The Question of the Absentee Father

by E. J. Copperman

  “I am—” was as far as I got.

  I had been entirely unprepared for the scene that met my eyes as I entered the office, which was actually an empty space with one desk in the far left corner, a dropped ceiling with some water damage, exposed wires in some areas and threadbare brown carpet from wall to wall. This space clearly had not been used for an active business. Its actual purpose was impossible to discern immediately.

  Part of the reason I could not adequately discuss the surroundings was my surprise at the people inside the relatively small room. In the center were George Kaplan and two other men: The one with the bushy eyebrows who had accompanied him to the Chinese Theatre and attempted to manhandle Ms. Washburn, and another who must have been the driver that day. I did not recognize him, but he had a very thick neck holding up a wide head. Their arms were held in a defensive position, showing the palms of their hands. The two associates looked embarrassed while George Kaplan appeared to be quietly fuming.

  In front of them was Ms. Washburn, facing the three and wearing an expression that communicated determination and some satisfaction. But I thought there might too have been a trace of anger in her eyes.

  She was holding a pistol in each hand.

  Ms. Washburn turned and looked at me. “Oh good, Samuel,” she said. “Here, take this.” She extended her left hand to give me the gun she was holding. “Those were getting heavy. Can you call the police?”

  “There is no need,” I said. “They are already here. Why didn’t you call me?”

  She gestured toward the three men with the gun she was now holding with both hands. “These sons of bitches broke my phone,” she said. “Then I got mad.”

  twenty-eight

  George Kaplan and his two associates did not appear to be in a mood to talk. Kaplan made only a few attempts to vent his anger at his two male companions for not subduing Ms. Washburn, who had apparently taken their guns from their holsters and used them to keep the three men at bay for a few minutes until I had arrived.

  My iPhone continued to buzz, so I checked its screen again and saw the call was coming from Mike the taxicab driver. I accepted the call and heard some commotion around Mike as he asked, “Is everybody okay up there? The cops want to come up.”

  “Tell them everything is under control and we are quite well,” I told him. “Please let them know they should not be concerned that Ms. Washburn and I are holding weapons in our hands; we will be happy to turn them over to the officers as soon as they arrive.”

  “The cops have nothing on me,” Kaplan rasped.

  The charges of abduction, counterfeiting, and assault immediately leapt to my mind but I ignored his remark and said to Mike, “Reuben Hoenig is not here.”

  “You might want to ask your pal George where to find him,” Mike suggested.

  “Tell us where he is or I’ll shoot you in the knee!” Ms. Washburn said. She was springing up and down on the balls of her feet like a prizefighter.

  George Kaplan looked at her with some amazement.

  “The police are coming,” I told Ms. Washburn even as we heard the sound of boots on the stairs beyond the still-open office door.

  “I’ll do it,” she continued. “They kidnapped me and broke my phone. I’m mad.”

  “She’s crazy,” Kaplan suggested.

  “Don’t push me,” Ms. Washburn said.

  The footsteps reached the office door. “LAPD!” a man shouted behind me. “Put down your weapons!”

  “We will be happy to, Officer,” I said. “We have been waiting for you.” I placed the gun I was holding on the seedy brown carpet, making a mental note to wash my hands as soon as possible.

  Ms. Washburn, both hands on her gun, did not move.

  “Put down the gun, ma’am,” the officer repeated.

  “Ma’am?” Ms. Washburn said. “I’m a ma’am now?”

  “She’s gone nuts,” Kaplan told the policeman. “Thank god you’re here.”

  “Ms. Washburn,” I said quietly. “It’s over now. Please put your gun on the floor so the officers can do their job.”

  Ms. Washburn looked at me and seemed to comprehend the situation for the first time since I had entered. A tear fell from her left eye. “They broke my phone,” she whimpered.

  “I know. Put the gun down.”

  She nodded and placed the handgun on the carpet. Then she held her hands up to show the police officers she no longer had any offensive weapon in her possession. “Sorry, guys,” she said to the officers. “I got emotional. They …”

  “We get it, ma’am,” the officer who had entered first said. “They broke your phone.”

  “You know what I paid for that phone?”

  The policemen and women—there were five in all, three men and two women—picked up the two weapons and handcuffed Kaplan and his two accomplices. They complained as they were led out of the room that Ms. Washburn had been the aggressor, but the officers did not respond. Once the three men had been removed they escorted us downstairs and out of the office building.

  There we met again with Mike and the California Highway Patrol officer who had first met us on the highway, Officer Crawford. He shook his head when he saw me. “You shouldn’t have gone rushing up there by yourself.”

  “I was concerned for Ms. Washburn.”

  Crawford looked at Ms. Washburn. “From what I hear you didn’t need to worry that much.”

  “I got mad,” Ms. Washburn said. “They—”

  Crawford nodded. “I heard. I’m very sorry.”

  “Officer,” I said, noting Crawford’s smile at Ms. Washburn, which I took to be a gesture of consolation, “I am concerned that the man we were attempting to find, Reuben Hoenig, was not on the premises. Mr. Kaplan had agreed that we would exchange him for the counterfeit funds we had mistakenly been given, but Reuben was not here. It is very important that we find him.”

  Crawford averted his gaze from Ms. Washburn and looked at me with an expression of some consternation. “You have counterfeit money on you right now?”

  I reached into my pocket and retrieved the packet. “Yes. Slightly less than forty thousand dollars by its designation.” I extended my hand to the officer.

  But Crawford shook his head. “That’s over my pay grade,” he said. “Let me get a detective over here. That’s their thing.” He walked to a group of police officers who were engaged at the moment in getting George Kaplan and his associates into the backseats of two Los Angeles Police Department cruisers.

  “What do you think?” Mike asked as I watched an officer point Crawford toward a very tall man in what the police refer to as “plainclothes,” meaning they are not in uniform. The two men spoke and Crawford clearly indicated Ms. Washburn, Mike, and me as they did.

  “I think the counterfeiting is what will be the point of interest for the detective,” I answered. “The other things George Kaplan has done—and hopefully we will find out his real name soon—have been unethical, but probably not illegal.”

  “He broke my phone,” Ms. Washburn pointed out.

  “True. And he told men to fire guns at Mike and me. I imagine that will bring some charges as well.”

  “Samuel!” Ms. Washburn looked alarmed even though it was clear that neither Mike nor I was injured.

  “We are fine,” I assured her as the man Crawford had approached walked over toward us.

  He showed us a gold shield attached to a credential and did not keep it open long enough for me to determine its authenticity. “I’m Detective LaGrange,” the man said. “I understand you have some counterfeit money in your possession.”

  I once again extended the packet toward the detective. He took it after putting a latex glove on his right hand and dropped it into an evidence bag. “How did you come by this money?” he asked.

  In the shortest time possible I explained the situation to Dete
ctive LaGrange with some interjections from Mike and Ms. Washburn. He nodded, took no notes, and removed the latex glove from his hand. When we had completed the explanation LaGrange nodded. “So you think your father is involved with the counterfeiting?” he asked.

  “I have no way of knowing if Reuben Hoenig has any involvement or not,” I told him. “I am concerned only with finding him and obtaining his address so that I might pass it along to my mother.”

  “Samuel can be very single-minded about completing a task,” Ms. Washburn said, probably in response to the facial expression LaGrange had assumed.

  “Any ideas where he might be?” the detective asked Ms. Washburn, whom he seemed to think was the person most appropriate to discuss the events of the day with.

  “I have no clue,” she told him.

  “But I do,” I said. “I believe our best bet is to find Reuben Hoenig in the house on Jamieson Avenue in Reseda where the counterfeit cash press is operating. I think it is best we go there immediately.”

  Mike groaned. “At this time of day? The traffic will be horrendous.”

  LaGrange looked me directly in the eye, which I found slightly discomfiting. “We’ll drive,” he said.

  twenty-nine

  Traveling with a police escort had been much less difficult than without, I had discovered. Riding in vehicles being driven by police officers, with their various methods of clearing away traffic, was considerably faster and smoother. This was not so much a surprise as it was something I had not contemplated until now.

  Detective LaGrange, sitting in the passenger seat in front of Ms. Washburn and me, did not turn around when he wanted to tell us something; he merely spoke in a deep, serious tone that communicated authority. “You don’t get out of the car until I tell you it’s okay, understand?” he was saying now.

  I realized the police officers had not been pleased when I had rushed into the office building in Burbank without escort. Indeed, I understood why they were not enamored of the idea. Had I been thinking of anything other than Ms. Washburn’s safety I probably would not have done so.

  But in this case, we were traveling merely to see if Reuben Hoenig was in the house on Jamieson Avenue. I had already been shot at from that house once today and held no desire to repeat the experience. “Absolutely, Detective,” I said.

  No doubt Mike the taxicab driver, who was in one of the other vehicles now hurtling toward the home of Kaplan Enterprises, was being given the same instructions.

  “Good.” LaGrange did not wait for Ms. Washburn to duplicate my statement; perhaps he believed I spoke for both of us. “Now, explain to me how these gun turrets in the house work.”

  “I am not especially well informed on their functionality,” I told him. “What I can say is that they are small holes drilled through the facing of the house at strategic points with enough latitude for the shooter to move the barrel from side to side and adjust its trajectory vertically, although the horizontal movement is probably more flexible than the vertical. Mike suggested that telescopic sights would not be possible there.”

  LaGrange looked blankly at me for a moment and then said, “Okay.” I believe Ms. Washburn put her hand to her mouth at that point.

  We approached the now-familiar house but the police vehicle in which we were riding parked well out of range of any weapon the people inside might be wielding. “You stay in the car,” LaGrange reiterated. “If the man you’re looking for is inside, we’ll let you know.” Without awaiting a response from Ms. Washburn or me, he opened his car door and simultaneously removed a handgun from a holster he wore around his left shoulder.

  LaGrange walked away, gun barrel pointed toward the ground, and followed three uniformed officers, one of whom had been driving the cruiser we had ridden in and the other two from the second Los Angeles Police Department vehicle, in which we knew Mike was now sitting with similar instructions to the ones LaGrange had given us.

  After a moment Ms. Washburn, who had intertwined her fingers in front of her, let out an audible breath. “Are you worried?” she asked.

  “Why should I be worried?” I asked. “It is the police officers who are taking the risk, not you or me.”

  “About your father,” Ms. Washburn said. “If he’s inside and something goes the wrong way …”

  “I have every confidence in the professionalism I have seen from the police officers we’ve met here,” I said. “Reuben Hoenig is involved in something that could be seen as dangerous. I assume he knows there are risks inherent in that activity.”

  “Samuel,” Ms. Washburn said. “He’s your father.”

  I was aware of Reuben Hoenig’s biological role in my existence. I had spoken with him only once since I was a very young child and his contribution to the conversation had been a series of quotes from a classic detective novel. The insistence of others on manufacturing an emotional bond between us was baffling to me, so I had no response to offer Ms. Washburn. But I felt I had to say something.

  “I know,” I told her. Because that was true. I did know Reuben Hoenig was my father.

  Ms. Washburn seemed unsatisfied with that response. “What are you thinking about?” she asked.

  “Going home tomorrow.”

  LaGrange and the uniformed officers dispersed as they approached the house. One officer climbed the stairs and stood next to the front door but not directly in front of it. The other two in uniform separated and each walked to a side of the house and toward the rear until they were no longer visible. LaGrange stood closer to the street. All four had their weapons drawn.

  I saw one front door of another house, two properties to the south and on the opposite side of the street, open and a woman’s head emerge. LaGrange must have noticed it too because he gestured for her to go back inside. The woman’s head withdrew and the door closed.

  After having checked his communications link the officer at the front door reached over and knocked without moving his body to a position directly before the door. It was difficult to know if he received a response, but he did not knock again.

  The cruiser in which Mike had been brought to this house was parked directly in front of the one in which Ms. Washburn and I sat. Mike appeared to know we were behind him because he turned around in the back seat and looked out the rear window at us. Ms. Washburn waved but Mike did not respond.

  “I’m not sure Mike can see us,” I noted. “There is a barrier between our seat and the front, and he is looking from—”

  There was the sound of a gunshot from the direction of the house.

  Then another. I heard a total of four reports from firearms. Ms. Washburn’s body tensed and her head turned quickly toward the house. Mike, in the car ahead of us, turned away from the rear window.

  Unexpectedly, I felt a tightening in my stomach.

  I had never known my father. He had not been a presence in my life to the point that I had stopped thinking about him at all by the time I became an adult. But I had realized some feelings of resentment toward Reuben Hoenig for the obvious pain and difficulty he had inflicted upon my mother. That was something I had not been able to overlook or forgive.

  Mother, I had to admit, had continued to love the man she married even decades after they had been in the same room or even the same time zone. Because I respected her feelings (even when I did not understand them) and her judgment, I was forced to confront the possibility that Reuben Hoenig was a man worthy of consideration. I knew he was my father, but having dismissed the idea of a father many years earlier, I had taken to thinking of Reuben as my mother’s husband, someone she had known a long time ago.

  It would be very difficult now to go home and tell Mother her husband had been shot dead in a police raid on the building where he worked for a counterfeiter.

  There would have been no point in attempting to leave the vehicle in an attempt to view the police action on the house. LaGrange h
ad been very careful to note that the doors in the back seat of the cruiser were locked from the outside. It led me to wonder how Ms. Washburn and I would escape if the officers did not come back to let us out.

  I felt her hand reach for mine and I took it without thinking.

  Mentally I was preparing for a very unpleasant conversation with my mother. Was it more appropriate to call her and give her the news or to wait until we were back in New Jersey where I could tell her face-to-face? Once we had the details I would consult with Ms. Washburn on the proper etiquette in such matters.

  It was not a pleasant exercise to project ahead to telling Mother what had happened, assuming the gunshots indicated some harm had come to Reuben Hoenig. I considered it likely that he was inside the building, that there were no more than three people in total there before the police officers arrived, and that the gunshots had not all come from the police. The arithmetic involved was not complicated; the probability was high that Reuben Hoenig was involved.

  Why did I not feel anything about that? Everyone seemed to think I should, particularly the people I trusted most—my mother and Ms. Washburn. From a strictly objective viewpoint it was obvious that Reuben had never sought out my attention or attempted to make any connection, emotional or otherwise, with me since I was four years old. I barely remembered him in an incarnation other than the one I had met the day before.

  People whose behavior indicates they fall on the autism spectrum as described by the neurotypical are thought not to have strong emotions. The uninformed believe we do not have feelings at all. These beliefs are incorrect. I have the same types of emotions as almost everyone else, but my responses to them do not fit into the norm as dictated by society. I tend to internalize because when I do act on my strongest feelings my reactions are seen as inappropriate.

  I believe the saying is that one can’t win for losing. I do not understand that axiom, but I have heard it used in the context I was describing.