Fast Lane

by Dave Zeltserman

  I told her I’d help. That I’d work things out. My words sounded silly but there wasn’t much else I could say. Carol came over and asked if everything was okay. I didn’t answer her. She sat next to Debra, and Debra turned and fell against her and started sobbing harder than before.

  I sat and watched for a while, the sickish feeling in my stomach knotting my insides. Then I got up and called Craig Singer. I told him I’d found his daughter, but there were some problems and I needed to talk with him. He asked whether he should have his wife join us, and I told him it would probably be better if she didn’t. A hesitancy crept into his voice as he asked how Debra was. I told him we’d better talk about it in person and we agreed to meet at his home in a half hour.

  I walked back to the table. Debra had stopped crying, but it looked like she could start up again any moment. The short order cook yelled out to Carol that food was stacking up. I asked her if she could keep an eye on Debra.

  “It could be a while before I come back, but it’s important.”

  Carol looked uncomfortable. “I’ll try, Johnny. I have to get back to work, though.”

  I gave Debra a weak smile. “Stay put,” I told her. “Everything will be just fine. I promise you that.” She looked away.

  * * * * *

  Craig singer lived in Arvada, a suburb on the western edge of Denver. As I drove, I found myself daydreaming, thinking about things I hadn’t thought of in years. It kind of shook me up, because they were things I really had no right thinking about. Things that wouldn’t do me any good at all. It shook me up bad enough that I had to pull over on the highway to collect my thoughts.

  As I sat there trying to clear my head, a state trooper pulled up behind me. He walked over to my car, bent his head towards the window and sniffed, trying to detect alcohol.

  “Everything okay in there?”

  “Everything’s fine. I was just feeling a little woozy.”

  “You haven’t been drinking, have you?”

  I laughed. “Not yet, officer. But I could sure use one.”

  “Why don’t you show me some identification?”

  I handed him my driver’s license. He studied it slowly and handed it back to me. “I enjoy reading your column, Mr. Lane,” he said. “You okay now?”

  “I think so, officer.” I had a sick feeling in my gut that told me I wasn’t.

  Chapter 2

  I ended up being late for my meeting with Craig Singer. Almost an hour and a half after I called him, I pulled up to his house. It was a nice house, a brick English Tudor. Thick grass covered the extensive front yard. It takes money to keep grass that green in Colorado.

  I rang the bell and waited.

  When Singer opened the door, he offered me a moist hand and looked past me. “Where’s Debra?”

  “I thought it would be better if we talked first. I’ll bring her over later.”

  “Is that usual?” he asked, trying his damnedest to smile pleasantly.

  “Sometimes.”

  Singer was a tall skinny man with a head too large for his body. It looked almost like he had a tough time keeping from tipping over. Like his daughter, he could’ve used more flesh on his face, especially around the eyes and nose. He also could’ve used some better coloring. His skin was way too white and I couldn’t help thinking there was a pint more blood in those lips than there had any right to be. He stepped aside, apologizing, and let me through.

  He led me into the den and asked if I wanted a drink. I told him that bourbon right now would do me a world of good. He pulled open a portable bar and asked if scotch was alright. I told him it was.

  “I’ve been so worried about Debra.” He handed me the drink and sat across from me. “I haven’t been able to work,” he said. “I can’t believe how quickly you found her.”

  I took a long sip of the scotch and leaned back in my chair.

  “To be honest,” he went on, his smile beginning to show some strain. “You’re making me nervous with the way you’re acting. How bad is it with Debra?”

  “Why don’t you pay me the three-thousand-dollar bonus you promised? Then I’ll tell you all about it.”

  He sat for a moment, blinking a few times. “I thought I’d pay you once you’d brought her home,” he said.

  “I think it would be better if we did it this way.”

  “I-I guess it doesn’t matter. You’ll bring her home later today?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And I could always stop payment on the check if you don’t.”

  “Of course you could.”

  He pushed himself up. “Why don’t I go write the check?” While I waited for him I finished the rest of my scotch.

  When he came back, I noticed some moisture had formed over his upper lip. He handed me a check for three thousand dollars. I put it in my wallet and told him where I had found Debra and what she had been doing.

  As I talked he kept muttering about his poor little girl, but for a second, I guess before he had any control over it, a look of excitement flushed over his face. He must’ve realized, because he quickly buried his face in his hands. When he pulled them away he was the picture of the tortured dad. He had even squeezed out a couple of tears.

  “Oh dear God,” he cried softly. “My poor little girl. Thank you so much for finding her.”

  I stood up and turned away, but I couldn’t get that picture of him out of my mind, of him getting excited hearing what his daughter was doing for a buck in a peep show.

  “Oh God,” he was going on, hamming it up. “I’ll make sure she gets professional help. I’ll make sure—”

  I spun on my heels and swung at him, catching him hard on his mouth and bursting his lip wide open. He went down like he’d been shot. I only half saw him as he curled into a fetal position, spitting out blood and a couple of teeth.

  He lay on the ground blubbering. I stood over him, trembling, trying not to look at him, trying not to think about him, trying not to do what I wanted to do. I went to the bar and poured myself another drink. I downed it quickly and refilled the glass.

  Tears streamed down his face and mixed with blood. Between sobs, he murmured that I was insane and that he was going to call the police. I walked over to him.

  “Your daughter told me.”

  “You’re crazy!” Thick red bubbles popped from his mouth. “Get out of here! Get out of here now!”

  I kicked him in the stomach and that started him blubbering even harder. I leaned over and grabbed him by his hair and pulled him up so he had to look at me.

  “She told me all about you,” I said. “About you raping her and—”

  “You going to believe that lying bitch? That lying little cu—”

  I threw him down and kicked him hard in the chest, giving it just about everything I had. I kicked him again. Both times I heard his ribs crack. He moaned and curled up tighter. I was still holding the glass of scotch, although I’d spilled half of it when I was kicking him. I drank what was left. “She’s not lying.” I repeated everything his daughter had told me. When I’d finished I said, “When I bring Debra here later you’re going to be long gone. For good. God help you if she ever sees you again.”

  “What am I going to tell my wife?” he asked softly, and then broke out with more blubbering.

  “That’s your problem.” I turned away. I had to. I walked over to a rosewood bookcase and picked up a family portrait. In it, Craig Singer was smiling with all his teeth intact, arms wrapped around his wife and daughter. If you glanced at it you’d think it was just as it appeared, a typical upper middle-class family picture. The proud father, the loving but impatient wife, the sullen bored teenager. But if you looked a little more carefully, you’d realize it wasn’t boredom on Debra Singer’s face, any more than it was teenage angst. And if you looked hard enough, you could detect rigid lines around Mrs. Singer’s eyes and mouth that might indicate something more than impatience.

  Singer whimpered. I put the photo back on the bookcase.
“I’m hurt pretty bad,” he moaned. “I need a doctor.”

  “Again, that’s your problem.”

  He pushed himself up into a sitting position. I knew he was in a good deal of pain. He’d have to be with a busted up mouth and a chest full of cracked ribs.

  “You don’t understand,” he said. “I love my daughter. She’s all I care about. If you give me a chance I can change and—”

  “You better stop now while you can. In another minute it’ll be too late.”

  He started crying again. “What am I going to do?”

  “You’re going to get out of here,” I said. “Now. I don’t know how much longer I can stomach being around you.”

  He slowly got to feet, moaning every inch of the way. He grabbed his side loosely and headed towards the staircase. He said he was going to pack a few things. I told him there wasn’t time. He hesitated and then turned around and hobbled to the bathroom. I watched as he cleaned and bandaged his mouth. The bandaged area had already swollen to the size of a small melon. I didn’t see the point in what he was doing, but I also didn’t see any point arguing with him.

  When he was done, he asked again about packing some items. I shook my head. I followed him as he left the house.

  As he got behind the wheel of his Volvo his expression changed, the submissiveness in his eyes shifting to something else, something cagey. He waved me over.

  “You have no right,” he said. “What you did was assault and battery. Possibly attempted murder.”

  “I guess you could look at it that way.”

  “You guess I could look at it that way? I could sue you for every penny you got and then put you in jail.”

  “Well, you could sure try.”

  “I could do a lot more than just try.” He watched carefully for my reaction. “If you tell anyone about your allegations or write about them in your newspaper column, you’ll find out how much I can do.”

  “Yeah, well, if you’d like we could go to the police right now. I’d be glad to bring Debra along and have her tell her story.”

  His jaw muscles tightened as he looked away. Blood seeped from his bandaged mouth and dripped down his shirt. “You better keep quiet about this, Lane. If you don’t, I’ll sue you.” He turned back, facing me. “And I’ll move back home.”

  I leaned forward, resting on his window. “Let me make sure you understand something,” I said as politely as I could. “The only reason I won’t write about this is because I don’t want to make things any more difficult than they already are for your daughter. If she ever sees your face again, I promise you there won’t be any face left afterwards.”

  He put the car in gear and stepped on the gas. I had to jump back to keep from having my feet run over.

  Of course, he was only kidding himself. I guess the finality of it all hadn’t sunk in yet, but it would. It was only a matter of time.

  I looked down and saw my hands were shaking worse than a junkie’s. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying not to think about Craig Singer, about what I almost did to him, about what I wanted more than anything to do to him. Because when I was standing over him I knew I came within a hair’s breadth of sending him straight to hell. It took every ounce of strength I had to keep from doing it.

  I stood there for a while and then got in my car and waited until the shaking stopped.

  * * * * *

  I almost didn’t get to the bank in time to cash Craig Singer’s check. As it was, the teller was a big fan of mine, and by the time we were through chatting and I was able to leave, it was past five o’clock. It was almost five thirty before I got back to the Corner Diner.

  Carol was sitting at a table waiting for me. She looked miserable. When she saw me her face went white.

  “I’m so sorry, Johnny—”

  I put up a hand, stopping her. Of course Debra was gone. I told Carol it was my fault for taking as long as I did. I asked her what time Debra had left.

  “Around one thirty,” Carol said. “I tried to keep an eye on her, but it got busy, and when I looked up she wasn’t there. My shift ended at three but I’ve been waiting for you so I could—”

  “So you could sit around and make yourself more and more miserable,” I said, forcing a smile. “Look, darling, the reason I come here is because you got such a beautiful smile it makes me feel good just to look at you. If you’re going to look the way you do right now, I might have to find myself another diner.”

  That made her blush and smile at the same time. “I feel terrible about this, Johnny,” she said.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll find her. Second time is always easier.”

  * * * * *

  I gave it my best shot. I spent over an hour driving up and down East Colfax without any luck. After that I drove to Denver International Airport and showed Debra’s picture around. People stopped and looked at it and shook their heads sadly and told me how sorry they were they couldn’t help. I got the same reactions when I tried the bus terminal.

  It was ten thirty when I tried East Colfax again. At each street corner I slowed down and waited for the hookers to come running over and then I showed them Debra’s picture. Some argued that they could give me a better ride for my money than the girl I was looking for, others got nasty, and a few tried to help, giving me the old news about Debra working Tiny’s peep show. After East Colfax, I drove around the State Capital building with pretty much the same results, only difference being more of the hookers were transvestites.

  By the time I got home it was two thirty in the morning and I was dead tired. I hadn’t really eaten all day, but I didn’t have much of an appetite. I went to bed. As I lay awake thoughts entered my head, things that I had no right thinking about. After a while, I realized I wasn’t going to sleep. Especially with those images swirling around in my mind. I got up, found a bottle of bourbon, and brought it back to bed. A long time later I passed out.

  When I woke, I felt like I had swallowed a pound of chewing tobacco and spent a few hours being kicked in the stomach. It was a lot more than the hangover that made me feel as bad as I did. I couldn’t stop thinking about Craig Singer, about what I almost did to him. Other things had seeped through. Real crazy things that just didn’t make any sense.

  As I lay awake trying to sort it all out, I realized I was blowing everything out of proportion. Because if you think about it, what I wanted to do was perfectly normal; any sane, rational person would’ve wanted to do the same thing. If you lift up a rock and see something nasty crawling under it your natural reaction is to stomp on it, right?

  Under any rock, there wouldn’t be anything much lower than Craig Singer.

  Realizing all that made me feel better, maybe even a little hungry.

  I showered and dressed. My hangover passed through me like a bad chill and by the time I headed off to work I was feeling okay.

  My office is right in downtown Denver, about twenty minutes from my house. I parked behind my building and walked the three blocks to the Corner Diner. Carol was again working the counters and when she saw me she rushed over and asked how Debra was. I didn’t see any reason for her to be tearing herself up over something like that, so I told her a white lie about finding Debra and bringing her back to her parents. That brought a genuine smile to Carol’s face, which in turn made me feel a little better and a little hungrier. I ended up polishing off a stack of pancakes and four side orders of bacon and a pound of hash browns.

  * * * * *

  Considering I run one of Denver’s more successful detective agencies there’s not a lot to my office, just an anteroom overflowing with file cabinets and a fifteen by fifteen room—large enough for a desk, a coat rack and a couple of chairs. At one time I carried a secretary, but found I was throwing my money away. I handle the typing myself now, and have an answering service for my calls.

  I called Jimmy Tobbler. After that I called my service and got a list of messages. All but one was from Mrs. Singer. She didn’t leave any message other than that she needed to s
ee me. The final message was from a Mary Williams. I was able to locate her at the second of two numbers she’d left. She sounded young. We arranged an appointment for later in the morning.

  I tried to make a dent in the paperwork piling up on my desk, but just wasn’t in the mood. As I sat staring at it, Max Roth called to tell me that the case I had subcontracted to him wasn’t going as expected. He needed another week, maybe two, to wrap things up. I was disappointed. The case should’ve been a three-day job. He was obviously milking it. I told him if it looked like it was going to take more than another week to let me know, that I’d consider giving him some help with it. When he hung up, he wasn’t all that careful about replacing the receiver. The noise damn near popped my eardrum.

  A few minutes after that, Jimmy Tobbler showed up. I handed him Debra’s photo. He sat down and studied it. “Anorexic?” he said, looking up at me.

  “I think so.” I rubbed a hand across my face. “I found her yesterday and then lost her. She’d been working a peep show on East Colfax. I’d like you to check out the other girls working there.”

  He thought it over, nodded. “I can think of worse ways to spend an afternoon. What if I strike out?”

  “She’s only been on the streets for two weeks. Probably doesn’t have too many contacts yet. You could try checking the youth hostels. Still no luck, maybe she hitchhiked out of town. Boulder would be a good bet. So would Colorado Springs. My gut feeling, though, is she’s still in Denver.” I paid him a week’s advance and gave him the address for Tiny’s peep show. As he got up to leave I asked him if he could take it easy with the expense money.

  “Come on, Johnny. I have to tip these girls.”

  “Well, just try and be a little careful with what you spend, okay?” Tobbler, being the comedian that he was, hummed “Thank Heaven for Little Girls” as he strolled from my office.