Lucky Town

by Peter Vonder Haar

  Well, he did. I grimaced and paid him the $50.

  My automotive hiccup had cost me more than just half a Benjamin: I was now firmly ensconced in Houston’s dreaded rush-hour traffic. I avoided I-45 out of downtown and snaked my way north via North Main Street, which ran parallel to the interstate, before turning onto Quitman and avoiding the light rail by going all the way to Hardy and swinging north again to the office.

  I didn’t save all that much time, what with the stoplights, but there was something to be said for avoiding the freeways, where the concrete barriers always made them feel too much like a slaughterhouse passage for my comfort.

  I walked into the office and tossed my keys onto the table with more force than was probably necessary. Charlie didn’t look up.

  “You’ve had a day.”

  “Occasionally productive,” I agreed, “but now I have more questions than answers.” I took off my sports coat and dropped it back on its usual perch, then took my chair, grateful that the living room’s window air-conditioning unit had kicked in.

  Charlie threw a wad of paper at me. “You have a message.”

  I retrieved it from the floor, where it had come to rest after bouncing off my head. “From who?”

  “Someone named Dot,” she said.

  “Hammond’s receptionist?” I asked.

  “If you know more than one woman named Dot, we may need to find you a therapist.”

  This was unexpected. I sat up and smoothed out the paper on my desk. “Isn’t this a little analog for the likes of you?”

  She smirked. “I know you don’t like being texted while you’re driving.”

  The message just had Dot’s name and her phone number. I created a new contact in my phone with the information, then called her.

  “Homeland Security, Assistant Director Hammond’s office.”

  “Could I speak to Dot, please?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Hi, Dot,” I said, trying to sound convivial. “This is Mike’s brother Cy Clarke. I was in the office speaking to Assistant Director Hammond a few hours ago.”

  “Yes, Mr. Clarke. I remembered you saying the Director wanted to keep you informed of new developments regarding your brother’s case.”

  I did say it, that much was true. Hammond had said nothing of the sort, but there was no point confusing the poor woman.

  “That’s right. Has something happened?”

  Something had. I let Dot give me the details and jotted them down as fast as I could. I thanked her for her time and promised I’d be in touch. Hanging up, I noticed Charlie had rolled her chair over to my desk.

  “What’s up?”

  “Oh, nothing much,” I said, “except it turns out Chester Garcia has been reassigned by the Department of Homeland Security.”

  Charlie wasn’t at a loss for words very often, so I savored the occasion until she said, “Reassigned where?”

  “Joint task force with the TSA, working out of Brussels. He’s apparently in the field and won’t be reachable for the foreseeable future.”

  She whistled low. “Wow, that’s …”

  She said “Suspicious” at the same time I said “Convenient.” We could both be right.

  Chapter NINE

  It was the first time this many of the Clarke siblings had all been together at Mom’s since … I couldn’t remember. The last Texans game, maybe. And since Houston’s perennially underachieving football team failed to make the playoffs (again), that meant it’d been almost four months.

  My mother’s house was in The Woodlands, which wasn’t quite BFE, but was far enough to count for Inner Loopers like Charlie and me. And yet, even though we had the farthest to drive, we were still the first to get there.

  Mom’s wasn’t an especially big place, though larger than she needed. Her military benefits (plus my dad's pension) meant she could afford a house with enough bedrooms for grandkids, though at the moment she just had the one. A fact that she never failed to gently remind her childless (and, by definition, ungrateful) children.

  Charlie threw her bag on the dining room table, an act which normally would earn a rebuke, except the rebuker wasn’t currently at home.

  “Where is she?” she asked.

  I was idly going through the mail on the off chance there was a clue to be found in a stack of AARP letters and coupon mailers. “What?”

  “Where’s Mom?”

  “She’s over at Kayla’s.” I went back to the mail. “Maybe she wanted to comfort herself by sitting shiva with her grandson and daughter-in-law while us siblings come up with a plan.”

  Charlie asked, “Can you sit shiva if you’re Episcopalian?”

  “If you’re as nonobservant as most of us are, I think it’s fine.”

  “Poor choice of words, though.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  She said, “Because ‘shiva’ is the first stage of the Jewish mourning period, and Mike’s not dead.”

  I was proud of how sure she sounded.

  “You learn something new every day,” I said. “I thought it just meant ‘hanging out with someone in uncomfortable chairs.’”

  “Oy gevalt.”

  My phone rang. I was surprised to see it was Jim calling.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Cy?” Jim said after a second.

  “Who else? We’re at Mom’s. Let me put you on speaker.” I did so and set the phone on the dining room table.

  Charlie and I had supplanted him as youngest sibling when we were born, but if he was grateful for that he never showed it. Although he was as large as the rest of my brothers, he’d always been the most reserved.

  “How you doing, big brother?” Charlie asked.

  “Just working,” he said. “The usual.”

  We exchanged a look. “What’s the State Department up to these days?” I asked with half a smirk.

  Jim said, “The usual. Diplomacy is never pretty. How’s the private investigator business?”

  “The usual,” I said. “Car chases, running gunfights, hot chicks.”

  “And dudes,” Charlie said.

  He ignored both of us. “Is Don there?”

  “I am now, bro,” Don said from right behind me. He was ex-Special Forces and moved like a goddamned panther when he wanted. I envied the bastard that, if not his taste in clothes. He dressed like a 20-something MMA fan with an NBA player’s salary.

  “Don, how much did those shoes cost?” Charlie asked. Don had parlayed his elite military training into a job providing executive security to oil and tech bigwigs, and CEOs were shockingly willing to pay much more handsomely to protect their own asses than they were to provide a living wage to their employees.

  “Well, I was going to say ‘more than Cy’s car,’ but I think the Keds I saw hanging from a telephone wire down the street are worth more than that piece of shit.”

  I hugged him, and Charlie followed suit. Here we all were, more or less; the last surviving/non-missing siblings of the Clarke family. It was becoming an exclusive club.

  We took seats around the dining table without fanfare or prelude. We sat for a moment, looking around. The house looked like it always did: Mom’s china displayed in her antique hutch, tastefully subdued cherry wood furniture, and more family photos than you could count, encompassing over seven decades of Clarke family history.

  But every time our eyes fell on a picture of Mike, it felt sinister, like looking at a picture of a ghost. I wish I had Charlie’s confidence in his well-being.

  “So,” Don said, direct as always, “what’s the plan?”

  I was about to speak when Charlie beat me to the punch. “Cy and I are on it.”

  “What does that mean, exactly?” asked Don.

  Charlie looked at me, so I said, “I’ve already talked to Mike’s boss, and we’re looking at his case files and should have his emails shortly.”

  Don’s eyes narrowed. “Mike’s boss just gave those to you?”

  “Not exactly,” Cha
rlie said.

  Jim spoke up. “How legal is the course of action you’re describing?” Whatever Jim’s real job was, he did a fine job presenting as a by-the-book bureaucrat.

  I said, “I’m not a cop anymore, so I’m not worried about warrants or probable cause.”

  “Damn straight,” Don said. “Our brother’s missing.”

  “It’s not like we need to concern ourselves with rules of evidence,” Charlie said. “Even though we’re assisting the cops, it’s in an unofficial capacity.”

  Don looked at my phone. “Jim, what’s the problem?”

  “None yet,” Jim said, “but if they find whoever took Mike and need to build a case against him, I don’t want it fouled up because our two Columbos broke into something they weren’t supposed to.”

  “Hey, Jim,” Don said.

  “What?

  “You were in the Judge Advocate General’s Corps when you were in the Navy, right?”

  From the phone, Jim said, “Yeah, for six years. Why?”

  “Because you’re really acting like a JAG-off now,” Don said, smiling without humor.

  Jim didn’t respond, as I knew he wouldn’t. Don had a habit of provoking people, and it frustrated him that our older brother never took the bait.

  “Look, Jim has a point,” I said, and when I saw Don’s nostrils flaring, I held a hand up. “But we have a little leeway from the police going forward, so don’t worry about that.” Charlie raised an eyebrow, but thankfully didn’t do anything else, since what I was saying was mostly bullshit.

  “Charlie thinks she should be able to access Mike’s email,” I continued. “And I’m going to meet with a lead I got from the Department. Meanwhile, the cops are all over this. I’m confident we’ll find Mike before long.” I wasn’t, but no use telling them that.

  “Who’s your lead?” Don asked.

  “What does that matter?”

  He affected a thoughtful look. “Maybe I want to come with.”

  Jim cut in. “I don’t think that’s such a great idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Talking to people is a skill you never really mastered,” Jim said.

  Before Don could respond, Charlie said, “To be fair, some of Jim’s concerns might actually come about if you start roughing up third parties.”

  Don smiled, then looked me up and down. “You look a little roughed up yourself, brother.”

  “That was an unrelated matter,” I said.

  “Oh, I’m sure.”

  “What happened?” Jim asked. “Cy, are you hurt?”

  I said, “It was just a bar brawl, Jim. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Ah.” He’d heard this tune many times.

  Charlie said, “Look, Cy and I do this for a living, and we’re actually pretty good at it. Don, you’ve got your hands full with Kayla and Tyler. In fact, in many ways you have the toughest job of any of us.”

  Whoa, she was good.

  “And Jim,” she said, “it’d be great if you could check in with Mom every so often — do you mind?”

  Jim said, “Of course not.” That was magnanimous of the bastard.

  Don spread his hands, the peacemaker now. “I just want Mike found. I’m happy to babysit while you and Cy run down what happened to him,” He leaned forward. “On one condition.”

  “What’s that?” I asked, though I already knew his answer.

  “That when you find out who’s behind this, you turn me loose.”

  “You talked to Carlos about this?” Charlie asked.

  “We aren’t married, and he’s got plenty to do with the new law practice,” Don said. “And you said it yourself: we all have to play to our strengths.”

  I said, “So it’s agreed: Charlie and I do the legwork, Don keeps an eye on the wife and kid, and we all help with Mom.”

  General murmurs of assent all around.

  “I’m signing off,” Jim said. I hung up and pocketed my phone.

  “Off chasing Bigfoot again,” Don muttered.

  “Are there Bigfoots in Belgium?” Charlie asked.

  “You know what I mean. If Jim isn’t working for the X-Files, I’ll eat my shoe.”

  “You know that was a TV show, right?”

  “Anyway,” I said. “Who wants a drink?”

  Now it was Don’s turn to roll his eyes. “This is Mom’s house. You going to pour some shots of cooking sherry?”

  Charlie stood up. “The bottle of Grey Goose I brought for the Texans game should still be up there.”

  “Where?” Don was already up.

  “Look behind Dad’s martini setup.” Al Clarke was the only one in the family who drank martinis, and the ancient shaker and strainer combo had sat mostly undisturbed on the top shelf of a kitchen cabinet for many years.

  The vodka was there, so we drank a toast to Mike, and I had a sudden, unwelcome premonition of a wake.

  Chapter TEN

  In a general sense, I have faith in the institutions of our government. I believe the three branches, as conceived, were intended in good faith as effective checks and balances against each other. Certain events in our nation’s history have demonstrated significant weaknesses in the conceptual framework, but — and call me an idiot — I still believe in the fundamental willingness of the majority of Americans to want to do the right thing.

  But I’m also a realist, and I understand my experience is at odds with those who didn’t grow up with the same benefits and support I had. Their relationship with their government is likely much more antagonistic than mine and colors their perceptions with distrust. Or even fear.

  And it’s because I’m able to hold both ideas in my head that I found myself once again in the Corolla, driving to Chester Garcia’s house.

  I wasn’t entirely dim; I waited until later in the evening to venture onto the freeways. This after Charlie found his address in a matter of seconds, without even having to use confidential sources. “I’ll be damned,” she’d said. “He’s on the appraisal district website.”

  I looked over her shoulder (which I knew annoyed her) as she pulled the address up. “Maybe it’s a different Garcia.”

  Charlie shook her head, “‘Chester A. Garcia.’ Matches his paperwork with DHS. Parents must’ve been big fans of the twenty-second president.”

  “Twenty-first president.”

  She turned to look at me.

  I returned her glare. “Chester A. Arthur was the twenty-first president.”

  “How the hell did you know that?”

  “Die Hard With a Vengeance.”

  Shaking her head, she scrolled through Garcia’s residential listing. “Looks like he’s been living in the same house since 2011. No other owner name, so either he’s single or …”

  “Or he’s one of those dudes who isn’t comfortable letting a god-damned female cosign a mortgage,” I finished. “But let’s not jump to conclusions. Maybe he just hasn’t found the right girl.”

  Charlie smirked. “Or maybe he putts from the rough.”

  “Such a smooth talker. Still, it is odd that he never scrubbed his name. Most LEOs take care of that pretty quickly.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t know about it. Or maybe he wasn’t in law enforcement when he bought the house.”

  Without waiting for my prompting, she went to LinkedIn and entered Garcia’s name. “Not only wasn’t he law enforcement before 2011, he hadn’t even graduated college.”

  I pulled up a chair, because I was tired of standing behind her, and looked at Charlie’s monitor. Garcia graduated from Texas State University (formerly Southwest Texas State, and a host of other names) in 2010, with a degree in business administration. DHS was his first employer, and he’d moved up the chain from analyst to technical officer in short order.

  “He interned with the Border Patrol?” Charlie said, reading further down. “How does that work?”

  “Maybe he changed batteries on the drones,” I said. “This might work to our advantage, though.”

  “I�
�m all ears.”

  “Garcia’s profile suggests he’s someone who’s going to toe the company line,” I said. “DHS is the only job he’s ever had, the only employer he’s ever known, so maybe he hasn’t developed that mercenary attitude that comes with realizing you’re a disposable cog in the capitalist machine.”

  I could practically hear Charlie’s eyes rolling. “When do we smash the means of production, comrade?”

  “The point is,” I ignored her, “if he didn’t actually ship out, which I’m betting on, he might just stick close to home.”

  Charlie nodded. “You heading out there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Taking the Corolla out again?” she asked. “What does Princess Leia say to Han Solo? ‘You’re braver than I thought.’”

  I said, “I can’t justify buying a Corvette until my midlife crisis hits.” Getting up, I said, “I have a hunch Garcia might still be hanging around his house.

  “His name’s on Hammond’s official report,” Charlie said.

  “Meaning the police have it,” I agreed. “Maybe I can poke around a little and see what turns up.”

  She stuck her fingers in her ears. “If you’re planning to commit a crime, I don’t want to hear about it.” Pretty rich coming from someone who made a living out of virtual B&E.

  I rose and grabbed my keys, smiling at her. “Since when have I ever planned anything?”

  The sun was dipping below the downtown skyscrapers and I headed south on Lockwood. Garcia’s place wasn’t very far from the office, as such things in Houston are measured, and it was just nearing dusk as I pulled up to the East End house.

  He lived in the solidly working-class neighborhood of Denver Harbor — a typically misleading name, as there was no harbor of any kind in sight. Many of the houses had chain-link fences or better around the yards to discourage interlopers. His pier and beam home on Sherman looked to have been spared from flooding by Hurricane Harvey, but a handful of neighbors weren’t as lucky. Some homes were still boarded up, and water lines not cleaned by pressure washers were evident here and there.