by J. R. Rain
And through the cacophony of barks, which ranged from deep-throated woofs to high-pitched yipes, one particular bark stood out above the rest. It was deep and low and deliberate, and not nearly as energetic as some of the others. It was the bark of an old dog, and it was coming from directly inside the partially-finished shopping center next to me.
* * *
The building was framed, and some of the drywall was in place. I ducked under a low-hanging crossbeam and stepped into the cool shadows of the unfinished structure. The smell of sawdust was heavy in the air, along with something else. Urine.
It was also nearly pitch black. Damn. I had thought of the dog whistle, but I had missed the boat on a flashlight. Double damn. Still, who knew I would be crawling through a half-completed construction site?
Always come prepared, King.
As I made a mental note to buy a little flashlight to attach to my keyring, I waited for my eyes to adjust to the gloom, aided by the beams of sunlight slanting in through the many cracks and fissures in the incomplete structure. My own personal laser light show. Dust motes drifted in and out of the rays of light. In here, bustling L.A. seemed like a million miles away, or to have never existed. I was in a strange world of slanting light, crossbeams and unfinished cement slabs, with nothing to fill the heavy silence except my own labored breathing. Hell of a place to drink alone, if alone was your intent.
Finally my eyes adjusted—although adjusted might have been a bit too optimistic. Less blind was a little closer to the truth.
Anyway, I blew the whistle again, and again the nearby dogs barked excitedly, although not as many and not as vehemently. Except for one. Indeed, it barked deafeningly, and with a lot more energy than before, and would have raised the roof had there been a roof to raise. And it came from deeper within the structure.
Deeper was not necessarily better. Deeper meant darker.
Great.
I moved cautiously through the increasingly deepening shadows, and the further I went, the more the dog barked. As I guided myself carefully over the debris-strewn floor by running my hand along the exposed wooden wall frames, I worried about splinters and nails and being mauled by a really big dog with really big teeth.
Lots of worrying going on here.
I turned a corner and there, sitting in a splash of sunlight on a patch of dirt-covered cement, was a man and his dog. The man sported a dirty blond ponytail, and the dog sported a lot of teeth and black gums and raised hackles. The man was currently turning his head this way and that, trying to get a look at me coming out of the shadows.
“You a friend?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He nodded, patted his dog, who immediately calmed down, although it still growled intermittently. “Not sure what got into him. He never acts like this.”
I decided not to mention the dog whistle. “Maybe he doesn’t like old men.”
“Naw, Dusty likes everyone, unless you mean to do me harm.”
“I’m just here to ask you some questions,” I said.
“You with the police?”
“Nope.”
He grinned and patted the cement slab next to him. “Then pull up a chair, my friend, and let’s have a drink.”
Chapter Twenty-six
There was, of course, no chair to pull up.
My eyes continued adjusting. We were in a corner space that I imagined would someday be the waiting room to a dentist’s office, complete with outdated magazines, uncomfortable furnishings and broken toys for kids who ate way too much sugar.
“Hot out today,” I said.
“But cool in here,” he said.
“And dark.”
He grinned. He seemed to like the dark part the best, and I didn’t blame him. A bum could disappear in here; at least, until construction started again. Milton looked bad, even for a bum. His sunken cheeks were dark hollows and his long blond hair was thinning badly. In fact, it appeared to be falling out in clumps. Yeah, maybe he was dying. He drank some more booze. The sound of it sloshing around inside the bottle was amplified inside this small, contained space.
“My name’s Aaron,” I said.
“Milton,” he said, and took another long pull on his whiskey. “My name’s Milton and I’m dying.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry that I’m dying, or sorry that my name’s Milton?” He laughed and slapped his knee hard and a cloud dust exploded off it, drifting up in the slanting rays of sunlight.
“Milton’s a fine name,” I said, and stepped closer. As I did so, Dusty growled a little, but not very energetically. I took out a cookie and unwrapped it. Dusty quit growling and wagged his tail instead. Food talks.
“May I?” I asked Milton.
“Knock yourself out, man.”
Dusty the Mutt had a lot of golden retriever in him. He also needed a bath, and no doubt all of his shots. I broke off a piece of the cookie and tossed it over to him, and Dusty promptly snatched it clean out of the air, even in the near darkness. He threw back his head like a whooping crane and swallowed the piece of cookie without so much as tasting it. For all he knew I could have tossed him my watch. Anyway, Dusty’s alert, glowing eyes were back on me again, ready for some more cookie, or anything else I might throw at him. I decided to keep my watch.
“You need some money?” Milton asked suddenly, reaching into a pocket hidden within the many layers of his clothing. Amazingly, he pulled out a small wad of cash, counted out a few bills for me, and held them out. “We could all use a little extra money, friend. I had a good day today. Here, have some of it. Buy yourself something to eat.”
I was oddly touched. “I’m okay, Milton, but thank you.”
He held out the bills a few moments longer, then shrugged and absently shoved them back somewhere inside his voluminous clothing. I was fairly certain the wad never made it back into the same pocket. Milton had already drank half his bottle. If he wasn’t drunk now, he would be soon. If I wanted any answers, I’d better get them now.
“Have you ever shopped at Trader Joe’s, Milton?” I asked.
He didn’t answer at first. Instead, he took a long pull from the bottle, then held it out to me when he was finished. Tempted as I was, I declined. He shrugged and set it down on the concrete next to him. The sound of whiskey splashing back and forth echoed hollowly, sounding bigger than it really was in this small, unfinished room. Milton, I was certain, was getting drunker by the minute. I broke off another piece of cookie and tossed it over to Dusty. He missed it this time, but promptly plucked it off the ground.
“Milton, you ever shop at Trader’s Joe’s?” I asked again.
“Where?”
“Trader Joe’s,” I said patiently.
“I’m dying,” he said.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I have cancer. I can feel it eating away right here.” He touched underneath his left arm and my first thought was pancreatic cancer, but then again, what did I know?
“I’ll get you help,” I said.
“I don’t want help,” said Milton. “I want to die.”
Milton dropped his head forward and I saw clearly where his hair was falling out. I also saw scabs and various wounds. He had been beat up recently. Or had fallen. Or had contracted some disease or another. There was a time in my life when I could not do this, that I would not do this. Conversing with a bum in a forgotten construction site, exposed to germs and craziness and the unknown. But I was a different man back then. Different needs, different desires, different phobias. Now my desire was to do my job and to do it well—and to find Miranda and bring her back safely to her mother. Whatever it took, even if it meant being here now, in a forgotten construction site with a forgotten man, and a dog whose appetite would not be ignored.
I tossed him another chunk of cookie.
Milton and I were silent. He kept holding his side, wincing. The smell of urine was stronger in here. I suspected the stench was coming from Milton himself.
; “Milton,” I said, then repeated his name louder before I got his attention. “Milton, when were you last in Trader Joe’s?”
He started nodding. “When I saw the girl.”
I sucked in some air that was also suffused with the smell of sawdust and dog breath. “Who was the girl?” I asked.
“Prettiest thing I ever did see. Made me want to live again.”
“The girl’s missing, Milton. Something bad happened to her. Something very bad.”
Milton began shaking his head, and he kept on shaking it, and in the dim light of the unfinished room, I could see the urgency in his rheumy eyes. Dusty moved closer to him, nuzzling him.
“I didn’t do anything to her,” he said.
“Did you see what happened to her, Milton?”
He started clawing his neck. Maybe his cancer was there, too, eating away at his throat. “I didn’t hurt her. She was too beautiful to hurt. I just wanted to look at her.”
“So you followed her around the store?”
He nodded. “You woulda, too, my friend. So pretty. Long brown hair.” He was getting drunker. Words slurring. I was losing him.
He started weeping, hard, and the moment he did, as if on cue, Dusty began howling with him, throwing back his head like a hound dog. I’m partial to hound dogs.
“I’m dying,” he said again, blubbering, his words barely discernible.
“I’m sorry, Milton.”
“I wanted to touch her so bad.”
“Did you touch her?”
He shook his head once and cried even harder, and Dusty was howling and periodically licking his dirty tears. Jesus.
“Did you follow her outside, Milton?” He didn’t hear me. I repeated the question.
“Yeah,” he finally said.
My heart was hammering now. The empty room was suddenly stifling. I swallowed hard and wished I had brought a bottle of water. Hell, even his back-washed whiskey was looking pretty damn good about now.
“What happened outside?” I said, pushing, keeping him focused.
He stopped crying on a dime and looked off to his side, eyes glazed and wet and distant. “He took her.”
With his sudden silence, Dusty fell quiet as well, looking from me to him, as if for an explanation to what had just happened. I had none to give.
“Who took her, Milton?”
When he spoke again, he did so hollowly, his voice barely discernible. “A man. In a van.” He laughed, or cried, at his own rhyme.
“What color was the van?”
“White.”
“Who was driving the van, Milton?”
“A man,” he said again. “Ugly as sin. Holes in his face.”
“Holes?” I said. “Pock marks?”
“Yeah, those.”
“Did she fight him?” I asked. “Did he force her into the van?”
“I don’t know, man. When I came around the corner she was already in.”
“Did she look scared, Milton?”
He shook his shaggy head. “I don’t know, man. I don’t know.”
I asked him more questions—all the questions I could think of—but Milton clearly had no clue where she was taken to, or why she had gotten in the van, or who the man was. And as he lapsed into an impenetrable, drunken stupor, I set the remaining cookies next to him, patted Dusty on the head, and left.
“I’m dying,” he said behind me.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and kept walking.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The L.A. Philharmonic is in downtown Los Angeles, and is located in the now famous Walt Disney Concert Hall. The Disney Hall, itself a modern-day marvel of neo-expressionistic architecture, which basically means weird, has been featured in everything from Iron Man to the Simpsons and from commercials to popular podcasts. The structure, which looks a bit like an ocean wave frozen in time and space, boasts laser-fitted stainless steel panels and sweeping, jutting walls that defy gravity and boggle the mind. Well, at least boggle my mind.
Anyway, I was heading over to it now for a concert, and I was running late, having lost all track of time while reading through Miranda’s police file for the hundredth time, looking for anything that stood out, anything the police might have missed. So far, nothing stood out. At least not yet. Oh, and the freak summer rainstorm didn’t help matters much. Five minutes of pouring rain that included two loud thunderclaps. Scared the shit out of my cat. Dogs in the neighborhood, spooked, had immediately started barking. As if on cue, the short downpour immediately bottled-necked Figueroa Avenue, proving once again that L.A. drivers have no clue how to drive in the rain.
Frustrated and ornery, I pulled into the adjoining parking lot, shelled out $9 that I would never see again, and hurried up a steep side street. Steep, that is, to these old knees.
As you might imagine, the evening was cool and damp. I was dressed in jeans and a flannel, not the attire of choice for the L.A. Philharmonic elite, but I happened to know its president, and I happened to know that the word was out that the L.A. Phil was actually encouraging casual attire to attract a wider audience.
Well, I was more than happy to oblige. I spent half my life in monkey suits. These days, flannel suited me just fine. Must be the country boy in me.
And there, standing near the glass entrance, dressed sharply in a wool coat with a fur collar, was my friend. A female friend. Her name was Grace, and she was also the aforementioned president of the L.A. Philharmonic, which means she courted the rich and famous for a living. Which means free tickets for me. She was young and in her early forties, blond and cute. She was also married to an ex-football player, and she thought of me, I think, as the grandfatherly type. I could handle that. I was indeed, after all, a grandpa. Anyway, I had helped her find her runaway son a few years back and ever since then I’ve been getting free tickets to the Phil. Admittedly, I usually passed on the free tickets, as the uppity scene just wasn’t my style these days.
Also, chamber music blows hard. Granted, I’m a fan of most music, and I do enjoy Bach and Mozart whenever I’m trapped in an elevator. But sitting through an entire concert of the stuff is truly a question of how fast will I hit the seat in front of me, snoring.
Spotting me, Grace stepped away from a small gathering of people, gave me a big hug, and a not-so-big peck on the cheek.
“You’re late,” she said, straightening the shoulders of my flannel and brushing lint off my shoulders. I was unaware of the lint. Grace was also neat freak. Me, not so much.
“And your point?” I asked.
“I suppose, if you had been early, that would have been the bigger news.”
“Exactly.”
She gave me my ticket and led the way inside. Grace seemed to know everyone. She stopped often, shook many hands, hugged those who were hug-worthy, and, in general, looked like she ran the joint, which she happened to do.
“So why tonight of all nights?” she asked as we boarded the escalator up. “You’ve turned down all my other invitations.”
“I dig Indian folk music.”
“Bullshit,” she said.
“Well, someone has to.”
She laughed. “Well, Raffi is, in fact, world-famous.”
“With a name like that, how could he not be?”
She squeezed my arm, nearly snuggling against me. Flannel has that effect on women. She smelled of good perfume. Her skin was flawless. Her features were small and sharp, her eyes large and round and very blue.
“Not to mention, Raffi and I share the same birthday,” I added.
“So it was a sign,” she said. “You are big on signs.”
“Signs are important,” I said. “They mean something. It’s sort of like the universe speaking to you.”
“Or God,” she said.
I nodded. “Or God.”
We got off the escalator. She hurried me along a short tunnel where we joined a small throng of theater-goers. An usher was checking tickets, and was about to check ours when he looked up at Grace, the boss of b
osses. He swallowed hard, smiled, and stepped aside, letting us through.
“Hey, he didn’t check my stub,” I said.
Grace squeezed my hand and pulled me along through an archway and into grand concert hall. She led the way up a few rows and slid into what I knew were the management seats. Not quite in the middle, but close enough. People paid damned good money for the middle seats, after all.
Oh, and grand it was. Holy shit. The main hall was massive and elegant, and the dichotomy between the cold metallic exterior and the soft woods of the interior, with its curved balconies and railings, couldn’t have been more striking. And since the L.A. Phil was built with Disney money, that meant the place was also cursed to look cartoonish. Example: the suspended wooden ceiling was supposed to be a stylized ship’s hull, except that it looked more like something Jack Sparrow would have captained in The Pirates of the Caribbean. And the elegant organ behind the stage, although a magnificent piece of modern art with its soaring brass pipes, still looked like the world’s biggest bag of French fries. Intentional or not, subliminal or not, I was now jonesing for some McDonald’s.
“The real question,” said Grace, once we were settled, “is how you interpret the signs.”
“Are we still on this?” I asked.
“Yes. Now, you must have been troubled with something, Aaron, or perhaps you were faced with a decision. And, in the middle of all this indecision, here appears a rather famous Indian sitarist who shares your exact birthday. So here you are, hoping that God will continue to speak to you, continue to guide your way. And all you have to do is follow the signs.”
“Are you quite done?” I asked.
“But am I right?”
“Maybe.”
“What are you struggling with, Aaron King?” she asked me. She tightened her grip around my arm. She was always very touchy-feely.
I opened my mouth to speak but a small man sporting a long gray ponytail approached Grace, hugged her tightly, chatted a bit and then left again. She didn’t bother to introduce me, nor did he seem particularly interested in me, anyway.
