Harbor Nights

by Rick Polad

  “How did it happen, Stosh?”

  He didn’t seem surprised. It was like he had been waiting for me to ask. He took another sip of his beer and answered, “Drunk driver, young kid.”

  “What happened to the kid?”

  “Physically or legally?”

  “Both.” I raised my eyes and met his. His look was hard and official. It had to be. So did mine. Because just behind that hardness was a lot of pain that may not have stopped had it gotten started.

  He looked down and sighed. “Physically, same old story. The impact must have thrown him sideways. There was a bump on the left temple and a bruised left shoulder. The kid at least had enough sense to put on his seat belt.”

  “Good for him.”

  Stosh looked back at me and there was a warning in his look. He continued. “Legally, he was arrested and charged with DUI and manslaughter, two counts. He made bond. Case comes up next month. Seems pretty open and closed. But he’s got some big-bucks lawyer.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “Where did it happen?”

  He pursed his lips and took a deep breath. “Well, you know your dad loved that drive along Sheridan Road. They had been up at the Highland Park Country Club for some political shindig. Instead of going back to the highway, he took Sheridan. Happened at the bend around West Park. Evidently the kid came up on him from behind and tried to pass. They hit the bend side by side and the kid lost it. Your dad went almost straight over the edge and down into the ravine. The kid made it halfway around the curve to the left, spun and ended up facing the wrong way with the left side of the car against a tree.”

  “Rich kid?”

  He swirled what was left of his ginger ale in the bottom of the glass. “Nope. Not even close. Lives in a dump on Armitage. Has had ten jobs in the last four years.”

  “Then where did the lawyer come from?”

  “Don’t know yet. The kid wouldn’t say. We’re looking into it but we’ve got to be careful about rights and it’s not illegal to have expensive attorneys.”

  “No, just a little strange. It would be nice to know who’s footing the bill.”

  “Sure would.”

  “Can’t you do anything?”

  “We’re doing everything we can, Spence. I have a list of officers and detectives as long as your arm who volunteered to put in off-duty time to tail the kid, but that could open a can of worms. Last thing we want is a harassment charge. We did stake out his apartment. He never showed. Landlord said the kid stiffed him out of the last month’s rent. We’ll see if he shows for court.”

  “Any record?”

  “None. Kid’s clean. Not even a parking ticket.”

  “What about the car?”

  “Registered to the kid. It was towed to a yard up on 41. It’s still there.”

  I let the facts roll around and bounce off of each other. I liked things to make sense. This didn’t. Stosh was watching the balls roll.

  “Leave it alone, Spence.”

  I took a deep breath. “It seems a little strange.”

  “I know it does. But we’re doing all we can. It’s probably just a case of wrong place at the wrong time. And the kid is probably one of the thousands who hides in the cracks of society.”

  “And who has a high-profile attorney.”

  “I know. There are things that don’t make sense. But that’s only because we don’t have all the facts. From the right point of view it will make perfect sense. We just don’t have that point of view and the kid wasn’t talking. And he doesn’t have to. He can plead guilty and get off with a slap on the wrist for a first-time offense. Or the big-bucks lawyer may find a loophole and the kid’ll walk.” He shrugged his big shoulders. “It may be as simple as rich girl and poor boy fall in love and daddy is helping to cover it up.”

  I thought some more. “Was Dad involved in anything big?”

  I got another hard look that softened just a little. Stosh put his hand on my arm and said, “Leave it alone, Spence. We’ll do our job. If there’s something there, we’ll find it.”

  I nodded. But I also knew how the system worked—with both hands tied behind its back.

  The bartender asked if we wanted refills. We both declined. It was almost ten and, except for a couple at the table in the corner, the place was empty.

  “You wanna tell me the kid’s name?”

  “Nope. That doesn’t seem in line with my previous advice.”

  “It’s public record.”

  Stosh nodded his head. “Yup. And if you really want it, go find it. But I’m not giving it to you.”

  I wasn’t sure if I did, or, if I did, what my reasons were.

  We talked about the Cubs for a few minutes, Stosh emptied his glass, and I put thirty bucks on the bar. He started to protest and then saw the look in my eyes. Twenty years ago, Stanley Powolski had saved my Dad’s life and ever since, Dad had picked up the tab. Stosh’s nod said more than words ever could have. We stood up and shook hands.

  As I turned to go, Stosh put his hand on my shoulder and said, “You know, there’s always a spot on the force for you, if you want it.”

  I smiled. “Thanks, Stosh. But I pretty much decided that I’d get a P.I. license and see how that goes. I think I still will.”

  “Well, whatever you do, you know I’m behind you. If there’s anything you need—”

  I smiled. “I’ll be sure to ask.”

  At twenty-eight I was a big boy and thought I could take care of myself. But I was not above asking for help if I needed it, and I knew if I asked it would be there. I told him I’d be in touch.

  Chapter 2

  Six months later I had my license. The kid plea-bargained and was given probation. I looked up his name, but I didn’t go to the trial. I was angry, but more so at life in general than at the kid. It just wasn’t fair. I wondered how I’d act if I ran into him. I always thought I’d kill whoever harmed my family. And up close, I may have done something stupid. From afar I wasn’t quite as angry as I may have been in person, so I stayed away. But the name Robert Dayton would forever be etched in my memory.

  I’d rented a puny office with an adjacent room that I could pretend was an apartment on the top floor of an old three-story building on the south side. It was about as far from the old neighborhood as I could get and still be in the city, but it was only a couple of miles from the station. I’d eagerly hung up a little sign that said: “Spencer Manning, Private Detective” and hung my diploma up on the wall. I figured it would be a fun and easy way to make a living. So far it wasn’t much of anything, except maybe bad for my health. I was getting fat and lazy sleeping behind that desk every day. If this kept up much longer, I’d be like one of those old walruses that can barely get off the rocks and back in the water.

  My only visitor had been a friend who worked for Motorola who gave me a gift of a new-model pager, saying no self-respecting P.I. would be caught without one.

  My stomach suddenly rumbled and I realized I was hungry. I locked the office and walked down the hall and out the back door. I stood on the porch, wiped a few beads of sweat off my forehead and watched as a lonely, hot wind blew a single sheet of newspaper up against a rickety old fence. It was the third week of June and, as I walked down the stairs, I let out a sigh as I remembered how hot and muggy Chicago summers could be. So far, this one was even hotter than normal and it had been a month since we’d had any rain.

  Cutting across the back yards, I walked around to the other side of the block and opened the door of Beef’s Diner. I had discovered it just a week ago on one of my strolls around the neighborhood. When Beef found out I had been in the army, he’d started giving me a cut rate on meals. I’d told him it wasn’t necessary but he had insisted. He’d been a sergeant in Viet Nam and picked up his name there. Seems the officers in his outfit had told the guys that if they had a beef they could take it up with the sarge. No one ever did. I wouldn’t have either. Beef was built like a bulldozer an
d looked like he had the personality to match. A jagged scar stood out like a medal someone had pinned on his left cheek. His arms were solid muscle and his left forearm sported a tattoo of a flagpole. No flag, just the pole. He said the artist had a heart attack and died before he got to the flag and Beef had decided to leave it as is.

  His hair was almost white and cut in a crewcut that had probably been his cut of choice since birth. It topped his tough-as-nails exterior. But underneath there was a heart of gold. He always had something cheerful to say and we passed the time telling war stories. All the interesting ones were his. And he always asked how business was. Unfortunately, he always got the same answer. I waved at Maria, who was busy in the kitchen working on the dinner crowd, and started toward my usual booth.

  “Hey, Mister Detective.”

  “Hi, Beef. What’s the special tonight?”

  He grinned at me as he set down a couple of plates of meatloaf on the counter and said, “The special is, I got a case for you.”

  As I turned and walked back to the counter, I gave him a blank stare and tried to figure out if he was serious or had been at the rum again.

  He set down a couple of beers and said, “You didn’t get busy all of a sudden, did you?”

  “Not since lunch, no. What do you mean, a case?”

  He threw his hands up in the air and said, “A case, a job, something to do besides dust your desk with your legs.”

  “What happened? Somebody finally complain about your cooking and want to find out what this stuff really is?”

  “Maybe that’s why you’re about as successful as the Cubs. You put out a sign that says ‘Private Detective’ but you really want to be a comedian. Last booth on the left. Go see what the young lady wants. I told her I knew this hotshot who was put on the earth for the sole purpose of solving her problem. Go on, I gotta close the joint in two hours.”

  A case. A real case. And a young lady at that. Of course, I had always pictured her walking in my door—long shapely legs, showing just enough under a tight black dress to let you know they were attached to more woman than any man would ever be able to handle. I guessed I could change the scenario to Beef’s Diner. I peered eagerly down the row to the last booth on the left but there was nobody there.

  My hopes dropped back to the ground with a thud and I turned back to the counter. “Well, that figures, she’s gone.”

  “What do you mean, she’s gone? She’d better not be!”

  I was starting to get angry. I didn’t mind losing a client I never had as much as I minded being the butt of some joke. “There’s nobody there, Beef. And it’s not very funny.”

  He looked down the row and smiled. “Oh, I see. She’s there. Just walk down there and see for yourself.”

  I shrugged and walked down the aisle. He was right. She was there, but she didn’t have the long legs or the tight dress. What she did have was an adult-sized piece of chocolate cake and she was shoveling it in faster than I would have thought possible. And now I knew why I thought no one was there. She couldn’t have been more than four or five years old and didn’t come within a foot of the top of the high-backed booth.

  Beef had come up behind me and he introduced us. “Marty, this is Mr. Manning. He’s going to help us find your daddy. P.I., this is my niece, Marty.”

  She stopped eating long enough to give me a muffled “Hi” and then went back to the cake. She seemed much more interested in it than in finding her daddy. But then I’d tasted Maria’s chocolate cake and the cake was right there in front of her. Hard to ignore. Marty was a cute little thing. Long black hair framed a thin face with green eyes, a slightly upturned nose, and a mouth covered with chocolate. I told her it was nice to meet her and then noticed a Raggedy Ann doll sitting next to her on the bench with a white paper napkin spread across its lap.

  “Who’s your friend there, Marty?”

  “That’s Ann.” She didn’t take her eyes off the cake.

  “She looks hungry. Did your daddy give her to you?”

  “No. Uncle Ronny did.”

  I glanced over at Beef and saw the puzzled look on his face. I guessed this Uncle Ronny was a new addition to the family.

  “Well, you see she gets something to eat, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I knew that was a lie. She wasn’t about to share that cake with anybody. I took Beef’s arm and steered him back toward the counter.

  “So, you gonna take the case, P.I.?”

  “How about you tell me what the case is first? Her father is missing?”

  “More like we don’t know who the father is.”

  “Her mother is your sister?”

  “Was. She died six months ago.” He pursed his lips and took a deep breath. “And to answer your next question, she wouldn’t tell me who the father was.”

  “They weren’t married?”

  “They weren’t married. But it’s not what you think. She wasn’t that kind of girl.”

  “I hadn’t considered what kind of girl she was, Beef.”

  “Hey! How about a refill!” Down at the end of the counter, an old guy with a two-day growth of stubble held up his cup.

  “Coming right up, Pops.” Beef walked behind the counter and picked up the coffee pot. “I’m closing at eight,” he said to me. “How about I get Marty settled with Maria and then come up to your hole in the wall?”

  “Okay.” I ate, put seven bucks on the counter, and headed back to the office. I wasn’t crazy about the case. Missing persons wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, but I felt I didn’t have the right to be choosy. Things were a little slow and I had rent to pay.

  Chapter 3

  I unlocked my door, wondering if I’d ever get a real case so I’d have to use the old marker-in-the-door trick like I’d read about in the mystery novels. What was left of the sun left a sickly yellow pall over the few pieces of old wooden furniture that had come with the place, left behind by a tenant who didn’t think them worth the trouble of hauling to the next address. If this worked out, I’d have to spend some of my inheritance and buy some real furniture. But, for the moment, I didn’t want any of that money.

  I was about to make the place a little more presentable when something about the room suddenly struck me as odd. A quick glance around showed me what it was. I must have noticed the blinking red light on the answering machine out of the corner of my eye. It was only the second message I’d had and the first one didn’t count; that was me checking the machine and what I’d said couldn’t be repeated. I rewound the tape and waited anxiously.

  When I heard the gentle voice, I sighed and shook my head. It was Aunt Rose. Another great expectation ground into dust. She said she was still waiting to see me and then went on to say she had run into Kathleen at the grocery store. Kathleen was one of the memories up in Door County I wanted to avoid, and the third reason I had joined the army. And now it seemed she was coming to Chicago to exhibit her paintings. Of course, Aunt Rose, who firmly believed I should have married Kathleen instead of joining the army, had given her my phone number and told her I’d love to see her. I could always count on Aunt Rose.

  Kathleen Johnson was a beautiful, talented, sometimes addle-brained woman whom I had fallen head-over-heels for the first summer I was interested in that sort of thing. We had been spending summers up in Door and staying in Aunt Rose’s inn for as long as I could remember. But, until the year I was fourteen, every summer had been spent down by the docks, out on a sailboat, or on one of the island beaches reading Mickey Spillane, Raymond Chandler, and Arthur Conan Doyle in the hot sun. Then, in June of one fateful summer, I had met Kathleen on my way to the boat and had spent the next month dreaming about her long blond hair and bright blue eyes and following her around with about as much control over my destiny as a dog’s tail.

  She was almost a year older than me and at first wanted nothing to do with me. But I was persistent and, by the end of the next summer, she had fallen in love with me too. We were inseparable and, as the y
ears went by, most everyone assumed we’d get married one day, especially Aunt Rose. Dad had laughed and said it was just puppy love. He said I’d go off to college and find out what love really was. Then I’d get married and find out once more; that’s when Mom hit him. I’m not saying there weren’t other girls in my life, but both Kathleen and I finished college without having found anyone else and the next year I asked her to marry me.

  It was then that the fighting began. Both of us had tempers which were quick to flare. And the main argument was over where to live. I had always wanted to be a detective and had planned on joining the force in Chicago. She was an artist and never wanted to live anywhere but Door County and she once said that, even if she were in a pine box, she would have found a way to keep herself from being shipped to Chicago. Evidently she was willing to sacrifice me for her art. But then I wasn’t bending much either.

  How had we spent seven years avoiding this issue to which there seemed to be no solution? But that wasn’t true. There was a solution and I found it. I broke off the engagement. Somehow a wonderful relationship spent watching fluffy white clouds and listening to tug whistles had gone south. We still loved each other but that love was interrupted far too often by fits of anger. We were either in each other’s arms or at each other’s throats. And I never knew which was coming next. So I had eventually decided to put myself in a position where I wouldn’t be able to change my mind. I joined the army. But a part of me missed her and had never forgotten her.

  Evidently, neither had Aunt Rose. It was Tuesday and Kathleen wasn’t coming until next Wednesday. Eight days away. I’d have time to take care of Beef’s problem and then run up to Door for a visit to Aunt Rose. I knew I was trying to avoid Kathleen but only because I knew I’d have a hard time saying good-bye if I saw her in person. I loved her—I probably always would. But love should be like a favorite old chair with lumps. If you know where the lumps are, you can settle down in the comfortable spots in between. With Kathleen, the lumps kept moving around.