Hawk and Wolfe: A Life Interrupted

by Edward Kendrick

  “Do I want to know?”

  Mick shrugged. “I need a phonebook so I can see if Andrew Loman is listed.”

  “The library.”

  “They have them?”

  “Boy, you really have forgotten a lot. They have computers.” Shorty grinned. “You do know what they are.”

  “Yes,” Mick replied with a brief smile. “It’s me I don’t remember, not things like that.”

  “Good. We’re a few blocks from the main library.”

  “They’ll let us in?”

  “Yep, since we look like such upstanding citizens.” Shorty guffawed. “They will, but they’ll keep an eye on us. They don’t want our kind using it as a place to sleep.”

  “There or anywhere else downtown,” Mick replied sourly. He frowned. “How do I know that?”

  “Maybe a bit of memory coming back, though probably not about you. Just something you knew.”

  “I suppose.” Mick hoped he was right, because it might mean he would start remembering more things that somehow related to who he had been before he’d ended up in the alley.

  Chapter 2

  Mick definitely felt out of place when he and Shorty entered the library late Thursday morning. There was a security guard, stationed at a desk they had to walk past to get to the central lobby, who looked at them as if he expected them to start panhandling then and there—and would happily oust them if they tried.

  When Mick said something very quietly to Shorty about the guard’s attitude, his friend whispered, “He’s a real prick. Most of the others are okay guys.”

  They made it to the area holding the public computers without any more demeaning looks from the staff, although some of the patrons seemed a bit put off by them. Mick did his best to ignore the sidewise glances, heading straight to an available computer.

  “Do you know what you’re doing?” Shorty asked.

  Mick nodded as he went online, murmuring, “Apparently.” He found the White Pages site and entered Andrew Loman’s name. There were quite a few Lomans in the city, including two Andrews, and several A. Lomans. Neither of the Andrews had a house number that matched the one on the driver’s license, nor did they live on South anything street. One of the A. Lomans lived on South Clarkson, but the house number was way off.

  “Well, that didn’t work,” Mick said dispiritedly.

  “Try a search for him,” Shorty suggested. “Maybe there’ll be a picture of that matches.”

  Mick did, typing in the name, and then going to ‘Images’. “There,” he said excitedly when he found one that looked relatively close to the photo on the license. He brought up the story that went with the picture and sighed. “He lives in Cleveland.”

  “So? Maybe that’s where you come from,” Shorty replied. “Look at pictures of the city and see if anything rings a bell.”

  Mick did, shaking his head after scrolling through dozens. “Nothing. Not even a glimmer.”

  “What does he do for a living?”

  “Umm, hang on.” Mick went back to the story. “According to this, he owns a restaurant in something called Little Italy.”

  Shorty snickered. “So he’s a mobster.”

  “Right.” Mick rolled his eyes and continued reading. “In the first place, from the name, he’s not Italian. He’s got family, parents, two sisters who are older than him, a wife, a son, and a daughter. No brothers, and no names for any of his relatives. I guess he wants to keep his private life private.”

  “What about cousins?”

  “It doesn’t say.”

  “Keep looking.”

  Mick did. “There’s a website for the restaurant,” he said. “No pictures of him, only his name as the owner. It looks like a nice place. There’s a couple of reviews, too, but again, no photos of him.” He continued looking and came up empty. “I guess my computer skills aren’t that good.”

  “Hit up the people search sites, I think they’re called.”

  He did, inputting Andrew William Loman, the man’s full name. “It’s like the White Pages. There are two with the full name listed, a couple of Andrew Ws, and a few of A. W. Lomans in the city. If I eliminate the ones who are too old, or don’t have family listed, that leaves me with five. The problem is, you have to pay to get full info on any one of them.”

  “You don’t have a platinum card?” Shorty guffawed.

  “I don’t have any kind of card. You know that. It was probably in my wallet, which is gone. If I did, I’d know my last name.”

  “True, that.” Shorty peered at the photo. “You can probably eliminate him anyway. Look at his nose. It hasn’t been broken.”

  Mick did, muttering, “How did I miss that?”

  “You were too eager, because of the resemblance, and it’s not the greatest picture to start with.”

  Mick murmured, “Probably,” as he picked up a pencil and a pad lying by the computer. “I’m going to write down the addresses of all the men here in Denver and check them out. Loman could have moved after he got his license.”

  “Not going to fly to Cleveland to check A. W. out?”

  “Shorty, get real,” Mick replied before he saw the smirk on his friend’s face. He copied down the addresses then turned off the computer. “We made enough today to get some real food, so let’s.”

  When they got to the guard’s desk, the man stopped them, telling them to open their backpacks. He seemed disappointed when he didn’t find any books. Mick wanted to tell him he was discriminating; only refraining when the guard stopped a college-aged kid to do the same with his pack.

  “Where’s somewhere cheap?” Mick asked when he and Shorty were on the plaza in front of the library.

  “There,” Shorty replied, pointing to a hotdog cart on the corner. “Or we can hit up the Mickey Ds a couple, three blocks from here.” He grinned. “Maybe they’re named after you.”

  “Don’t I wish? I’d be rich if they were.”

  Shorty gave him a pensive look as they started walking. “For all you know, you are. Rich, I mean.”

  Mick was about to scoff at the idea before giving it some serious consideration. “I suppose it’s as possible as anything else we’ve come up with. I sure wasn’t dressed like I had money when you found me, but my clothes were clean and in good shape, if you don’t count the blood.” He chuckled. “I’m a runaway heir, trying to escape all the women who want to get their hands on my fortune.”

  “Or men.”

  “What? Are you kidding?” Mick asked in disbelief.

  Shorty shrugged. “When you’ve been around as long as I have, and seen what I’ve seen, you’ll know anything’s possible.”

  “I…guess.”

  Shorty patted Mick’s shoulder. “Don’t get bent. There’s one way to find out. Look at all the pretty women.” He nodded toward a gaggle of them who were obviously on their way to lunch. “If they heat up your blood, then you’re straight. If they don’t, then check out a couple of the men. Not me, because I wouldn’t turn anyone on at my age,” he added when Mick glanced at him. “If one of them catches your fancy, my friend, then you’re probably gay.”

  “Shorty…” Mick shook his head. Still, he did as Shorty had suggested while they walked the last block to the fast food place. No one, male or female, piqued his interest. “I’m not sure this is a valid test,” he commented.

  Shorty smirked. “Nope, but it was fun watching you watching them.”

  A few minutes later, they had a couple of burgers each, and a large order of fries to share. Since it was lunch hour, there were no tables available, so they took their food with them and found a vacant bench on the mall where they could eat in relative peace. Relative because they garnered more than their fair share of looks from some of the shoppers and office workers who obviously thought they should be anywhere but there. Like in some dark alley. Mick didn’t like the idea, but he was learning quickly that it was the typical reaction from the majority of people who had seen them.

  “You’ll get used to it,
” Shorty said, apparently having read something in Mick’s expression.

  “I suppose I don’t have a choice until I figure out who I am.” Mick took another bite of his burger and then said, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t what to, but why are you homeless?”

  “Lost my job because I drank too much. No job, no money to pay rent. No place to live, no friends willing to let me bunk with them, so here I am. The only good thing is I stopped drinking. Didn’t have much choice. I like to eat.”

  “Now that you’re sober, couldn’t you find a job?” Mick asked.

  “Eh, I tried. No one’s looking for a washed-up old dude with no real skills other than flipping burgers or washing dishes.” He smiled sadly. “I was no great loss to the labor market back then, and I’m still not. So I do what I can to survive out here.” He waved his hand around.

  “It’s not fair.”

  “Nope, Mick, but it’s life. Now eat up. If you really plan on checking out those addresses, you’ll need your strength ‘cause the bus will only take us so far. Then you get to walk.”

  “Which won’t be fun if they’re classy neighborhoods. I can see people calling the cops on us.”

  “Shit happens. All we’ll get if they do is a warning to move on. God forbid, we might bring down the property values if we hang around.”

  They tossed the food wrappers in a trash can then set out to catch the bus that Shorty said would take them in the direction of the first couple of homes Mick wanted to check out.

  “I was thinking,” Mick said as they walked. “If I was attacked by someone trying to mug me, why didn’t I fight back? I would have, I think.”

  “Probably, unless he surprised you, but why hit you hard enough to kill you? Because you would have died if I hadn’t found you.”

  “Thank God you did.” Mick chewed a fingernail in thought. “So, leaving me for dead, if that’s what they did, means there had to be a personal reason for what happened. It wasn’t a mugging, per se.”

  “Makes sense to me,” Shorty agreed.

  “That makes it even more imperative for me to find out who I am. If someone wanted me dead, and finds out they blew it, they’ll be looking for me, and I wouldn’t recognize them if they walked right up to me.”

  “Not a good thought.”

  Mick smiled dryly. “No kidding.”

  They stopped talking when they got to the bus stop, where several other people were waiting. Mick realized as he stood there that he was looking at each of the men as if they might have been his attacker—and shuddered. Are we way off base? Am I just another guy who was mugged, and that’s it? Maybe a couple of punks pulled me into the alley, one of them hit me with something hard enough to knock me out after they robbed me, and when they saw all the blood…

  The bus pulled up before he could explore that idea further. Then, once they found seats in back, Shorty started giving him a rundown on how the area they were going through had changed since he’d begun living on the streets.

  “If we ever get rich,” he said at one point, “we’ll go there to eat. They’ve got the best burgers in the city.” Two minutes later he was pointing out the gay clubs in what he said was the Baker District. “Just in case,” he said with a sly smile.

  “And you know what they are, why?” Mick asked.

  “Not because I’ve frequented them,” Shorty retorted. “Not my scene. Besides, when I was boozing I did it mostly in the bars at the edge of downtown where the drinks were cheap.” He snorted. “Good thing I quit when I did, because now the whole area’s been, I think the word is gentrified.”

  “Sounds right,” Mick replied.

  “Here’s our stop,” Shorty said, pulling the cord to alert the driver. “Now, we hoof it,” he said when they got off the bus.

  The neighborhood seemed to be made up of middle-class houses with generally well-kept yards. The address Mick was looking for belonged to a two-story home with a fenced in front yard. It didn’t ring any bells, which didn’t surprise him when he thought about it.

  They walked ten blocks more to the next house, with the same result. At that point, Mick said, “This isn’t going to work. I mean, we can check out all the addresses, but with no memory, I won’t recognize any of them, and for sure I can’t go up, knock on the front door, and ask if the Andrew Loman on the driver’s license lives there.”

  “I wondered when you’d figure that out.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Would you have listened if I did?”

  “Well…” Mick shook his head. “Probably not.”

  “Exactly. So how about we head back. It’s getting close to dinnertime. I know a good spot to panhandle where there’s several restaurants. We get lucky, we buy supper at a diner I sometimes frequent. Then I take you to my favorite spot to crash for the night.”

  Mick had no real problem with that.

  Chapter 3

  “He has to be somewhere, damn it. He can’t have vanished into the…the damned woodwork,” Richard said as he paced the large, well-furnished living room Thursday evening.

  “Calm down. It’s only been a day and a half. Knowing him, he probably found some cute guy at a bar and went home with him,” the woman seated on the sofa replied.

  “He wouldn’t do that!”

  “Wouldn’t he, Richard?”

  “No!” Richard took a deep breath before going to stare out the window. Turning to look at her, he said, “He’s not like that.”

  “Isn’t he?” the man seated next to her replied. “I believe I’m a better judge of what he’s like than you. After all, he is my brother. I grew up with him. He’s been nothing but an, excuse the expression, a pain in the ass since he was old enough to walk and talk.”

  “Now, now, Trenton,” the woman said, patting his arm. “He does have his good points.”

  “Name one, Celeste,” Trenton growled.

  She smirked. “He dresses well.”

  Trenton rolled his eyes. “That’s about it.”

  “It’s not,” Richard said angrily. “He’s one of the smartest men I’ve ever met. He has to be, or your father wouldn’t have handed the business over to him when he retired.” He wanted to add, “Instead of you,” but knew that would only put Trenton’s back up more than it was already. From what he’d been told, Trenton had been extremely upset when he found out he’d be working for his younger brother, instead of vice versa. That had happened three months ago and the brothers had barely spoken to each other since then except when it was absolutely necessary.

  “Father was trying to teach him the value of responsibility,” Trenton said tightly. “He’d have changed his mind as soon as he saw that wasn’t happening. The only thing my little brother’s interested in is adding notches to his bedpost, using our clubs as his hunting grounds. You’re his latest conquest, is all.”

  “You bastard,” Richard said angrily.

  Trenton smiled. “Just calling it the way it is. If you’d open your eyes, Richard, you’d know I’m right. How long have the two of you been dating? Two months, maybe?” He sneered. “Hardly long enough to call it a committed relationship.”

  In one respect, Richard knew he was right. Mick was a player, or had been until they met. Something had clicked between them and Mick had sworn off other men since then. He kept his promise, too. I know he did. He’s not in some other guy’s bed, no matter what Trenton says. He could think that, and even convince himself it was true, but there was still a niggling doubt at the back of his mind.

  “I don’t care what you say,” Richard said. “When he’s not busy overseeing the clubs, which is often a twelve-hour a day job, he’s with me. It’s been like that almost since the day we met. If it wasn’t for him, the clubs would have gone under instead of making more money for the family. Not that you need it. Look around you. Is there anything you don’t own? Fancy cars, huge house, furniture, and electronics that would make the average man cream his pants. You wouldn’t have them if it wasn’t for
your father and Mick.”

  “Richard!” Celeste exclaimed. “Watch your language.”

  “Better than that,” Trenton said, getting to his feet. “Leave. You’re his gigolo, nothing more. You have no right to tell us how to live.”

  “Fuck you!” Richard replied as he stalked to the door. “I have more right than anyone else. I love him.”

  Trenton snorted. “You love his money.”

  Richard didn’t choose to answer. It wasn’t true, but he knew Trenton would never believe it.

  As soon as he was in his car, he wrapped his arms around the steering wheel, resting his head on them. Where the hell are you, Mick? Why haven’t you called? I know something’s happened to you. It’s the only explanation, but how do I prove it? How do I find you?

  * * * *

  “Why don’t we go to the shelter you took me to this morning?” Mick asked, wondering if Shorty would tell him why, this time. They had made enough panhandling that afternoon to eat at the diner Shorty favored when he had a bit of money and use the restroom. Now, they were heading to a decent place to spend the night—according to Shorty.

  “I don’t like being ordered around,” Shorty replied. “And I’d rather not have someone steal this.” He patted his backpack. “Happened once too often when I first hit the streets. I learned quick. I ain’t got much and I want to keep it. Some of the guys don’t see it that way.” Shorty shot him a look. “Like the ones who jumped you and stole your wallet or bag.”

  “Now I’m going to have to learn what it’s all about,” Mick said sourly.

  “Could be, if you plan on sticking with me until you get your memory back.”

  Mick sighed. “Which could be never.”

  Shorty shrugged. “Possible.”

  “You were supposed to say ‘It’ll happen tomorrow’,” Mick replied with a brief laugh.

  Shorty chortled. “I’m a pessimist by nature these days, but who knows.” As he spoke, he started down a ramp that led to a creek with a path running along one side.

  Mick followed, wondering where they were going. He found out a few minutes later when Shorty stopped along the path, looking around. A pair of bicyclists sped by them, and there were a few people running, or strolling along, seemingly enjoying the mid-evening weather.