by Tom Kakonis
But squeezed one by one through the bottleneck of someone else’s annoying catastrophe, nobody stopped and nobody asked, and once emerged, the stream of vehicles fanned out into three lanes and accelerated like sprinters at the crack of a starting gun, Corvette and BMW soon out of sight, in a hurry to get somewhere. Not so Marshall, who, after the prolonged delay, had lost all sense of urgency. What was there, really, to get to but empty house and invalided mate. And what could he do for her, finally, but make the polite, feeble inquiries one makes of the chronically unwell, listen to a litany of woes for which neither he nor a spectrum of learned healers had any solutions. Anyway, he’d alerted her to the possibility he could be late, hoping, in his naiveté, to return from the Wilcox meeting with the sort of inspiriting news that might have proven to be more salutary, more animating, than all those stupefacient pills she popped. Instead of empty-handed, as he was, squashed again.
No, he was in no great hurry to get home. And so he slid over into the dawdler (by expressway velocities) lane and let the swarm of agitated tardy travelers barrel on by to their monumentally critical destinations. And when at last he arrived at his exit, an impulse seized him (a memory, actually, of a time not so far removed when he, achiever once himself, had harbored petty ambitions, aspired after recognition and success as measured by the academic yardstick of publication in the drab journals of his profession), and he steered the Volvo through quiet Naperville streets, pointed in the direction of the campus. God knows why. A place to go.
The building that housed his office was deserted at this hour. Fine with him. He was not in a humor for any idle collegial chatter or, more likely in his case, obligatory condolences dutifully delivered and stiffly received. On those few occasions since Jeff’s disappearance he’d stopped by here, to pick up a paltry but badly needed summer check or glance through an accumulation of mail, communiqués from the serene country of the past—on each of those rare appearances he was acutely aware of the increasingly dampening effect his mere presence produced, as though he had become an unfortunate burden to be shouldered, tolerated, his colleagues’ sympathy spans as meager as the media’s had been. Yesterday’s calamity. His sorrowed, stricken face and endless crisis deserving of pity, to be sure, but grown a trifle wearisome. An annoyance, finally, rather like those auto-wreck victims on the highway back there, regrettable, certainly, but better avoided whenever possible. Fuck them all. Their chilling pity, fuck that too. Who needs it?
He came down the dark corridor leading to his office. The jangle of his keys excited a startled throaty voice from the other side of its locked door. “Who’s there?”
Marshall said his name.
“Oh, Marsh, hold on, can you? Only be a second.”
“Sure.”
He waited. The promised second lengthened, its oppressive silence broken by quick rustling sounds from within, subdued whispers. And then his office mate appeared in the swung-open door, square Scandinavian face assembled in jittery grin, greeting hand extended. “Hey, good to see you again, man.”
Marshall accepted the offered hand. It felt unnaturally hot. “You too, Chip,” he said.
“Been awhile.”
“Well, I’ve been…occupied.”
The grip tightened, grin dissolved into suitably dolorous attitude. Behind him, partially hidden by the door, stood a rather stout girl, swag of yellow hair slightly disheveled and a look somewhat sheepish on her forgettably plain face. Charlie “Chip” Magnuson, associate professor, married, three kids, downslope of forty, incurable lecher. At it again. His pick of coeds evidently, if this one was representative, shrinking in inverse proportion to his mounting tally of years.
Marshall recovered his hand. “Look, I just stopped by to pick up some materials,” he lied. “If I’m—”
“Absolutely not. Come on in. It’s your cell too.” Cell was a flippant reference, not altogether inaccurate, to their cramped shared quarters. His ironic little joke. “This is Kimberly Cross,” he added, mindful of the amenities. “Student of mine. Kim, Marshall Quinn.”
Marshall nodded at her.
“Pleased to meetcha, Mr. Quinn.”
“That’s Dr. Quinn,” Chip corrected. Perennial ABD himself (All But Dissertation, in the hierarchal argot of academe), he was always careful to observe the professional niceties of rank, though always with a lilt of irony in his voice that said titles prove nothing. Sour envy of the man who’d long since traded in his dreams for the pleasured rush of multiple sexual adventures.
“Quinn, is it?” the girl asked.
“That’s right,” Marshall said.
A flickering recognition lit her otherwise dull, sated features. He could pretty much guess what was coming next.
“I’m awful sorry about what happened to your son.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
An awkward silence opened.
To put something into it, Chip said, “Kim’s doing a paper for me. We’ve been going over some of her research.”
Marshall elevated a brow. “Paper? Term’s over, isn’t it?”
“It’s an independent study project.”
“I see.” So that’s what he’s calling it now. Independent study. Sly euphemism. Be a bit more exact, though, to label it yoked or fused study. Or better yet coupled.
“Well, guess we’re all finished up here,” Chip announced jauntily. He laid a familiar hand on the not-so-small of Kimberly’s back, guided her to the door. “Find your way out, Kim?”
“Oh, yeah. No problem.”
“See you in a couple of weeks, then.”
“Thanks so much for all your, uh, advice,” she said, inept actress playing along with the transparent charade. With a shifty glance at Marshall she added, in redundant afterthought, “Real nice to meetcha, Dr. Quinn.”
“Same here.”
Her footsteps receded down the hall. The two professors settled into swivel chairs at their respective desks set at opposite ends of the small room.
“Bright girl,” Chip felt impelled to remark.
“I’m sure.”
“Interesting study she’s doing. It’s an integrative model of collegiate friendship and dating practices.”
And teacher balling, Marshall thought but said only, “Really.”
“Of course, it’s amateurish stuff. Undergraduate level. But she’s got potential.”
For whatever reason, Chip (absurd name for a man his age—any age—but it was the one he insisted on: “Call me Chip”) persisted in the elaborate masquerade of innocence, the dedicated mentor tirelessly giving of himself, shaping, molding, and opening young minds (not to speak of bodies, with those hot, nimble hands of his). Marshall, unwilling to buy in to it tonight, supply the reinforcement he seemed to need, made a show of going through a stack of papers on his desk. Among them were the notes for an article he’d intended to write this summer, its topic all but forgotten, lost in the chaotic swirl of events unanticipated, unforeseen. Looking at them now, those puzzling hieroglyphs from a distant season in his life, he was reminded for a moment of that time when he had routinely juggled the challenges of work, marriage, family, fatherhood. An exemplary citizen, armored in worthy ambition and moral rectitude, immunized to the temptations of easy classroom peccadilloes (opportunities of which were plentiful enough) by an inherent sense of fidelity and commitment. Or maybe it was merely a constitutional need for order. Or drilled-in habit. And what had it all come to? Maybe the Chips of this corrupt world, duplicitous seizers of the day, had the right idea after all. Maybe all along he was the one played the fool.
This particular Chip, after a thoughtful pause, ventured, “Look, Marsh, I know your life’s a mess right now, and the last thing I want to do is intrude, but if there’s anything I can do, anything at all…” trailing into a silence that bespoke its own earnestness.
Marshall lifted his gaze from the scribbled notes, unintelligible to him now anyway. “I appreciate that,” he said, and in an odd way he did too, for it seemed to be a genuine invitation to open up
, share his demons. Curious, coming from this aging, crotch-driven girlizer (look at him there: thinning hair discreetly tinted and artfully arranged over a widening tract of forehead; once boyish face thickening under the weight of years; perceptible sag of flesh beneath the chin; softening pouch of tummy—talk about pitiable!). But though neither quite approved of the other, their three years of shared space had gradually evolved from accommodation to tolerance to slender bond, approaching even an unlikely friendship.
“How about you?” Chip asked him.
“What do you mean?”
“How are you holding up?”
“Well enough.”
“Lori?”
“She’s another story.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
Marshall shrugged.
“Police have any leads?”
“Police,” Marshall sneered. “Police are worthless. Let me give you a word of advice: if anything like this ever happens to you, forget the police.”
“What about a private investigator?”
“Couldn’t afford one.”
“Have you been able to, uh, offer a reward?”
“Same problem. No way could I raise the kind of money that would interest a kidnapper. Or change the habits of a pedophile.”
“Jesus, that’s a terrible thought.”
“Don’t I know.”
He hesitated an instant, Chip, his face working through a battery of expressions, all of them pained, the turmoil of some intense inner conflict. “You know,” he said, “I’ve got a little put away. I could loan you some. Wouldn’t be much.”
“That’s very generous of you, but I doubt it would make a difference.”
“Maybe some other faculty would kick in. I could ask around.”
“Take up a collection, you mean?” Marshall said in a flare of bitterness. “Departmental fund-raisers? Faculty car wash?”
“Just trying to help, Marsh.”
Probably true. Chip was one of those sociologists who fancied himself a crypto-therapist, ready with the wise counsel and sympathetic ear, a pose so much a part of his seduction strategy it was worn like a second skin. And, strangely, Marshall found he was seduced by it now. “The only wisp of hope I have left,” he said, “turns on a license plate and a bumper sticker I can’t for the life of me remember,” and he went on to spill out the story of the incident on the highway.
When it was finished, Chip stroked his prow of a jaw and, choosing his words cautiously, said, “You’re certain this, uh, encounter was not, well, somebody’s idea of a malicious joke?”
“Godammit, it was no joke!” Marshall exploded. “I saw the look on that woman’s face! I was there!” But what the fuck was he doing here, confiding in this oaf? The measure of his lonely desperation.
Chip put up a placatory palm. “Okay, okay. I’m not the villain here, Marsh.”
“I understand that. It’s just that no one seems to want to believe me. Or do a goddam thing.”
“You were able to get only one number off the plate?”
“Two, I think.”
“But not enough for the police to trace the car?”
“So they say.”
“Okay, let’s talk about the bumper sticker. You say there was some kind of symbol on it. Any ideas at all? Associations?”
“None I can recall. If I could just see it again, or even one close to it, something might come back to me.”
“How about the library?”
“Library?”
“Everything can be found in the library,” Chip declared, voice deepened to pedantic pitch. “That’s what I always tell my students. Who knows? Maybe there’s a listing of company logos or slogans somewhere. Listing, pamphlet, book—whatever. Can’t hurt to look.”
“It might work,” Marshall conceded, wondering why it had never occurred to him.
“Worth a try.”
“You may be right. I’ll go over there in the morning.”
“Don’t bother. Our library’s closed on weekends. Between-term hours, austerity and all that. You remember how it goes.”
“No, I don’t remember,” Marshall said, crestfallen, stalled again.
“Listen, you’ve got your hands full right now, and I’ve got nothing but time. Let me poke around a little, see what I can turn up in the way of a reference source. Get to it first thing Monday.”
“You’d do that?”
“What’s a cellie for?” Chip said, arms outspread and with a grin of such charming insouciance Marshall could see how the unsuspecting coeds were snared. A quick glance at his watch erased the grin. “Uh-oh. Running late. Gonna have some heavy explaining to do.”
“You might try the truth.”
Chip gave him the look of a mischievous child caught with his hand in the jam jar.
“Say you were with me,” Marshall clarified.
“There’s an idea.”
Now a look of quiet collusion passed between them. Simultaneously they came to their feet. “Great talking with you again,” Chip said, making hurriedly for the door. “I’ll be in touch on the library business.”
“Chip?”
“Yes?”
“Sorry about that little outburst of mine. It was nothing personal.”
“Hey, I understand perfectly. Don’t give it another thought.”
He did, though, in the stillness of the moment that followed his office mate’s hasty departure, a reflection not so much on the flash of temper as the whole purgative conversation and the scrap of hope Chip’s suggestion had inspired. Last person you’d expect it from, but help, like hope, was where you found it. Nail down the maddeningly elusive bumper sticker and maybe, just maybe, the rest of the puzzle pieces would fall into place: logo to company to car to driver to woman, and from there to what he knew they had to know. Pry it out of them some way, he thought grimly, by some kind of force, if it came to that.
Driving home, Marshall felt restless, charged, impatient to get on with it. He wasn’t about to wait for Chip, who, well intentioned or not, could be sidetracked by a passing glimpse of girlish thigh. No, tomorrow he’d go directly to the local public library and scour its stacks, his natural province, the scholar detective back on familiar turf. Small and sparsely stocked, it was still a place to begin. And news other than utterly bleak to impart to his wife tonight. Not exactly the sort he’d hoped to bring, but better than nothing.
He found her slumped in a living room chair. Escaped into a drugged sleep. Gently, solicitously, but with no small share of his own charge irretrievably lost, Marshall led her off to bed, steering her like the night walker she had become.
An hour or so after Buck and Waz left the Norseman Lounge, the crowd around Jimmie began to thin out, and with all the orders carefully recorded and tallied, he tucked his notebook in a hip pocket and leaned back on the bar stool, not a little pleased with himself. Tally pushing up near a hundred and a half already, and another full week yet to go. Wait till he dropped them numbers on Dingo. Just wait. In his mind he could see it now: come struttin’ up to him, whip out his book, run his eyes down the columns and say, real casual-like, real cool, like it was baby food, what he done, “Look like we’ll be needin’ three hundred them Rolies” (for the total would surely be that, this time next week, Rolies being the hot commodity they were and him being the cool mover he was). Of course, it was easy for Jimmie to picture himself strutting, since he was a man capable of a strut lying down, strutted in his sleep. Not so easy to get a fix on in his head was the import of an altogether unexpected and vaguely disturbing message intruding on this sunny vision and delivered just that moment by Nick, who waddled over, swiped a rag nasty as his apron across the bar, bent in close and in a growly guttural voice, whole of Hellas in it, said, “Dingo want talk to you.”
“Dingo’s here?” said a thoroughly baffled Jimmie. Though in the past they’d done some business with The Greek, supplying him cheap booze to hash his stock, that was the extent of Dingo’s connection with the Norseman Lounge.
Not his kind of place.
“Out back.”
“Fuck’s he doin’ here?”
Nick shrugged.
“He say when?”
“Say right now.” The tar black eyes angled off to the left, fell on Lester, two stools down. “That one too.”
“Lester? He wants to talk to him?”
“That what he say.”
“Uh-oh.”
Nick lumbered away, distancing himself from whatever was going on here.
Jimmie moved his head sadly, side to side. But then, optionless, he switched on his greeter smile, swiveled about on the stool, and said, “Yo, Lester, how they goin’ down, boy?”
Lester, having exhausted the tolerance of everyone around him with his limitless store of bizarre adventures, sat by himself, blinking at his fuzzy image in the mirror behind the bar. Surprised and flattered by a crumb of attention from anyone so prominent as Jimmie, he turned to him, a kind of stiff, slow-motion wheeling of head and neck and chubby shoulders, and slurred, “Slicker’n cat shit, Jimmie. That’s how.”
His eyes seemed to be lit by a low-banked fire deep within that vacant skull. A tiny ball of spittle perched on the corner of his underlip, poised to trickle onto his chin. Plainly sozzled. Which was maybe for the best, was Jimmie’s consoling thought, if what was going to happen next was what he feared might happen. He said, counterfeit hearty, “Good times rollin’, huh.”
“Hey, Friday’s honk-a-doodle-doo night.”
“That’s the ticket. Listen, Lester, got a fella wants to meet you.”
“Me? Meet me?”
“Am I lyin’?”
“Who’d that be?”
“He’s my supplier. Real important dude, stand-up guy. You’ll like him. He’s right out back.”
“Yeah, sure, that’d be good, soon’s I finish my doctor here,” Lester said affably, referencing the current shot and beer in front of him, latest in a night-long procession of them.
“That’s okay, man. It’ll keep.”
Jimmie slipped off his stool and came over and wrapped an arm around Lester’s shoulders. He steered him to the back door, and with a waiterly flourish ushered him through it, out into a deserted alley behind the paint-blistered frame building. A pair of lidless trash cans, overflowing with assorted muck and haloed with flies, bracketed the door. Jimmie pulled it shut, hushing the worst of the racket from inside the bar. The light shift of early evening cast a lovely rosy glow over the alley and seemed to pinken the face of a man leaning nonchalantly against the fender of a black Lincoln Town Car parked a few yards away. Seeing him, Jimmie flashed his smile, guided Lester over, and said, “Lester Caulkins, want you to shake hands with Odell DeCruz.”