by B. A. Morton
Connell glanced away while he considered his reply. He knew why she was asking and chose his words carefully. “It’s nothing for you to worry about, sweetheart. I’ve just got to finish my report and pick up a little kid who’s run off.” It wasn’t exactly lying, just bending the truth and he was getting quite good at that. He pulled away, framed her face with his hands and was surprised to see her eyes glistened with unshed tears.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Nothing,” she blustered, pulling away, embarrassment coloring her cheeks. “Just be careful, Tommy.”
Now he was worried; she never called him Tommy. His friends called him Tommy, his family called him Tommy, his enemies even called him Tommy, albeit with a sly twist, but Lizzie never called him anything but Connell, except maybe when she was mad at him when she might add in a few of her quaint English expletives that he knew were bad but sounded so polite he couldn’t take offense.
“I promise you, there is nothing you need to worry about. I’m not in trouble and I’m not involved in anything dangerous. I’ll clear everything up in the next day or so, and then we can sit back and enjoy the rest of the summer.” He crossed his fingers behind her back and sent up a silent prayer to God for absolution. He didn’t deserve her and he knew it.
“What happened to your head?” She pushed back his hair with hands that shook, revealing the gash that probably should have been stitched up but hadn’t become any worse overnight.
“Walked into a door. Can you believe that?” He flashed a crooked smile.
“No.”
“Honey, it’s nothing really. Just the last desperate act of a couple of losers who thought they’d lash out. They know they’re finished and I’m the one who’s finished them. Naturally they weren’t too happy.”
“And what about this?” she pressed a hand gently against his burnt skin and he gave an involuntary jerk.
“Crossed wires - short circuit - what can I say? I should learn to look where I’m going.”
She smiled at him and rubbed at her tears with the back of her hand. “Well, somebody’s wires are definitely crossed.”
“Hey, it’s nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“And you’ll be home tonight?”
He knew that he wouldn’t and didn’t want to add another lie. “No, but I’ll be home tomorrow night and I’ll call you constantly.”
“No, you won’t. You never remember to phone me. Will you get Marty to help you? I’d feel better if I knew you weren’t on your own.”
He grinned. “Marty’s already on the case.”
“Okay, then,” she said, “you’d better get ready and scat. You’ve got a long drive ahead of you and the sooner you go, the sooner you’ll come back.”
He pulled her close and tucked her head against his chest so she wouldn’t see from his face how bad he felt. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t do this to her, put her through the fear and worry she’d gone through the last time. But he couldn’t drop the ball; it just wasn’t in him.
“So, are we okay?” he asked.
“Never doubt it,” she replied softly.
Connell picked up his jacket lying ransacked on the hall floor. Either Joe or Spidey had given it a good going over in their search for the promised candy – kids! He swung Joe over his shoulder and carried him as far as the car.
“You be good for Lizzie, do you hear, kiddo?”
“Sure, Daddy, I’m always good.”
Oh yeah, thought Connell, as good as a six year old could get. He wound down the window and drove slowly out of the yard, nodding to Parker as he passed. Parker gave him that look, the look that said he was loaded and ready to go, and Connell rolled his eyes. Definitely crazy. Joe ran alongside the car, climbing on the gate as Connell passed through it.
“Daddy!” yelled Joe. “Don’t forget Sunday.”
Sunday? No matter, he had four days to remember.
Chapter Seven
Okay, first things first, thought Connell as he pulled in for gas and something more substantial than toast for breakfast.
“You want the works?” asked the waitress wearily. The place was packed and she was working most of the tables single-handed. She pulled out her pad, held her pencil stub poised and fought to find the required expression. At this time of day it should have been a sunny smile but she looked tired and not all that sunny.
Connell smiled at her and tried a little charm. “Sure would, Martha,” he replied, angling his head to read her name badge. “And breakfast would be pretty good too.”
She grinned back and wagged a disapproving finger. “Honey, I was old when your momma was a baby.” She adjusted her apron over her ample frame, “but it’s a nice thought. I’ll carry it with me for the rest of the day. It’ll save me from thinking about important things, like shopping lists and drying paint.” She sauntered away with more of a spring in her step than when she’d first attended the table, and when she returned with extra helpings, Connell felt a little guilty at using his charms for obvious gains.
He’d gotten over his guilt sufficiently to have cleared half of his meal when his cell phone pulled him back from cholesterol heaven. After wiping greasy fingers on a napkin, he checked the display. Caller unknown. The only people who had his cell phone number, that wouldn’t already be listed, were Principal Hogre and the prickly librarian, but somehow he didn’t think either of them would be calling at seven-thirty am.
“Yeah,” he said slowly, still chewing.
“Mr. Connell?” enquired the caller, and Connell put down his fork, switched his phone onto the other ear and leaned back in his seat.
“Who wants to know?” He didn’t recognize the voice and was immediately suspicious of anyone who conducted business at that time of day.
“My name is Porter. I believe we have a shared interest.”
“We do?” Connell was interested to know what that might be. Martha appeared at his shoulder, coffee pot in hand, and he inclined his head with a quick smile and held up his cup. Caffeine, that’s what he needed.
“Perhaps you’d like to meet and discuss it.”
“Where’d you get my number?” Connell took a slug of coffee and gave Martha the thumbs up. It was true what his mom had taught him, be nice to people and they’ll be nice back. His dad had also taught him not to take any crap from anyone, so he guessed between the two schools of thought, he was pretty well balanced.
“From a mutual acquaintance,”
“A name would be good.”
“Frankie Vasin.”
Connell put down his coffee. Now that was interesting. Frankie must know by now he’d been sniffing around and good old Frankie was getting edgy. Connell considered that edgy people should really keep their own company if they had any sense. Edgy people tended to make mistakes, and if Frankie was about to make one, Connell figured he should probably make sure he was around to witness it.
“Okay, where and when?”
“Come by Frankie’s office in an hour,” said Porter.
Okay, he was interested but he didn’t want them thinking he was that interested. “Sorry, no good, I’m a busy man. I’ve got things to do ...”
“When is convenient?” Connell heard the restraint in Porter’s reply. He was obviously a man more used to getting things done at his own convenience.
He picked up his fork and speared a sausage. “Hold on, I’ll just check my diary.” He took a bite and took his time chewing, sent Martha a wink as she dealt with the adjoining table and generally took his time pissing off Porter. “How about midday?” he said eventually. “I could make it for twelve, other than that we’re looking at tomorrow afternoon.”
“Noon it is,” snapped Porter. “Don’t be late.”
“Well, I’ll certainly try, but you know, Porter, the traffic in this town is a bitch.”
He flipped his phone shut and caught Martha’s eye for the check. Reaching into his pocket he cursed as he realized his
wallet was missing. Shit, no money, no cards and no time to go home and retrieve the wallet from wherever Joe or Spidey had tossed it in their search for candy. Fortunately for him, he was now Martha’s favorite customer of the day and she believed him when he said he’d stop by on the way home and settle up.
“Hey, Marty, you out of bed, buddy?” Connell held the phone to his ear as he started the car.
“You forget that I’ve got six kids?”
“Nope, I thought you might have been having some quality time with Charlene.” He reversed out of the parking lot and headed for the highway.
Marty laughed. “You remember what it’s like to have a two year old. There’s no such thing as quality time. What do you want at this hour of the morning?”
“You, Marty, I want you. Do you fancy riding shotgun?”
“I’m more brains than brawn, Tommy, you know that. I prefer to leave the physical stuff to those who get a kick out of it.”
“Gee, thanks, Einstein, so where does that leave me?”
“In trouble as usual.”
“I’m not expecting trouble, buddy, I just need someone with me to remind me how to behave myself, and in the absence of Lizzie, you’re it.”
“So you mean more of a babysitter than a bodyguard?”
“Yeah, and you’re real good at babysitting, Marty, you know you are.”
“And you’re not going to be shooting anybody?”
“No, Marty, no shooting, just talking and maybe finding out something useful.”
“Okay, so you’ve got me interested.”
Connell grinned. “Meet me outside Frankie Vasin’s building at midday ... Oh, and Marty, wear a suit. You gotta look like you mean business.”
“Huh?”
“Oh, and, buddy …”
“Yeah?”
“Bring your wallet. I may need a loaner.”
Connell had made a decision. Today he would match his mood to the weather which was cooking up to be a scorcher. He was going to be charming and polite, and try very hard not to resort to cussing of any kind. He was going to avoid all physical and verbal altercations, especially the physical, and just see if all this positive mental attitude nonsense actually worked. As far as he was concerned, the day had started well, probably because the night before had ended so well, thanks to Lizzie. Today he was going to find the kid, fix old Gibbons’ and Scott’s wagons, and go home a happy man. If he had to dine out on Marty in the interim because the dog ate his wallet, well, he could think of worse ways to spend his time.
* * *
The library was open for business by the time he got there, and he waited patiently in line while books were checked in and out and fines were paid. When he reached the desk, he ignored the deep gouges left in the counter top by the feline fiend, summoned up his most charming smile and turned it on the lady holding court at the other side of the counter.
“Any sign of Molly?” he asked, and she lowered her glasses and gave an impatient acknowledgement to the next in line who had an armful of books and had waited some time to be relieved of the burden. Okay, so maybe rush hour at the library wasn’t the best time for charm. He raised his palms apologetically.
“I’ll just look around myself, shall I?” he said, squeezing out from between the counter and Mr. No Manners behind him. She nodded her agreement as the guy in line dumped his books.
The library was a Victorian relic: high ceilings, polished wood and the smell that comes when you stick a whole bunch of books in a confined space and don’t let them out to play. It reminded him of Molly’s room, which reminded him why he was there.
He bypassed side rooms indicating subject matters that would be of no interest to a ten year old and of even less interest to him, and headed for the children’s area. This room’s austerity had been softened by the lowering of the ceiling and the introduction of bean bags in primary colors. A life-size cardboard cut-out of the Gruffalo dominated one cozy reading nook. At least he figured it to be life size - how big was a Gruffalo meant to be? In library land it was the size of a Shetland pony, which to the average five-year-old was pretty big.
He followed the shelves to the Ws and wasn’t surprised to find a gap where ‘The Wizard of Oz’ should have been. In place of the book was a page torn from a notebook, his notebook. On the paper, Molly Brown had drawn a picture of a lion in yellow marker pen and given the cartoon character an orange mane. She’d paid great attention to the detail - the eyes, nose and whiskers - with a black pen and the overall result was pretty good. Joe liked to draw too and he especially liked to know when he’d done a good job. Connell pulled a pen from his pocket, added a small smiley face to the bottom right hand corner and replaced the drawing on the shelf.
Molly had obviously been there but a quick glance told him this wasn’t where she’d spent the night. He tried to get his bearings, work out where he was in relation to the cat door and decided he needed to find the basement. There was a measure of reluctance as he pushed the basement door and peered down the steep stairs. His last subterranean experience hadn’t ended well, but he was Mr. Optimistic this morning and hoped that lightning couldn’t possibly strike twice.
As it turned out, the basement was well lit and warm, and consisted of a number of smaller storerooms. Some contained books, but most were used to house the general maintenance crap associated with such a large building. He found Molly’s bolt hole in the one labeled Exhibitionalia. He wasn’t convinced such a word existed in the real world, but here in literary land, written in fancy script on a yellowing label, it looked just right.
No more than twelve feet by ten, the room was precariously stacked with century’s worth of defunct exhibition pieces. The majority, it seemed, had a scientific leaning and were either stuffed and mounted creatures with glass eyes and crazy snarls, or weird mechanical invention’s straight out of Hogwarts. Maybe the library had hosted a competition back in the thirties and one of these amazing contraptions was actually the fore-runner of a cell phone or a satellite navigation device. He reached out a hand, had a real urge to set them all clickety-clacking, but restrained himself. Joe would have loved it in here, and the fact that Molly did too, gave him a greater sense of optimism. She was just a regular kid after all.
He found her den behind a tall glass case which housed a flock of brightly colored birds, wings wired in a variety of avian poses, beaks agape in mid twitter. There was something a little unsettling about the number of birds sacrificed in the name of education. He shrugged and wondered in this age of technology whether taxidermists still made a living.
Molly, perhaps in empathy with the birds, had made a nest of her own with her coat, some discarded newspapers and a couple of dust sheets. He squatted down and flicked through the rest of her drawings, noting the empty candy wrappers and soda can. Alongside the book he’d returned to her were at least four more different copies of Oz. Connell smiled; it seemed this little bird was a regular magpie. She’d been making some new bookmarks too. The tin man and the scarecrow peeked out at him from within the pages. He stood slowly, unsure of what to do next. She wasn’t here, but he figured she’d be back, and in the meantime he had stuff to do. He withdrew slowly, careful not to upset the silent birds.
He was halfway up the basement steps when he slowed to a stop, pulled back by a sudden realization. The pink pajamas, which he’d last seen at Molly’s apartment just prior to his strange encounter with the zapper guy, were now folded neatly alongside her coat. Either Molly had been in the apartment while he’d been laid out on the floor or she was acquainted with his attacker.
Chapter Eight
“Tommy, you’re kidding me, right?” Marty took in his buddy’s appearance with a shake of the head. “You got me dressed like I’m going to my own mother’s funeral, and there you are looking like you’ve just stepped off stage with your damned guitar and a harem of fans.”
Connell peeled himself away from the wall, ran his hand through his hair and gave Marty a wide grin. “I’m in disg
uise ...”
“I thought this was a business meeting,” muttered Marty, stepping into the lobby of Frankie’s building and holding the door ajar.
“Well, yeah, but I’m just not sure yet whose business we’ll be discussing. I figured I’d keep my cunning detective skills under wraps for now.”
“Ex-detective skills.”
Connell pressed for the elevator and watched as the light on the panel blinked its way down to meet them. “Private consultant, actually. Get with it, Marty, you’re way behind.”
Marty stifled a snort. “Sure, buddy. Is that some kind of secret agent shit where you loiter around on street corners for Gerry Gesting, ‘cause, you know, there’s another name for that?”
“Ha ha, insult me all you like. I’m on a mission, righting wrongs.”
“Yeah, and I suppose you have the Lord on your side ...”
“Damn right.”
Connell maneuvered Marty ahead of him into the elevator, leaned himself against the brushed steel wall and waited till the doors slid together with a swish. “Okay, here’s the deal. All you gotta do is stand around and look official. Kind of good cop, bad cop routine.”
“Only neither of us are cops ...”
“Details, Marty, details. In this instance you’re here to add some integrity to the picture. Frankie’s going to take one look at my sorry cowboy ass and think he can pull some shit. Then he’s going to take a look at you and think, Now why has this no good scroat brought his legal eagle with him? It’s going to rattle him a little and I want him rattled, ‘cause he’s up to something and I need to know what that is.”
“Scroat?”
“Yeah, it’s one of Lizzie’s Briticisms. It has a certain ring to it.”
Marty shook his head. “You think I look like a lawyer?”
“Sure you do. You have that shifty look about you.” Connell reached out and straightened Marty’s tie; cocked his head and nodded his approval.
“Gee, thanks, buddy. So, tell me again why we’re here exactly.”