The Question of the Absentee Father

by E. J. Copperman

  “That is not a funny joke, Ms. Washburn,” I said.

  “I’m not joking.”

  “I have not driven a vehicle in years,” I reminded her. “I have no intention of resuming my driving in a vehicle that belongs to someone else in a city I don’t know.”

  “We’ll play it by ear,” Ms. Washburn said. It is an expression that means something about playing a piece on the piano without written sheet music. I did not see the relevance.

  “I will not drive the Kia Soul,” I told her. “I would not drive any vehicle in such unfamiliar areas and I will not take responsibility for a rental vehicle.”

  “I took the insurance.”

  Mike saw the dynamic between Ms. Washburn and me, possibly the first time he had seen us disagree completely. He cleared his throat after taking a bite and said, “What are we going to do when we get there, Samuel?”

  I had considered the logistics and the goals of our visit. “I think we will begin with a scan of the perimeter, as you would say, Mike. And depending on what we find, perhaps we will knock on the door and talk to the young lady who works there again.”

  “Remember, the woman at the Neighborhood Council said people have seen gun barrels pointed out of the walls of that house,” Ms. Washburn reminded me. “You can’t just be snooping around on the outside.”

  “That’s what I’m for,” Mike assured her. “If there’s something dangerous there, I’ll see it. Besides, I’m hoping we get to knock on the door.”

  It hadn’t occurred to me that Mike would have a preference in the outcome of the visit. “Why?” I asked.

  “See if she gives us another forty grand.”

  twenty-two

  “I don’t see any guns.”

  That was encouraging news, but it was not definitive. Mike the taxicab driver was sitting in the rear seat of the Kia Soul behind Ms. Washburn and looking at the Jamieson Avenue house listed as the headquarters of Kaplan Enterprises. We had been very careful to circle the block twice and satisfy ourselves that Kaplan’s black car was not in the area. Mike could see the house, but we did not have a pair of binoculars. He was using a telescope application he had found for his cellular phone.

  “It is probably safe for us to walk the perimeter of the house,” I said. I checked the time on my iPhone. “Ms. Washburn, you have fifty minutes to get to your tour. You should leave as soon as Mike and I exit the Kia Soul.”

  “I’ll stay a couple of minutes,” she said. “They pad the time you have to wait because they don’t want people showing up late.”

  That thinking sounded reasonable, but I knew Ms. Washburn was concerned about leaving Mike and me without a ride and wanted to take a taxicab to the studio tour. “Please remember that I will not, under any circumstances, drive this vehicle,” I said to her.

  “I know.” Her tone, if I was reading it properly, indicated otherwise. It was hard to know.

  “What do you say?” Mike asked. “Are we going?”

  I answered in the affirmative and opened the passenger side door as Mike exited the vehicle from his side. We walked into the heat, always a mild shock when one has been in conditioned air.

  The house was exactly the same as the day before, but this time I noticed two cars in the driveway, one a Honda Civic coupe in gray that was four years old. The other was a Scion iA from the previous model year.

  “There is more than one person inside,” I noted to myself.

  “What?” Mike said.

  “If we go inside we can assume there are at least two people in the house,” I told him.

  Mike nodded. “What am I looking for?” he said as we approached the house.

  I was watching over my right shoulder at the Kia Soul, which had not moved. I frowned. “You should be looking for extended gun barrels or anything you consider dangerous,” I told Mike. “I will be looking, or rather listening, for something else. Please follow me.” It is important to say the word please when instructing another person in the course of action because otherwise they will believe you are taking a superior position and ordering them to act upon your will.

  Mike nodded. I saw his hand rest on his hip pocket, where I believed the small pistol he had brought with him from New Jersey was being concealed. We walked slowly toward the house and I led Mike to the left side facing the street. Mike was very carefully scanning the windows and the outside walls of the house.

  I looked back at the Kia Soul again. It was still parked across the street. That was not what I had hoped to see. Ms. Washburn must have been waiting for us until the last possible moment to reach her studio tour in time.

  “Nothing suspicious,” Mike said softly. I did not know if he was referring to the house or Ms. Washburn’s insistence on waiting for us.

  I turned my attention to the task at hand. The house was one story, but there was a foundation and a basement. The basement windows were the focus of my interest. Mindful of the windows on the main floor and the possibility that someone inside could see Mike and me, I kept my head low as I approached, then dropped to my knees next to the basement window closest to the back of the house.

  “Would it be better if I turned the corner and checked the backyard?” I asked Mike. I relied on his military experience and strategic thinking process.

  He shook his head negatively. “They can do anything they want to us back there and nobody will see it,” he said. “Here there’s still the danger someone can see from the street.”

  That unpleasant suggestion led me to check the street for the Kia Soul again. It was still there. I checked the time on my iPhone and calculated that Ms. Washburn was in danger of being late for her tour.

  “Damn,” I said to myself.

  Mike, who had been scanning the upper floor windows, looked down at me. “What?”

  “Nothing,” I said. I leaned over and put my ear to the casement window in the house’s basement.

  I did not see Mike’s expression because my head was turned toward the driveway, but I could hear some consternation in his voice. “Samuel, what are you doing?”

  There was a humming noise, punctuated by clicking. Some kind of machinery was present in the basement. Mike stood by, not distracting me or interfering with my ability to hear inside the house. But the windows were boarded up on the inside, so the hum of the machinery was muffled and there was no way to see inside the basement.

  I started to stand and found Mike’s hand extended at my eye level. Normally I am not fond of touching other people, but the help in regaining my stance was welcome; I took Mike’s hand and he helped me up.

  “What’d you hear?” he asked.

  “Enough to think we should go inside,” I told him. “But before we do, let’s go around the back and make sure there isn’t anything we need to know.”

  Mike nodded. “Me first.” He led the way as we reached the backyard, which was fenced only across the rear of the property, a chain link fence that likely belonged to the homeowner behind the Kaplan house. I found that surprising.

  No one was in the yard, which was helpful and not terribly unexpected. Even back here the windows were boarded from the inside or covered with black sheet plastic. I walked toward the back door, which was similarly shielded.

  “I wouldn’t get too close,” Mike said. “Those people at the council weren’t kidding. There are holes drilled into the walls that would let somebody push a gun barrel through.”

  I stopped in the spot I was standing. “Are there any gun barrels now?”

  Mike chuckled lightly. “I wouldn’t sound so calm if there were.”

  That meant there were none. I had never intended to enter through the back anyway; I wanted only to examine the door to see if it was frequently used. Worn concrete in a pattern of a door swinging open and closed indicated it was.

  “Other side?” Mike asked, pointing to the side of the house we had
not yet examined. I nodded and he began toward that path.

  There was no driveway here, although the houses on the block were fairly close together. Instead the space was fairly untouched except for the concrete that had been poured to create a path. There were not the same signs of wear as just outside the back door, but there were occasional scratches. My guess was they were from the wheels of a hand truck being badly misused. Most of the indications of traffic had been in the driveway on the opposite side.

  This pathway had no significant features to note, although the windows here were in the same condition as elsewhere on the property and the holes drilled in the walls were visible, if currently unoccupied.

  “Why haven’t we set off an alarm?” I wondered aloud.

  “It’s possible we have but it’s silent,” Mike said, which was not very reassuring. “But I didn’t see any video surveillance cameras anywhere on this property. Maybe these guys aren’t as smart as they think they are.”

  Recalling the young woman who had given the bundle of cash to Ms. Washburn and me when we were asking only to see George Kaplan, I had to agree.

  When we returned to the Jamieson Avenue side of the house, I noted the Kia Soul was still where it had been parked. The sunlight glinted off the windows and made any visual communication with Ms. Washburn impossible.

  We reached the front steps and I walked to the door without hesitation. Mike, now following, touched the pocket of his jeans but left his gun where it was. I waited.

  “What’s the matter?” Mike asked after two seconds.

  “Would you ring the doorbell, please?” I asked.

  He hesitated only briefly and reached over to touch the button. We could barely hear the sound of the electronic bell ringing inside but it was enough. The front door opened almost immediately.

  Standing inside was not the young woman I had encountered here before. Instead there was a man in his early twenties, thin and pale, a forelock of hair falling in his face. “Who are you?” he said.

  That hardly seemed an appropriate greeting. Everything I’d learned in social skills training indicated that the young man was being rude. I wondered if it would be to our advantage for me to make that point clear.

  I decided it would not. Against my instincts, I extended my right hand and said, “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Samuel Hoenig, proprietor of Questions Answered, and this is my associate Mike.”

  The young man looked at my hand as he might a dangerous weapon. “What do you want?” he asked. I find that an interesting question whenever I hear it: Suppose the other person does not want anything in particular? Why is the assumption made?

  Perhaps that was not relevant at the moment.

  I withdrew my hand, which actually made me more comfortable. “We are here to ask a question. I have been here once before, with my associate Ms. Washburn.”

  The young man stared blankly at me.

  “We were looking for George Kaplan,” I continued.

  “He’s not here.” The young man had been well schooled in the response to that suggestion.

  “I’m aware. I have found Mr. Kaplan elsewhere. May we come in? It’s very hot out here.”

  The young man, who was wearing a bowling shirt and cargo shorts, took a half-step forward to further establish his position blocking Mike and me in the doorway. “It’s not that cool in here,” he said.

  “Even so,” I countered, “it is much easier to speak indoors, don’t you agree?”

  The young man did not move. “What do you want?” he repeated.

  I usually plan every encounter as meticulously as I can ahead of time. I am not fond of surprises, and since dealing with other people makes me anxious as a rule, I see no advantage in entering a situation without a clearly defined strategy. But in that moment an idea presented itself to me that seemed to offer the fastest and most direct route to success.

  “We are here to pick up a large sum of money and don’t wish to do so in the street,” I said. “Please let us in. I’m sure Mr. Kaplan would agree with me.”

  I did not look at Mike but I would guess his expression was one of astonishment. He had probably never heard me act in so assertive a manner before. I did not have time to think if I could remember a time when I had done so.

  The young man in the bowling shirt, with the name Nate stitched on the left chest, looked at me blankly for a moment and then stepped back. “Yeah, okay,” he said.

  Mike waited until I walked inside and then followed me, his hand in his pocket.

  The room had not been changed in any way since the day before, which was not unexpected. The same overall emptiness was enhanced by the dark window coverings. The same sole pole lamp shone dimly in the corner.

  The same humming sound, louder now, was audible in the room and I felt a slight rumble in the floorboards. There was definitely some heavy machinery active in the basement, probably because it was the only place a large mechanism could be safely housed and operated.

  I had envisioned this moment and had devised a plan, but I was hesitant to put it into action. This is often the case: When one is in the midst of a situation it is more difficult to act than when one is planning it hypothetically. Nonetheless, I had no other clear option.

  “May I have a glass of water?” I asked the young man, whose name might or might not have been Nate. The house did not seem to have air conditioning working at the moment but it was considerably cooler inside due to the lack of direct sunlight.

  The man in the bowling shirt wrinkled his nose. “What?”

  “Water. It’s very hot outside. Even better, do you have a bottle of spring water in your refrigerator?” I glanced at Mike, with whom I had discussed this plan during the ride to Jamieson Avenue. He did not acknowledge my look but I knew he had received it.

  Before Nate could respond I began walking briskly toward the kitchen, which I had observed the day before. Most often basement access is found in the kitchen in such houses, and while I had not gotten a clear view of the room from every angle the day before, I had an idea where such a door might be located.

  “Hey!” Nate said as Mike followed me, still facing the young man, into the kitchen. “You can’t go in there!”

  I had no intention of drawing a glass of water from the faucet in the kitchen. For one thing, I would never have drunk from any such tap in a home I did not know well. I drink spring water from a bottle in my own house. For another, I knew the Southern California area was in the midst of a serious drought and would not have wasted precious water on an empty pretense.

  Still, I felt it necessary to keep up the charade and opened the refrigerator door. Inside I saw four bottles of beer and two slices of pizza, unwrapped. But my glance was actually aimed at the door just to the right of the refrigerator, which I assumed would lead to basement access.

  I hoped it was not locked.

  “No water,” I said, as if it were a surprise. “Maybe here. Is this a closet?”

  Mike was creating an obstacle for young Nate, who was protesting, “Hey! No!” but could not get past the taxicab driver. I reached for the knob on the door after taking a handkerchief from my back pocket and placing it over the metal knob. It was the only way I would have been able to gain access.

  To my relief and slight surprise the door was unlocked and the knob turned. I acted quickly now, flung it open, and headed inside.

  Nate protested more loudly and I heard the sounds of a light scuffle behind me. That meant two things: There was a reason Nate did not want me downstairs, and I could not definitely rely upon Mike for help. I assumed there was at least one additional person in the basement who might object to my presence there. If he or she offered resistance before I could confirm my suspicions, I would be on my own. It would be best if the person or people had no weapons. I had now legitimately gone too far to turn back.

  The stairs, as in m
ost such structures, were fairly dark and not well lit. It made me wonder how machinery such as I was expecting could have been brought into the basement. I decided that it must have been delivered in sections and assembled once inside. I used the handkerchief on the banister as I descended.

  It took six seconds to walk carefully down the stairs. I did not wish to rush no matter what the situation behind me might have been, although the scuffle was fading. My concern now was more what was before me than on the level I had just vacated.

  There was only one other man in the basement, and due to the significant noise being made by the machine he was operating, he appeared not to have heard the scene upstairs or my footsteps on the basement stairs. He did not look up.

  He was wearing a heavy apron, goggles, and a visor as he tended to a large machine. It had a number of gears, which were spinning and a belt turning toward the rear. I could not see the back end of the machine, where the man seemed to paying most of his attention. I walked slowly, attempting to obtain a better vantage point.

  I could hear nothing behind me because all sound was being drowned out by the workings of the machine. I noticed the man operating it, who had not looked up from a clipboard he carried, was wearing earplugs. That was probably an intelligent choice given the decibel level in the basement. I resolved to be done with my observation quickly.

  The man was standing to my left, partially obscured by the upper sections of the machine. I walked to the right, hoping to reach a spot where I could view the operation without being noticed myself. I crouched down a bit to better obscure my head and my movement. The longer I could keep the machine operator from seeing me the safer I would be. But I felt my left hand begin to flutter just a bit as I became a bit more nervous. I forced myself to stop the movement and kept walking slowly toward the machine.

  As my line of sight cleared the more cumbersome part of the apparatus I was focusing more on the operator than the operation. His seeing me would be more dangerous than confirming what I was fairly sure I had already surmised.

  But he continued to consult first his clipboard and then the open end of the machine he tended, one then the other in a series of repetitive movements that seemed to have no variation and no surprises. I thought that under different circumstances this would actually be a fitting occupation for me.