When It's Time for Leaving

by Ang Pompano

  Gravel voice hung up, and I decided it was time for a little DIY.

  “Greenleaf. Do we have a tool box around here?”

  “In the supply closet on the floor between Big Al’s fishing rods and the copy paper. Don’t forget to put it back when you’re finished,” she called back from the other room.

  Fifteen minutes later after watching a YouTube video on how to take apart a toilet, I was in the front office with the overflow tube and float ball to our ancient commode in hand.

  “Did you find out anything about Roscoe Hicks?”

  “Where should I start? He’s been arrested for everything from assault to extortion. What’s that?” She pointed to the toilet parts.

  I looked down at the overflow tube. “The, uh, lavatory is going to be out of commission for a while. I’m going to the plumbing supply house now.”

  Greenleaf made a face that told me she thought I was the biggest idiot in the world.

  “Thanks for the heads up after I drank that coffee. If I have to go, I’ll use your sink.”

  She went back to work mumbling to herself.

  15

  YOU WON’T FIND TOURISTS on Ogeechee Road. Inland, running parallel to US 17, it’s hotter and grittier that the rest of Savannah. The commercial strip of metal Butler Buildings housing construction suppliers and trucking companies runs through a community of gloomy little bungalows that seem plucked out of the 1950s. It’s the kind of neighborhood that is hidden away like an ugly stepchild, yet is essential to keeping a city like Savannah running smoothly.

  I almost missed Sampson Brothers Plumbing Supply because it has a side entrance facing a parking lot that doesn’t look onto Ogeechee Road. When I walked in, I noted the position of the security camera by the ceiling at the far end of the store. I lowered my head and put the guts of the Blue Palmetto’s toilet on the counter. As I did so, I wondered about how Greenleaf was holding up after her coffee.

  “Can you match this?”

  The counterman tending the place had a grizzled beard and a sour puss. He looked at it almost in awe. “That baby is old. It must be thirty or forty years old at least.”

  From the sound of his voice, I had no doubt that it was the guy I talked to on the phone.

  “You have it?”

  “Might.” He looked at a computer on the counter next to a security monitor that showed alternating views of inside and outside the warehouse. “It looks like we do. But I’m going to have to go out back and search. My brother isn’t here. I’m holding down the fort.”

  But I already knew how overworked the poor martyr was from the phone call.

  “I can wait. Thanks.”

  Behind the counter were rows of metal shelves full of plumbing fixtures. I could see Sampson on the security monitor as he walked down an aisle toward the bowels of the warehouse. He seemed to be having trouble finding the part. Just what I had hoped for. The other three scenes on the monitor showed me at the counter, the front of the building where my truck was parked, and the back of the warehouse where a guy was filling a Sampson Brothers delivery truck from a tanker marked Dirty South Heating Oil.

  I spun the computer screen around and brought the computer keyboard to where I could use it. As many small businesses do, Sampson Brothers kept track of its employee records and its business inventory on the same computer network using inexpensive, outdated software. I minimized the inventory record that the owner had been looking at. I found the brothers didn’t bother with passwords, so it was easy to find the employee file labeled Hicks. Too bad I didn’t get a chance to open it.

  “All right. Do you want to tell me what in the hell you’re up to?”

  I must have jumped a foot when I heard the gravelly voice. While I was looking at the computer, I missed Sampson coming back to the service counter. He had the part in one hand and a gun in the other. At times like this I wished I didn’t leave my G19 in the glove compartment.

  “I’m only checking out the specs on the part. No harm done. You can’t blame me for not wanting to get the wrong part.” I pointed to a sign stating a $25 restocking fee.

  I stole a glance at his hand. It was calm and steady as it held the gun pointed at me. That was a good sign. There’s nothing worse than someone nervous aiming a gun at you. On the other hand, the look in his eye told me he meant business.

  “You’re the one who called looking for Hicks. I recognize your accent,” he said.

  Accent? People from Connecticut don’t have an accent.

  “How about putting that thing away?”

  “How about you telling me why you’re so hell bent on finding Hicks.”

  “Okay, I’m with the Blue Palmetto Detective Agency. Al DeSantis is the name.” Sometimes it’s better to be up front. “I have a client, who is a relative of Hicks, who wants to find him.” I had no intention of being so upfront as to tell Sampson that I suspected Hicks was a murderer.

  “I told you on the phone, I ain’t giving you any information about an employee. Now, get out.” He waved his gun toward the door.

  “I’ll leave when you tell me where Hicks is.”

  “You think you’re slicker’n owl shit, coming around here trying to trick me into giving him up. But I told you it ain’t going to happen.”

  “It will, because I took a picture of your security monitor showing someone putting untaxed heating oil in your delivery truck. That’s a pretty big offence.”

  Sampson began chewing at his lip. I could see from his expression he was trying to figure what his next move should be.

  “You see this gun? I could blow you into next week and say you was a robber.”

  “I already texted the picture to my office manager. She’ll send it to the police if you try that. They may begin to question if I really was a robber. Especially since I’m unarmed.”

  By this time, Sampson was working at that lip so hard that it was bleeding.

  “I had a little problem once. I can’t afford any more trouble. Hicks was living over on Tybee Island. Let me find the address on that computer. Then get the hell out of here.”

  “I’m going to still need that part.” I knew that if I didn’t fix that toilet, Greenleaf would make me wish that Sampson had shot me.

  $145.00 later I was headed out to my truck. Accent, my ass.

  *****

  I was feeling that I was finally getting someplace now that I had a new address for Hicks, Unit B 84 Village Avenue, Tybee Island. I jumped into the truck and turned on the ignition. Mr. Hicks, prepare yourself for an unwelcome visitor. I was about to pull out of the parking space when I noticed the green flyer under my wiper blade. I put the gear in park and got out leaving the truck running and the door open. If someone came along and hijacked my vehicle, I would have been less surprised than when I looked at the flier. No garage sale, no lost cat, or grand opening announcement there. It was simply a handwritten note in block letters that read: Some detective you are.

  Well, it couldn’t have been Nate Roman this time. I must have missed whoever left the note while I was looking at the computer. I wondered if one of the guys from the department was down on vacation and decided to break my balls. If he was, I wished he would show himself and say, “hey.” Or maybe not, if the idiot was following me around. Then once more, Hicks came to mind. Did he know that I was looking for him and he was playing a cat-and-mouse game? Again, I balled the paper up and threw it on the floor with the other note and fast food trash.

  16

  IT SEEMED THAT MARYANN at The Palms had some kind of radar that told her when I was busy. I was headed back to Ava Island to check out Hick’s mother’s place when my cell phone began playing the dirge that I had designated as the ring tone for the nasty ass “care coordinator.”

  “This is Maryann Fena from The Palms. Is this Mr. DeSantis?”

  I’ll be kind and blame the Bluetoo
th for making her sound like that witch with the flying monkeys.

  “Yup, this is me.”

  Who else would be answering my phone? I waited for her to go next, my patience growing thin, as I was in no mood for games.

  “Are you there, Mr. DeSantis?” She sounded quite annoyed that I wasn’t talking but I thought it would be best to let her go first.

  “I am here,” I said.

  “It’s your father.”

  Oh Jeez, I hoped she wasn’t going to say he was dead. What was I supposed to say if she did? I hardly knew the guy. I opted for a simple, “Yes...”

  “I don’t think we are going to be able to keep him here at The Palms.” There was a hint of satisfaction in her voice that worked its way under my skin.

  One side of me wanted to ask her why she was telling me her problems, and the other side wanted me to come to Big Al’s defense.

  “And why is that?”

  “He insists on going outside.”

  “He signed himself into a nursing facility, not a prison. Let him go outside if he wants.” It was my turn to sound annoyed.

  “I’m sure you realize that we can’t allow that. What you need to do is come down here right now.”

  What I needed to do was find Hicks.

  “I’m kind of busy right now. Maybe in a few hours.”

  “He’s being ugly, and I’m fixing to send him to the ER for a psych evaluation. I can tell you now they will call you to go in.”

  Which would waste even more of my time. “I’ll be right there.”

  I turned the truck around and was at The Palms within ten minutes. I marched up to Nurse Fena’s office. The door was open and she was hovering over some papers. I knocked at the doorjamb a little harder than was necessary to get her attention.

  She looked up and snapped, “We are not an Alzheimer’s facility. You’re going to have to find another placement for him.”

  Wasn’t that the social worker’s job? “You knew his problem when you took him in.” I didn’t go into the fact that he paid up front.

  “I didn’t know he could be as aggravating as a rock. You’ll have to do something.”

  I could see this was going nowhere. Meanwhile, I had to find Hicks.

  “Fine, I am going to do something. I’m going to take him with me for a few hours. That should give your staff some respite.”

  Maryann stared me down in what seemed like a practiced deadpan look meant to show that she was going to be unrelenting on the issue.

  “And then?”

  I had my own determined look. “And then I’m going to bring him back. He paid you. He’s your responsibility.”

  “You can’t take him out.”

  “Because?” Was she kidding me? She said that she couldn’t handle him.

  “He has to learn to be comfortable in this environment. If he leaves the comfort zone that The Palms provides, then he will be even more unruly when he comes back.”

  Was there no pleasing this woman? “It’s the only solution I have right now.”

  Believe me, taking my father with me on an investigation was the last thing I wanted to do. I looked at my watch. “Please have someone get him ready.”

  Ten minutes later, my father joined us in the building’s foyer decked out with his bush hat and fancy walking stick with the alligator handle. Maryann wasn’t happy that I was taking him out of the home, but legally, she had nothing to say about it. I didn’t need to be babysitting my old man but I didn’t have much choice. As Maryann punched in the code that slid open the glass door at the entrance, my father stuck out his tongue and gave her the raspberries.

  “Aren’t you precious?” She tried to pinch his cheek but he waved her off and pulled back. Then she huffed and walked back toward her office as we headed to the parking lot.

  “She thinks I don’t know it.” My father had this irritating grin that I took to mean he was trying to impress me with his cleverness. I shouldn’t have fed in to him but I did.

  “Know what?”

  “1998,” he said.

  Here we go. This was going to be a long day.

  “No, it’s 2019,” I said.

  Big Al shook his head as if to say get with the program. “I know what year it is. I’m talking about the numbers one, nine, nine, eight. That’s how you open the door.”

  “You know the code to open the door?”

  He pointed to the cornerstone of the building. “There. It’s written right on the building.”

  For the first time, I wished that I had known the old man in his prime. I knew that when we got back, I’d have to tell Maryann that her pass code wasn’t so clever.

  When we got to the truck, I opened the door for him. He stuck his head in and tried to climb in by putting his knees on the seat. Was this the same guy that had told me the secret pass code to the nursing home?

  “Hold up. Hold up.” I guided him out and turned him around. “Here, get your rear end on the seat.” When I tried lifting his left leg into the truck, he pushed me away.

  “I can do it!”

  Fine. So, do it. I must have been crazy for even thinking of taking him out, let alone bringing him on an investigation. Once we were on the road, we both sat in silence. I put on the local oldies station for him. It was “his music.” It wasn’t mine, but at least it broke up the silence. Every once in a while, he would hum along with a familiar song.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I have to find someone,” I said.

  “I used to find people. One time a kid went missing.”

  “You found the kidnapper. I know. I heard.”

  “You did?”

  “Several times. At least once from you.”

  From what I understood, he didn’t find the little girl though. I wanted to ask him about that but I didn’t want to start an argument.

  As we headed down Route 26, we passed the bridge that led to Ava Island.

  “I saw you look toward that bridge. I know that island,” Big Al said.

  That took me by surprise.

  “I live over there,” I said.

  “No shit? I think I know someone who lives around here, too.”

  He had some flicker of recognition of the area he had lived in for years up until a few weeks before, but he wasn’t quite sure what. Yet, he remembered other less significant things. Someone told me once that if you’ve seen one case of Alzheimer’s, you’ve seen one case of Alzheimer’s. I didn’t get it at the time, but I was beginning to see what they meant.

  “You did. You lived there. You gave the place to me. I’m your son. Remember?”

  He sat in silence trying to process what I had said.

  17

  THE CONVERSATION WAS GETTING too bizarre. I couldn’t get to Hicks’ address on Tybee Island fast enough. Tybee Island is next to Ava Island, but is much larger. It is known as Savannah’s Beach. The bright pink duplex was only a few blocks from the beach, a prime rental area for tourists. There was a sign on the lawn that read “seasonal rentals.” Apparently, unit A was available. I told my father to wait for me in the truck and I walked up the steps to unit B. The front door was open and I could see into the sparsely furnished apartment. I knocked on the screen door. No answer.

  “Open it,” my father said. He had followed me up the stairs. I could see what Maryann meant about him having a mind of his own. He pushed ahead of me, opened the screen door, and walked inside the house.

  “You can’t do that. Get out here,” I said.

  “Someone might be hurt in here. Have to check. It’s called probable cause.” I couldn’t believe he said that. What a strange disease. It seemed that when he was in his element, he was perfectly coherent. He disappeared into the next room. I had no choice but to follow him in to bring him out. It was hardly breaking and entering to look out for
the safety of an old man with Alzheimer’s.

  My eyes swept the room as I entered. I checked the corners and behind the sofa and chairs in the living room, looking not for my father, but Hicks. The living room clear, I headed into the hallway; clear. In the first bedroom, I noticed an unmade bed. The closet door was open, exposing the empty interior. Where the hell did my father go? For all I knew, Hicks had him. I went to the side of the bed by the window so no one could come behind me, and then made a quick look under the bed. I went to the second bedroom and did the same. Nothing.

  I found Big Al in the kitchen hunched over the counter and reading a piece of paper.

  “The place seems abandoned,” I said to him.

  “I know. I checked. I’m faster than you.”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot I was with an ace detective,” I said.

  “Somebody was expecting me. Listen to this.” Big Al began to read. “I don’t know what you want from me DeSantis, but lay off.” He handed me the note. “How did he know I was coming?”

  “I think that note was meant for me,” I said

  “You? Is your name DeSantis, too?”

  “I’m afraid so,” I said.

  He closed one eye and screwed up his face. Then he looked me up and down. “What’s your first name?”

  I did not want to get into this. I picked up the note and studied it. The handwriting didn’t resemble the writing on the notes I’d been getting on my windshield. “It’s Al,” I said.

  “Ha! I knew you were pulling my leg.” His voice seemed to be coming from another room.

  I looked up from the note. He was gone.

  “Dad?”

  No answer. I called again. He came out of the living room carrying a plastic card.

  “It was on the floor.” He handed it to me.

  It was a room key from the Riverfront Hotel in Savannah. The same place that Estelle was staying.

  *****

  “What’s wrong with you?” Big Al said.

  “Estelle told me she didn’t have any contact with her son-in-law. Why would there be a key at his house from the same hotel where she’s staying? That hotel is a half-hour from here.”