I fished a twenty out of my pocket and dropped it on the coffee table. “Twenty bucks.”
“Deal,” he said, and opened the freezer door. I cranked the air conditioner to high.
“You’re no pushover, Phil. I respect that. Gotta be careful, look out for yourself.”
“Fuckin’ A,” said Phil. He ran his fingers through his greasy hair, wiped his hand on his back pocket and grabbed a fistful of ice cubes. He dropped the ice in two grubby mugs and deposited the mugs on the coffee table. I poured bourbon over the greasy ice and we sat and drank. Phil outpaced my drinking three-to-one. And he made it clear that I wasn’t going to hear what he had to say about George Garcia until I’d first heard the life story of Phil the property manager.
Phil had left home at fifteen and drifted from Florida to Chicago. He became a hardcore biker—a member of the Outlaws. He was a pretty bad dude once upon a time and he offered plenty of details to make sure I believed him. But his biker days ended twelve years ago when he lost a high speed argument with an eighteen-wheeler. Which explained the face.
Brain damage was also evident. As he spoke, his left hand occasionally flopped around on his lap like a sunfish on the deck of a boat. He didn’t seem to notice. He also didn’t notice when, every minute or so, he let out a loud vocal tic that sounded like, “HEEP!” I tried not to notice either.
As it turned out, Phil was aware of the problem with his tear duct, which spilled salt water down his face every few minutes. “Fuckin’ duct,” he said, wiping his cheek with the back of his fish-hand. “Fuckin’ bad luck duct.”
I refilled his mug and nodded at a wedding picture on the side table. “Your daughter?”
“Yeah, last time I seen her was eight years past. She got this nerd she’s gonna marry, so I get ready when I hear they was comin’ HEEP!” Phil opened the drawer of the side table and handed me a bullet. “See that? Read it.” I inspected the bullet and found an inscription on the side of the casing: Gavin Brooks. Phil pointed at the photo. “So my little girl brings the nerd to meet her old man. She goes shopping and, soon as she’s gone, I hand the kid that thing and tell him to look at it real close. I say, ‘You ever do anything to hurt my baby girl, I’m gonna plant this slug right between your eyes. That’s a promise.’ HEEP! And the kid just about craps his pants.” Phil laughed himself into a choking fit, got it under control, wiped his leaky eye and swore at his malfunctioning tear duct. I handed the bullet back to him.
“And I bet he never hit your daughter,” I said.
“Damn straight.”
“So you’re a man who understands that there’s a right way and a wrong way to treat people,” I said. Thinking, Let’s get on with it. “My client represents a woman who is paralyzed from the waist down. No fault of her own, a wheel fell off her car. And George Garcia rotated her tires just an hour before the accident.”
“That’s a real shame,” said Phil, now into his fourth bourbon. “But I don’t know…A couple of tough guys in fancy suits come calling and suddenly George moves away. And now you. George is a good man, and I don’t want to see him hurt anymore.”
Tough guys in fancy suits.
“I’m not trying to hurt George,” I insisted. “Juno Auto Centers has plenty of liability insurance and nobody’s suing George personally.”
“Not yet, anyway.” Phil, the skeptic.
“That’s exactly right. Not yet. And not ever, if Juno pays the claim. But so far, Juno won’t pay. If George gives me a witness statement, the company will have to settle and we can put an end to this whole mess. And I’m sure he’ll start sleeping better.”
Phil drank some. “You talk a good game, mister.”
“I’m not shitting you, Phil. This thing is moving forward, like it or not. If George won’t give a statement, the court will issue a subpoena and he’ll be compelled by law to testify. He runs away from it, he goes to jail. He perjures himself on the stand, he goes to jail. You say he’s a good man and I believe you. He may lose his mechanic’s license and he may have to find a new career. But the woman lost her legs. Giving me a statement will let him put this in the past and get on with the rest of his life.”
I thought I’d closed the sale, so I just kept my mouth shut and pretended to sip bourbon and waited.
“So what’s the cripple want, a hundred million or something?”
“Ten million,” I said.
“Still a lot a bread.”
“I wouldn’t cut off my legs for ten million.” I refilled his mug and watched his fish-hand flop around on his lap. And waited some more.
“Neither would I,” he said finally. Salt water surged from his left eye and fell down his face. “Fuckin’ duct.”
Phil told me what he knew, which didn’t include George Garcia’s current address. I spent the next day in various government offices. I’d learned from Phil that George’s wife split a few months before George quit his job. Apparently she intended the split to be permanent. I got a copy of the divorce papers she’d filed a week before the accident. Then a photocopy of George Garcia’s face from his driver’s license photo.
A variety of other searches came up empty. George hadn’t sued anyone or been sued, hadn’t bought or sold property, hadn’t applied for a firearms permit, and no warrants had been issued for his arrest.
I stopped at my office and stuffed an envelope with $200, the photocopy of George Garcia’s picture and the address of Sparky’s Bar in Bensenville. Phil had told me that Sparky’s was Garcia’s favorite local watering hole before he took off. I called Kate Barrett, a uniformed cop I knew. Kate was happy to earn some quick cash and she was on days, so her shift ended at six.
I left the envelope for Kate at the First District Station. The cop at the desk felt the need to inform me that private detectives are pathetic, bottom-feeding wannabes who make a living on other people’s misery.
I thanked him for sharing.
Seven o’clock found me at Sparky’s, with two pints of beer in the belly and more on the way. I’d lost thirty bucks at the pool table and gained two new buddies. Losing money at pool is an efficient way to gain new buddies who see you as a nice-enough guy and a bit of a mark. Definitely not a threat.
My new buddies were Tibor and Nick. Tibor was a crazy Hungarian who looked like Sean Penn and talked like the listener was holding a stopwatch. He spent some time arguing the proposition that Kiss Alive was the greatest live rock & roll album of all time. Nick was a quiet chain-smoker who preferred Get Yer Ya-Ya’s Out! I sided with Nick and proclaimed my love for the Stones.
The front door opened and Kate Barrett approached the bar and came to a stop to my immediate left. Although now off duty, she was still in uniform. Nice touch. She showed the picture of George Garcia to the bartender and the waitress, both of whom acknowledged knowing George as a customer but professed not to know his whereabouts. Kate turned my way and handed me the picture.
“How about you, sir,” she said. “You know George Garcia?”
“No, Officer,” I said, “I’ve never seen him.” I passed the photo back to Kate and she showed it to Tibor and Nick and asked them the same question. They only knew George as a fellow Sparky’s regular and casual drinking buddy. She asked if any of us knew where she could find of any of George’s family. Nobody did. Kate thanked us all and left. So far, so good.
“Cops,” I mumbled, opening the door to conversation. “You can’t ask a guy’s family to rat him out. That’s just wrong.” Translation: I’m on George’s side.
“Right on,” said Tibor.
“Unless this George guy did something really bad,” I reconsidered. “Like, if he’s a child molester or something.” Anybody care to defend him?
“Wait a second,” said Nick. “George ain’t no child molester.”
“Hey, I don’t know him,” I said, holding my hands up in a ‘no offense’ gesture. “He could be the greatest guy in the world. I’m just saying, if.”
“There is no if,” said Tibor. “George is g
ood people. You can ask anybody here.”
“That’s right,” said Nick. “George is solid.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” I said. “If you guys say George is a good people, then I feel sorry for him, ’cause the cops will get him. That was my whole point.” Care to prove me wrong?
“Don’t bet on it,” said Tibor, “unless they get the idea to look in Indiana. Even then, George’s mom has a different last name.” Bingo! You’ve still got the touch, Dudgeon.
Nick shot Tibor a look and I knew it was time to change the subject. I made up a story about a friend who got convicted of a burglary even though he was innocent. Then I lost another $10 at the pool table and drank another beer, hoping that the subject of George Garcia would come up again. It didn’t.
In addition to the $200 I’d given Kate, I’d dropped $60 on beer and lost wagers. Indiana is a big state, but I considered Rik’s money well spent.
The next morning, I phoned Rocky Millwood, the private detective who’d served divorce papers on George Garcia. He looked up the file and told me that he’d served George at Juno Auto Center, at 9:15am. The date of service matched the date of the accident. It was possible that George had slipped out for a few drinks after getting the bad news and before working on Sarah Shipman’s car. Or not.
Millwood had no idea where to look for Garcia. The only addresses he had were the trailer home and place of work.
I didn’t want to visit George’s estranged wife, but you go where a case leads you or you find a new line of work. So I looked up her current address from the divorce papers and arrived at her modest apartment in the early afternoon.
Betty Garcia was a mousey little thing in her mid-twenties. Everything about her— body, face, hairstyle, mannerisms—seemed vaguely pleasant and entirely forgettable. You could ride the same bus with Betty Garcia on the daily commute for five years but if someone showed you her photograph, you’d swear you’d never seen the girl before. A great attribute for a private detective or an assassin, but Betty was neither.
We sat at a Formica table and drank instant iced tea and she told me about her marriage to George. They’d been high school sweethearts and then Betty got pregnant and they got married. George earned his mechanic’s license and they moved into the trailer park. Betty assured me that they weren’t “trailer trash,” even though I had suggested no such thing. She explained that they had to cut corners so she could go to community college part-time. She studied marketing.
And fell for her teacher.
“George loves me and he’s a good father,” Betty insisted. “It’s just…well it’s kinda hard to explain. College opened up a whole new world for me. George still likes watching television, but I like books now. I mean, I tried to get him to improve himself but he just wanted to do his job and play with the baby and he wasn’t interested in improving himself. Whenever he did read a book, it was either a book about cars or one of those stupid novels where everybody shoots at each other. But Andrew, he’s in public relations and he’s like a genius—his apartment is full of books and not just about marketing either. Andrew’s into philosophy, like Plato and stuff. He’s really making something of himself. Anyway, so that’s what happened. It really wasn’t anybody’s fault. I guess you could say I just sorta outgrew George.”
Maybe Betty was an assassin, after all.
I laid down the same line that I’d used on Phil—it was best for George to come forward and give a witness statement and get on with his life. I knew Betty would respond to the idea of George getting on with his life, and she did. But she had no idea where he was. I told her I had reason to believe he was staying with his mother in Indiana.
“Oh, that’s easy,” she said. She left the room and returned with a small piece of paper. She handed me the paper, which had an address written on it. “His mom lives in Des Plaines, but she also has a dumpy little cottage in Indiana. It’s just a shack, really, in the middle of nowhere. Rural Route 2, about fifteen miles south of Gary.”
Gary, Indiana. Some people call it the armpit of America. Which is an uncharitable thing to say but, Christ, it’s a sad city. Steel mills with smokestacks belching fire and the air smells like Mom’s home cooking and potholes in the streets and downtown shops displaying boarded-up windows, padlocked doors and graffiti. Litter and vagrants and abandoned houses and the only shops thriving are the liquor stores which live on every corner like parasites feeding on despair. A city of suburban White Flight and economic gloom. A city on its knees. God Bless America, Land of the Free and Home of the Very Fucking Brave…
I passed through Gary without stopping and continued south on highway 41. Near Cedar Lake, Rural Route 2 ran by some smaller lakes. Garcia’s cottage backed onto one of them.
I passed the driveway and parked a hundred yards up the road and walked back with a six-pack of beer in my left hand. The property was thick with trees and I could just make out a one-story, wood-shingled building. Behind the cottage, the early evening sun reflected orange off the tiny lake. It was hot and humid and I’d fed about a dozen mosquitoes by the time I reached the top of the dirt driveway that led to the little house.
There was no car in evidence and no lights burned behind the screened windows. But there was no reflection off glass behind the lower half of the screens—the double-hungs were open for breeze. A good sign.
The little cottage sat on cinder blocks. I climbed four creaky wooden steps to the front door, put the beer down and knocked. No answer. Knocked again, harder.
The door opened and George Garcia stood before me with a week’s worth of stubble on his tanned face. His orange t-shirt had an R. Crumb cartoon on the chest, with the slogan KEEP ON TRUCKIN’. He smelled like Brut antiperspirant and body odor, in equal measure. He was long overdue for a haircut and he looked like he hadn’t slept in a month.
“Whatever it is, we’re not buying any,” he said and started to close the door. I stopped it with my right foot.
“I’m not selling anything George,” I said, “except maybe a clear conscience.” He disappeared inside and I picked up the six-pack and followed him in.
We sat on threadbare furniture and I put the beer on the coffee table between us. Next to me was a floor lamp made from an old rifle. I turned it on. The wood paneling behind George sported a needlepoint wall-hanging that depicted a flotilla of ducks. Mallards. There was an old cast-iron woodstove at the end of the room and a doorway led to the kitchen. No door, just a doorway with a painted plaster crucifix hanging above. Looking into the kitchen, I could see about a dozen gallon jugs of water lined up on the counter. The place had no running water.
It was hot inside the cottage but not as bad as Phil’s trailer. The place smelled musty, like my grandfather’s house in Georgia. I always loved that smell.
George plucked a bottle from the six-pack. He twisted the cap and took a swig and said, “The cops on TV don’t bring beer, so I guess I’m not under arrest.”
“You’re not under arrest,” I said, “and I’m not a cop. But if you keep running from this thing, there will be cops soon enough. They definitely won’t bring beer.” Then I explained subpoenas and bench warrants and the perils of perjury. I explained that giving a witness statement might motivate Juno to settle and George might spare himself the trauma of testifying in a courtroom. He drank two bottles of beer and smoked half a dozen cigarettes during my sales pitch. When I talked about Sarah Shipman and how she’d lost the use of her legs, the cigarette in his hand trembled and his eyes welled up, so I closed on the morality angle. “Everybody tells me you’re a good man, George. Phil, Tibor, Nick, Betty…everybody. It’s time to do the right thing.”
He covered his eyes with his left hand and exhaled hard through his nose. I opened a new beer and handed it to him and opened one for myself. I took a mini-cassette tape recorder from my pocket, pressed record, and placed it on the table between us.
“You don’t understand, man” he said. “I can’t. The lawyers from Juno, they put a lot of
pressure on.” The tape was recording and I didn’t stop it. He lit a new cigarette and now I wanted one too. I took a swig of beer instead. Thinking, Two months without a smoke, Dudgeon, don’t blow it now.
“The lawyers from Juno…,” I nudged.
“Yeah, see, they told me to move out of state. They’re giving me enough cash to buy food. They said they’ll get me a job at a Juno Auto Center in another state when the lawsuit is over. California, maybe. All I have to do is stay here for a year or so and keep my head down, they said. I didn’t know what else to do.”
I glanced at the crucifix hanging above the doorway and said, “Don’t sell your soul, George.”
“It’s not the money. These men are very bad. They come by every Monday to give me my week’s pay, but really just to check on me. If I back out…and they carry guns.” He took a long pull on the beer.
“I appreciate your honesty, and we can protect you. Just give a statement and you can come with me. We’ll make sure they don’t find you.” George Garcia drained the rest of the bottle and stared into space for a while. Then he nodded his head.
On the morning of the accident, Rocky Millwood served George with Betty’s divorce papers. George hadn’t gone out drinking. He stayed at work and did his job. But he was an emotional wreck and he couldn’t concentrate. Images of Betty and their child flooded his mind and he spent the day fighting back tears. With a knot in his gut, he went through the motions of his job on autopilot.
“Honestly, I don’t even remember working on the car,” he said. “I’m sure I did and I’m sure I fucked up somehow, but I don’t remember. The whole day is a fog, after the divorce papers.” He reached for a new beer. “Boss wouldn’t give me the day off but I should a taken it anyway, even if they fired me. I shouldn’t a been working. That poor woman…I’m just so very sorry.” Tears ran down George Garcia’s face and he let them run.
I found some paper towels in the kitchen and brought the roll back to him. He wiped his face and blew his nose. I asked him a few more questions and he answered them and I clicked stop on the recorder.
EIGHT LIES (About the Truth): A collection of short stories Page 6