Fast Lane

by Dave Zeltserman

  Before taking Debra home, we stopped off for some pizza. She surprised me and ate a couple of slices. We talked for a quite a while. I explained how even with the rotten deal she’d had, she could still be okay. It would be an upward struggle for her, but hell, it was an upward struggle for us all. I told her I knew folks who’d had it just as rotten and somehow survived and did okay in life. Maybe even better than okay. Before we left, I gave her what remained of the three-thousand-dollar bonus her father had paid me. I mentioned she could use it for counseling.

  When I brought her home, her mother answered the door. She didn’t say a word to either of us. Her mouth was squeezed into a tight oval, her eyes full of hate. Debra started to say something, then clammed up and ran past her, disappearing into the house.

  “Don’t you ever show up here again,” Mrs. Singer warned me.

  “Your daughter needs help right now. She needs you to—”

  She slammed the door in my face.

  I stood there for quite a while. I don’t know how long exactly, maybe ten minutes, maybe twenty. In any case, it took that long before I trusted myself to move.

  All in all I felt lousy about the deal. Deep in my gut I knew Debra would’ve been a whole lot better off if I’d left her in Rude’s strip club.

  Chapter 4

  I knew Tom Morton and could’ve just given him a call and gotten what I needed. I didn’t bother though; I didn’t feel like owing him a favor. Instead, the next morning I met with a middle-aged paralegal at the office of Geary, Morton and Fuller.

  Mary’s adoption file sat in front of the paralegal, but she wouldn’t let me see it. She insisted she could only release it to Mary or the Williamses. I tried joking with her. Hell, I would’ve had better luck charming a block of ice.

  She let me use her phone so I could call Mary. We arranged to meet at the law office at four thirty. When I got up to leave, the paralegal twisted her chair sideways and picked up some paperwork from her desk, making sure I knew how much my existence meant to her.

  Of course I could’ve grabbed the folder from her. It would’ve been easy and there wouldn’t have been much she could’ve done to stop me. By the time she tried, I would’ve had what I needed. And I would’ve enjoyed seeing the expression on her face.

  I didn’t, though. Thinking back on it, I must’ve been looking for an excuse to see Mary again.

  * * * * *

  When I got back to my office I left a message for Jimmy Tobbler that Debra Singer had been found, and then chipped away at the work piling up on my desk. After a while I took out Mary’s picture and stared at it. It was a studio portrait taken after her high-school graduation. While most studio shots make the subject look like a stuffed animal, this one was different. You could see the light dancing in her eyes and the playfulness brightening her smile. Looking at it brought a lump to my throat. When I glanced at my watch, I was surprised to see it was already a quarter past four.

  Mary was waiting in front of the Statler building, all anxious and eager. When she saw me, she ran quickly to me and grabbed my arm.

  “They know who my birth parents are?” she asked.

  “They have your adoption records,” I said. There was a faint, pleasant smell of magnolia from her. Her hand felt nice on my arm. For a moment I was overwhelmed with the need to—well, forget it, it’s not even worth mentioning. Besides, I fought it back. I told her we’d better go inside.

  Mrs. Helen Wilson, the paralegal, extended a hand to Mary, and then as a matter of courtesy offered me the same cold, damp claw. She released her grip on contact.

  “As I told Mr. Lane earlier, I’d be willing to release your file to you or your parents,” she said to Mary. Maybe because her lips barely moved when she talked, or maybe because her skin looked like it had been varnished, she reminded me of a cheap mannequin. She licked her lips and added, “I would first like to talk with you. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No thanks.” Mary sat stiffly in her chair, her expression attentive, serious. “What would you like to talk about?”

  “About what you’re trying to do. We handle quite a few adoptions through our office and we get many young people searching for their birth parents. Usually they’re disappointed with what they find.”

  “I see—”

  “Please.” Helen Wilson held up a hand, her wooden expression intact. “I know you’ve made up your mind. I’ve seen the same look dozens of times. I would just like you to keep in mind that people who give up their babies for adoption move on in life. They have new families, new situations. Being confronted by their past can be extremely—”

  “I’ll keep all that in mind,” Mary interrupted, her fingers drumming the desk. “I would like my file.”

  The paralegal regarded her briefly, then handed Mary a folder. “I hope things work out for you,” she said.

  Mary was too busy searching through the papers to hear her. She went through them once and then again, and then turned to me in disbelief and told me there was nothing in them. I took the folder from her and went through it myself. She wasn’t quite right. While it didn’t identify her birth parents, it did list the name of Arthur Minnefield, a lawyer from Oklahoma City, who had obtained the baby for adoption.

  “It doesn’t say who my parents are,” Mary murmured again.

  “The adoption forms usually don’t,” the paralegal stated. “They usually only list the source of the adoption.”

  That wasn’t a hundred percent right. More often than not they also include the names of the birth parents. Thinking about the hoops Wilson had put me through simply to get the name of another lawyer made my foot start to itch. I would’ve liked nothing more than to have booted her out the window. I considered whether it was worth owing Tom Morton a favor and at least having her booted out of the firm, but after taking a deep breath, decided to let it pass. I copied down the name of the Oklahoma City attorney and then dropped the folder onto her desk.

  Mary was visibly upset. I guess she had convinced herself that she was finally going to find out who her parents were. Sort of like a kid waiting for her Christmas present only to open an empty box. It was cruel, but you see, life just ain’t easy. Even when it should be. Even when you’re doing okay and have a successful business and have people clapping you on the back and asking for your autograph. Even with all that, you still end up having your nose rubbed in it day in, day out. I guess Mary was just too young to understand.

  To cheer her up I offered to take her out for dinner. We ended up at a barbecue joint I know in North Denver. Mary brooded, chewing halfheartedly at a baby back rib. I watched her for a while and then remarked how we at least knew where she was from.

  “We know the lawyer who arranged for my adoption is from Oklahoma City,” she corrected me.

  “Odds are, so are you. I’ll make some calls. If I don’t get anywhere, I’ll head out there myself. Probably tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Do you think you’ll find anything?”

  “No doubt about it.” I licked some barbecue sauce off my fingers and drank down half a pint of beer. “I’m sure Minnefield’s records show who your birth parents are. I have a good feeling about this, Mary.”

  She took another nibble from her rib and then put it down. “I’m too nervous to eat.”

  “Don’t be. I could be in Oklahoma for a few days. I would hate to think of you starving to death before I got back.”

  Her face had gotten very pale. “You really think you’re going to find out who my parents are?”

  The way she was looking at me did something to me. It was so touching, so innocent, her soft brown eyes so large and trusting. It gave me a warm feeling in my chest. I told her it was almost certain I would come back from Oklahoma City with the names of both her parents. I couldn’t see any way that I wouldn’t be able to find them. It was simply a matter of tracking down the lawyer.

  After dinner I dropped Mary off a couple of blocks from the Statler Building where she had parked her car.
I went back to my office and checked for messages. There was one from Max Roth saying that he had made some progress and expected to have the job finished by the end of the week and he wouldn’t be needing any help from me. The other messages were from prospective clients. I copied down their details and then flipped though my pile of open case reports.

  There was a knock on my door. Mary came in, hesitated, and then took a step towards me.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t want to bother you,” she started, her words kind of rushing together. “I just want to thank you for everything you’re doing for me. I can’t tell you how important this is to me.”

  As she talked her eyes changed subtly. There was an aching in them, a determination. They made my knees turn to water. I started to say something but just couldn’t think. I could hear my heart pounding. I’m pretty sure I could hear hers also. I took a step towards her and then things got kind of crazy. Her body was up against mine, pushing itself hard into me and at the same time twisting itself away. Her hands holding me tight but also punching and struggling. Everything had become dizzy, light, all I could sense and feel and smell was her. The room seemed to flip over. Then we were on the floor, squeezed between my desk and the wall, my lips brushing against hers, tasting them, feeling their warmth. Her body under mine, shivering, struggling fiercely yet keeping me from getting up. Her hands penetrating my clothing, her nails running over my skin . . . .

  I started thinking of Debra Singer and her father. In my mind’s eye I could see them, a fortyish-year-old man pushing himself onto a little girl, and then we became them, myself Craig Singer and Mary the skeleton-thin Debra. A wave of nausea rolled over me. I pushed myself up, breaking free of her hold, and then fell back to the floor, vomiting. I heard her cry out, asking what was wrong. I couldn’t answer. I kept heaving, again and again, long after there was anything left inside me. Through it all I begged her to forgive me, begged her and the baby Jesus and God to somehow let me live with my suffering. Her thin arms were around me, holding me tight, squeezing me. It was so damn crazy. I could feel her body sobbing against mine. After a while I heard her promising that everything would be alright.

  It seemed like an eternity before I could breathe again. I staggered to my feet, breaking free of Mary, and steadied myself against my desk. My whole body was drenched in sweat. My clothes were soaked. I murmured something about being right back and made my way out of the office and down the hallway to the bathroom.

  I groaned as I looked in the mirror. I looked like hell. My eyes were blood red, my face white and shiny wet with perspiration and tears. I turned the cold water on and put my head under the faucet. It helped a little. I tried rinsing out my mouth to get rid of the salty vile taste. All it did was dull the taste a bit. The room had been rocking back and forth and now started to spin. I dropped onto the toilet and lowered my head to my knees and waited until the spinning stopped.

  When I returned back to the office Mary was on her knees scrubbing the linoleum with some paper towels. Her face was flushed, worn out. She saw me and got back up and sat down at the desk. She gave me a worried smile. I went straight to my chair and fell into it. A bottle of rye was mercifully waiting for me. I opened the bottom drawer of my desk and took out the rye and gulped down about a third of a pint.

  When I put the bottle down I saw Mary watching me. “I never had that kind of reaction with a guy before,” she said, trying to keep her smile intact.

  I needed another drink bad. When I lifted the bottle my hand was shaking worse than the time with Craig Singer. Some of the booze spilled on my shirt as I swallowed a few more shots. I took one last mouthful and spat it into the wastebasket, gagging. I still had that taste in my mouth. I felt it all the way down my throat.

  “I’m sorry, Mary,” I said when I could. “I don’t know what happened. I’m really sorry.”

  “So you don’t do that with all the girls?”

  I shook my head, trying to clear it. “No, I’d say that’s a first. I guess I started thinking about my last case—about that girl’s poppa sexually abusing her. I guess it just really hit me hard.”

  “Hard isn’t the word.”

  “I guess it isn’t.” I started to laugh but my stomach ached too much. I took out a handkerchief and wiped it along my forehead and then wrung it out into the wastebasket.

  Mary was studying me. “You had me scared,” she said. She sounded scared.

  “I’m really sorry.” I rubbed the handkerchief along the back of my neck and then over my face. I wanted nothing more than to change out of my clothes and crawl into bed and hide. “I must’ve started thinking about our age difference and how it was sort of the same with that girl and her father.”

  “It’s nothing at all like that. First of all I was a willing participant, at least sort of.”

  When she said “sort of” it made me cringe. It brought a sickish feeling back to my stomach. She seemed to sense it, and struggled to show me her smile again.

  “I’m not sure what happened,” she said.

  “Why don’t we discuss it when I get back from Oklahoma? I’m going to have a hard day tomorrow searching for your birth parents.”

  She nodded. “We’ll wait ‘til then.” She stood up and frowned as she looked at me. “Are you okay? You look really sick.”

  “I’ll be fine. I just need some rest.”

  “You’ll call me as soon as you find something?”

  I nodded.

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  I watched as she left and then sat back and wondered why I’d had that reaction. Why had I got sicker than any dog? I couldn’t figure it out.

  Chapter 5

  First thing next morning I spoke with Jimmy Tobbler. He was disappointed to hear that his job was cut short. We argued back and forth about whether he should be paid for the previous day. Even though I’d called early in the morning he didn’t get the message until after he’d put in a hard day’s work interviewing the girls at Tiny’s peep show. He also didn’t want to have to eat the expense money he laid out that day in tips. We worked out a compromise; I’d pay him for the day, but the tips would come out of his own pocket. He agreed to send back what was left of the retainer.

  Arthur Minnefield wasn’t listed with information. I made a call to the Oklahoma Bar, found out that Minnefield had died fifteen years earlier and was given the number of his widow. When I explained to her who I was and what I wanted, she told me she still had all her husband’s files and agreed to let me look through them.

  I took a nine-thirty train to Oklahoma City. It was an eight-hour ride, during which I tried to think things over. I decided nothing made any sense. That’s pretty much the only way to explain what had happened with Craig Singer and later with Mary.

  I guess with Singer I must’ve cracked. Even though I’ve made a success of myself there’s still a lot of crap I got to take. Anyone in my situation has to. All the winks and nods. Shoveling up your client’s messes. Making sure to look the other way when it’s in their interest. It’s all part of the job and it builds up inside you. When a piece of scum like Singer comes around, you just let it out.

  And once the genie is out of the bottle . . . .

  It had to be something like that. Because what happened with Mary made no sense whatsoever. I’d been with quite a few gals in my life—as my faithful readers can attest to—and while it hadn’t always gone smoothly, it never ended up before with me on my knees retching my guts out.

  It just made no sense.

  * * * * *

  The train didn’t pull into Oklahoma City until six, and by the time I rented a car and checked into a hotel it was past seven. I called Arthur Minnefield’s widow and told her I’d be over in the morning.

  Irene Minnefield had to be close to eighty, a shriveled gray-haired little thing peering up at me through thick glasses. We were sitting in her living room and she was holding a plate of oatmeal cookies with both her hands. She pushed the plate towards m
e.

  “I got up early to bake them,” she told me, letting me in on her little secret. To oblige her I took one and chewed on it. It tasted a bit like sawdust.

  “You’re the first person who’s needed to see Mr. Minnefield’s files,” she said, disappointed, no doubt, that she hadn’t had more opportunities to bake oatmeal cookies in all these years.

  I showed her Mary’s picture. I told her how her husband had arranged for Mary’s adoption and how I was hoping his files would list her birth parents. She put down the plate of cookies and grasped the photo with both hands.

  “My, what a pretty girl,” she remarked. “Mr. Minnefield and I never had children.” There was a note of regret in her voice.

  “Could you show me where his files are?”

  I took Mary’s picture from her and helped her out of her chair. She led me toward the basement. “My nephew put them down there for me,” she said at the top of the stairs.

  I turned the light on and went down alone. The basement was unfinished, with a dirt floor. Water and heating pipes hung down low, so I had to crouch. No one had bothered to clean the place in years. It was filthy. About a third of the floor was stacked with boxes. None of them were marked and it didn’t take me long to realize there was no order as to how things were stored in them. I’d have to go through each box, checking each individual paper in it.

  Irene Minnefield came down after two hours bringing more oatmeal cookies and milk. She stood around chatting incessantly, telling me all about her late husband. After a while her voice was like a dentist drill grinding in my ear and I started to get a headache. The mustiness of the basement didn’t help.

  “It sure seems like Mr. Minnefield saved everything,” I said.