Foul Play on Words

by Becky Clark

  “What’s her username on Facebook?” I pulled out my phone. Still no bars. I’d have to check her profile later.

  saRAH snorted. “Facebook? She’s not ninety.” She raised one perfectly threaded, disbelieving eyebrow.

  “Fine. What’s her social media platform of choice?”

  “If you have to ask, you probably aren’t on it.” saRAH fiddled with her pack of cigarettes, closing and opening her hand until the package was crushed. I didn’t even think she noticed.

  “Instagram, then.”

  “Nope.”

  “Twitter? Tumblr? Snapchat? Weibo? Reddit?” I raised one finger and smiled, convinced I had it. “LinkedIn.”

  saRAH started to answer but Jack interrupted. “Actually, it’s Symwyf.”

  “Sim Whiff ?”

  “Speak Yo Mind With Yo Friends.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  saRAH tucked her crushed cigarette pack into the couch cushion. “Not surprised.”

  “It’s new,” Jack said.

  I won’t lie. It hurt that he gave me a verbal pat on my forty-years-in-the-future blue-tinted grandma hair.

  He pulled his phone from his pocket. “I’ll DM her right now and tell you the minute she responds.” When he finished he looked at me. “Want me to also send a tweet to our friends and ask if anyone has seen her?”

  I wondered if he had really direct messaged her. He had bars but I didn’t? “No. I don’t want to alarm anyone,” I said, even though these two were not the least bit worried about Hanna. But if there really was a kidnapper paying attention, I wouldn’t want him—or her—to get a whiff of anything. Especially not a Symwyf.

  “I don’t know why you’re so worried about her,” saRAH said. “Hanna goes AWOL all the time—”

  “Mostly to get away from her mother,” Jack added.

  “Where does she usually go?”

  “Once she followed a boyfriend to Hawaii on the surfer circuit,” saRAH said. “And another time she went to hike the Appalachian Trail on a dare.”

  “Who dared her?”

  “Me.” saRAH rubbed her throat with one hand.

  “Why would she run off without telling her mother?” I wanted to understand Hanna and Viv’s relationship.

  “Their relationship is … complicated,” Jack said.

  “That’s what I hear. How is it complicated?”

  saRAH ticked off the reasons on her fingers. “Viv doesn’t like Hanna’s boyfriend, doesn’t like that Hanna dropped out of college, doesn’t like that Hanna doesn’t do what Viv wants her to do, doesn’t like that she has a part-time job that doesn’t come close to paying her bills—”

  “How does she support herself ?”

  Jack and saRAH exchanged an uneasy glance.

  “I don’t know, but it’s probably got something to do with her boyfriend.” Jack spat out the word like it was a bite of Jerry’s Avocado Crumble.

  “What’s Hanna’s boyfriend’s name?” I asked.

  They answered in unison. “Michael Watanabe.”

  “The drug dealer?”

  Again they nodded in unison.

  saRAH and Jack exchanged a kiss in the dark hallway outside the storage room after the fluorescents had been turned off. She went one way and I followed Jack the other. The trip back to the lobby seemed to take a fraction of the time it had taken to get down there. Fear and an unknown destination play tricks on your senses, I guess.

  Jack went back to work. I plopped into an overstuffed chair in the lobby with a good view of the revolving door and dialed the Watanabe Yatai takeout number. While I waited for Hanna’s boyfriend to deliver my order—and maybe some answers—I watched dogs and their handlers run through a small agility course they’d set up with props from the lobby. The hassocks were still there from before, joined by sets of throw pillows leaning together in inverted Vs.

  I watched the dogs leap over the different types of hurdles. I laughed out loud when the smaller dogs jumped onto the hassocks and struck a pose worthy of a Milan runway. I craned my neck when I realized part of the course had been out of my view. Chairs from the restaurant were set up with jackets draped over them to create a tunnel for the dogs to crawl through. I watched a brindle greyhound start through the tunnel but worried when it didn’t come out the other end in the amount of time I thought it should. Apparently the handler was worried too and dropped to his knees at the end of the tunnel. He called out, “C’mon, Shasta. This way!”

  Shasta seemed to get spooked by the tunnel and in her haste to get out, knocked over two of the chairs and got tangled up in the jackets that fell.

  With a start I realized that Jack and saRAH really could have whacked me down in the basement. I would have been hidden like Shasta but nobody would have known to look for me. I’d been scared of them, then I wasn’t, and now I was again. Were they toying with me? They didn’t seem to think it was weird that I kept asking about Hanna. Or did they? Were they just hiding it? Were they hiding her? Were they trying to lull me into some false sense of security so they could whack me later?

  So confused. So paranoid.

  My paranoia only intensified when Michael Watanabe arrived with the food I’d ordered. Even though I was fairly certain he didn’t remember me from earlier, I stammered nervously, “You got me hooked!”

  As soon as I said it, I wanted those words stuffed back into my mouth. Probably not appropriate to say to a convicted drug dealer. Even though I was talking about the yakisoba and those delicious octopus doughnut holes.

  He ignored me, instead holding out two plastic bags with Watanabe’s logo stamped on them. “This one’s the—”

  “When was the last time you saw Hanna? Or heard from her?” I blurted, without taking the bags.

  He froze.

  “Do you guys live together?”

  No answer.

  “Does she work for you?”

  He hadn’t moved. Still held out the bags.

  “Is she on drugs?” I asked, quieter.

  His eyes flickered. Fear? Regret? I couldn’t tell.

  He stepped toward a nearby table and deposited the bags. I realized my paranoia had made me come on too strong. He was ready to hightail it out of here and I’d never see him again.

  But he didn’t. He moved right in front of me and squared his shoulders. “Are you a narc? Because I’ve done my time. Out of the biz.”

  I calmed myself by filling my lungs with air and then slowly releasing it. He’d given me a second chance. “I’m not a narc. Hanna’s mom and I are looking for her.”

  “She’s disappeared before.” Michael Watanabe walked away, then said over his shoulder, “Always comes back.”

  I stared as he pushed through the revolving door, and long after he’d gone. He, too, was completely unconcerned by Hanna’s disappearance. Alleged disappearance. I couldn’t help but think that all of this had nothing to do with Hanna and everything to do with Viv. But what? It would sure explain why Viv was more than happy to embezzle from the conference but not to get the authorities involved with her daughter’s kidnapping. Alleged kidnapping. Did Viv have something to do with the glitch that charged people almost four thousand bucks for this conference? And why would the kidnapper know or care about the Stumptown Writers’ Conference? It seemed targeted to make trouble for Viv. Or at least gave her some, what … plausible deniability? My brain kept circling back to the fact that none of Hanna’s friends were worried about her.

  I jumped when someone touched my shoulder.

  “Pardon me. I’m sorry to intrude, but ….” Bernice from the front desk glanced pointedly at the takeout bags from Watanabe’s. “You’re not supposed to bring outside food in since we have a restaurant.” Her Southern belle charm dimmed her smile appropriately at being forced to reprimand me.

  I’d completely forgotten about the
food and realized Michael left without being paid. I flashed her a grin and handed her the bags. “I actually got this for you guys, to thank you for working so hard to …” I heard the handlers calling commands and encouragement to their dogs. “To thank you for working so hard to correct the double-booking situation.” I had absolutely no idea if they were doing anything to correct the double-booking situation, but if they were, great, and if they weren’t, maybe now they would. Win-win.

  Bernice took the bags. “Well, bless your heart. Thanks!” She walked away with a smile that came close to splitting her face, calling to her cohorts behind the desk, “Hey, ya’ll. That lady just bought us dinner.”

  I waved at them and hurried away in the opposite direction to avoid any further discussion of my generosity. Alleged generosity.

  Not sure where exactly I was headed, I stopped when I saw the revolving lobby door to my right. I wasn’t satisfied with my conversation, if you could call it that, with Michael Watanabe. Why wasn’t he more concerned about Hanna? Why had he been arguing with saRAH outside? Was he still using or dealing drugs? What didn’t he want me to know?

  Maybe our conversation had spooked him and he might show his hand in some way. I wished now that I’d thought to follow him right away. But if I went to Watanabe’s now and he was there, it would show he hadn’t gotten spooked at all and was just back at work. And if he was back at work, I could justify being there to pay him for the food he delivered.

  I turned back toward Bernice at the desk. “Hey, Bernice, where is Watanabe’s exactly?”

  “It’s on the corner of … I want to say it’s at Multnomah and Grand, but it might be at Seventh.” Jack had returned to his desk from the luggage room, so she called out to him across the lobby, “Jack? Is Watanabe’s on Grand or Seventh? This lady is asking for directions.”

  Jack looked at me and cocked his head. “Grand.”

  Bernice nodded. “Multnomah and Grand. Not too far from here. If you’re walking over, you can borrow an umbrella.” She gestured toward a stylish bucket filled with half a dozen different colored umbrellas.

  “Yes, that would be—”

  “But didn’t you just get a delivery from Watanabe’s?” She glanced toward the door where the food had been spirited away by the staff.

  I flashed her what I hoped was a winning and charming and not at all suspicious smile. “Like a dummy, I forgot to pay him.”

  “He didn’t hand you a bill? Watanabe’s is so old school. They should ask for credit card info when people order.” Bernice leaned forward on the front desk. “Especially since everyone knows how … flaky their delivery boy can be.”

  I leaned on the counter too. “Flaky how?”

  “Oh, you know.” She waved a hand around her head. “Forgetful. Marches to his own drummer.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “Michael? Everyone knows Michael.” The phone rang, so she excused herself to answer it.

  Puzzled, I walked toward the umbrella bucket and drew out a pretty one. Why would everyone know Michael Watanabe? I considered possibilities, all simply conjecture, as I crossed the lobby to the revolving door. I passed one of the front desk clerks on his phone and he almost swerved into me. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said as he sidestepped.

  Ma’am. Ouch.

  Outside, I opened up my pretty green and blue umbrella, dismayed that it was festooned with the Seattle Seahawks logo. I hoped this wouldn’t revoke my Denver Broncos fan card.

  I turned left down Multnomah just as the rain picked up. How do people live here, I wondered, missing the dry Colorado weather. I splashed the direction I thought I was supposed to go, not seeing anything but my feet except for the times I raised my umbrella at intersections to read the street signs. It was twilight and the streetlights were on, casting weird reflections in the puddles and bouncing off all the lights, from the street, from cars, from shops. People were bustling all around me, very few carrying umbrellas. Just me and the old people. That guy’s earlier “ma’am” stung me again.

  I plodded along through the rain, raising my umbrella every so often to search for Grand or a sign for Watanabe’s. I was still amazed by how different Portland rain is from Denver rain. Most of our rain comes on summer afternoons, quick and harsh thunderstorms sailing toward us from the mountains in the west. Those storms are often violent and destructive, bringing hail, lightning, torrents of rain and wind. If they aren’t violent, though, they are always noisy. Hard rain falling fast, blitzing in and then out of the state just as quickly, over the mountains from the west out to the plains on the east, bada bing, bada boom. Kansas’s problem now.

  But here, in Portland, the rain was softer. More insidious. Like it wanted to get to know you, stick around for a while. A long-term loving relationship versus a raucous one-night stand. I smiled at my analogy and listened to the few sounds around me, mostly just cars whooshing and splashing past. No voices. Everyone seemed to be on a mission to get somewhere. All I heard around me were my footsteps and the occasional trickle of rain down the nylon fabric.

  I listened, a bit hypnotized, until I became aware of another set of footsteps, matching mine in perfect rhythm. I glanced quickly over my shoulder but only saw a red umbrella bobbing behind me. My paranoia was on high alert. I slowed down. They slowed down. I sped up. They sped up. I raised my umbrella to see I was mid-block, between intersections. I ran across the street, dashing dangerously between cars, splashing loudly in puddles. When I got to the sidewalk I raised my umbrella to look at the other side of the street.

  No red umbrella. Had my imagination taken me into dangerous traffic or was someone actually following me? Did they open a door to their destination or were they watching me from some hidden vantage point?

  Either way, I was anxious to get to Watanabe’s. I hurried to the next intersection and saw it was Seventh. If Bernice couldn’t remember if the restaurant was at Seventh or Grand, I must be close. When I got to Sixth, I saw a tall sign that said Japanese Food. I decided that even if it wasn’t Watanabe’s, that’s where I was going. I could get a cab from there.

  I crossed the street again and ran the last block, flinging the restaurant door open, relieved to see Welcome to Watanabe’s on it. As I burst in, startled diners stared at me. I tried shaking my umbrella outside the door, but only succeeded in flinging water all over the vestibule.

  The elderly hostess hurried toward me, gently taking the umbrella from me and dropping it into their stand. “Table for one?” she asked.

  “Um … actually, I’m looking for Michael.”

  She gave me a serious once-over, then went to the saloon doors into the kitchen and called to him. He came out wiping his hands on an apron he wore. When he saw me, he turned on his heel and returned to the kitchen.

  The hostess watched this, then stomped over to me, grabbed my elbow, and hustled me to the furthest seat at the sushi bar. She was tiny but strong and pushed me into a stool. “What you want with my grandson?”

  “I … I … wanted to pay him for some food he delivered earlier.”

  “He bring you food? You no pay for?”

  “I didn’t mean to. I just forgot. We both forgot.”

  She stared at me for a long time before finally nodding. “Yes. He do that.” She bustled off to the kitchen.

  My eyes traveled around the interior of the restaurant. Even though the aromas were deliciously Asian, the decor was decidedly not. Throughout the entire restaurant were photographs and newspaper clippings of a wrestler, almost always holding a trophy. I slid off my stool to take a closer look. They were all of, or about, Michael.

  Michael Watanabe, Japanese food delivery boy and drug dealer, had been a high school and college wrestling champion several years in a row. No wonder Bernice said everyone knew him.

  As I was bent over reading one of the articles, I heard him say, “Here’s your bill. You can pay my gran
dma at the register.” He turned and walked away.

  I wanted to talk to him some more, to continue our conversation from before, but I couldn’t come up with any questions I hadn’t already asked. And it was obvious his feelings for me hadn’t grown any more hospitable.

  Since he was wearing an apron and had been involved in the kitchen when I arrived, it didn’t seem that he’d stopped anywhere on his way back from delivering food to the hotel. Clearly he hadn’t been spooked by our encounter. Or if he had been, he didn’t detour anywhere that would have shown me his hand. I paid, tacked on a sizable tip, and waited at the sushi bar for a cab back to the hotel.

  Michael Watanabe was still no less of a puzzle to me. But now I could add “Was I being followed?” to my list of concerns.

  Jack knew I was going to Watanabe’s, because Bernice had told him when she verified the location. Had he followed me? And if so, why?

  When I got back to the hotel, I immediately looked for Jack. I wanted to see if his shoes and hair were wet like mine. He wasn’t at his desk.

  As I slid my Seahawks umbrella into the bucket, I asked, “Bernice, do you know where Jack is?”

  “He went home for the day. Is there anything I can help you with? I’d be happy as a clam to do so.”

  “No. Nothing. Thanks though. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

  I was striking out all over the place. And I was hungry. Since I’d given the desk staff the dinner I’d ordered from Watanabe’s earlier, and I hadn’t thought to order anything while at the restaurant, I grabbed one of the bowls of trail mix sitting out in the lobby and scooped a hefty dose into my mouth. As I turned, chomping, I almost tripped over Scout, her huge German shepherd frame enthusiastically leaping over some of the inverted pillow obstacles. I caused her to knock them over, and as I attempted to right them, she modified her performance with some random enthusiastic leaping, now combined with a new trick—competitive face-licking.