The Question of the Absentee Father

by E. J. Copperman

Mother did not speak for three seconds. “Unusual?”

  “Mother, when you knew him did Reuben Hoenig exhibit behaviors that would place him on the autism spectrum?” It had occurred to me but I’d had access to no medical records. I assumed his wife would know.

  “Not really,” she answered. “He had his eccentricities like everybody else, but I don’t think your father is on the spectrum. Why? What does ‘unusual responses’ mean?”

  I looked around the hotel room, an environment I still found sterile and unfamiliar. I would have gladly paid a great deal of money to sleep in my own bed tonight, but I knew that was not possible. Tomorrow, I promised myself. Definitely tomorrow. Just one more night.

  “Samuel?” Mother said.

  Her question made me focus my thoughts. “When I spoke to Reuben Hoenig he looked slightly dazed and was quoting heavily from The Maltese Falcon,” I told her.

  Mother’s breath came in a light wheeze. It sounded like she was in some pain, but not a debilitating amount, as far as I could tell. “The Maltese Falcon?” she asked. I knew she had heard and understood the reference, so I waited for her to elaborate. “Why was he doing that?”

  “I assure you I have no idea,” I said. “Reuben has taken up with the man we know as George Kaplan, who is an unsavory character. It is my guess, based strictly on anecdotal evidence, that Reuben is taking some medication that is affecting his demeanor. Why he has chosen to communicate through that particular work of fiction is a complete mystery to me.”

  I had not intended the word mystery to be a pun in the previous sentence. I realize The Maltese Falcon falls into that category at least in terms that bookshops use to shelve their merchandise, but the fact was Reuben’s behavior was puzzling me very severely. I had no explanation for it and that frustrated me.

  At that moment I received a text message from the phone of the man we knew as George Kaplan. Even as Mother was preparing to speak I was reading the message: Be at the Jamieson Avenue house in an hour. There was no further explanation.

  “Samuel, you have to help your father,” Mother said.

  I sighed. I supposed she was right, but it was not my preference.

  I told Mother I would call her later, but she suggested she might go to sleep early that night. Given that it was barely evening at home I thought her suggestion was odd. But I disconnected the call and pressed the screen to call Mike.

  “We need to find a clean taxicab,” I said.

  twenty-four

  “I don’t like the setup,” Mike the taxicab driver said.

  We had asked the driver of the vehicle we’d hired to let us out of the car at the same corner where Mike and I had left this neighborhood not two hours earlier. Given the geography of the Los Angeles area and the way the two drivers who were not Mike had operated their vehicles, it felt as if staying here with hostile employees of George Kaplan on our heels might have been the safer option. But it was too late to consider that now. We walked back toward the headquarters of Kaplan Enterprises.

  “I could not argue with Kaplan over the location now,” I said. “There was barely enough time to get here.”

  “That’s not the thing. I’m worried about those rifle barrels people said are aimed out of the house. We saw the drill holes. Nobody goes to all that trouble not to shoot somebody.”

  The thought had occurred to me. “There were not rifles or any guns when we were there last time,” I pointed out.

  “You think that’ll still be true this time?”

  “Honestly, I have no idea what to expect,” I answered.

  Mike did not respond.

  We were approximately two hundred yards from the house in question when I stopped walking. “Do you see any black Sport Utility Vehicles?” I asked.

  Mike squinted as he looked ahead in the bright sunlight. “I think there’s one in the driveway.”

  “Like the one at the Chinese Theatre?” I asked.

  “I can’t tell. Why?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “I think we should approach slowly and from a direction someone inside the house would not expect.”

  Mike stood. His jawbone moved from side to side as he thought. “Our best bet is around the back,” he said. “We’ll have to go through the house directly behind.” He turned and walked in the direction we had come. I had not expected the change so it took a moment before I followed and caught up with him.

  “I’m concerned about the way this meeting was initiated,” I told Mike, “but I’m not sure my level of anxiety merits walking through a stranger’s home.”

  “We’re not going through the home. We’re going through the backyard.”

  We turned the corner and headed west toward the center of the block. Mike watched carefully to his left, making sure we were approaching the correct building. I had counted the homes and knew the fourth one on this side would be directly behind the Kaplan property. It was a house with beige siding and a slate roof. The lawn was patchy and brown as a result of the drought. Watering one’s lawn had been outlawed.

  “This is the one,” Mike said. He was pointing to the correct house so I saw no reason to explain that I’d already come to that conclusion. “Follow me.”

  He started up the empty driveway of the house and I walked behind him as directed. The gravel driveway caused our steps to make some noise but there was enough distance between us and the Kaplan property that the sound was inconsequential. I was uneasy being on a stranger’s property, even if the owner was not present. Visions of arrest for trespassing flashing through my mind.

  We proceeded to the backyard and surveyed the area. The yard was dominated by the same brown, sparse grass as the lawn, although there was a small swing set in the northwest corner and a shed opposite it with a heavy steel chain hanging from the door latch.

  There was also a seven-foot wire mesh fence at the back of the yard separating it from the opposite area at the headquarters of Kaplan Enterprises.

  “Can you climb a fence?” Mike asked me quietly.

  “I have never tried.” I wondered how I could do so without touching the fence. It seemed impossible. I had only one cloth handkerchief in my pocket. The one I’d used earlier was in a plastic bag in my suitcase at the hotel room. I would launder it when I returned home the next day.

  “Well, here’s your chance,” Mike said. “Hang on a second. I want to get a better look at the house.” He meant I should wait longer than one second, but I did not comment.

  He stepped forward to the fence and held up his cellular telephone. Undoubtedly he was using the camera application or a telescope application to see the Kaplan property more clearly. “I don’t see anything we don’t want to see,” he said. I interpreted that to mean there were no gun barrels protruding from the walls. “The windows are still covered. That does appear to be a black SUV in the driveway, a Cadillac.”

  “Will we be able to approach without being seen or heard?” I asked. Still, my mind was concentrating on the necessity of touching the metal fence, whose owner I had never met. I was not certain I could make myself walk to the spot where Mike was standing.

  “We can get to the back door but I bet it’s locked,” he answered. “Our best bet is to go around the side without the driveway. There’s just another house on that side and they’re probably not watching it as closely.”

  “Do you have a cloth handkerchief ?” I asked Mike. Although I certainly would have preferred not to use such a personal item from another person, it was preferable to placing my bare hands on the fence.

  Mike looked at me. “Why? Are you gonna sneeze?”

  “No. It’s for the fence.” I pointed at the fence, which was redundant. Surely Mike knew which one I was referencing.

  “What about the fence?” he asked.

  “I have to touch it to climb it and I only have a handkerchief to cover one hand,” I explained.<
br />
  “Oh.” He searched through his pockets. “Sorry, Samuel. I don’t think I have one.”

  “Perhaps we could go to a store and purchase one,” I suggested.

  “There’s no time,” he said. “You’ll just have to cope.”

  Cope? What did he mean by that? This was not a negotiable circumstance.

  But then I could no longer delay the move. Behind me I heard the sound of car tires on gravel. Someone from the house in whose driveway we stood was coming home. And very shortly after parking his or her vehicle, the person would see Mike and me trespassing on the property.

  “Come on, Samuel!” Mike hissed and beckoned toward me.

  I had no choice. I forced my legs to move and ran toward the fence. “I’ll give you a boost,” Mike said, interlocking his fingers and holding his hands down for me to step upon them.

  “No.” I was figuring the placement of my feet and used the handkerchief from my pocket to cover my right hand, which was reaching for the wire fence. “I will … cope.”

  With the cloth wrapped under my fingers I grasped the fence with my right hand and pulled. Stepping up as I did, I could place the toe of my left shoe in the fence to use for a foothold. My left hand dangled at my side.

  Mike, who had already elevated himself halfway up the fence, looked down at my hand. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  I did not answer. As rapidly as possible I identified the correct second position for my right hand and lunged with my legs, releasing the fence and then grabbing it again with the cloth wrapped around my fingers.

  The maneuver almost proved to be disastrous when my right foot slipped slightly on the fence, but I was able to recover and reposition it quickly enough. Using one arm to lift myself up, however, was tiring me. I would have to be certain to ensure I would be over the fence and on the Kaplan side with my next lunge.

  Mike was already on the ground of the opposite backyard looking up at me. “Use your shirt,” he suggested. He pointed to his own t-shirt, pulling on his short sleeve, to illustrate.

  I considered his suggestion, but pulling on the sleeve of my left arm would require letting go with my right and I would fall to the ground. Instead I prepared myself to propel upward and lunged with both feet, releasing the fence and reaching for the top at the same moment.

  There was a very tense moment when I felt myself lean backwards, but the hand with the cloth on it grabbed unsteadily at first on the top of the fence and then managed to secure itself. My feet found their places in the links and in a moment I was able to position myself with one leg on the Kaplan side, and then the other.

  I continued to hold on with the cloth on the hot metal tube at the top of the fence. I let my weight down carefully until I was almost standing straight and then let go of the fence. A short drop followed and I landed on my feet.

  Mike smiled at me. “You never do anything the easy way, do you?” he asked.

  I was sure there were some things I did in the least difficult fashion possible but none came to mind at the moment. I did not answer, but looked at the handkerchief as I unwrapped it from my fingers. It was almost black with dirt and damp with perspiration. I looked around the yard.

  “What do you need?” Mike asked.

  “A trash can.” I could not put that cloth back into my pocket.

  Mike shook his head a little and put out his hand. “Just give it to me,” he said. “I’ll take care of it later.”

  I couldn’t bear the thought of Mike having to handle the grimy cloth. “I wouldn’t impose,” I said. “I’ll just find a trash can.”

  Mike reached over and pulled the cloth out of my hand, then jammed it into his back pocket. I shuddered a bit at the thought but appreciated the gesture. “There’s no time for that,” Mike said. “We need to scope out this house and figure what their play is going to be.” He looked carefully at the house. “No gun barrels back here,” he said. “Anything you need to see in the yard?”

  I scanned the area. Nothing had changed since the last time Mike and I had been here but I was certain the same two inexperienced young men would not be the only people inside the house if we entered this time. The black Sport Utility Vehicle in the driveway indicated Kaplan or one of his associates was inside the house. Perhaps they had brought Reuben Hoenig for an exchange; perhaps not. Either way, it was fairly certain Kaplan was not pleased with me. He seemed to have some strange competitive drive that would not allow him to concede even when it got him what he wanted. If he was present, he might be angry. If he wasn’t, he had left instructions.

  In short, Mike and I could anticipate an unfriendly welcome.

  “There is nothing of note here,” I told Mike. “We should confirm that there is no immediate danger elsewhere.”

  “Exactly what I had in mind,” he answered. He gestured with his left hand to follow me. I noticed a glint of metal in his right. He was carrying his pistol but concealing it as well as he could.

  We followed our previous pattern, heading to our left and the side of the property that was not paved or landscaped, other than the small palm tree at the front. Without the gravel our feet did not make an unusual amount of noise. But approximately twenty feet after we entered the narrow lane between the house and the property to its east, Mike held up his left hand behind him, indicating I should stop.

  “I see movement,” he whispered as I leaned toward him to hear. He pointed toward the nearest window.

  The heavy dark drape covering it and blocking the light from within was fluttering slightly.

  “Did they see us?” I asked in a tone I believed to be matching Mike’s.

  I must have been mistaken because he winced when I spoke. “Keep it down, Samuel!” I put my hand to my mouth. Mike held both his hands up, palms out, to indicate no serious harm had been done. “I don’t know. Watch the drilled holes near the window.”

  There were indeed the covered spaces we had observed before, which Carmen Sanchez at the Reseda Neighborhood Council had suggested were installed to provide stations for firearms, although she had said no one ever reported any shots being fired.

  I watched the one closest to the window with the fluttering drape. There was no metal barrel being extended through the opening. I made certain to whisper very quietly this time. “I don’t believe there is a firearm there,” I said to Mike.

  He leaned over toward me. “What?”

  I repeated my observation just as quietly and this time Mike nodded. “Keep following me but be very careful about the areas near those holes,” he said.

  Mike proceeded ahead slowly and I followed in suit. When we reached the second window, the one closest to the front of the house, I heard a slight squeak behind me. I stood still and turned my head to see what had caused it.

  There was a metal tube extending through the hole into the open space next to the house where Mike and I were standing.

  “Mike,” I said.

  “I see it. We have two choices.”

  The tube began to move in my direction. “Please tell me quickly what they are,” I said.

  “We can stand directly under the gun barrel where it’s hardest to get an angle or we can run very fast,” he said. “Which one?”

  There was very little time to deliberate but the thought of the gun barrel, perhaps that of a rifle, directly over my head was enough to make both hands start to flap at my sides. “Run!” I said. And I began to do exactly that toward the street.

  Mike, having waited for my response, began running one second after I did but he was in front of me to begin and spent a good deal of time exercising, whereas I walked laps in the Questions Answered office while raising my arms over my head. He was ahead of me quickly.

  We reached the sidewalk and searched for a place to shield ourselves, although there had been no shots fired as yet. The street did have some trees but they were not wide enough
to conceal two adult men. We could conceal ourselves behind the walls of an adjacent house but that would limit our view of the Kaplan property.

  Mike pointed. “The rental car is still there.”

  Of course the Kia Soul was still where Ms. Washburn had parked it. I reached frantically into the hip pocket on the right side of my trousers. I had not been checking it as often as the opposite side, where my iPhone is kept.

  But the second key fob to the Kia Soul was still there. I retrieved it and ran toward the vehicle, looking at the buttons on the fob to determine exactly how to open all four doors and the hatchback. A shot did ring out as we ran across the street. I did not see any evidence of a bullet landing anywhere near us but as I was running and desperately staring at the apparatus in my hand my viewpoint was somewhat limited.

  “It’s the one without the raised dots!” Mike shouted as he ran around the vehicle to the passenger side. “The one with the picture of an open lock!”

  As he instructed I pressed on the button with the appropriate diagram and the turn signals on the Kia Soul flashed twice. I reached for the driver side door and it opened. But Mike was still standing on the opposite side looking at me through the window.

  “Push the button again!”

  I did so and the other three doors unlocked. Mike opened the passenger door and sat in the seat next to me as I closed the door on my side. I found the locking mechanism on the panel next to me, on the vehicle’s door handle, and pushed it.

  We sat there for seven seconds.

  “Let’s go,” Mike said.

  I didn’t understand. Go? When we’d just achieved some measure of safety? Go where? Leaving the vehicle seemed especially reckless. While no further shots had been fired, there were now metal tubes extending out of the drilled holes in the front facing of the Kaplan house. The possibility of being shot increased exponentially if we were to leave the relative safety of the Kia Soul.

  I must have stared at Mike with an especially uncomprehending expression on my face, because he pointed at the ignition mechanism and said, “Start her up. Let’s get out of here.”