Send. Shutdown. When I heard the modem click off, I picked up the phone and dialed Jed. He picked up on the third ring. His voice sounded as if he had hooks caught in his throat.
"Jesus, Leo, what time is it?"
I looked back over my shoulder at the clock on the stove. Oops. Eight-twenty in the a.m. "Just a little before nine," I lied.
"Isn't this Sunday?" he asked.
"Some places," I hedged.
I could hear him sitting up in bed. "You found the Mendolson girl."
"Not exactly."
"How not exactly?"
"Exactly not at all."
"Then what in holy hell are you calling me before eight-thirty on a Sunday morning for?"
"This library thing " I started. "This is a straight deal, right? You're not holding anything back from me, are you?"
"Like what?"
"Like something that would give somebody an uncontrollable urge to run my miserable ass over."
I had his attention now. "Really? Like with a car?"
"A van, actually. But yeah, a lot like that."
"You okay?"
"A scrape here and there, but otherwise I'm okay." "I swear. The job is just what it seems to be," Jed said. "When?"
"Yesterday afternoon."
"Must be about something else. Can't be the library."
"That's what I figured. I just wanted to be sure."
"Oh?"
"I've been doing a little poking around in something else. It seems to be making somebody real nervous."
"So it would seem," Jed said. "You want to tell me about it?"
I did. He stopped me right away. "Whoa," he said. "Listen, man, I liked her too, but that doesn't make her Lukkas Terry's mother. We have no way of knowing that this woman is even who she claims to be."
"Oh, she's Selena Dunlap all right. I got her one and only driver's license picture last night. It's her, Jed. Younger. Happier. But it's sure as hell her."
"That doesn't make her anybody's mom," he pointed out.
I told him about old Chuck Bastyens's story and the stainless steel plate Tommy Matsukawa had in the jar.
"We'll need documentation," he said.
I agreed and went on with my story. He stopped me again halfway through. "How in hell did anybody find out you were poking around in her paperwork?"