by R. A. McGee
“Shut up and listen. You know where my office is?” Ross said.
“I do come to your place of business, remember?” Porter said.
He knew the area well. It was a so-so part of town that was experiencing a resurgence. Gentrification, they called it. Still, the rent was cheap enough that Ross could have an office in a nice fifteen-story building. Not the top floor, of course, but somewhere near the middle.
“You know the billboard outside of my conference room window?”
“The one with the ambulance chaser on it? What a low-life,” Porter said.
“That’s the one. Except they changed it a couple weeks ago.”
Now that Porter thought about it, it had been a while since he’d gone to Ross’s office. He’d been busy in California and, before that, working a job in the Midwest. Even if he were in town, there was no need to go to Ross’s work. He drafted money out of his account when necessary, and any meeting of the minds could be done at someone’s house over beers.
“Good. No more scummy lawyer. What’s the problem?”
“They put up one of those missing kid billboards. The first week or so, I didn’t think much about it. But the more I saw it, the more the picture stuck in my mind. She’s the cutest damn kid. I stopped eating in the conference room. I just can’t look at her,” Ross said.
Porter eyed his friend. “You on your period or something? What’s with all the emotion? I’m pretty sure the doctor can give you something to help you out.”
“Don’t,” Ross said. “Just don’t.”
“Relax. There are dozens of those billboards up around town. I see them, everyone sees them. I’m sure the cops are doing their jobs,” Porter said. “Sometimes this type of shit takes time.”
“If you let the cops do their jobs, you’d never get paid,” Ross said. “You can’t trust those idiots to do anything right.”
“You’re dealing with this in a bizarre way. You don’t even know this kid, Ross.”
“I can’t help it. Every day I pull up to the office and there she is, smiling,” Ross said. “It’s so damn sad.”
“Apparently so.”
Ross looked down, picking at his label again, avoiding eye contact with Porter. “You want to know the worst part about it?”
“It’s not you getting in touch with your feelings? That’s pretty bad from where I’m sitting.”
“You’re a dick, you know that?”
“Fine, Ross, what’s the worst part?”
Ross didn’t answer.
“Don’t be a bitch, just tell me.”
Ross finally ripped the label completely off. “It’s the reward money.”
Porter drank his beer. “That much?”
“That much? It’s seven hundred fifty dollars. Seven hundred and fifty measly dollars, Porter. That’s all. I’ve never seen a missing poster with a reward that low. You just made twenty-five grand. I’m talking about seven hundred and fifty dollars. That’s all the money her family could pull together. They’re sitting there, desperate to get their little girl back, and all they can come up with is seven hundred and fifty shitty dollars. Where’s the police money? Where the hell is the FBI money? I thought about kicking in some myself, like maybe it would help somehow,” Ross said.
“That’s what this is about? You want me to throw in with you to bump the reward up? Hell, all you had to do was ask. I’ll donate to the cause,” Porter said.
“No, asshole. I want you to find her.”
Three
“Find her?” Porter said.
“Don’t act like you don’t speak English,” Ross said.
“I thought you just wanted money or something.”
“What are you, an idiot? I am telling you—the one guy I know who has ever found a missing kid—about a missing kid. You sit there and pretend like I’m asking you for money. My cousin’s a dentist. When I call her and complain about my teeth, she knows good and damn well I’m asking for an appointment,” Ross said.
“Touché, honkey,” Porter said.
“I’m not joking,” Ross said. “I never ask you for shit, but I am now. I need your help.”
“You ask me for shit all the time.”
“When?”
Porter was quiet for a few moments. “There was that time in sixth grade you wanted me to stop Pete Guyrich from taking your hat every day.”
“If you have to go back twenty-five years to find something, then I think I’m due for a favor, don’t you?”
Porter stood and walked over to the blue recycle bin by the gate in the wooden fence, and tossed the empty bottle in. He liked the sound the bottles made when they clinked together more than any thoughts of saving the environment. He walked back to Ross at the table, stopping to stare at one of the citronella tiki torches burning on the patio.
“Will it help you stop being so weepy?” Porter said.
“Come on, man, this is serious.”
“So is having low testosterone,” Porter said.
“See? This is why I didn’t want to tell you. This exact reason. I knew you’d screw with me.”
Porter sighed. “Let me think about it.”
“Thanks, Porter, I really—”
“I said I’ll think about it. I know you have an unhealthy attachment to this girl, but this case isn’t something I’d normally take. Working this close to home isn’t a great idea and the money isn’t exciting. There aren’t a lot of reasons to stick my nose into this.”
“Helping me isn’t enough of a reason?”
“Definitely not,” Porter said with a smirk. “I thought I’d remind you I’m not running a charity.”
“Whatever you say, you greedy bastard,” Ross said.
“Greedy? C’mon, you can do better than that.”
Porter and Ross spent the rest of the night getting more and more drunk, and eventually broke into a terrible bottle of Scotch whisky Porter had forgotten he had. Things devolved into shots and the type of insults reserved for only the best of friends. Porter got the best of the jabs but, bolstered by the brown liquor, Ross held his own.
Ross hadn’t mentioned another word about the girl. He was smart enough to know not to press the issue. Once Porter decided to decide, there was no rushing him.
The next day began with a massive headache. Porter dragged himself into the builder-basic kitchen and drank two bottles of water, then made his way across the cool tile floors to the bathroom.
The shower did little to help his head, so he finished up, dried off, and got dressed. He stopped by the kitchen again on his way out, to collect another bottle of water and three folded packs of Goody’s powder. He had never found anything better for headaches than that disgusting powder. He emptied all the packets into a shot glass then turned it up into his mouth. The bitter taste was unpleasant, and he chased it away with another bottle of water.
He grabbed his keys and sunglasses, and slipped his holster and pistol into his waistband. He covered them with his untucked shirt and then stepped out into the daylight.
Tampa was a busy town, but the mid-morning drive from Carrollwood to Westshore wouldn’t take long. Porter passed several landmarks that he knew by heart: the Bucs stadium, Mons Venus, Westshore Mall. He had lived in Tampa for over twenty years and had grown up driving these streets. It was easy enough to get around. It didn’t hurt that the people who’d laid out the city had been intelligent enough to use basic north-south and east-west for the main thoroughfares. It baffled Porter when he went to a new city and nothing made any sense.
Pulling up in front of Ross’s office, he saw the billboard that was causing Ross so much heartburn. A palm tree obscured the picture and Porter couldn’t make it out from his angle, so he walked into the building’s lobby and up to the security guy at the front desk.
“Smitty, just the guy I was looking for.”
“If you’re looking for me, I must be in trouble,” the old man said with a laugh.
Porter was unaware of the man’s full name; ‘Smi
tty’ had always sufficed. He worked the day shift at the office building, diligently controlling access to the upstairs offices. The old man had worked there for as long as Porter had been going to the building.
His large, graying afro looked strange on top of such a slim body, but it suited him. Smitty’s ‘USMC’ tattoo looked more faded than ever, bleeding into his charcoal skin. Rumor was that Smitty had been some sort of high-speed guy in Vietnam and had retired to Florida once his career in the Marines was over.
“I ain’t seen you in a while. How’s life treating you?”
“Like stir-fried shit. Ross and I tied one on last night and I’m paying for it big time.”
“I think Mr. Gianullo is a bad influence on you. I’ll bet if it wasn’t for him, you’d have read your Bible and turned in early last night,” Smitty said.
“Finally, someone understands me. I don’t go looking for trouble, it finds me.”
“I know that’s right. Mr. Gianullo told me you were coming by; go on up.”
“Call him Ross, Smitty. He has such an ugly last name. Maybe if he ever gets married he can take hers. Anything would be better.”
Smitty laughed and Porter walked to the elevator. He pushed the button for the eighth floor and ran his hands over his face, trying to wake himself up. His beard was getting long.
As a teenager, Porter had once quit a job because his manager had said even one day of stubble was too much, and told him to go home, “scrape his face,” and come back once it was done. Porter never went back. Something about shaving made him feel emasculated. And that didn’t even take into account the razor bumps he’d get on his neck if he wasn’t meticulous with the prep work and finish of a shave. It was easier to have a beard.
Getting off the elevator on the eighth floor, Porter turned left and came to a large glass double door. It had been an IRS office, and was left empty when the agency outgrew the space and moved. If you looked hard enough, you could see the remnants of the IRS seal on the glass.
Communist-gray cubicles ran the length of the back wall, ending at a wooden office door with a small vertical window in it. The cubes reminded Porter of his old workplace. It seemed like every government office had the same terrible furniture. He turned right towards the office and stopped at the first cube on the left, knowing he would find Tessa.
“Tess,” Porter said.
“Hey, sweetie. What did you do to him last night? He looks awful,” Tessa said.
She was a brunette, and attractive in an odd way. Porter always thought her mouth was too large. Big lips and teeth. Still, she wasn’t a bad-looking girl, and was an even better person. Porter not-too-secretly hoped Ross would find the guts to make something happen with her. He knew they’d be good together.
“Your boss is a lightweight; I can’t be held responsible for that. Ross isn’t working you too hard, is he?”
“Please. He couldn’t work me too hard if he tried.”
“I agree. I think you’re too much woman for him.”
“That’s not what I meant. I mean… It’s just… Get out of here,” Tessa said, looking flustered.
“I’m just saying…”
Porter kept walking, down to the office with the window. He pounded on the door several times and let himself in. Ross sat with the shades drawn, ceiling fan on full speed. He had a large wooden desk, one that hadn’t come with the office. Fancy furniture one would find in a lawyer’s or judge’s office. Ross tilted his head down from the headrest.
“You gotta bang on the door like that? How about a little courtesy, huh? This is a place of business.”
“Business, huh? You doing someone’s taxes on your eyelids?”
“Shut up. I blame you for this.”
“Maybe when your balls drop you’ll be able to keep up,” Porter said. “Until then, stay on the JV team.”
“You don’t feel bad at all?” Ross asked.
“Nope,” Porter lied. “I feel like a champ.”
“Okay. You win. I know my place in the world.”
“Good. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
Ross moaned and rubbed his head.
Porter sat in the guest chair across the desk. “I gave what you said some thought. I’ll look into things.”
“Just look?”
“That’s all I can give you. The reward is shit and you know I don’t like working this close to home. There’s always blowback. So, I’ll take a look and see what I can see. If I think I have something, I’ll pass it on to the detectives working the case. I still know a few guys at the sheriff’s office that’ll listen to me. That’s the best I can do.”
Ross stared at Porter, his bloodshot eyes focusing on Porter’s nose. He started to say something and stopped. Then he took his feet off the desk, stood up, and walked around the big desk and to his office door. “Come on.”
Ross led and Porter followed down the line of empty cubes. Past Tessa who was diligently working away, past the copy machine, into the conference room. Ross opened the door and stepped to the far side of the room. Porter followed him in, shut the door, and took a seat at the long, rectangular, glass-topped conference table. Ross found the cord for the metal blinds and gave them a tug. The blinds opened and Porter was face to face with Ross’s missing girl.
MISSING: $750.00 REWARD
Danisha Hill
Black / Female / 45 Pounds
IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION PLEASE CALL
813-555-2150
Porter read the billboard, then looked at the face framed by the words. She was a dark-skinned girl, missing one of her front teeth. Her hair was braided into multiple thick braids, finished on the ends by hair ties with large, colorful, plastic balls. Her eyes were dark brown and her teeth a contrasting white. She was smiling and happy. Porter could see why the billboard could stick under someone’s skin. He looked over at Ross, who had tears in his eyes.
Four
“Are you still drunk? What are you crying about?”
“See? This is why I didn’t tell you. I can’t be upset without you shitting on me.”
“I’m not shitting on you, but don’t you think this is extreme?”
“No, Porter, I don’t. She’s a beautiful kid and she just disappeared. Poof, gone. That’s tragic, man, don’t you get it?”
“I get it, but it’s everywhere. God knows how many kids poof and disappear every year. It sucks and I get it, but it’s just life.”
“But it doesn’t have to be. Not this time. Not for this kid. You can find her, Porter, I know you can. I’ve seen you do it. She deserves a chance.”
Porter looked at the picture for a few moments, the girl’s smiling face burning itself into his memory. “She was a beautiful girl.”
“She is a beautiful girl. Is.”
“You know what I’m saying. Usually, after this long it means—”
“I know what it means,” Ross snapped. He had taken a seat across the table from Porter. His eyes were clear now, and a look of tenacity swept across his face.
“Okay. It’s not over till there’s a fat lady and all that shit,” Porter said. “That number there, who does it go to?”
“It’s Danny’s grandmother.”
“Danny? That’s what we’re calling her?”
“That’s what Miss Leona calls her.”
“Who’s Miss Leona? Why do I feel like I’m playing twenty questions?” Porter said.
“That’s her grandmother. She lives over by Ybor in some of the Section 8 housing. I have the address somewhere,” Ross said, patting his pockets.
“Good enough. Give me the address and I’ll swing by and talk to the grandma. Missing kid one-oh-one.”
“Sounds good,” Ross said. “I’ll grab my keys.”
“Negative, Ghost Rider. You keep your ass here. You have figures to calculate or a receptionist to harass or something. Let me work on this.”
“I kind of want to help,” Ross said. “It’s important to me.”
“I appreciate that, a
nd if I need any accounting done, I’ll let you know.” Porter wasn’t going to let Ross anywhere near this. First, he was too emotional about this situation and he wasn’t thinking straight. Second, Porter wasn’t sure Ross would appreciate his methods. There was no way he would understand the nuances.
Ross searched Porter’s face, then exhaled and slumped back down in his chair. “Fine, but let me know if you find anything out.”
Porter nodded, took a photo of the billboard with his phone, and walked out of the conference room. He stopped at Tessa’s cube on the way out.
“He looks like shit,” Porter said.
“I hate to see him like that. Think I should get him some Pepto or something?”
“Actually, I think you should give him a little kiss. He told me that’s what he wanted,” Porter said, a small smile creeping over his lips.
“Don’t you start with me.” Tessa chewed her lip. “You gonna help him out? With the kid, I mean.”
“I’m gonna see if I can,” Porter said.
“Then you be safe. Ross kept me in the loop when you were in California. Triads? That’s scary stuff, Porter. If something happened to you, who would he use as a wingman?”
“Hopefully he never has to find out.” Porter feigned a look of innocence, then walked out the glass doors to the still-waiting elevator.
With a wave to Smitty as he walked across the lobby, Porter slipped on his sunglasses and stepped out into the bright noonday sun. He trudged over to his Yukon, hangover pounding with every step.
The truck was a holdover from his previous life, when he’d made a good salary and his then-wife was a nurse. Plenty of money and no kids will lead to some indulgences. The Yukon was ten years old now, but had low mileage considering its age. It was a dark blue four-door model with a sunroof. Porter loved it because it was a comfortable ride, despite his large frame.
Stepping to the back of the Yukon, Porter popped the back hatch. He had installed a large lockbox in the spacious rear area of the truck, a lockbox he kept his firearms in.
