The Question of the Absentee Father

by E. J. Copperman

  That was not an option. “I am not going to drive this vehicle, Mike.”

  “Well, I know you’re not going to let me drive it because you’re worried about the rental insurance, and you’re listed on the agreement, so you’re the only other choice. Janet’s not coming back here to pick up the car.”

  “There has to be another way,” I said.

  “For the time being we’re relatively safe,” Mike suggested. “They’re probably not going to try and hit us from there unless they have scopes, and I don’t think those holes would accommodate scopes. But if you won’t drive us away we don’t have a lot of options.”

  “I can think of one,” I said. I picked up my iPhone and pressed the screen to call the man we knew as George Kaplan.

  “Yeah,” he said after the third ring.

  “This is Samuel Hoenig,” I said.

  “No kidding.” I believed that was said sarcastically.

  “I do not understand why you have asked people to shoot at us,” I said. “We have brought your counterfeit currency.”

  Mike winced.

  There was a long pause of four seconds. “Counterfeit?” Kaplan did not sound surprised, but it might have been an error to let him know I was aware of his money-printing operation.

  Still, there was no point in denying my discovery. “Yes. I have no interest in the fact that you are creating the bills, Mr. Kaplan. I am concerned only with the welfare of Reuben Hoenig and my offer remains. Let me talk to him with no restrictions and no medication and I will return your property.”

  “Of course.” Kaplan sounded oddly conciliatory much too quickly. “Just come walk to the house and we’ll make the exchange.”

  Mike could no doubt hear the conversation because I was not holding the phone very close to my ear. He immediately shook his head in a negative gesture, but it had not been necessary. I would not have agreed to those terms.

  “You are not on the premises at Jamieson Avenue, Mr. Kaplan,” I asserted. “The vehicles in the driveway confirm that. Your own Sport Utility Vehicle is not here and there are not enough vehicles for you, your associates, and the three people clearly aiming guns at us right now. If my associate and I approach the house we will undoubtedly be shot. But I am telling you violence is not a necessary tactic. Simply let me see Reuben Hoenig and our business will be concluded.”

  There was on the other end of the conversation the kind of complete, sterile silence that ensues when one engages the mute feature. Then the background noise reasserted itself and I heard Kaplan say, “That’s not going to happen.”

  Mike frowned. I engaged my own mute feature and he said, “I don’t like the way he sounds so final about it. Is there any way for us to get out of here without getting shot?”

  “I am fairly certain we could exit through the passenger side of the vehicle and escape without serious harm by moving in the direction away from the house,” I told him. “But it is not a certainty. You have the experience in this kind of circumstance. What would be your plan?”

  Over the iPhone I heard Kaplan say, “Hoenig? You need to give me back my money. It’s not yours.”

  “I’m not crazy about your idea because we don’t know what kind of weapons the enemy has,” Mike told me. “If they’re pistols or revolvers, we probably don’t have a problem. I don’t think they can see through scopes but I’m not definite on that, assuming those are rifle barrels, which I think they are. Yes, we can get out on the other side of the car, but if they don’t care about shattering glass—and they don’t—there are any number of ways this can go south.”

  I understood approximately seventy percent of what he had told me and was not encouraged. “What would you suggest?” I asked.

  “They’re in the house and we can be pretty sure that’s all of them,” Mike answered. “They can deal with distance if they want to but they can’t deal well with movement. Our best bet is still driving this car away as fast as it can go.”

  I did not see that scenario as possible. Mike was not listed as a driver on the rental vehicle and without Ms. Washburn, who had engaged the Kia Soul, it would be impossible to call the company and add him to the list now. I was not equipped, either in terms of practice or temperament, to drive a vehicle in Southern California.

  “We need an alternative,” I said.

  “Hoenig!” Kaplan insisted.

  I decided the least I could do was stall for more time. The longer I kept Kaplan on the line the less likely his associates in the building would fire on us. I disengaged the mute function.

  “There must be some compromise we can reach,” I said. “Surely both of us can come away with something we want. Suppose I give you half the money for a short conversation with Reuben Hoenig.”

  “Let me think about it,” Kaplan said, and the mute function was engaged again. Aware that we could be heard if we spoke, I did the same on my iPhone.

  “He’s not going to go for that,” Mike said.

  “I understand that. I am attempting to, as you would say, buy us time to think of another solution to our dilemma.” The idea of buying time is a misnomer. If it were possible to do so, very wealthy people would live much longer than others. That is not statistically the case in a proportional study. It is a metaphor.

  “I could try to fire at them, but all I have is a handgun and there are three of them and one of me,” Mike said. “I don’t like our chances.”

  “Neither do I. In addition, I am not an advocate of proactive violence. I believe it is a tactic that should be used only defensively.”

  The gun barrel to our right as we faced the house moved to better aim at the driver’s side window, which was my sector of the vehicle.

  “If you mean only when the other guy fires first, that’s already the case and it looks like it might happen again soon,” Mike said. “At least start the car, Samuel. Get the air going.”

  The heat was becoming intense inside the Kia Soul so engaging the engine was a viable option even if only to operate the air conditioning. I inserted the key into the ignition slot and started the vehicle’s motor. Cool air began to blow through the vents.

  Again a squawk of noise indicated Kaplan had removed the mute function on his phone. “Not a chance, Hoenig,” he said. “You’re gonna give me my money and I’m not going to let you talk to your dad.”

  The way he said, “your dad” caused a flutter of anger in me. I felt my neck spasm and my expression must have changed because Mike said, “Are you okay?”

  I nodded. Then I turned off my mute feature and addressed George Kaplan. “That is not a viable business arrangement. In order to get something, a party must give something.” I had heard that on a television program. I believe I used the axiom correctly.

  “Oh, I’m going to give you something,” Kaplan said. I tried to analyze how one can tell a person is smiling when hearing his voice but could not make the calculation quickly enough. “I’m gonna give you something you really want, and you’re gonna give me all of my money.”

  “The only payment I require from you is access to Reuben Hoenig,” I told Kaplan.

  “That’s what you think,” he answered. There was a rustle on his end of the conversation that indicated something in the space he was occupying was being moved. “You have to come to my office on Magnolia in Burbank and bring every dollar you took from me. Be there in an hour.”

  I looked at Mike, whose eyebrows were down and close together. He was concerned.

  “What do I get in exchange for the package of counterfeit cash?” I asked.

  “This,” Kaplan said. The scuffling sounds became louder. I felt a flutter of anxiety in my stomach but could not identify what was making me feel uneasy. Then I understood as soon as I heard the next voice to come through the phone.

  “Samuel, don’t you do anything,” Ms. Washburn said. “I’ve got—”

 
Then her voice was cut off and Kaplan’s returned.

  “Get here in an hour or less. Are we clear?” he asked.

  But I had already engaged the transmission of the Kia Soul and begun driving toward Burbank.

  twenty-five

  “Speed up, Samuel,” Mike the taxicab driver suggested.

  I had thought I was driving the Kia Soul at the posted speed limit for the area, and checked very briefly the dashboard display. “I am driving at the limit,” I informed Mike.

  I did notice that other vehicles were passing the rental as I drove, which was not surprising but difficult to understand. This was the absolute fastest a motor vehicle could legally travel, but so many were choosing to break the law and exceed the limit.

  Mike had programmed into the Global Positioning System device the address George Kaplan gave me for his office on Magnolia Avenue in Burbank near where Ms. Washburn had been touring the Warner Brothers studios. Mike held the device with both his hands and secured it in his lap. I could not see the screen and Mike had deactivated the vocal instructions to direct me himself. He had, as soon as I had engaged the drive gear, fastened his safety harness. I had done so immediately upon occupying the vehicle.

  We were now on White Oak Avenue and Mike had instructed me to stay on this road for two miles. I was perspiring at my hairline and upper lip despite the strong flow from the Kia Soul’s air conditioner.

  “The police don’t expect you to strictly stick with the limit,” Mike informed me. “They know you are going to go above it. Just don’t go too fast. Stay at the same speed as other drivers and you’ll be fine.”

  My desire to reach Ms. Washburn and extract her from the situation in which she had found herself had temporarily overcome my serious misgivings about driving, particularly in unfamiliar territory. But now that we were en route I found the process of getting to Magnolia Boulevard was making me perspire with anxiety. My hands on the steering wheel at the designated positions of ten and two in correspondence to a clock’s face were damp. My eyes were not diverting from the road. I felt like I could not move my head from that position. I could not see Mike except in the limits of my peripheral vision.

  “In about a half a mile you’re going to make a left,” he told me. “Go ahead. Speed up.”

  Left turns were not comforting. I felt my jaw clench. If my hands had not been gripping the steering wheel tightly they might have been flapping at my sides. I found it difficult not to vocalize with sounds Mike no doubt would have considered incomprehensible.

  Against my instincts I pressed on the accelerator and felt the engine respond. The number on the display exceeded the posted limit and I was not pleased with that reminder. I focused my mind on Ms. Washburn and thought of her being detained by George Kaplan.

  “Watch it, Samuel!” Mike said emphatically.

  My eyes immediately refocused on the vehicle in front of me, a Toyota Prius like Mike’s taxicab, but not painted yellow. This one was blue. And if Mike had not engaged my attention, I probably would have struck it in the rear with the Kia Soul. Traffic had stopped at a red traffic signal.

  “Easy,” Mike said, exhaling. “I’m worried about Janet, too. But Kaplan isn’t going to do anything to her because he wants his money. As long as he doesn’t have it, Janet is safe.”

  “Yes.” I let my head drop forward, keeping my foot firmly on the brake. “You are right. Perhaps I should have let you drive, Mike. I am useless at the task.”

  “You’re doing fine. Just keep your focus and get into the left lane when you can. I’ll watch for the right time to make the change.” I do not trust a vehicle’s side mirrors because objects one sees in them might be larger than they appear. They are not accurate reflectors. “Look up, Samuel. The light turned green.”

  Indeed, when I adjusted my view I saw the open space before me and moved my foot to the accelerator. “How do you think Kaplan got to Janet?” Mike asked me. He knew I preferred not to converse while anyone is driving, but this was a new experience for both of us. Perhaps he was attempting to keep me engaged and lower my level of tension. If so, it was not helping a great deal.

  “My best guess is that somehow Kaplan or one of his associates discovered Ms. Washburn was taking the studio tour,” I said. “They would know, therefore, when the tour was completed and wait by the gate to intercept her. It is much more important now to determine what they intend to do with her and, when we arrive, with us. It is clear that Reuben Hoenig is important enough to his interests that Kaplan is absolutely unwilling to release him to our custody.”

  “Why?” Mike asked. “What could he be doing that’s so important to a guy making fake money?”

  “That is an excellent question.”

  “Here’s the left turn,” Mike pointed out. “There’s a left turn only lane so you don’t have to worry about waiting for an opening in traffic.”

  I looked up toward the intersection and my stomach clenched more tightly. “This is a freeway entrance,” I told Mike, who undoubtedly had that information already.

  “Yes. You’re getting on the One-Oh-One.”

  “I don’t think I am,” I said even as I made the left turn in accordance with the arrow shining green on the traffic signal.

  “We don’t have time to think about that,” Mike said. “We have to be thinking about Janet and your dad.”

  “I need to be thinking about the drive.” A glance at the freeway before me was disheartening. There was a traffic signal indicating when a vehicle on the ramp should accelerate. I stopped before it and watched the oncoming traffic.

  It was virtually at a standstill.

  “We are not going to get there quickly,” I told Mike.

  “The light’s green, Samuel,” he said. “You have to go onto the freeway.” He pointed at the signal, perhaps not understanding I could see it was showing my lane was clear to proceed.

  “I know,” I said. But I did not move my foot to the accelerator. The vehicle behind the Kia Soul, which was a Nissan Sentra, sounded its horn.

  My mind raced; there had to be a faster way to reach Ms. Washburn, who was undoubtedly in some kind of distress even if she was not in immediate danger. I became angry at myself for placing her in this position. I should have argued more vehemently against her touring the studio when we were dealing with unsavory characters.

  The Nissan Sentra’s horn sounded again. Mike looked at me. “Samuel,” he said.

  “Program the Global Positioning System to find an alternate route,” I told him. “I am not willing to enter this freeway. I am not confident in my skill as a driver and I cannot allow this traffic to slow us down. Find another way.”

  In my side mirror I saw the driver of the Nissan shake her fist at me.

  “You’re on the onramp, Samuel,” Mike reminded me. “You can’t back up. You have to get on the freeway.”

  “I will not. There must be a faster route.”

  The Nissan’s horn was joined by those of three other vehicles. I felt my neck begin to dampen with perspiration.

  “I’ll look for it, but you have to get on the highway now,” Mike said. “Even sitting in traffic is faster than not moving at all.”

  His point was reasonable and was amplified by the view in my side mirror, where one of the drivers behind the Kia Soul was exiting his car and walking toward me purposefully. I took my foot off the brake and placed it lightly on the acceleration pedal.

  We moved forward to the point that other vehicles had filled the lanes and then I stopped the Kia Soul. “Just merge into the right lane,” Mike said. “I’m finding us another route.”

  “I need you to look to my left,” I told him.

  Mike looked up, remembering his navigation role. “Okay. Wait. Now, go!” I moved the vehicle into the lane and was almost immediately forced to brake to a stop. We were hopelessly caught in mid-afternoon Los Angeles traffic.r />
  “Okay. Now just move when you can and don’t change lanes,” Mike said. “I’m working with the GPS.”

  Progress was painfully slow. I had to consciously focus my mind on the traffic and not the plight of Ms. Washburn, who had not answered her cellular phone when Mike had tried to reach her. There had been no further communication from George Kaplan.

  “This is the fastest route,” Mike said after my seventh instance of stopping behind a Honda Civic after having inched forward a few yards. “There is no better way that wouldn’t be bumper-to-bumper this time of day, Samuel. I’m sorry.”

  “We can’t just do this, Mike,” I managed to squeeze out between clenched jaws. “I don’t think I can stay calm that long.” Already my neck was in spasm. It was a struggle to maintain focus and control over my head.

  “I don’t have an answer for you.” Mike sounded as frustrated as I was.

  “You are a taxicab driver. Under these circumstances, what would you do?”

  Mike was silent for eleven seconds, which is a very long lull in a conversation. He did make a sound deep in his throat that seemed to indicate he was thinking very deeply. Finally he said, “I’d do something you would never do.”

  He did not appear to understand that was why I had asked for his perspective. If the solution was to do something that would occur to me, I would have put that plan into action by now. “What would that be?” I asked.

  “I’d drive on the shoulder of the road past everybody until I got stopped by a cop,” Mike said. “But I know you’d never—”

  I had already moved onto the right shoulder of the freeway and was accelerating past the dormant traffic. “Samuel!” Mike shouted. I could not tell if his tone betrayed alarm or admiration.

  Horns on other vehicles sounded and there were a number of obscene gestures from drivers in the lane I had vacated. But no other vehicles followed my lead. I was torn between staring straight ahead and watching carefully in the rearview mirror for the first sign of a Los Angeles Police Department cruiser or a California Highway Patrol vehicle. None appeared immediately.