Tell me I got it wrong. Please.
At some time, around six in the morning—the darkness was starting to dissolve—I stopped crying. I wasn’t aware I had begun, but my pillow was wet. I took a deep, shuddering breath and something amazing happened. The sadness and feeling of powerlessness disappeared and were replaced by a knot of anger. Sheer rage was lodged between my ribs and I knew nothing would get rid of it—nothing except finding a man whose name I didn’t know, whose appearance was a mystery. A man about whom I knew nothing, except that he lived somewhere in the city and he was Vanessa’s father.
I needed to tell him a few things.
I went to school, though I didn’t feel like it. I was exhausted, physically and emotionally. There was nothing I could say to Vanessa, either. I knew it instinctively. If I tried to broach the subject, she’d clam up. God knows she clammed up even when the conversation wasn’t threatening.
I tried to keep up my spirits, if only for her sake, to offer a veneer of normality. The hardest part was resurrecting a sense of humor that felt dead within me. But that was the Calma persona now, so I worked at it throughout the day. Luckily, most of the time I was fending off taunts from assorted dropkicks, so I was able to indulge in the kind of barbed humor that was second nature to me anyway.
Examples?
“Hey, Calma. If I get you a frying pan, will you bash the principal?”
“Beat it, Jamie.”
Okay, so I wasn’t in the greatest form.
During the morning break, I decided that moping around, trying to dredge up a personality, was not the way to go. I needed action. So I went to the office and borrowed their Yellow Pages. It took some finding, but eventually I got the number of the Office of Births, Deaths, and Marriages at the Department of Justice. Students can’t make phone calls from the school office—not unless we have written permission from the principal, both assistant principals, and the director of education, and are in receipt of a decree in Latin signed by the Pope—so I got some change and went to the public phone across the road.
Students are not supposed to use that either, because we’re not allowed to leave the school grounds unless we have written permission from the principal.
I dialed the number and a bored voice told me I had reached the Office of Births, Deaths, and Marriages, that it was a good morning, that her name was Julie, and that she was prepared to help me. As it turned out, she got at least one of those things wrong. I started the conversation brightly enough, mind.
“G’day, Julie,” I said. “I am hoping you can help me. I’m trying to track down the name of a person. The only information I’ve got is that he has a daughter, whose name I could give you, but it probably wouldn’t help because she has taken on her mother’s maiden name, since the guy I’m looking for divorced her mother.”
“I beg your pardon?”
I was aware I hadn’t explained very well, so I tried another tack.
“Do you keep records of divorces?”
“Certainly not,” said Julie, in a tone of voice usually reserved for responses to dirty phone calls.
“How about birth certificates?” It occurred to me that, knowing Vanessa’s birth date, I might be able to track down a copy of her certificate, and this would lead to the name of her father.
“Well, yes. That’s why we are called the Office of Births, Deaths, and Marriages.”
“Excellent,” I replied. “Tell me, Julie, are these birth certificates available for public scrutiny?”
“No.”
“Would you care to clarify that?”
“You want me to clarify the word no?”
“If you’re capable. You see, Julie, the word no seems to imply that your office is merely a repository of information. It suggests filing cabinets full of dusty documents no one is allowed to see. Why bother even having a phone number? Why bother having a receptionist, come to that, unless your only function is to stonewall inquiries?”
There was a sharp intake of breath. I got the impression I hadn’t made a new friend here. When she spoke again, the earpiece frosted over and a chilly mist numbed my ear.
“Access to birth certificates is only available for the person named on the certificate or, under certain circumstances, members of the immediate family. Are you immediate family?”
“Not in the limited technical sense.”
“Is there anything else I can be of assistance with?”
“I find that inconceivable. Thank you. It’s been a rare pleasure and privilege chatting with you, Julie. Have a nice day.”
Okay, so I might have handled the whole process better. I had been entertaining images of going into a record office and sorting through ledgers while some rosy-cheeked old biddy offered me cups of tea and assorted chocolate cookies. That was the way it worked in detective books. Clearly, real life wasn’t so easy.
I wasn’t giving up, mind. When the going gets tough, old Calma digs deep. I walked back to the school, thinking furiously. I was so lost in my own world that I wasn’t aware of Jamie Gallagher when he fell in beside me.
“Hey, Calma. I’m on the Year Ten fund-raising committee. For a gold coin donation, I could give your head a wash and full wax. Or do you think that’s robbery? What do you say?”
I stopped and stared at him. Now, Jamie’s face could not, under most circumstances, be termed a source of inspiration. Perspiration, possibly. Desperation, probably. But an idea flashed into my mind. It was simple. It was brilliant. It would work.
Maybe.
And all I needed to do was manipulate Jamie Gallagher into behaving like a dickhead. A bit like asking a dog to bark, or a fish to swim, or a receptionist to be unhelpful.
“Jamie,” I said pleasantly, “you are, without doubt, a loathsome, suppurating pimple on the backside of humanity.”
“Oh, yeah?” he sneered.
“Indeed,” I replied. “I have the utmost confidence that, faced with the simplest challenge to your intelligence and enterprise, you would fail spectacularly. In fact, I’d put money on it.”
“Oh, yeah?” he sneered, but I got the impression I’d lost him completely. He knew he was being insulted but wasn’t sure how.
“For example,” I said. “I’d be willing to bet ten dollars you couldn’t do something really simple, something any idiot could do.”
“Oh, yeah? Like what?” He obviously felt relieved to be back on board the conversation.
I shrugged.
“Oh, I don’t know.” I pretended to give it thought. “All right,” I continued. “How about this? I’ll bet you ten bucks you can’t get Miss Moil to leave her office at lunchtime.”
Miss Moil was the assistant principal and in charge of scheduling and student records. She was a nice old stick, but one of those people who doesn’t have a life outside work. You got the impression she was chained to her desk, and the only way she’d leave the school would be in a pine box. She should have retired some time in the 1970s but still hung around like a stubborn cobweb. I got along well with her because, despite the air of decrepitude, she had a dry sense of humor.
“That’s easy,” said Jamie.
“Prove it,” I said.
“I just have to get her out of her office?” His face was furrowed while he looked for the catch. “And you’ll give me ten bucks?”
“Okay,” I said. “If you think that’s too easy, let’s make it more interesting. You have to get her to leave not just her office but the administration building. And you have to do it at exactly twelve-thirty. If you can, I’ll give you ten bucks. In fact, if you fail, you don’t have to pay me anything. Ten bucks against nothing, that’s the bet.”
“If I don’t get her out the building at twelve-thirty, I won’t owe you nothing, but if I do, you’ll give me ten bucks?”
“Come on, Jamie. This isn’t quantum physics. Deal or not?”
“Deal.”
I tell you. Sometimes it’s too easy.
Miss Moil gave me a big grin when I entered h
er office at 12:25 exactly. I was relieved to see she was alone.
“Calma Harrison! How are you, dear?”
“Good, Miss Moil. How are you?”
“Can’t complain. Wouldn’t do me much good, anyway. No one listens. Now, what can I do for you?”
She was sitting in front of her computer. She was always sitting in front of her computer.
“Oh, my mum wanted me to give you another contact number. She’s got a new cell and thought the school might want it, in case of an emergency.”
“Excellent. We’re always keen to update our database. Sometimes we have terrible trouble tracking people down.”
She tapped a few keys on her computer and brought up a window with a user name and password box. A few moments later she was into student records. I peered over her shoulder as she entered the first four letters of my last name into a search box. A window appeared with my name in the top left corner. All my details were there: address, date of birth, contact details. Miss Moil clicked the cursor on the box next to the Fridge’s name.
“Right, dear,” she said. “And the number?”
Then the door burst open and Jamie Gallagher rushed in. His timing was perfect. I didn’t want to lie to Miss Moil any more than necessary.
I’ll give Jamie this. He had hidden depths. Who would have believed he could act? Yet there he was, all sweaty, panicky, and exuding concern. Robert De Niro could have taken his correspondence course.
“Miss Moil, come quick,” he panted. “Daniel O’Leary has Jeff Brown around the neck. I think he’s going to kill him.”
I felt sorry for Miss Moil. She’s not the quickest mover in the world, partly because she is horrendously overweight.
“Oh, my,” she puffed, and pried her bulk out of her chair. Jamie was already halfway down the corridor, gesturing wildly, urging her on. Miss Moil waddled after him, patting herself on the chest with one pudgy hand, small sounds of concern and distress fading with her footsteps. I went to work.
It took less than a minute. I clicked the back button on the window and then entered “Aldr” in the search box. By the time Miss Moil returned to her office, I was long gone, and the window displaying the details of “Harrison, Calma” filled her screen.
Just occasionally, life provides you with an unexpected bonus. Jamie Gallagher was clearly a gifted actor. Unfortunately he forgot one important thing: if you are going to tell an enormous whopper, then it’s a good idea to cover yourself. When Miss Moil finally emerged into the sunshine, sweating and doubtless on the point of a coronary, there was no fight going on anywhere. The supposed combatants weren’t even in school. They had skipped and were, even as Jamie was leading Miss Moil up the garden path, engaging in minor shoplifting at the local mall.
When pressed for further information, Jamie Gallagher was at a loss. When accused of making a malicious false report, he had no answers.
He didn’t get his ten dollars.
He got five days’ suspension.
I, meanwhile, got a name and a phone number.
Chapter 22
Facing the demon
The phone book was no help, so I was forced to call. The first couple of times I tried I got an answering machine. It was third time lucky.
“Hello?”
“Is that Mr. Michael Collins?”
“Speaking. Who’s this?”
“I’m the assistant principal at Vanessa’s school. I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Collins, but we are updating our database and don’t have an address for you. I’m sure you will want to receive copies of Vanessa’s reports at the end of the semester.”
“Oh…yeah. I guess. Well…okay. It’s unit five, thirty-seven Smith Street, in the city.”
“Thank you so much, Mr. Collins.”
“Who did you say you were again?”
“Ms. Pharcue, Mr. Collins. Pharcue.” I hung up.
With all this activity, I got little done at school that day. When the bell rang, I walked with Vanessa to the parking lot, but there was no sign of Jason or his car. Pity.
We walked home. Nessa was distracted, but she was always distracted—only the degree varied. She went into her house without saying a word; I wasn’t disappointed. I had a job to do and figured it was best to get it over and done with as soon as possible. Frankly, if I thought too long, I’d lose impetus. It’s all very well to plan, but I had reached the confrontation stage and it seemed much more difficult. So I strode home, trying not to think. I kept repeating to myself, “You’re mean, you’re tough, you’re streetwise. You’re mean, you’re tough…”
Calma Harrison threw herself into the battered chair and removed the bottle of Jack Daniel’s from the top drawer of her desk. Unscrewing the cap with her teeth, she took a slug and reached into her pocket for a cigar. This was going to be an ugly job, but she was used to ugly jobs. A match materialized between finger and thumb and she scratched it against her head.
Only when the cigar was lit did she lean forward, pick up the phone, and dial.
“Get over here now,” she growled into the mouthpiece. “I need wheels.”
Calma replaced the handset and looked out the window. The city, choked with smog, lay before her like a corpse in a smoke-filled strip joint. It crawled with low-life, sleazy scumbags, like fleas on a mangy cur. It was tough, like old leather, but Calma was a broad who was no stranger to toughness. Her head reflected the city lights, like an eight-ball in a laser factory. She sighed, like a stiff croaking its last breath, and stretched. Her muscles creaked like an overly elaborate simile.
Jason entered. He was looking sharp, as always. Calma glanced at him and wondered, not for the first time, whether he could be trusted. He was a wiseguy, a kid off the streets, a punk on the make, a player, a hood.
“Are you packing?” asked Calma.
“Is it vacation time, boss?” he asked.
“No. Are you packing a piece?”
“Of what?”
“A rod. Are you packing a rod?”
“Fishing?”
Calma sighed. Maybe he wasn’t such a wiseguy after all. Never mind. She had her own piece, a Glock snub-nosed automatic, in her garter belt. The squirrel she was after was a bad squirrel, a dangerous squirrel, a squirrel who wouldn’t give up his nuts without a fight.
“We’re going after a squirrel,” she said. “That’s why I need your ride. We’ll take him out in his own crib.” Jason took out his A-Z guide of tough street talk and thumbed through the pages. Calma groaned. He should have known this stuff by heart. If he failed his gumshoe exams at the end of the month, she wasn’t going to take responsibility. She wasn’t going to be the fall guy, the patsy…
The trouble was, I didn’t feel tough, despite the mantra. In fact, if I have to be honest, I was less private eye and more primary reader.
See Calma. See the car. Calma gets in the car. See Calma get in the car. Clever Calma.
Calma goes to the house. Calma knocks on the door. See Calma knock on the door.
Calma talks to the man. The man punches Calma. See the man punch Calma.
Calma is in big poo-poo. See Calma in poo-poo.
Run, Calma, run.
The Fridge wasn’t home, of course. There had been more recorded sightings of the yeti than there had been of her in the last decade. I was considering getting a life-sized cardboard cut-out of her to leave around the house.
The two hours home alone gave me the opportunity to think before Jason turned up at five-thirty. I tried to rehearse what I was going to say to Vanessa’s father, but it was no use. I mean, what can you do? Smile and say, “Excuse me, Mr. Collins. I’m sorry to bother you, but I have reason to believe you are abusing your daughter. Now, if it’s not a rude question, I wonder if you would mind stopping this forthwith. At your own convenience, naturally”?
Each scenario I acted out seemed impossible. So I decided to play it by ear. What if I was wrong, though? That bothered me as well. Vanessa hadn’t said anything. What if she had fallen down the stair
s at home and I was going to accuse an entirely innocent man of an appalling crime? How could I look Vanessa in the face again? Where would that leave our relationship? Down the toilet, that’s where.
The more I thought, the more tempted I was to forget the whole thing. Inaction was such an alluring option. But what was it someone had once said? All that’s required for evil to flourish is for good people to do nothing. Something like that. And I trusted my feelings. I knew Vanessa’s injuries couldn’t have been inflicted by accident. I had to do something.
I just wasn’t looking forward to it.
I also thought about the Fridge. My sneaking around had come up with absolutely nothing. Still, she knew that I knew she was keeping a secret. What’s more, she was going to tell me about it. I resolved to demand a full revelation the next time I saw her. I was tired of lies and half-truths.
Then there was my father. He wanted to tell me something too. It was ironic. I was desperate for information from the Fridge but she was saying nothing. I didn’t want information from my own father and he was desperate to give it. It’s a funny old world, isn’t it? I remembered the attempt he had made at the supermarket, just before the thieving, gun-toting runt had arrived on the scene. I remembered also my feelings after my father left Crazi-Cheep. That small, fleeting twinge of regret.
Maybe I had been too hard on him. After all, the nastiness was in the past. By spurning him so completely and ruthlessly now, I was giving the impression he still had the means to inflict suffering. If I treated him politely, as a stranger, then I would show him he no longer had that power. In fact, politeness would be more humiliating for him. And what if he was going to beg for forgiveness, try to worm his way back into our affections? That didn’t mean he would succeed. I could hear him out and then politely tell him to go forth and multiply. It was the mature way of proceeding.
That left Jason. I couldn’t tell him about Vanessa. I couldn’t tell anyone about Vanessa, let alone a guy I had known for about five minutes. Yet I wanted him to be there when I confronted her father. As moral and, maybe, physical support. Was that fair? Probably not, I thought. But perhaps it would be a test of his loyalty and good faith, to do something because I asked him, without reasons or explanations. Hmmm. I suspected I was rationalizing my own dubious behavior, but I couldn’t see a way round that either. I liked Jason. A lot. But I didn’t know him at all. I hoped I would get the opportunity when all this was done.
Am I Right or Am I Right? Page 13