Good Girl

by Alan Lee

  He said, “You’re selling something.”

  “I am not, though.”

  “Why the hell are you in my drive? Move on.”

  “If I was selling something, could I stay?”

  “What?”

  “Colleen home?”

  “Why?”

  “I’m taking a survey.”

  “What?”

  He realized he had repeated questions. Glowered.

  I said, “Colleen home?”

  He came around his modest yellow war tank and stopped near me, hands in his pockets. My Honda Accord scoffed at his tank for reasons of gas mileage and practicality. “Who wants to know?”

  “Me. Obviously,” I said. He stood taller than me, which isn’t easy, and he was much wider, which is silly.

  “Listen. Stop being an ass. You’re at my house. Tell me what you want or take off.”

  “I want. To talk. To Colleen Gibbs. Maybe sign language would help.”

  “Why?” he said. I wasn’t terrified of his bulk and I was toying with him verbally. He saw it. So he decided to thwart me with his own words. Zounds. “Tell me why. You don’t understand the word why? Tell me why.”

  “Are you quoting the Backstreet Boys song? Remember it? Tell me why, ain’t nothing but a heartbreak. Tell me why, ain’t nothing but a mistake. Right?”

  He took his hands out of his pockets.

  “Colleen home?” I asked. Winningest smile.

  I thought his teeth might actually be grinding. “Who. Wants. To. Know?”

  “Me. Jeez, Gordon we’ve been over this.”

  “Get out.” He pointed.

  “I’m not in.”

  Good grief I can be childish. Mackenzie August, major league pain in the neck. I needed to grow up.

  I changed the subject, before he had an aneurism. “Do you have a dog?”

  “Do I have…none of your business, asshole. Now go.”

  “I’m looking for the dog belonging to Ulysses Steinbeck. Thought I’d ask Colleen about it.”

  Some of the bunched muscles in his shoulders relaxed. “Ulysses? That stupid asshole? What for?”

  “Do you call everyone asshole?”

  “Just those who deserve it,” he said.

  “Ulysses does? I’m surprised. He struck me as congenial and affable. Do you need those defined?”

  “Are you a relative of his? And no, I know what those words mean.”

  “No you don’t,” I said.

  “Yes I do.”

  “Define them. I’ll give you five bucks.”

  “Hey buddy, I’m Gordon Gibbs. You know the name? I don’t play games with losers like you.”

  “Would you describe yourself as affable?” I asked.

  “I—”

  “Careful, Gordon. Don’t want to insult yourself.”

  He shoved me. I took a step backwards. “How about I kick your ass. Police wouldn’t lift a finger. My property, I can do what I want.”

  “In fact you cannot. Nothing about what you said is accurate. In any of the three sentences. Hey Gordon, Colleen home?”

  We both heard his front door open.

  A woman’s voice. “What’s going on? Gordon, who’s this?”

  I replied, “We’re comparing genital girth. He just surrendered.”

  The woman laughed. A little. Like maybe I had special needs.

  I said, “In fact, I’m being a childish and major league pain in the neck to poor Gordon, who was merely trying to protect his home with the tenacity of a miniature poodle. I regret my verbal bullying.”

  “You can’t bully me,” he said. “I’m—”

  “Gordon Gibbs, yes. It’s enough to scare me to death. I’d like to talk with you, Colleen, about Ulysses.”

  “Ulysses?” She came down the brick walk. “Is he okay?”

  “Doing great. He’s looking for his dog.”

  “And you are?”

  “Private cop. He hired me.”

  “Private cop? Got a license?” asked Gordon Gibbs. His breath smelled like eggs.

  “I do.” I pulled a card from my jacket pocket.

  “Come inside, please,” said Colleen.

  “Colleen, no way this guy’s—”

  “I’m cold, Gordon. Come inside. You’re being rude.”

  I held the card out to Gordon and followed her. When he reached for it, I let go. Forcing him to snatch, miss, and bend over for it.

  Mackenzie! Get your act together! Grow up!

  I enjoyed following Colleen into her home. She had ten years on me, but she took care of herself and purchased expensive jeans, and I was human. She was naturally attractive but not overpowering. Like Jennifer Aniston, maybe. Her hair was chin length, brown dyed blond. Looked like she worked out and ate salads and got botox.

  The interior of their home was boxy, the way of traditional colonials. His rounded orange bulk felt incongruous with the right angles and pompous squares of a colonial. Lots of pictures of Gordon flexing for muscle tournaments. I detected the absence of dog odor.

  Ulysses’s house felt like a home. This place felt hollow and staged. No money for decorating? The heat was turned down.

  “What’d you say your name was?” she asked, leading me into the kitchen.

  “August. Mackenzie August.”

  “Would you like coffee? Just made another pot.”

  “Thank you, no,” I replied.

  “And you said Ulysses is okay. I haven’t heard from him recently.”

  “He’s well. I bet text messages are a great way to communicate with him.”

  She turned and smiled. Genuinely. “It is. He can scroll back through and catch up.”

  “But he hates technology.”

  “So you have met him. My ex-husband.”

  “He hired me to look for his dog.”

  “I knew it,” said Gordon behind us. He smacked his hand on the kitchen counter. “Something about that dumbass dog. Remember, Coll? I told you. Something suspicious about it.”

  Colleen appeared embarrassed by him. “Ulysses didn’t like dogs. And the circumstances were odd, and Gordon is suspicious and so…”

  “Any idea where it is?”

  “Rose told me it ran off, three years ago,” said Colleen. She poured herself a cup of coffee from an expensive looking carafe. She poured me one too, just in case. “It was just a puppy. What’s he want with it now?”

  “I examined that stupid dog,” said Gordon. “Couldn’t figure it out. Nothing special on the collar. Made no sense, but I was suspicious.”

  “What crime do you suspect it committed?”

  “What?” asked Gordon.

  Colleen appeared embarrassed again.

  I said, “Mind if I run through the timeline, see if I have it right?”

  “Sure, anything for Ulysses.”

  “What?” shouted Gordon. Same word, different volume. “Why would we help that jackass?”

  “He’s my ex-husband, Gordon. He has amnesia. For God’s sake, calm down. Go to work.”

  He looked at me. Might be flexing. “I own five gyms around Roanoke. Christiansburg, Blacksburg, Lynchburg, you know the drill.”

  “Wow. I didn’t ask, but if I had I’d be impressed.”

  “Mr. August, you mentioned the timeline?” said Colleen. She made a shooing motion at her husband. “Go on, babe. This is upsetting you. Go to work.”

  “Like hell I’m leaving.”

  I said, “Here’s what I know. You two file for divorce. It’s amiable. Means friendly, Gordon. Just before the divorce finalizes, he gets a puppy. A boxer. Which everyone thinks odd because he hates dogs. Soon after, he gets into a car wreck. Rose moves in to help. She watched the dog. He comes home from the hospital with amnesia and the divorce paperwork goes through. He has visitors. And around this time the dog vanishes.”

  Colleen, both hands on the mug, nodded. “Sounds right. I had moved out so I don’t know when the puppy disappeared.”

  “The trip, don’t forget that fucki
ng trip, Coll.”

  “What trip?” I asked.

  Gordon smiled. Thrilled he knew something I didn’t.

  Colleen sighed. “The infamous trip. Drives Gordon crazy. Perhaps the only rash thing Ulysses ever did in his life.”

  “The rat bastard.”

  “Divorces take six months. Two months after we file, Ulysses cleans out our savings. I don’t remember how much, around two million. Flies to a casino in…where, babe?”

  “Monaco.”

  “Right. Flies to a casino in Monaco and gambles it all away.”

  “Son of a bitch spent all our money.”

  I said, “Our money?”

  “The wife is entitled to half at the time of separation, smart guy.”

  “I know this, Gordon. I repeat, our money?”

  Colleen looked embarrassed. She did that a lot. I felt bad for her.

  I said, “Why didn’t you sue him for the squandered money? Legally half of it was yours.”

  “Ulysses and I had drifted apart. Ships naturally separating with the currents, you know? I started seeing Gordon before the separation and…

  “Ulysses found out.”

  Colleen rubbed at her forehead. “Yes. He found out. Gordon himself told him. Right before the casino trip.”

  “Ah hah.You felt responsible for the excursion to Monaco?”

  “I did. He and I worked it out later in the form of ongoing alimony. But then the accident happened and I let it drop.”

  “Gordon, you idiot,” I said. “Who are you really mad at? Ulysses? Or yourself?”

  “What? That son of a bitch, of course.”

  “But if you’d waited a few weeks to brag, half of that money would now be in Colleen’s bank account.”

  “Whatever, buddy. I own a ton of gyms. So anyway, that dog ain’t here. Now take off.”

  “Actually, Mr. August,” she said. She caught my eye and held it with meaning. “I’m about to leave. And Gordon is late. Maybe we can talk later?”

  “I understand.”

  Gordon looked triumphant.

  She grabbed her purse and we all went out the front door into the cold together. She opened the garage with the keypad and got into a little red Miata. In my Accord I backed out first. Gordon glared at me the whole way. At the first side street, I pulled off and parked. A moment later, Gordon raced by in the yellow H2. Heavens, what a racket. A moment after that, the red Miata slowly passed. Colleen saw my car, turned around, and parked behind me. She got out. I reached across to open the door, and she slid into my passenger seat.

  She closed the door and there was silence and she smelled clean.

  “I’m sorry about Gordon. He’s…protective,” she said.

  “Yeah, but those pecs.”

  “That’s what I thought. But beauty is vain, Mr. August. He owns five gyms and I help, but we don’t make a lot. I’m still mad at Ulysses and Gordon in equal parts. I went from having plenty to very little. Anyway I can answer your questions better without him. And I still love Ulysses like a friend, and I want to help.”

  “The dog, the divorce, and the wreck. Coincidence?”

  “I don’t know about the dog. That still befuddles me. But the other two are not coincidence. When Ulysses crashed the car, he was blind drunk.”

  “Was he,” I said intelligently.

  “Yes. Not widely publicized. And he wasn’t a drinker. Still isn’t. His friends and I suspect he’d been out celebrating the divorce.”

  “With friends?”

  “With a lover. A woman.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. No one does.”

  “How do you know about her?”

  She shifted in the car, kind of tucked a knee under. She smelled nice and she was pretty enough that I didn’t risk looking at her. No need to tempt fate. Eyes straight ahead, like Batman’s would be. She said, “My daughter told me. She knew about a woman, but not her identity. To be honest, Mr. August, that woman doesn’t matter much to me. I hate her. Not because he took up with her, but because she left. Ulysses deserved better.”

  A mysterious woman was in the picture. And Ulysses had been drunk. Crucial details the man himself couldn’t remember.

  A fascinating case. I was stimulated.

  A respectful moment passed.

  “Gordon being Gordon,” she continued, “he suspects this woman convinced Ulysses to fly to the casino and spend it all, before I got half. Or, and this will truly illustrate Gordon’s paranoia, that maybe Ulysses won even more and that somehow the dog is related. Like the dog was worth millions or the dog’s collar had the combination to a bank vault, or something else wild and implausible.”

  A dog worth millions. An eye-opening idea. Ulysses said the dog was the key…the key to a fortune?

  “Was there a collar?” I asked.

  “Yes. Gordon checked. Standard collar from the store with Ulysses’s phone number on it.”

  I made a hmmm noise. I should have something better to say. What would Kinsey Millhone ask? No idea. So I hmmm’ed.

  “May I ask, why does he want the dog now? After three years? I’m surprised he remembers.”

  I debated telling her. She was the ex-wife, after all. In most movies, she’d be trouble. But Colleen struck me as good willed, and more than willing to hide things from her idiot husband. And, if I told the truth, maybe so would she. If she had more truths to reveal.

  And maybe she would like me more.

  I said, “He doesn’t remember the dog. But he left notes in the journal, telling himself not to forget it. And that the dog is important.”

  “Important? How so?”

  “I don’t know. Neither does he. Maybe the dog has learned to talk and will tell us, once found.”

  “What does Rose think?” she asked.

  “That the dog is long gone. But she thinks it’ll ease some part of Ulysses’s mind, once the matter is settled.”

  Colleen nodded absently. “She would know. Rose is a saint. I keep fearing one day she’ll pack up and leave, because she’s a godsend. Otherwise…I don’t know. Maybe my daughter and I would help out. Imagine him there without help. It’s the simple things that are hardest—have I eaten or not? Have I showered or not? Did I just get back from a jog? Some people with his condition fall to pieces, constantly eating or starving or…it’s hard.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “But thank goodness for Rose."

  “Would your daughter know anything about Georgina Princess Steinbeck?”

  “Alex? Maybe. You could call her. She’s at college, Virginia Tech. She and her father remain close.”

  I nodded. “I will.”

  She put her hand on mine and squeezed. It wasn’t anything more than one human being expressing gratitude to another. “Thank you for helping him. Poor Ulysses, I hope he finds the dog. Or gets a new one, or finds peace some other way. Keep me posted?”

  “Absolutely.”

  8

  It would be a waste of my time.

  I knew it would be, no question.

  But I went anyway, to Walter Lowe’s office. Walter was another private detective, from whom patrons could ‘Get the Lowe Down’ on Roanoke.

  Slimy slogans like that necessitated my potpourri.

  He shared the top floor of a house, formerly a grand brick residence with wide porch, and now a commercial spot downtown. The main floor consisted of four offices, a communal bathroom, and a staircase. He shared the top floor with a guy who did taxes four months of the year and a graphic designer who needed a space out of his basement to work. Walter Lowe’s office door was open and I went in.

  He sat in one of his client chairs, reclined, playing on his phone. He looked like an overweight extra in a movie about twenty-year high school reunions. His shirt wasn’t tucked in—I glanced down at myself and decided not to judge.

  He looked up to see me and went back to his phone. “Whaddaya doin, Mack.”

  “Walter.”

  “Hear
d you might be gone, gone for good. I was real broken up about it.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  He shrugged. “People talk. Heard a rumor you mouthed off to the wrong guy, somebody with connections.”

  I looked at his phone screen—he was killing zombies with his thumbs. I walked around the other side of his desk and sat. The spring sagged and the cushion had long given up the ghost. No wonder he used the client chair. He had no laptop. No bookshelves. No books. No potpourri. No music played. Two certificates on the wall, claiming membership to the National Association of Legal Investigators and the Private Investigators Association of Virginia. On his desk there was a smaller sign that stated he accepted credit cards, including Diner’s Club.

  What the hell was Diner’s Club?

  Without taking his eyes off the screen, he plucked a tissue from the box between the chairs, blew his nose, wiped it, and threw the wad into an accumulating pile near the waste basket.

  “Whaddaya doing, Mack? Got a big important case? Gonna rescue the governor or something? Come to watch me in action?”

  I put on my best Philip Marlowe. “It was a chilly day outside, one of those temperatures that makes a man consider hanging up his gun and moving to West Palm where the dames never wear overcoats. Cold outside but not in my office where I sweated bullets. Why? Life panic, that’s why. Existential angst and loneliness, that’s why. To hell with the reasons, that’s why. I hadn’t slept in three days, that’s why, and my old pals Jim and Jack were banging inside my head. My name’s Walter Lowe. I know because it says so on my door. It also says I’m a private investigator, though I can’t find any other evidence to back it up. I don’t even sit in my own chair. The walk’s too far and I limp like a cheap hooker. Maybe I’d get lucky and a high-breasted girl from Roanoke would fall in my lap on accident and give me something to do. Until then, my only friend was my smart phone and I’d keep playing it. Because I knew how to, damn it, and a guy’s got to know how to do something. I was out of cheap gin and the day was still young. Hopefully danger would walk in off the street like a Bengal tiger into a Burmese orphanage, but until then my revolver would—”