The Question of the Absentee Father

by E. J. Copperman

  “Then how will you receive the package?” I asked when I regained control. There had been a little hand flapping at my sides, but I had gotten myself back on task again. Dr. Mancuso’s methods still worked. “Ms. Washburn was going to get it for you.”

  “You and I are going together,” Kaplan said. “I’ll watch you get the money and then we’ll come back here.”

  “They have brothers in her bag,” Reuben Hoenig said.

  “That is inefficient,” I told Kaplan, ignoring the Hammett reference. “Ms. Washburn knows where the package is and how to get it. Besides, if you and I walk off, you’ll be leaving her here to call the police at her leisure.”

  “She’ll know that if she calls a cop, I’ll kill you,” Kaplan said plainly.

  Since I had seen no evidence of a weapon on his person, I asked, “Using what?”

  “This,” Kaplan said. From his sleeve he produced a switchblade knife with a five-inch blade. In extending it from his sleeve had to let go of Ms. Washburn’s right arm. He compensated by holding the blade low and close to her torso, disabling her arm.

  I felt my jaw close tightly and my neck straighten. These were signs that I was feeling anger. That was inconvenient, as such emotion tends to interfere with my best thought processes.

  “When you’re slapped you’ll take it and like it,” Reuben Hoenig said.

  “I will go with you,” I told Kaplan. “But you must release Ms. Washburn right now.”

  Kaplan said nothing but pushed hard with both hands on Ms. Washburn’s shoulder blades, projecting her forward awkwardly as she again yelled, “Hey!”

  She fell forward. I held out my arms and caught her but her momentum carried her hard into my chest and I steadied her there. Then the man with the generous eyebrows moved quickly in my direction and took Ms. Washburn’s arm. This time she yelled something less polite.

  “That’s it,” Kaplan said. From the edges of my peripheral vision I saw him nod toward his associate vigorously. That appeared to be a signal so I turned sharply toward where the man was standing, which was immediately behind Ms. Washburn, who was still shouting.

  The man ignored her and used one arm to reach around Ms. Washburn’s waist, which caused her to make an annoyed sound. The other was reaching into his jacket, where I assumed he had a weapon of some sort concealed.

  But he never managed to reach it. Instead, the red Elmo performer appeared behind him, wrapping a large furry right arm around the man, effectively stopping his movement. Elmo’s left hand, which was slipped through a slit in the suit around the midsection, was holding a handgun.

  “Elmo says don’t grab a lady like that unless she asks you to,” the performer said in a high squeaky voice. “Elmo says be polite to ladies all the time.”

  The large man dropped the arm that was reaching for Ms. Washburn and she moved toward me. I did not have a handgun in my pocket, but I am certified in tae kwon do and had taken classes on disarming an assailant. I moved quickly to him.

  Kaplan didn’t want to make a huge scene and attract attention, particularly from the police officers. He held his knife at belt level and feinted with it, perhaps to remind me that it was there.

  “This is not necessary,” I said.

  “Yes, it is,” Kaplan said. “Tell your friend to let him go.”

  “Not while he is threatening Ms. Washburn.”

  “I can handle this guy,” said the man being held by Elmo. It seemed an almost comical statement considering the furry red arm encircling his chest.

  “Elmo doesn’t think so.”

  Kaplan remained silent.

  The man with the bushy eyebrows had clenched his jaw severely. “We can get this—” he started to say. Elmo tightened his grip on the man’s chest. He reached into the man’s inside pocket and took out a pistol. He gestured to me. “Elmo says take the nice man’s gun.”

  “Hey,” the man protested.

  “Elmo says shut up.”

  The man stopped speaking. I was not interested in handling a firearm as I am not trained in such things. When I hesitated, Ms. Washburn took it from Elmo’s paw and held it on Kaplan, whose eyes narrowed and showed anger. Ms. Washburn hung her purse over her wrist to shield the sight of the pistol from the crowd. Elmo’s was low enough to be virtually invisible.

  I decided to appeal to him directly. “Let Ms. Washburn go and get the package,” I said. “We will give it to you and then we will all leave, but I think Mr. Hoenig will come with me and not with you. Wouldn’t you prefer that, Mr. Hoenig?”

  “You mean at home?” he mumbled, staring down.

  “That’s not going to happen,” Kaplan said. “Reuben is coming with us and that is not negotiable.” Still, he retracted the blade on his knife and put it back into his pocket.

  “The man is smart,” Elmo said. “Two guns are better than a little knife.”

  “I believe we have the upper hand in the negotiations,” I told Kaplan. “Now, should Ms. Washburn retrieve your cash or not?”

  “Absolutely she should,” Kaplan answered. “That’s my money.”

  “Agreed.” I nodded to Ms. Washburn, who held the gun steady but walked toward the street, giving Kaplan some room.

  But when she reached his position Kaplan viciously stuck out his right foot, effectively sweeping Ms. Washburn’s legs. She stumbled and Kaplan reached over to get the gun. It dropped to the pavement and made a loud noise but did not fire. Ms. Washburn had applied the safety mechanism, or the man with the bushy eyebrows had before he stashed the weapon in his jacket pocket.

  Ms. Washburn reached for the gun but Kaplan, who had not fallen over, was faster. He grabbed it and stuck his hand out to secure Ms. Washburn. She saw what he was attempting to do and rolled away from him. Kaplan stood straight and pointed the pistol, after working the safety off, at Ms. Washburn. I had just enough time to lean over and whisper to Reuben but I wasn’t sure he heard me.

  “Let’s go, Reuben,” Kaplan said.

  “Elmo isn’t letting your man go,” said the large furry performer.

  “I’ll get another,” Kaplan said. “I’ll be back for my money.”

  “Let the man go,” I said to Elmo. “But don’t give him a weapon. Keep your gun aimed at Mr. Kaplan.”

  “I distrust a man who says when,” Reuben quoted.

  “Samuel,” Ms. Washburn began.

  “We will be in touch,” I said to Kaplan.

  “I won’t answer. I’ll come when you don’t expect me.” With that he, the man with the impressive eyebrows, and Reuben walked to the curb, where the black car instantly appeared. They got in and it drove away.

  I asked Ms. Washburn if she was all right.

  “Physically, yes,” she answered. “But I’m embarrassed. I never should have let him trip me.”

  “It was not your fault.” I looked at Elmo. “What took you so long?” I asked.

  Mike the taxicab driver pulled off the costume head and withdrew his gun inside the costume. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to rent an Elmo costume at the last minute in L.A.?” he asked.

  seventeen

  “I believe that Reuben Hoenig has character traits that would indicate Asperger’s Syndrome,” I told Mike and Ms. Washburn.

  We were sitting in the restaurant of the hotel, where I had secured a room for Mike. After he had put off three days of his livelihood at the last minute (an expression I had learned to use only lately) to fly to Los Angeles at my request, it seemed to be the least compensation I could offer. When I had called Mike and explained the situation, he had insisted on making the trip with a handgun legally allowed with a permit, unassembled and unloaded, in the bag he checked for storage by the airline. I had paid Mike’s airfare as well.

  At Ms. Washburn’s suggestion we had vacated the Canoga Park hotel because it was possible Kaplan knew we were staying there. No
w that he had vowed to find us when we were unaware of him, it was agreed that new arrangements had to be made. Ms. Washburn used her cellular phone to find another hotel in Burbank. It was considerably more expensive, but seemed the safe choice. I would be sure to accept more questions for income purposes when we arrived home.

  “I didn’t get a chance to really talk to him, but he seemed to be babbling,” Ms. Washburn said. “He said things that didn’t really fit the conversation.”

  “He appears to have a special interest in the novel and the film The Maltese Falcon,” I said. “But I think he is also either self-medicating or being given some drugs that are affecting his behavior, since Mother never mentioned to me his acting in such a fashion.”

  “Maybe he didn’t act like this thirty years ago,” Mike suggested.

  “It is a possibility. I have tried to contact my mother again since we arrived here in Burbank but her phone is still referring all calls immediately to voice mail. It is perplexing.” I had informed Mike of the entirety of our situation including my inability to contact Mother, which was occupying more of my attention than the question at hand now. I had seen Reuben Hoenig and he seemed to be in no immediate danger. Finding his address might be something of a problem but it was not urgent.

  “I’m sure she’s fine, Samuel,” Ms. Washburn said.

  “Why?” I asked. Perhaps Ms. Washburn had information I had not yet received.

  She looked stumped for a moment. “Because that seems the most likely thing right now.”

  Ms. Washburn had been trying to comfort me. I had missed that signal.

  “What do we do now?” Mike asked. “We’re only here until Saturday, and today’s Thursday. Most of the day is gone already.”

  I had called Mike the day before and asked if he could take a short trip to Los Angeles in case Ms. Washburn and I required assistance, which seemed possible at the time. Mike had agreed and then when he’d arrived called me from the airport. I’d called him back when I could after Kaplan and I had arranged the meeting and Mike and I had come up with the plan for him to rent a costume. That enabled him to get close to our group without seeming suspicious.

  “How do we get your father away from Kaplan and that other man?” Ms. Washburn asked.

  “That is not the objective,” I reminded her. “Our task is to obtain a means of contact for my mother to use when she wants to communicate with Reuben Hoenig. If his circumstances are acceptable to him at this moment, we have no reason to interfere with them.”

  Ms. Washburn put down her glass of white wine. “Samuel, your father is being held hostage by Kaplan, maybe by force. Don’t you want to help him?”

  I realized that many people would be driven by emotion under these circumstances. There are blood ties, I am told, that supersede those of history and incident. I did not feel an obligation to a man who had left my mother with a young son who would be difficult to raise. Perhaps more sessions with Dr. Mancuso focusing specifically on this area would produce something, but there was no time for that now, and Dr. Mancuso was almost three thousand miles away. Trying to achieve a breakthrough would be impractical.

  “I see nothing from which Reuben needs to be extracted,” I said. “He came with Kaplan willingly, from all indications. He left without resisting physically or verbally. What is interesting is that Kaplan considers him invaluable and would not let us take Reuben away.”

  “Why do you think he did that?” Mike asked.

  Mike is a veteran of the United States military who came home to New Jersey after several tours of duty and bought a Toyota Prius to convert into a taxicab because he does not like to stay in one place very long. We met at Newark Liberty International Airport when I had seen Mother off on a trip to visit her sister Aunt Jane in Colorado. Mike’s professionalism—and the fact that his taxicab had never been occupied by another passenger before me—had impressed me and we had eventually become friends. Mike also has a very keen mind that he needs to keep occupied because memories of his wartime experiences are troubling and he prefers to focus on other things. When I have issues involving human interaction, I often consult Mike.

  Ms. Washburn has said she thinks it’s odd that I do not know Mike’s last name but that has never been an issue.

  “I believe based on the behavior we have seen that George Kaplan is running an illegal business of some sort from the house we visited in Reseda,” I began. “It is a business lucrative enough that people even casually associated with it can be given packages of forty thousand dollars simply on arrival. Because Kaplan seems to require Reuben Hoenig’s presence I will venture to speculate that Reuben is in some way an integral part of that business. Kaplan can’t afford to lose Reuben. So he might be administering some medication to keep Reuben pliable and that could be enough to squelch any impulse he might have to leave. But much of this is simply guesswork. We don’t know enough factually yet.”

  “We have a day and a half,” Ms. Washburn reminded me, “unless we decide to extend our stay.”

  “That is not feasible professionally or financially,” I answered. “I must be back in the office Monday morning.”

  “Plus, you don’t want to be out here any longer than you have to,” she countered.

  “That is true, but it does not make the other factors less so,” I said.

  “It brings me back to my original question,” Mike said. “What do we do now?”

  “I think the most effective way to attack the question is to investigate George Kaplan and his business,” I told him. “This will require a good deal of online research I will do in my hotel room tonight. I imagine there will not be much available about him on simple Google searches; covert businesses will be on other areas of the web.”

  “Can I help with that?” Ms. Washburn asked. She used the word can correctly, in that she was asking whether her expertise would be helpful in the research.

  “I believe your talents are best suited elsewhere,” I told her. “We also need to ascertain whether Reuben Hoenig actually appropriated the name George Kaplan on his move to Southern California, or whether the man we know as Kaplan is actually someone else. The personnel records from Mendoza Communications have shown us that something happened, but we can’t be clear on what it was. If we discover the current George Kaplan’s real name, we might have some insight into his practices and that could give us some inroads to retrieve contact information for Reuben Hoenig.”

  “You never refer to him as your dad,” Mike noted.

  It was a point I had addressed before, but never in his presence, so I tried to ignore the slight feeling of irritation I had experienced. “There is no utility in speaking that way,” I said. “I’ve never known a father.”

  Mike did not react but seemed to think it over.

  “Maybe we should work together in your room,” Ms. Washburn suggested. “It’ll be more like the way we operate at Questions Answered.”

  I realized she was attempting to re-create a comfortable work environment for me. But there was something unsettling about being in a hotel room alone with Ms. Washburn that I could not accurately identify. Since I was not able to analyze my feelings I decided to ignore them. “Perhaps that would be a good idea,” I said. “Mike, we don’t have a computer for you.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he told me. “I’m going to sleep.”

  “Just us, then,” Ms. Washburn said. She looked at me. “You ready?”

  I have never been uncomfortable with Ms. Washburn, which is a statement I do not make lightly. I am uncomfortable with almost every person I have ever met. Even Mike, whom I consider a friend, emits an air of incredulousness that sometimes leaves me slightly anxious, wondering if I have said or done something inappropriate. Ms. Washburn has always been unconcerned with pointing out when my behavior is somehow outside the norm and that actually puts me as close to at ease as I can be.

  Since
I could not accurately analyze the feelings I was having, I saw no way to object to Ms. Washburn’s plan. We made plans to meet in my hotel room in twenty minutes to do our research.

  Perhaps she was correct and the surroundings would make no difference. It would be similar to our work in the Questions Answered office. There was, indeed, no factual or measureable reason that would not be the case.

  But I could not completely banish the slight queasiness in my stomach and the tantalizing feeling that there was something, just out of conscious thought, that was causing my heightened sense of danger. And I realized that my business relationship with Ms. Washburn was the thing I was afraid of losing.

  I had explored the new hotel room when we had arrived and set up in exactly the same way as I did in the Canoga Park hotel. This room was slightly larger and cleaner and did not have the overpowering odor that had permeated the other. It was possible, I decided, that this room had been designated as a non-smoking accommodation much less recently than the other.

  Ms. Washburn knocked on the door at precisely the time she had said she would, knowing my interest in remaining prompt and my distaste for surprises. She was carrying the bag in which she transports her laptop computer.

  “Where should I set up?” she asked, seeing I had opened my MacBook on the desk provided by the hotel. “On the bed?”

  “No,” I said. “There is a small sofa near the coffee table. That might be better.”

  “Oh yeah,” Ms. Washburn said, looking farther into the room. “The loveseat.”

  “It is a convertible sofa if an extra bed is needed by the guest,” I corrected her.

  She smiled and sat down on the sofa. She removed her laptop computer from the bag and opened it on the coffee table. “If I had a phone on the table, I would feel like I was back at Questions Answered,” she said.

  That was confusing. “This room does not resemble our office,” I pointed out.

  “You’re right.” There was no explanation forthcoming.

  I decided to immerse myself in the research. I began with some backdoor search engines I have discovered that find things most casual users will not find. I began with the words Kaplan Enterprises and, in addition to the same items I had found in more casual searches before were six thousand four hundred and seventy-eight new links concerning George Kaplan and his business practices.