The Prodigal Girl

by Evan Ronan

  She was only fifteen when she ran away with her much older boyfriend. She never called, never wrote, never emailed ... just vanished. For the longest time, her mother thought she might be dead.

  But then she comes home.

  Her mother is overjoyed. At first. Soon she begins to think something is terribly wrong with her daughter. The fifteen-year-old girl that ran away is gone. A very different person came back.

  A friend of a friend connects the mother with Greg Owen, who agrees to look into things quietly. Little does he know where this case will lead him, or how deadly it could turn out to be.

  THE PRODIGAL GIRL is the third in an exciting new hard-boiled, amateur sleuth series featuring everyman Greg Owen. One of these days he’ll retire … or die trying. In the meantime, Greg will keep fighting for the underdog and righting wrongs where he can.

  The PRODIGAL Girl

  Evan Ronan

  GET A FREE BOOK

  Join the mailing list to get news about my latest releases and upcoming titles and to receive news about special offers on my books. I will respect your privacy, won't spam you, and won't share your email with anyone.

  GET A FREE BOOK

  One

  I knew this bagpiper once.

  He picked up gigs wherever he could, one of his many side hustles. He never turned down an opportunity to play.

  Once a funeral director asked him to do a graveside service for a homeless man. Sad, sad thing. Nobody could locate any family or friends, so it would be a simple service with no attendees other than the priest. The funeral director was a sentimental guy and didn’t want the man planted without any fanfare.

  The bagpiper, never good with directions, got lost on his way to the cemetery. Showing up thirty minutes late, only the grounds crew and diggers were left. They had taken a break from their work to eat lunch. The funeral director was nowhere to be found, the hearse long gone. The grave was still open, mounds of dirt piled up alongside it.

  The bagpiper, feeling awful about missing the service, took out his instrument anyway and warmed it up. The crew said nothing, regarding him like he was crazy, but he decided to play anyway. He couldn’t get the thought of the dead, homeless man out of his head.

  The piper played his heart out. He had planned on only doing a song or two, but the muse was with him and he played for a long time. As he transitioned to Amazing Grace, many members of the grounds crew began to weep as they were so incredibly moved by his music. And he too began to weep, crying for the homeless man because there was no one else there to mourn him. No family, no friends.

  Finally, the bagpiper finished. With a heavy heart, he packed away his instrument, feeling a sad contentment. As he climbed into his car, one of the crew members called out to him.

  “Hey!”

  Still choked up, the bagpiper could not speak so he simply waved.

  The crew member said, “I’ve been putting in septic tanks for twenty years, and that was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard!”

  Two

  I rerack.

  Again.

  Remove the rack, hang it up on the hook on the underside of the table, and get into position at the head spot. I line the cue ball up at an angle and take dead aim at the one ball sitting pretty at the top of the triangle.

  “Ten-ball, huh?” Roy asks.

  “Hence, the ten balls,” I say.

  I scatter the rack. Nothing falls.

  That’s ten-ball for you.

  Most young serious players prefer nine-ball. It’s easier to break, after the break the table is clearer and thus easier to score on (one less ball does make a difference), and you don’t have to call your shots. Most young serious players grew up watching billiards on TV in the 90s and the aughties, so that’s the only game they ever saw the pros play—nine ball.

  Everybody always tells me that 14.1 continuous, better known as straight pool, is making a comeback. Yeah, it’s been making a comeback for the last forty years and still hasn’t reached critical mass. Today’s player has better things to do with their time than attempt to break Willie Mosconi’s ridiculous run of 526 made shots in a row. To do so would require several hours of uninterrupted shooting, and these days, most people don’t get several minutes of uninterrupted anything.

  When did I get so old?

  The kiddies think eight ball is stupid because to get really good at it, one must learn how to play a lot of defense. Safes are not unusual in nine ball but you can’t win without them in eight ball if you’re going up against anybody who knows what the hell they’re doing.

  The young ‘uns usually have never heard of one pocket, and they think bank pool is a waste of time, and they think blackball is some kind of sexual reference.

  “You’re getting old, Greg,” Roy says, as if reading my mind. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Your table,” I say. Coming out of my stance, my back reminds me that I am getting old. I’ve been practicing a lot of late and the muscles and vertebrae of the lumbar spine aren’t too happy about it. I can, at least, still get all the way down into position, but damned if I’m not starting to pay for it.

  Roy easily pockets the one, sets himself up for the two. “You should try Pilates.”

  Here is an almost septuagenarian, who’s never exercised a day in his life, who still smokes, recommending a workout regimen for me.

  “I’ll take it under advisement,” I say. “And need I remind you that ten-ball is a call pocket game?”

  “You needn’t,” he says, then very quickly motions with his cue at the side pocket, where he intends to put the two ball. “But thanks anyway.”

  “You’re most welcome.”

  He pockets the deuce. “How was the Poconos?”

  Last week I took my fourteen-year-old daughter up there for a getaway with her old man. I was amazed Tammy still wanted to go, because it would require missing six days of summer vacation with her besties from around town.

  “Good.” I hold up a forearm. “I got a pink.”

  “I see that, lobster man,” Roy says.

  “You know, Greg,” Bernie calls out from behind the register, “a guy like you really needs to use at least SPF 75.”

  “Under advisement,” I say.

  Roy points at the corner pocket. “Three ball.”

  “Yep.”

  He sinks that one too.

  “So, why out of nowhere, are you playing ten-ball?” Roy asks.

  He knows. Oh, he knows. He’s just baiting me.

  “I’m getting ready to make a run,” I say.

  Roy arches both big, bushy eyebrows and even whistles, which these days is a lost art. “Valley Forge?”

  I nod.

  “Good for you.” He makes a face. “But they only play nine up there.”

  “I know.” I smile. “Ten is a tougher game. It’ll help me get ready for nine.”

  Roy makes another face. “Not so sure about that.”

  Here he goes.

  “Call pocket doesn’t make ten a more difficult game than nine,” Roy says. “It actually hurts you.”

  And here I go.

  “We had a saying in the Marines, the more you sweat in peacetime, the less you bleed in war.”

  Roy ignores that completely. “In nine ball, you can play two or more shots. Try to make one thing but allow for the possibility of knocking something else in. If you’re going to play a nine-ball tournament, you don’t want to go in there locked in with a one shot mindset. That’ll hurt you more than help.”

  “Under advisement,” I say.

  Roy shrugs, comes around the table to line up the four. He can just see it around the eight. He gets into his stance. The four is a duck in the corner. He can’t miss.

  “Where’s Wally?” I ask
.

  He misses.

  I wasn’t even trying to distract him.

  Roy comes out of his stance, shaking his head at the incredibly bad miss. There’s no excuse for it, even with me talking during his shot. The four was a duck in the corner, and Roy didn’t have to go all the way across the table to get to it. He must have been thinking too much about his leave.

  Or he, ahem, yipped it.

  “I yipped it,” he says.

  “Don’t say that.” I shake my head. “That’s like saying shank on the golf course.”

  “Call a spade a spade,” Roy says, taking his seat.

  I actually feel bad for the guy, wondering if this is a sign of his age, wondering if this is the moment where we both realize he’s on the decline with his game. An immensely awkward silence blooms, and I’m tempted to express some kind of sympathy, or make up an excuse as to why he missed a duck in the corner, but I know neither option ends well.

  “So where’s Wally?” I ask.

  Roy and Wally. Wally and Roy. They’re like the Waldorf and Statler of the pool hall. Two old guys with slightly-outdated senses of humor, busting on everybody for everything. They’ve been coming here since the Jurassic Period, back when Pop opened the place. They’re kind of like the uncles I never had, and sometimes never wanted.

  But mostly I love them.

  “He’ll be here,” Roy says absently, like he’s thinking about something else.

  Wally and Roy give new meaning to the game 14.1 continuous, as they’ve been continuously playing it for several decades. They usually start with a game to 200, then switch over to one pocket or bank or nine for a while, then close out with another couple games to 200.

  I wonder if something more than the missed four-ball is bothering Roy. But, you know, we’re guys so we’re not in the business of discussing our feelings.

  I call and pocket the four and work my way methodically through the rack. Amateurs who don’t know any better think pool sharks plan out their entire run all the way to the game-winning shot, but that’s not usually the case. Good shooters think three shots ahead. Usually by the third or fourth shot in a row, even accomplished players will get slightly out of position, which calls for an adjustment to the plan. String enough three-ball stretches together and you can beat Joe Shmoe Off The Street any day of the week.

  “Ten in the corner,” I say.

  Roy isn’t really paying attention.

  The ten rattles its way home in the pocket. It was a long straight shot, my Achilles heel. Give me a cut any day of the week. It’s the straight ones that are the hardest because you:

  a) Rarely get them

  b) And because of a) you even more rarely practice them.

  “Nice shooting,” Roy says on his way to rerack. It’s almost one o’clock on a Saturday, so now I’m really wondering where his partner-in-crime, Wally, is. Usually these guys get started early on the weekend.

  “Thanks.” I smile. “Starting to get my eye back.”

  Roy’s whole body is one loud crack as he bends to collect the triangle and billiard balls. “Getting old is a bitch.”

  “A few guys have told me that.”

  Roy smiles at my sharp wit. “On the long straight ones you gotta focus on the point of impact on the cue ball.”

  “Now where have I heard that before?”

  “Hey, Greg?” Bernie calls out from the register. “Can we talk for a moment?”

  “Duty calls,” I say. “Don’t stand on ceremony, if you want to go ahead and break.”

  Roy sits along the wall. “I’ll wait.”

  The guy is not himself and I’m really starting to get nervous. He’s no spring chicken, so I’m wondering if he just got some bad medical news. But again, we’re guys and so I’m supposed to wait for him to tell me what’s wrong.

  I amble up to the counter, where the once-freeloader Bernie sits perched on a high chair. Next to the register, he’s got his laptop open. Bernie is still hard at work on the Great American Novel. He was supposed to start querying agents last summer. But then this happened, and that happened, and then Bernie realized the book wasn’t really finished, and then I stopped actively listening to his excuses so now I couldn’t tell you why it’s not done yet.

  Because he’s been dragging his feet, I figure the fifty bucks I bet on him to finish this book and sell fifty copies is lost money at this point.

  “What’s up, Bernie?” I ask.

  “You know, Greg, I’ve been working here for a while now.”

  “Wonders never do cease.”

  He actually laughs. Bernie is starting to get the humor around here.

  One of these days I’ll make a man out of him.

  Bernie says, “At first I thought this was just, you know, kind of a stop along the way.”

  “The way where?”

  His eyes drift over to the computer, which casts an almost ominous glow against his face. “Somewhere else.”

  Jesus. I go away for a week and everybody becomes depressed. What is going on in here?

  “Bernie,” I say, “you are going to finish the damned book and you are going to query agents and if nobody wants it, then you are going to publish it yourself, alright? Don’t give up on your dreams. Not ever. That’s no life you want to live.”

  I’m good at giving wonderful advice. I’m mediocre at following it.

  Bernie sighs. “The book is … it just sucks, Greg. I can’t make it into what I want it to be. I don’t—I don’t have the talent.”

  Oh boy.

  “The first time you tried to walk, were you able to?” I ask.

  Bernie actually thinks about it. “I don’t remember the first time I tried to walk.”

  Come on, Bernie, stick with me. “The first time you … what sports did you play?”

  “I didn’t play any sports.”

  Is he making this hard on purpose? Is this all part of some gag between Roy, Wally, and Bernie to try and bring me down after my vacation?

  “The first time you—”

  He holds up a hand. “I get it, Greg. I’m not an idiot.”

  “Okay, then you know that the first book won’t be your best, and that you’ll only continue to get better the more you write.”

  Bernie nods, looks away. “Anyway, I was thinking about my career some more.”

  Career?

  Bernie?

  “Were you?”

  He nods. “I’m trying to picture myself in six months, and in a year, and then again in three years. I’m wondering what my path is here, at the pool hall.”

  Path?

  Pool hall?

  “Bernie—”

  “I’ve done a good job. I started that new tournament and have brought in some money. I was wondering if you could make me a manager, and give me some skin in the game?”

  Three

  There’s hardly enough skin in the game for me at the pool hall, never mind Bernie, who could flake out at any minute.

  I get a temporary reprieve from having to tell Bernie the cold, hard truth, when a black woman enters the hall. We’re in the middle of a heat wave, but she’s wearing a spring jacket that’s zipped up to her neck. She’s got on a baseball cap and is sporting very large, dark sunglasses that cover half her face. I get the feeling I’ve seen her somewhere, but can’t place her.

  Using my Spidey-sense, I already know she’s not here to play pool.

  She gives the place the once-over, then spots me at the register. Without missing a beat, she starts coming over. The lady is as tall as me. I decide to meet her halfway.

  “Can I—” I begin.

  “Are you Greg Owen?” she says at the same time.

  I smile. “I try to be.”

  She doesn’t know what to make of my wit, or lack thereof. “A friend recommended you.”

  Uh-oh.

  If she needs my help, things have gotten pretty bad for her. I’m usually the last resort, when you’ve already exhausted Options A through Y.

  “Then I
’ll have to talk to your friend,” I say. “Don’t want him or her setting the bar that high.”

  She still doesn’t know what to make of my wit. Or lack thereof.

  “Is there somewhere we could speak in private?” she asks.

  “Sure,” I say, already dreading the conversation.

  Once upon a time, I got my PI license. All I ever wanted to do was open a security firm, then hire ex-cops and ex-soldiers to do the actual work. That never happened, along with the million other things I almost did but didn’t. The PI license has brought me nothing but trouble. Though I’ve been happy to help a couple friends out the last few years, I’m not really looking to be a PI anymore.

  So tell me, Greg, why you paid to have your license renewed a couple months ago?

  Because I’m a walking contradiction.

  “Come on back into my office,” I say.

  “Okay,” she says a bit nervously.

  As we head back, Bernie catches my eye. I can tell by the expression on his face that he knows who this woman is, so all the more reason that I should know too. I rack my brain but other than that annoying feeling of vague recognition, I don’t get anywhere. We pass through the pool hall, I lead her down the short corridor, then open the door to my office. I cleaned it out last month, but the Gremlins must have come through while I was on vacation so it looks like Rome after Nero set fire to it.

  Too soon?

  The woman removes her ball cap and her sunglasses and the sense of recognition becomes even more acute, but I still can’t place her. She’s very pretty, with big delicious eyes and dark flawless skin, and I get the sense she’s very attractive under that jacket too, but these days I don’t know if noticing these things about a woman at first blush is sexist or not. Am I supposed to wait to notice these things only after I’ve noticed and admired her personality, intelligence, and manner?

  I don’t know.

  Bottom line, she’s attractive.

  I sense this is a closed door conversation, so I aptly close the door and take my seat behind the desk.