The Case

by Leopold Borstinski

  BY NIGHTFALL, HE hadn’t shown so we figured the best thing to do was to go to the fair. Whatever he was planning on doing, or whoever he was planning on doing it with, they were going to be there otherwise it all could have happened in AC.

  Mumford and I walked down the road, bought a ticket and entered the Wisconsin State Fair. It had all the charm of a ninety-year-old hooker and smelled as pleasant too.

  The cultural highlights included a guy dressed as Abe Lincoln on a unicycle and George Washington on a four foot tall high wire. The audience laughed. Mumford and I looked at each other and moved on.

  We walked past the livestock and we walked past the food kiosks until we came upon a noodle bar. A quiet unusual venue for Wisconsin at the best of times. And Asians were still not popular in ’79.

  Curious, I thought, and Mumford must have had a similar set of thoughts running through his head, because we both stopped a few feet away to see what we could see.

  Two guys were talking in a huddle, one behind the counter and the other apparently a customer. Only thing was he wasn’t ordering noodles or eating any or nothing. The guy was shooting the breeze. Strange.

  The customer shook hands with the patron and walked away, ambling down one row of kiosks, ambling up another. He never turned his head around, but he sure wasn’t acting like someone who had come to check out the sights, sounds and smells of the state fair.

  We kept following him until he popped round the corner, near the fence, to have a piss. Mumford grabbed one arm and I grabbed the other.

  “Valdez!” I spat at him and his eyes widened for a second and then the initial surprise wore off and he took back control of his own expression.

  “Not me. Not me. You wan’ somebody else.”

  “No dice. Grab his wallet,” I instructed Mumford, who silently shoved his hand into the guy’s pants pocket, took out the wallet deftly with one hand and somehow managed to extract the driving license, while hanging on to the guy’s arm. Nice.

  “Dakila Valdez, it says here.”

  “Okay, Valdez. No more bullshit. The Don has sent us to collect a parcel you are holding for him. We want it and we want it now.”

  “Don’ know what you mean. Parcel? What parcel?”

  I twisted his arm round towards his back so that the shoulder socket squeaked. Valdez let out a yelp, but nothing more.

  “My friend can beat the living shit out of you right here and no-one will hear you scream. So get us the package and we can be on our way and no-one needs to get hurt.”

  “I know nothing.” repeated Valdez.

  Mumford got to work on him immediately and without prompting. Teeth, blood and mucus fell to the floor until Valdez was nearly unconscious. Then between the gaps in his teeth and pained wheezes, he admitted that he did know something about the parcel.

  Turns out that before he flew over to Milwaukee, he hit the west coast and left the parcel in a safe deposit box in San Francisco. Not only that, but he took off his right shoe, opened a compartment in the heel and, hey presto, there was the very key we’d need to open it. We double checked the location of the deposit box and left Valdez for dead.

  Back at the motel, we paid up for the room before we went to bed, because we knew we’d be getting up very early to leave town and we didn’t want anyone to know exactly what time that was. Also, we knew we could get more info from Valdez if he came back to the motel, but he never did. Not that night, anyway.

  PART SEVEN

  BALTIMORE 1956

  16

  THERE WE WERE chasing our tails out of the state of Wisconsin, heading west to put a key in a lock.

  I experienced quieter times when I was based in Baltimore for a while after I came back from Korea. As ever, a different town and yet another serviced office in a no-name building on the edge of the right side of the tracks. I’ve found these locations got me the easiest money: people with enough cash to burn on missing people, but generally nothing too unpleasant to deal with along the way. If you go all upmarket, unpleasantness can ensue.

  As I said, another Thursday morning with my feet up on my battered desk and a cigarette hanging out my mouth as I read the funnies in the paper. At this point in my career, I’d managed to be doing sufficiently well that I had a secretary to keep the worst of the riffraff at bay. Sheila only let the monied bums into my field of vision.

  So it was that Mary O’Donald walked into my room and sat down on the chair I had conveniently located opposite mine, the other side of my battered desk.

  There were tears in her eyes as she explained to me that her husband, Peter had been missing for two days now.

  “Has he ever gone off and vanished for this long before?”

  “No, no. Not for this long.” There was a sadness in her expression that went deeper than a missing husband.

  “And can you think of anywhere he might have gone?”

  “Well, no. He doesn’t go off like other men. Pete’s the kind to stay at home. He don’t have roamin’ eyes.”

  “So there’s no-one he might have gone off with, then?”

  “Pete? No sir. He stays at home; he don’t really have many friends, you might say.”

  Indeed I might. Here we had a man with no reason to leave the family home except to go to work - he was a local plumber - but for one simple fact: the guy wasn’t at home.

  “And what did the police say?”

  “They told me to wait another day or two before I started to ruffle their feathers. They think he’s got drunk somewhere and will come back when he’s sober.”

  “Is that likely?”

  “The man’s teetotal. He took the pledge the year before we got married. He ain’t the drinkin’ kind.”

  “And the police still think he’s hit the bottle somewhere hard?”

  “Reckon so. But I know he hasn’t. You gotta help me. No-one else seems to care what's happened to ole Pete.”

  To be honest, I didn’t really care what happened to ole Pete either, but as Mrs. O’Donald was prepared to give me a daily allowance to try to find the man, I started to care ever so slightly. Just enough to take the cash she proffered in her quivering, tear-stained hands and put it in the drawer of my battered old desk.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “That’s all I can ask of anyone,” she said. Then added: “I just feel like something bad has happened to him. Very bad, you know.”

  “Do you think he might have been ... killed?”

  “Oh my. I hadn’t thought of that. He might be dead - hit by a truck or something - but I can’t imagine anyone actually going to murder my Pete.”

  “I’ll spend a day or two having a real good look for your Pete, Mrs. O’Donald. In the meantime, if you think of anything that might help, just call my secretary. And don’t be surprised if you see me in the neighborhood. The best place to look for a man, who stays close to his home, is probably near his home, wouldn’t you say?”

  Mary O’Donald nodded, thanked me and left the room, sniffing back the tears from her unhappy eyes.

  Putting my feet back on my desk, I leaned back and finished reading the funnies. There was nothing like an amusing cartoon about an anthropomorphized animal attempting to slaughter a different animal to raise my spirits, back then.

  Once I’d soaked all the humor out of the picture jokes in the paper, I took a fresh batch of business cards from my drawer, popped my hat on my head and told Sheila to hold all my calls, as I wouldn’t be back for a while, and left. I told her the same joke every time I left the office on a case and she had the decency to smile every time. She understood I might not be funny, but I did pay her wages every week and never got fresh with her, despite how pointy her breasts were under those roll neck jumpers of hers.

  HAWTHORNE LANE WAS all white picket fences and large back yards that litter America from east to west, north to south. Folks were cutting the grass, kids were playing in the streets. There was a real wholesome atmosphere as soon as I turned the corner and strolled do
wn the road.

  I’d got the cab to park a block away so I could get a real sense of what this corner of town was like. I’d never found the need to walk through the suburbs of Baltimore: my time was spent in the city, not surrounded by families and loving couples. Nature of the job I suppose.

  I tipped my hat at Mrs. Mary O’Donald when I stood in front of her house and she smiled back - her eyes flitting left then right as though embarrassed to acknowledge me. Never mind. Goes with the territory.

  The best place to start finding out about people is to go to their neighbors first and then slowly fan out until you find yourself speaking to people who don’t even recognize the name or a face in a photo.

  The O’Donalds lived at number 748 Hawthorne Lane, so I went to 750 to see what would happen.

  I knocked on the red painted door and a girl answered, thirteen maybe fourteen years old.

  “Yeah?”

  The insolence with which that single syllable was uttered made quite an impression on me. She was what we had all started to call a real teenager.

  “Your mom or dad home, hon’?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you get one of them for me, then?”

  “Yeah,” and she walked away to get a parent, leaving the front door wide open and no more communication than that one word repeated three times. She was probably nearer fourteen than thirteen, thinking about it.

  A woman appeared, mid to late thirties, wearing an apron, slacks and a blouse, wiping her hands on a tea towel.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Why I surely hope so, ma'am.”

  “How so?”

  “Mr. O’Donald next door. I’m trying to see if I can find him. He’s not been seen for a day or two, did you know?”

  “Why no. I haven't spoken to Mary for a week.”

  “And you are ...?”

  “Betty Grant. My husband’s Cecil and you’ve met Norma?”

  “Oh yes, I met Norma,” I smiled that adult to adult smile, which means Gee, kids. What can you do, eh? “And are your two families close would you say?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say close.”

  “What would you say, then, Mrs. Grant?”

  “We’re just neighbors. That’s all. Yes we talk to one another if we're passing but that’s all. We are not friends with the O’Donalds.”

  And with that, she closed the door on me. I didn’t think I was stepping on anyone’s toes just yet, but Betty Grant wasn’t happy with someone in the O’Donald house. Whether it was Peter or Mary, I couldn't rightly say, but something was definitely not smelling right in the state of Maryland.

  I CARRIED ON speaking with the other neighbors, but they were either out, not answering or not particularly helpful. Not that anyone slammed the door on me after Betty Grant, just they had nothing interesting or useful to tell me.

  He spent most of his time at home when he wasn't fixing people’s faucets. He’d hang around the street, play with the kids. The usual dad about town. No-one had any complaints. No-one could think of anyone who might wish him harm. No-one could tell me much about good old Pete. Seems he was seen from afar rather than the type to pop over for a chat and chug a beer.

  So it was that I met Phil McNamara, an FBI agent who was assigned to the case even though the cops told Mary not to worry. Apparently, he was in the city working a different case when he heard about this one and he pricked up his ears. He liked his chances with a missing husband who no-one had a bad word to say against.

  Phil had Irish ancestry, judging by the red tinge to his brown hair, cropped with tight curls. He had that slow drawl that comes from only one side of the Boston tracks, but it didn’t bother me. Even so, I tried not to think ill of people because of where they’d come from. It’s where you’re going that mostly concerns me.

  “And what brings you to this part of Baltimore?”

  “Like I said, someone has hired me on a case and, as part of that, I’m looking for the whereabouts of Peter O’Donald. His wife visited this precinct to report him missing and was told to come back when she was sure he wasn't out on a bender.

  “The police are taking things a little more seriously now you are in town.”

  McNamara looked at me, really looked at me with his blue piercing eyes of his and inhaled. And laughed.

  “You’re all right, kid.” I chose not to remind him that he looked only a spit away from my own age because he obviously needed to play a power trip on me.

  “Are you working any angles, Agent?”

  “Call me Phil. Everyone does. I like it that way.”

  “Okay Phil. Are you working any angles at the minute?”

  “Nah. Chances are the locals are right and the gent will roll back from whatever bar he’s getting soaked in over the next couple of days.

  “As I’m here, I’d thought I’d take a poke, but he hasn't been AWOL long enough for me to be too concerned. It’s not like there’s been a ransom note or anything like that. Has there?”

  “Geez, no. Nothing as exciting or specific as that. I’ll keep sniffing around for a day or two and then, if nothing happens, I’ll call it quits.”

  “You mean when her money runs out.”

  “Well, yes, I’ll stay until I find something or the money runs out. After that, I’ll leave the mystery to you fine folks with the badges and the early retirement and fat pension.”

  I smiled and, before McNamara could respond, walked out of the precinct house and made my way back to Hawthorne Lane.

  THIS TIME I figured I’d wait until the evening and speak to the men as I’d got zilch from most of the female figures on the road and a question mark hanging over one. Until then, with permission, I sat on the O’Donald’s porch and watched the world go by - and even got a lemonade for my troubles from Mary.

  Dusk slowly lowered its veil on the burbs of Baltimore and I waited a while longer to make sure that everyone was fed, so I wouldn’t be interrupting anyone’s meals. Then I stood up and picked out the nearby houses with lights on: no point knocking on a door when nobody’s home.

  As it turned out, the men were as helpful as the women. Good ole Pete was a man who kept himself to himself. Everyone had a good word to say about him, but no-one really could be said to know him. It was more like hearing a series of testimonials for his plumbing capabilities.

  Finally, I knocked on the Grant’s front door. This time Betty opened it up instead of little insolent Norma.

  “Yes?” There was an edge to Betty’s voice this time.

  “Sorry to bother you again, but could I speak with Mr. Grant, please?”

  “What?”

  “Mr. Grant. May I speak with him, please?”

  “Cecil? He’s not in.”

  “Oh. Does he usually skip his dinner?”

  “Huh? No. Not usually, but he’s ... out right now.”

  “I see. Where’s he gone?”

  “To visit a friend.”

  “And miss his dinner. Is his friend ill?”

  “Um ... no?”

  Her answers were strange, uttered as though she didn’t believe them herself, although they weren’t lies. More that Cecil had told her one thing and she was thinking something else.

  “Okay. Are you expecting him back later or do you think he’ll be staying at his friend’s house tonight?”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’ll be back, but he did say he’d be late though.”

  “Right. I don’t want to disturb your evening again, so maybe I could catch Cecil daytime instead. Where does he work exactly?”

  “At the hardware store round the corner. We own the hardware store on Lipton Street.”

  “Nice. I’ll catch him there then, eh?”

  “Sure.”

  With a tip of my hat, I spun round to leave her porch and I could tell she was just standing, watching me as I left because I could sense the glow of the light from their home still bathing me in its yellows feel as I walked away. Something was up with Cecil for sure. Whether it had anything
to do with Peter O’Donald was another thing entirely: Cecil could have a mistress or just be out boozing. I had no idea at all.

  17

  I WENT BACK to my apartment in the city after that to dwell on what had happened. There was something going on with the Grants but Betty and Cecil could just be going through a rough patch. Families do things like that. The O’Donalds, on the other hand, were a couple. No children, which was unusual - at least on Hawthorne Lane.

  After a good night’s sleep, I decided to go to the one group you can rely on to know everything: the kids. They get ignored most of the time, but they are in the room when the most enormous shit goes down and they have the added advantage that they remember everything too: their young brains haven't been addled by hooch or distractions like having to pay the rent. So off to High School I went, guessing I might catch Norma there too.

  Even back then, if you weren’t a parent of one of the little lovelies, you were not welcome inside a school. So instead, I waited until lunch time and hung round the corner from the side entrance.

  As I figured, a few of these well-heeled members of the community snuck off campus for a well earned cigarette break. I’d turned up casual, as nothing says inquisitive adult as a suit and hat, and I asked for a light to spark my own Marlboro alive.

  “Thanks,” I replied to the greasy haired lummox who had lent me a match. “How’s it going?”

  “Just fine mister. What’s it to you?”

  “Oh nothing. Just paying no never mind is all.”

  “Cool.”

  The girl sat next to him, on the little wall they were perching on, shared his Camel with him and stared at me every time she inhaled. They were bold, I’d say, because they were young for high school, around Norma’s age.

  “I know this sounds crazy, but you don’t happen to know Norma Grant, do you?”

  “Huh?” monotoned the boy.

  “Norma, do you know her?”

  “Yeah,” said the girl, morphing the word into a two syllable piece of cheek.