Housebreaking

by Dan Pope

  “So they say.” Andrew took a sip of the scotch. That sudden warmth filled his mouth, his nostrils, his chest. With the warmth came a flickering of affection for Hannahan. He was the last of his kind, like a bison or buffalo, some near-extinct North American mammal that once roamed the plains in herds of thousands. “Your skin looks bad, Jack. Have you had a checkup lately?”

  Hannahan waved him off. “I’m Irish. Of course my skin looks bad.” He leaned back in his chair. “You know, I’m only half-joking, calling him your protégé. There’s a lot of potential there.”

  Andrew nodded. “I’m willing to give him a chance.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “He’s smart, that’s for certain. But I’m not sure whether he wants it badly enough.”

  “That’ll become clear once you put him to the test.” The old man sipped the scotch with his thin lips. “We had a sergeant in Korea, a Swede by the name of Pederson. Toughest SOB you’d ever want to meet. Arms like concrete blocks. He lived on cigarettes and coffee, as far as I could tell. The first time we saw combat, he turned and ran like a schoolgirl. They found him cowering in a ditch two miles behind the lines. They had to ship him stateside. You never can tell until that first shot how someone will react.”

  Andrew sensed more Korea to come, so he finished the drink and set down the glass. “Well, I gave Sampson a couple of choice cases, so I hope he’s up to the task.”

  “Care for another? It’s Friday, after all.”

  Andrew got up, offering a deferential smile. “I should head home. Thanks for the drink.”

  “Of course, my boy. Give my best to Audrey and Emma.”

  As Andrew left, he saw the old man refill his glass.

  * * *

  ANDREW PACKED his briefcase and took the elevator down to the ground floor. The bar in the lobby was crowded and brightly lit. Andrew ducked inside and had two quick tequilas. A drink he hadn’t had for years, maybe since law school.

  The fellow on the next stool introduced himself as a heavy machinery salesman from Des Moines, Iowa. A large man with liver-spotted hands. He nodded toward a table of office workers. “There’s something sad about a fat woman wearing a party dress. All gussied up like that.” He squinted at Andrew, looking him up and down. “Well, that’s a coincidence.”

  “What?”

  The man pointed at his suit jacket. “We’re both wearing olive suits and blue shirts.”

  “Is that a Polo?” said Andrew.

  “My suit? It’s Big and Tall Man Shop.” He offered to buy Andrew a drink. “Since we seem to appreciate the same color schemes in men’s fashion.”

  “Thanks, but this is my last one.”

  The salesman nodded. “A wise choice. In my experience, happy hour is neither happy nor does it last an hour.”

  It was a sodden night, the wind and rain coming in sweeps. Andrew turned up his windshield wipers. Without really thinking, he turned in to Elizabeth Park and drove slowly around the loop. The road was unlit and rutted with potholes, with cars parked haphazardly on either side. Some were idling with brake lights on; most were dark.

  At the end of the loop, he parked in the dirt lot in front of the tennis courts. He told himself he was taking a breather, a moment for himself. The lot was empty. The courts were leaf-strewn and covered with pine needles. Yet bright outdoor lights illuminated the courts, shining from the tops of telephone poles around the perimeter. A few stray tennis balls lay near the fence. When the wind rose, wet leaves flapped on the courts like injured birds.

  Andrew turned off the motor. The outdoor lights gave off a hive-like buzz, which he found strangely relaxing. After some time, the car grew cold. When his cell phone rang he glanced at the caller identification—Audrey—and turned off the phone. He’d promised always to answer his phone, ever since that day. But he couldn’t talk to her at the moment. He tried to put her out of his mind. He tried to think of nothing. As if turning off his phone were some crime. As if she hadn’t sat on her hands for— No, he wouldn’t. It did no good. None of it had done any good. The lawsuit. The memorial. What had he expected? Nothing, he told himself. Think of nothing. He imagined walking down the center of an empty street in an abandoned city . . .

  At precisely 8:00 P.M. the outdoor lights went off with a metallic clang, and a deeper silence followed. A few minutes later a car pulled up next to him—a beat-up Toyota Corolla with electrical tape covering the rear window.

  The car door slammed. Then came a tapping at his window. Andrew lowered his window a few inches. “What’s up?”

  The young man was very thin, wearing jeans and a tight black T-shirt, his shoulders bunched against the rain. His head was shaved perfectly clean. “Can I get in?” He spoke with an accent, Russian or Polish, it sounded like.

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-one years,” he said.

  He looked eighteen at the most. Andrew said, “Sorry, no.”

  “Come on, open door. You think I hurt you?” He grinned and flexed his biceps: The muscle barely moved. He weighed no more than 135 pounds.

  “What do you want?”

  “Want? I want nothing. What you want?”

  Andrew realized he wanted information. He said, “Do you know a guy who comes around here? He drives a little black convertible. You ever see anyone like that?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “Good looks. He is very good-looking. Can I get in now?” He shivered, his bare arms trembling.

  “You know him?”

  “Yes, I know him.”

  Andrew pressed the unlock button and nodded toward the passenger door. The boy passed in front of the car and climbed in, filling the interior with the smell of cigarettes. He rubbed his hands together and breathed on them. His shaved head was startlingly white, like an egg.

  Andrew said, “So you know this guy?”

  The boy nodded.

  “When did you last see him?” Andrew spoke slowly, articulating the words. The boy stared back with cloudy blue eyes, his expression blank. His arms seemed to be made of bone only, they were so thin. “Was he here tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “He was in the park?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did you see him?”

  “I see him now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You are him, yes?”

  “What?”

  “You want me to say yes, yes?”

  Andrew rubbed his brow. “No. This isn’t a game. I’m asking you—”

  The boy placed his hand on Andrew’s thigh and began rubbing him. Andrew pressed his legs together. “No, no. I’m asking about my friend.”

  “Let me, please. I see you are hard. I like very much.”

  The boy leaned over and undid Andrew’s pants and used his mouth. The egg-like head, dipping and rising. Andrew looked over the steering wheel, staring at the tennis courts and the dark woods beyond. When he came, he heard the boy’s breath quicken.

  A moment later the boy got out.

  The rain picked up, a sudden slap on the windshield, like a sheet of glass falling. The car beside him clattered to a start, then backed out of the parking lot, its lights illuminating the tennis courts for a moment, then sweeping across the woods.

  Andrew reached into the backseat, grabbed the container of antibacterial wipes, and cleaned himself. As he buttoned his pants, he realized his wallet was missing. He checked his suit coat, his overcoat, the seat, the floor.

  Nothing, of course.

  “Stupid,” Andrew said aloud. He used more of the wipes, soaking his groin. “Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.”

  He started the car and drove off.

  * * *

  BACK DOWNTOWN, he had the security guard cut him a new swipe key. He went up to his
office and got his personal file out of his desk. He kept photocopies of the entire contents of his wallet, the front and back of each item, and the telephone numbers of his credit card carriers. In twenty minutes he’d canceled the credit cards and ordered replacements. Then he telephoned the three national credit-reporting organizations and placed a fraud alert on his name and social security number. Next he notified the Federal Trade Commission on their website. He didn’t keep a copy of his social security card in his wallet, so he wasn’t particularly concerned about identity theft, but he found it calming to go through these procedures. The Russian boy would get nothing—a few twenties, no more.

  Only one more call to make: the cops. If somehow the Russian boy did manage to break into his accounts, Andrew would need a police report for insurance purposes. Plus, he knew, Audrey would ask, Did you call the cops?

  He took the elevator down to the lobby and went into the bar, nearly empty now. He recognized the bartender, the same man who’d been on duty earlier.

  “I lost my wallet,” said Andrew, “when I was here earlier.”

  “You sure it happened here?”

  “I had it when I came in. I gave you a twenty for the drinks. I was sitting next to a guy who said he was a salesman from Iowa. Maybe he was a pickpocket. Who knows?”

  “Yeah, I remember that guy. Well, no one turned in any wallet to me. But let me check with the manager.”

  Andrew watched the bartender out of the corner of his eye as he went into the dining area and conversed with a man in a blue blazer. He came back, shaking his head. “Tequila, right?” the bartender said. “How about one on the house?”

  “Actually, a Heineken would be great. And a steak if you’re still serving. Medium rare.”

  The cop showed up an hour later. Andrew went through the same rigmarole, again mentioning the salesman from Iowa. What had he said? That they shared the same color scheme in men’s fashion? Andrew wondered now if that were some kind of come-on. Had the salesman been trying to pick him up? Jesus, he thought. Was he giving off some kind of vibe?

  The cop closed his notepad. “I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”

  “I’ll need a copy of that report for my insurer.”

  “Call the station tomorrow. I’ll have it ready for you.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” said Andrew.

  His tasks complete, he enjoyed the last of his steak and ordered a piece of blueberry pie for dessert, feeling strangely satisfied.

  * * *

  AS SOON AS he walked into the living room, Audrey jumped up from the couch and barked, “Where have you been? I’ve been calling you all night.”

  He set down his briefcase and took off his raincoat. “Battery must be dead. What’s up?”

  “Emily hasn’t come home.”

  He checked his watch. “It’s eleven o’clock. What’s her curfew?”

  “What happened to you? You look awful.”

  “Someone stole my wallet at the hotel bar after work. I took a client there for a drink—”

  “I’m worried about her. She’s supposed to be home by ten.”

  He wanted only to ease into the tub and let the hot water rise around him. “She goes out every night. She probably just lost track.”

  Audrey picked up the phone. “Here. You try. I’ve called her twenty times already.”

  “Are you saying you haven’t talked to her at all today?”

  “She left a message this afternoon saying she would get a ride home after school. After that, nothing.”

  “If she’s not home by the time I finish my bath, we’ll call the police. Okay?”

  “They won’t do anything,” she said. “You have to wait twenty-four hours to file a missing person report.”

  “No. That’s just something you hear on television. You can file a report on a juvenile anytime. The sooner the better, in fact.”

  “Then let’s call now.”

  “You’re that worried?”

  “Why are you arguing with me?”

  She was on the verge of tears, her hands clenched. Andrew found it doubtful that anything had happened to Emily. She’d missed curfews and disobeyed them many times before. He was confident she would be home any minute with some excuse. Emily was an excellent liar.

  He sat at the kitchen table and dialed the police station on the regular business number, asking for the officer on duty.

  A half hour later a policeman arrived at the house, a suburban cop, wide around the middle, with a receding hairline.

  “Tell me what happened,” he said.

  He smelled like coffee and fast food. He stood in the front hallway with a black clipboard, scribbling onto a report form. Every so often he touched the radio microphone attached to his right shoulder and spoke into it.

  “Okay,” he said, after Audrey finished. “So you last saw her when you dropped her off at school this morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was she wearing?”

  “Blue jeans,” said Audrey. “Black cardigan over a frilly black undershirt. Black leather boots.”

  “Does she take any medication? Anything she can’t go without, like insulin?”

  “Just some antidepressants,” said Andrew.

  “Is she depressed?”

  “Who isn’t.”

  “How about boyfriends? Anybody new?”

  “I couldn’t tell you,” said Andrew. “We just moved into town two months ago, so all her friends would be pretty recent.”

  The cop asked for a picture of Emily. Audrey came out of the bedroom with the eight-by-ten frame they kept on the dresser: Emily and Daniel in the backyard at Cos Cob with their arms around each other.

  “Is this her boyfriend?”

  “That’s her brother.”

  “Could she be with him?”

  “No.”

  Andrew smelled chewing tobacco on the man, a scent he recognized from his dorm room days. Had they interrupted his nightly routine, sitting alone in his patrol car with his tin of tobacco? Would the policeman do anything to investigate, or would he just return to his cruiser?

  He handed Andrew his card. “I’ll put out a radio broadcast on the missing person. If you hear from her, give dispatch a call. I’ll be in touch if I learn anything. Otherwise the detective will contact you tomorrow morning to follow up, as soon as he comes on duty.”

  Andrew thanked the man and showed him out.

  During the hours of waiting that followed, he and Audrey sat in the den, the TV playing. The rain plinked against the windows and roof. Every time a car passed on the street, Audrey would rise in response to the sweeping sound, like a wave coming to shore.

  “Relax,” he said. “We would have heard something by now if anything happened.”

  “I can’t relax.”

  “You know Emily. She can be reckless.”

  “That’s why I’m worried.”

  A dark dawn. When the cab pulled into the driveway, Andrew pulled back the curtain and watched from the window as his daughter got out and walked up the path with her head bent against the rain.

  He shook Audrey, who had fallen asleep on the couch.

  “She’s home.”

  Emily came through the kitchen door. Her hair was tangled. She looked sleepy and childlike.

  Audrey met her in the hall. Andrew expected hysterics, but his wife’s exhausted voice came out calm and sad: “Why are you doing this to me?”

  * * *

  HE GOT UP after a few restless hours in bed. He tried to fall back to sleep but his body refused to comply, attuned as it was to getting up at 7:00 A.M. After a while he dressed and had breakfast and wandered from room to room in the silent house, trying to find something to occupy his attention: the newspaper, the sports channels, a book Audrey had left on the couch: Eat Pray Love: One Woman�
�s Search for Everything Across Italy, India and Indonesia. His wife and daughter remained in their beds, neither making a sound.

  His phone rang around eleven. It was Sampson, offering a rematch.

  “What about your pal from the airport?”

  “Long gone. Well? Do we have a game?”

  Well, indeed. Andrew felt sluggish from lack of sleep and slightly hung­over. But some exercise might clear his head. Better than loafing around the house in his slippers, he figured. He looked out the window: The weather had cleared.

  “Same place?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Sampson. “Dinner and drinks are on me this time.”

  “Absolutely not. We’ll play for it, like before.”

  “If you insist.”

  “I do.”

  “Although I’m thinking of a different bet.”

  “For what?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” said Sampson. “Meet you at the courts in an hour.”

  Andrew slipped into the bedroom and got into his tennis clothes. From the bathroom he took a bottle of Advil and a tube of menthol cream. Audrey snored softly, a lump under the comforter.

  In the den he massaged the gel into his upper thighs to warm the tendons, all the way to his butt and down to the backs of his knees. He popped two capsules. No way would he pull up lame again, not today. He’d felt that same thrill before a college match, when he’d played number one, and the same certainty that he could not be beaten.

  This time, he did his stretching exercises before leaving the house, concentrating on his hamstrings and Achilles tendon. He didn’t want Sampson to see him going through these old-man labors, on his back, his legs in the air. Let Sampson wait on him for a change.

  As he began his sit-up routine, Emily wandered into the room. “Oh,” she said, nearly stepping on him. She rubbed her eyes.

  “Rough night?” he asked.

  “Understatement.” She stepped around him and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. She chugged a full glass then refilled it. As she passed him on her way back, he grabbed her foot. “You could have phoned. Your mother was—”

  “Let me guess. Worried sick.”

  “I was going to say concerned. But your version is probably more accurate.”