Called by a Panther

by Michael Z. Lewin

  I stood shaking mind-ketchup off my hand.

  I laughed aloud.

  I wondered what I should do next.

  What I did was go outside, turn left and cross the street to City Market.

  On the mezzanine I sat with a doughnut and a cup of coffee. I drank the coffee but talked to the doughnut.

  I explained my options and feelings to it. It did not object when I emphasized the need to find the Frog/Mrs. Morgason.

  I have this picture, see, doughnut. The woman in it worked out that Mrs. Morgason was a bomber. So I need Mrs. Morgason to tell me about all the black women she knows.

  The doughnut was not apparently impressed.

  Doughnut, do you think her husband might help? Either with where she is, or with who her friends are?

  Just about possible, we supposed, but the doughnut was not enthusiastic.

  That led me to consider other ways to get the information. Given that Mrs. Morgason was not immediately available.

  And hey, doughnut, there's already one black woman who knows Mrs. Morgason. Cecil Redman's wife's mother, who does cleaning. And hey, didn't Redman say his wife filled in sometimes when her mother got sick? And Redman's wife would be more or less the right age for the woman in the picture.

  Hmmm, doughnut, maybe you've got something there.

  And Cecil Redman would have told his wife that he'd seen Mrs. Morgason carrying suitcases in the rubble belt.

  Could that have been clue enough for her to suspect Mrs. Morgason was a Scummie?

  I sat up straight. My knees hit the table and jiggled it. The doughnut seemed to nod.

  I didn't know anything about Mrs. Redman, bar a reputation for brass balls. But it beat hell out of dialing 91st Street and getting no answer.

  I thanked the doughnut.

  Then I ate it.

  I considered explaining that life's like that, but there's only so much a doughnut can handle at any one time.

  Chapter Fifty Three

  I GOT CAB-CO'S GENERAL number from the book.

  A mellifluous voice said, “Cab-Co,” and I asked to speak to Mr. Morgason.

  However, the voice said, “Sorry. Mr. Morgason is not here just now. Can I have him call you?”

  “When is he expected back?”

  “We got the Chief of Police coming for a meeting in about an hour, but you could try after lunch.”

  “I need to speak with him before that, if possible. It's about his wife.”

  “Oh, are you a friend?”

  The way she asked included a request that I say yes.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know where she is? Poor Mr. Morgason's been looking for her all morning.”

  “So he doesn't know?”

  “No sir. She wasn't there when he got up. She didn't leave a message or nothing. And it's inconvenienced him something awful. But I know he's also thinking that maybe Mrs. Morgason's been kidnapped.”

  “Good heavens.”

  “It's just everybody thinks he's so rich. People who've known him all his life know better—he's being backed financially, see—but it's because he's exploded into the cable business like he has.”

  “But the idea of kidnap, is it a guess? Or is there something specific to suggest it?”

  “He just doesn't have any idea at all where she is and that's the long and short of it. I told him, I said, Mr. Morgason, you should hire that cute detective who was on the commercial, but he didn't like that idea much.”

  “He didn't?”

  “He said he thought the guy was just a clown trying to capitalize on his sex appeal and he probably didn't know one end of a private dick from another. He talks like that, Mr. Morgason. He doesn't mean anything by it. You got to take him the way he is.”

  Cecil Redman's truck wasn't parked outside the HQ, so I went over to his house on College. The pickup was in the alley at the back.

  I had to knock several times but eventually Redman himself answered the door. He squinted sleepily and said, “You the guy came looking for me.”

  “That's right.”

  “What you want now?”

  “I need to talk to your wife.”

  He shook his head to clear his mind. He wasn't immediately successful. He rubbed a cheek. “You what?”

  “Your wife.”

  “Louanne?” he said. He looked back into the hall of the house. He stepped onto the stoop and pulled the door shut behind him.

  I said, “Do you know where she lives? Or works?”

  “What you hassle me about stuff like that for?”

  “You said you went to 91st Street to ask her mother where Louanne lives now.”

  “I gave Momma a lift home. And that's where Louanne be, home with her momma.” His tone was sneering, but I passed the opportunity to comment that a lot of fine, mature people live with their parents these days.

  I said, “O.K. So where does her mother live?”

  “I tell you where she used to live. She used to live under the goddamn lions.”

  “What?”

  “Her house where the lions in the zoo be now, man.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Anyhow, this time of day you going to find her at work. Every day for more than thirty years, except she's sick. Proud as hell of that. Stayed with the same family through three houses, only now she got to go to goddamn 91st Street. Don't make no sense to me.”

  “I've called up there. Nobody answers the phone.”

  He shrugged.

  “What time does she start work?”

  “I don't know, man. But she go early. Come back early too.”

  “Does she answer the phone?”

  “I never called her.”

  “And do you know where she lives now?”

  “Yeah, she got a little house. West 14th Street, across the river. A brown house, on a corner.”

  He explained how to get to it.

  “And what's her name?” I asked.

  “Effie. Effie Hawk, man.”

  “Hawkman?”

  “No no. Just goddamn Hawk.”

  I headed north.

  Nothing on 91st Street seemed different from the day before. So I parked in the driveway and walked to the Morgasons' front door.

  I rang the bell.

  When nobody answered the bell, I knocked.

  When nobody answered the knock, I walked around the house to look for signs of life.

  Checking out a house like that isn't as easy as it sounds. You've got to make sure you don't fall into the swimming pool.

  But I saw and heard nothing that was animate.

  My deductive Go-for-It Detective mind decided that, perhaps, nobody was at home.

  I felt a sudden impulse to break in. I had an intuition that I would find Mrs. Morgason's body.

  It was a strong sensation.

  I walked to a window where I couldn't be seen from the road.

  I looked at it carefully.

  I walked away again.

  The window was connected to a security system and the risk of my falling into the hands of the police again canceled all impulses.

  I got back in my car and drove to West 14th Street.

  Suppose her body was in there. What would I do with it?

  Chapter Fifty Four

  A WOMAN OF ABOUT SIXTY, with a broad friendly face, opened the door.

  “Mrs. Hawk?”

  “Why, yes.”

  “My name is Albert Samson.”

  “Do I know you, Mr. Samson?”

  “No, ma'am. But I know Mrs. Morgason and I think you might be able to help me with one or two things I'm trying to do.”

  “You know Mrs. Morgason?”

  “That's right.”

  “I don't recall seeing you up at the house.”

  “I've only been in the house once. But I've heard about you.”

  “Oh yes?” She was not displeased, but at the same time she assessed me. “You wouldn't be trying to sell me something, now, would you?” She looked at t
he picture I was carrying.

  “No ma'am. But one of the things I'd like you to do is look at this drawing.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, I guess maybe you better come in while I find my glasses.”

  I followed her and she left me in a living room that was filled with memorabilia. There were small items everywhere, all set up to be seen, to be shown.

  There were dozens of pictures. On a prominent shelf next to the mantel I saw large photographs of Mrs. Morgason, of Sick and of many other white people.

  When Mrs. Hawk returned with her glasses I said, “I see you've got some nice pictures of Mrs. Morgason and her family.”

  “They've been so good to me, over the years, those folks,” Mrs. Hawk said. “That's all the family, those. I worked for Mrs. Morgason's momma and poppa—that's Mr. and Mrs. Overmeyer there. Oh, Mrs. Overmeyer, she was a fine, fine woman.”

  “I was told that you've worked for the family for a long time.”

  “Yessir, I have. More than thirty-two years and that is a long time. And they've been so good to me and my girl, and I'm not ashamed to say it.”

  “Nice people,” I said.

  “More than nice. Take Mrs. Overmeyer. She found I didn't read real well. Fact was I didn't read at all. Day after day, she taught me. Reading, writing, talking. Always something to help me improve myself. I can't tell you how much I enjoyed that. Then little Kathryn, that's Mrs. Morgason, she sent my girl to secretarial school, to help my girl get some personal problems sorted out.”

  “Your daughter is Louanne?”

  “Why yes.”

  “Is Louanne here?”

  “Now, why are you asking that?”

  “As well as talking to you, I'd like a few words with her.”

  Mrs. Hawk's forehead creased and she said, “Mister, what is this all about?”

  “I am a private detective, Mrs. Hawk.” I took out my license card and passed it to her. She put on her glasses and looked back and forth between me and the photograph.

  “This you?”

  “It sure is. And what I am doing is getting together some information about a man named Cecil Redman.”

  “Oh,” Mrs. Hawk said. “Him.”

  “It's not that he is in trouble, but I have a client who asked me to check him out and I understand that Louanne is married to Mr. Redman.”

  Mrs. Hawk was silent for a moment. Then she said, “My momma taught me, if you can't say nothing nice about a body, then don't you say nothing at all.”

  “Did they ever divorce, Mrs. Hawk?”

  “No, but Louanne works in an office full of lawyers, so maybe she's doing something about that now.”

  “Which office is that?”

  “It's called Law In Action. It's out east on 30th Street and it helps poor folks with their rights. They have employed people, like Louanne, but the idea is that a number of downtown lawyers devote time each week to helping needy folks.”

  “It sounds like a worthwhile place.”

  “Yessir,” Mrs. Hawk said. “It sure is.”

  “Would Louanne be there today?”

  “She's there every day.”

  “Except maybe when you're sick and she fills in for you at Mrs. Morgason's.”

  “She's a good girl, my Louanne. She had a wild spell when she was young, but she came through that and she's a real good girl now.”

  I nodded acceptance of that as a fact. Then I said, “Mrs. Hawk, do you mind if I ask whether you're feeling unwell today?”

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “Aren't you usually up at Mrs. Morgason's by now?”

  “Ah, I see. Yessir, usually I am. Only this morning Mrs. Morgason called me to say not to mind going in today. She's away from home and didn't have a chance to leave me a list of things to do.”

  “She called you this morning?”

  “Yessir, she did.”

  “What time was that?”

  “About a quarter to six.”

  “Isn't that a little early?”

  “She knows I'm always up by five.”

  “Is it unusual for her to tell you not to come in?”

  “It doesn't happen often, but it's like her to be considerate and she won't take it off my money. She'll go and pay me anyhow, 'cause that's the way she is. Did I tell you, she sent my Louanne to school?”

  “Secretarial school.”

  “Yessir, that's right. It's a fact and it changed my little girl's whole life.”

  “Mrs. Hawk, would you . . .?” I held up Bobbie Lee's drawing.

  She took it to the window to get better light. “Not much face on this picture.”

  “The person remembered the dress better than the face.”

  “It's good of the dress. Course without that big old spot. I worked for hours getting that grease and stain off.”

  “You know the dress?”

  “Course I do.” She looked at me. “Is that something you want me to talk about?”

  “I would like to know about the dress, yes.”

  “Well, Mrs. Morgason had a party because Mr. Morgason just opened his new business. They had a lot of people and they had a guitar player and I don't know what all.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Most days I come away from the house between two and three, but when Mrs. Morgason entertains, well, I know it's hard on her so I like to stay on to help.”

  “I see.”

  “And there was the strangest man at this party. He was talking and talking about I don't know what all and they couldn't get a word in edgeways. Well, he started waving his arms around and I just knew something was going to happen, and sure enough it did. He knocked over a drink of red wine on this lady he was with. And then, when he was trying to clean her up, he pulled a whole table of food down on her. A whole table! Honestly, I don't know what that man thought he was doing. Maybe he thought the tablecloth was a napkin or something, only when he pulled at it all the plates of salad and cold meat and mustard and butter piled on the lady and this dress. A lot of the folks laughed but the lady, she was so angry!”

  I nodded and couldn't help but smile at the image of Quentin Quayle in action.

  “The lady, she out-and-out screamed at this man to leave her alone and she was saying things about how much this dress cost and I don't know what all. Mrs. Morgason, she took the lady off to the bathroom and she gave her this piece of Indian cloth—I mean Indian like over in India—and the lady put it on to wear. Wrapped it all around, you know? And then this lady that was so angry, she came back and acted like she was having the time of her life. It was like she was a whole different person.”

  “Mrs. Hawk, do you remember what happened to the dress?”

  She hesitated. “Mrs. Morgason gave it to me.”

  “To you?”

  “She said the lady told her she never wanted to see it again. So Mrs. Morgason, she asked if I wanted it and I did.”

  “Do you have the dress now?”

  “No sir. I cleaned it up and gave it to Louanne.”

  I raised Bobbie Lee's picture again. “And this is the dress?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Mrs. Hawk, could this be a drawing of Louanne?”

  “Louanne? My Louanne?”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “No sir, no way, no how.”

  “Oh.”

  “For a start, the girl in that picture's got gloves. My Louanne doesn't wear gloves. She doesn't even own gloves.”

  “O.K.”

  “And that dress wouldn't fit her. It took a gal taller and thinner.”

  “O.K.”

  “And this girl in the picture, she's too dark-complected to be Louanne. Not saying Louanne's got airs about her color, but my Louanne's nowhere near so dark-skinned as this gal.” She handed the picture back to me. “No sir. Not Louanne.”

  “But if the dress was the wrong size for her, why did your daughter want it.”

  “She said, 'Momma, I know the perfect person for that dress.' “

  Chapter
Fifty Five

  I WAS CLOSING IN ON HER. I could feel it.

  Nothing could stop me.

  I was slowed down by two guys arguing in the middle of the street about a broken taillight. But I couldn't be stopped.

  On the way to East 30th Street I did consider calling Miller.

  I was closing in on the Ohio Street bomber, after all. I might be in danger.

  Calm down, calm down. What you're closing in on is Louanne Hawk Redman, who knows the woman in the picture. But Louanne might not tell you. Not at first.

  No point in getting Miller excited prematurely. Premature excitement can be a problem, for cops. If they have their guns out they might fire too early.

  Besides, me bringing the Ohio Street bomber in myself was tastier. I liked the idea of that a lot, after the pressure I'd endured. Miller might have his ambition, but I had my pride.

  And there was the advertising potential: Albert Samson, scourge of Indianapolis terrorism. Think what Frank could make of that.

  Law In Action was a storefront near the corner of Tacoma. Its window was papered at eye level with posters describing the services it could provide.

  I didn't read about them. I walked right in.

  Just inside the door there was a desk. The woman at it was sorting through a pile of papers.

  My eyes were drawn to her hands. On the backs there were large pigmentless areas, perhaps scar tissue. The result was white spots on otherwise dark brown skin.

  I watched her.

  After a few moments she looked up. She dropped her hands to her sides and said, “Can I help you?”

  It was her.

  Her.

  The woman in the picture.

  “I . . . I . . . I . . .”

  She rose. She pushed her chair clear with the back of her thighs. Holding her hands out of sight, she moved around the desk.

  I couldn't breathe. I looked for some support. I found plastic chairs placed just inside the door. I sat.

  She came to stand before me.

  I looked away as she got close. I fought for breath, for control.

  The woman took Bobbie Lee's drawing from me.

  When I looked up at her again, she was staring at it.

  Though I heard a voice from elsewhere in the room, I didn't register what it said.

  But Picture Woman said, “It's O.K., Louie. This man and I have a little personal business to discuss. We're going to use the interview room. Get my phone, O.K.?”