Under-Heaven

by Tim Greaton

  His cell phone vibrated against his hip.

  Unlike many people, Clay felt that talking on a cell phone in public was not only in bad taste, it was downright rude. He’d once seen a lawyer reprimanded by a judge for carrying on not one, but two, loud phone conversations in the court hallway during a trial break. As far as Clay was concerned, he should have been arrested for contempt.

  He quickly made his way to the cashier’s booth.

  “Excuse me, Miss,” he said to the especially busty, blond sheepherder. “I’m at the table over there near the window.” He pointed. “I’m just going out to answer a call. Do you need me to leave a credit card or something?”

  She blinked demurely and suddenly had much better posture.

  “No problem, Sir. I’ll have your waitress keep your place.”

  “Thank you,” Clay said as he slipped outside. On another day he might already have been making plans to take the young woman out, but he knew that every minute he wasted was another minute that Jesse remained in trouble. The first few days of an investigation were the most crucial, especially if you wanted to get a child back alive.

  The vibrating had long-since stopped, but Detective Conroy’s home number was displayed on the phone’s small screen. Clay leaned against the front of the building and, not bothering to listen to her voice mail, pressed redial.

  “Hello.”

  He recognized her voice.

  “Detective Conroy, this is Clay Gromkis, returning your call.”

  “I’m glad you did, Clay. I just got done talking with Mr. Gregoire, the father of Jesse Largess’s young friend from school. He told me the man we want looks like Bluto—you know, the big guy from Popeye.”

  “Yeah, I know who he means. Anything else?”

  “Yes, his son told him the man had lots of gold chains around his neck.”

  “The father didn’t mind talking to his son?”

  “No, he actually called the station to let me know Heath had remembered something else, something he thought we should know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He had an unusual ID for the car.”

  “Unusual,” Clay said. “Unusual is always good. What is it?”

  “The boy told his father the car was collectible. He said it was a Blue Line car.”

  “Detective?”

  “Heath’s father collects toy Hot Wheels cars. The ones they call Red Lines are some of the most collectible. Rather than white walls, they have red lines around the tires―”

  “And the kid says the black car had blue lines on the tires instead of white or red,” Clay finished. “Hello, Harry.”

  “That means something, Clay? Who’s Harry?”

  “New tires have blue on the white walls, Patricia. When they’re mounted most garages wash the blue off. Must protect the white or something. The black car had new tires on it, and the blue hadn’t been washed off yet. I’ll bet those tires came from a warehouse owned by Mr. Harry Bennerman. That’s where Jesse’s father worked for the last few years.”

  “Sounds pretty slim, Clay.”

  “Yeah, I know. Think you could run a check on this guy anyway?”

  “Sure,” she said.

  “How long will it take?” Clay asked.

  “I can have records run a local within a few minutes. National takes a couple of hours sometimes.”

  “I’ll wait by the phone if you can get me a quick rundown.”

  Detective Conroy agreed. Clay gave her Harry’s name and his warehouse address. It turned out to be less than five minutes before she called back.

  “Clean as a baby’s cheeks. No criminal record, no business troubles, not even a speeding ticket. You sure he’s involved?”

  Even though she couldn’t have seen it, Clay shook his head. “I’m never sure of anything, but something about that guy and his tire business doesn’t add up. Even if he turns out innocent on the missing kid, I promise he’s prime for an investigation.”

  “Once we’ve tracked the boy down,” she said, “why don’t you drop me your notes. I haven’t done a drug prelim for a while. The captain might let me scout this one before turning things over to U-squad.”

  “U-squad?”

  She chuckled. “Just our little nickname for the drug division. Ugly and undercover.”

  “I like it,” Clay said. “Back in Oklahoma, we used to call them ‘Roots.’ It started as Under-Oakies but then went further.”

  “No matter what you call ‘em,” Detective Conroy said, “they don’t get paid enough for the crap they go through.”

  “For the ones that stay clean, that’s for sure,” Clay agreed. Unfortunately, he lot of them wound up turned or burned for playing too close to the fire. Clay had often thought that undercover departments should either be more careful with their psych evaluations or should be eliminated altogether. Some of the most dangerous criminals in every city were the undercover cops that played both sides of the fence. Some people believed it was a necessary risk but Clay wasn’t convinced.

  “Thanks again for all the help,” Clay said. He hung up and went back inside the restaurant. Thoughts swirling, he didn’t notice a single bosom as he finished his second beer and left.

  25

  Decisions

  My nightly visits with Vicky were now followed religiously with my search for Whiskey. As time progressed, I found myself getting better at discerning domestic animals from wild animals. And, though my instincts weren’t always perfect, more often than not I could tell the dogs from the cats. Of the thousands of individual dogs I found, however, I had yet to locate one that felt like Whiskey. I’m not sure how many months passed, but at some point I came to feel my search was in vain.

  My previous malaise returned.

  As my mood grew somber, my indifference toward most everything and everyone in Under-Heaven became evident again. I loved my relatives and appreciated all they had done for me but that was no longer enough. In my heart, I knew I would soon be leaving Under-Heaven. I knew I again needed a purpose to exist.

  Though Uncle Finneus wouldn’t be pleased, I had decided to return to Earth.

  Clay drove past the tire warehouse. There was one small white van in the yard and beside it sat a black Chrysler LeBaron. Though the whitewalls weren’t blue, they could have recently been washed. Every instinct in Clay’s body said this was his guy, but he still didn’t have a stitch of proof. Gut and innuendo just weren’t enough to work with. Somehow, he had to link the boy’s disappearance to this fellow Harry.

  But how?

  First things first, Clay had to get a new set of wheels. Corvettes were fun but a bit too conspicuous.

  Car rental and then coffee, he thought to himself, in that order.

  It was going to be a long night.

  Jesse heard movement outside the door of the damp room he’d been locked in. It was probably the bear-man bringing him another fast food meal, but Jesse hadn’t eaten a thing in days. His jaw was so painfully swollen that he couldn’t chew, and though he sipped occasionally from the drinks, the bubbles in the soda made his stomach cramp. It didn’t matter, though, because Jesse already knew he was going to die. He sensed that sometime soon the bad men were going to kill him, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

  His head ached all over and he felt certain that some bones in his face were broken. His fingers were raw from prying at the door and at the bricks in the walls. Only his legs remained undamaged, but they were of scant use because his head swooned every time he got to his feet.

  Surprisingly, Jesse didn’t feel scared for himself. He had already accepted his own impending death. But he knew his mother would cry when she found out. Most of all, though, Jesse was scared for his dad. He had heard the bearish man mutter nasty things about his father, the worst being what he said when he brought food the last time.

  “I’ll be glad when your father gets his ass back here and we can bury the both of you.”

  Gingerly lifting a corner of the blank
et he was lying on, Jesse covered his weak, soon-to-be-dead body. He wished he had his stuffed dog to hold onto as he curled up on the concrete floor and closed his eyes. Jesse made a valiant effort to forget that he had ever been born.

  As it turned out, iced coffee wasn’t as bad as it had always sounded to Clay. The cappuccino machine at the Handi-Mart had run out, and the clerk warned him the coffee in the dispensers had been there since early morning. The last option turned out to be the caffeine and ice combination he sat sipping in the white Toyota he’d rented only an hour before. He had parked in the Verizon parking lot across the street from Harry’s warehouse. Both the white van and the black sedan were still in the yard. It was possible that no one was in the building, but Clay’s intuition told him that someone was. He could see dim light shining into the alley, probably from Harry’s office, on the western side of the building. Otherwise the place was pitch black.

  It was ten minutes to midnight when a man strode out the side door of the warehouse and got into the black LeBaron. He was a big man, over six-foot-two Clay guessed from the way his head towered over the white van as he walked in front of it. He was not only tall, but also thick—huge by a child’s standard.

  “Hello, Bluto,” Clay whispered.

  He knew he was close on this one, but still he didn’t have any actual proof. He needed more than a generic black car and a Bluto comparison to get a search warrant for the warehouse. And even that might not have generated the wanted result. Clay suspected that Harry was involved, but someone who had managed to stay as clean as Harry Bennerman would not be dumb enough to keep a kidnapped kid right on his own premises.

  Or would he?

  Some damn smart criminals had been caught doing far dumber things. If Clay had any advantage at all, it was that Harry probably didn’t suspect anyone was onto him. Certainly, the police hadn’t shown any interest, and Clay’s single visit wasn’t likely to have set off any bells or whistles. No, if someone were going to do something stupid, it would be a person like Harry Bennerman who had no apparent reason to fear.

  Soon, Clay intended to give him a reason.

  The LeBaron pulled out into traffic. Clay waited for several cars to pass then followed. He stayed four cars back in Bluto’s same lane. When the LeBaron stopped at a phone booth only a couple of miles from the warehouse, Clay continued on past. He went two more blocks then turned around in a Fancy Hair parking lot, fully cognizant that that criminals tended to use payphones and disposable phones whenever possible. Bluto was still in the phone booth when Clay pulled to the side of the road a hundred feet back.

  Clay had the Boston police number on speed dial, but it would have taken twenty minutes to find the right person at this time of night. He took the chance and called Detective Conroy.

  A man answered, his voice thick with sleep, “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry to call this late, but―”

  Clay didn’t have a chance to finish the statement.

  “It’s for you,” the man croaked. There was a slight click and the ruffle of sheets.

  “Conroy,” Detective Conroy said, sounding a whole lot more awake than her husband. Clay guessed she had children. Mothers always tended to be light sleepers. He didn’t remember seeing any photos of children on her desk at the police station, but that didn’t mean anything.

  “I’m sorry to call this late, Detective,” Clay said, “but I need some help, quickly.”

  “You have a solid lead already?”

  “It’s getting more solid by the minute. I think I found Bluto. He’s at a phone booth on Vanity, right in front of Hollywood Arcade.”

  “I know the place,” she said. He heard more rustling cloth as he imagined her scrambling to the edge of the bed for a pad and a pencil. “He’s on the phone right now?”

  “Yeah, has been for the last couple of minutes.”

  “We can trace it. You just need to know where and who?”

  “That would be great.”

  “You’re sure that’s him?” she said.

  “I’m feeling more sure every moment. Thanks for the help.”

  “No problem, Clay. Do you think I should punch in?”

  “No. It’ll be a few hours before I can pin anything solid. I hope not, but it might even be a few days.”

  “You’re not a hero, are you?” she asked.

  Clay didn’t know if she was worried that he’d put the boy in danger by not asking for help, or if she feared he would steal the credit for her investigation.

  “I’ve never been a hero, Patricia. I’ve always just been a cop.”

  “I’ll have someone call you the second we get the trace.”

  “Thanks again. Sorry to wake you.”

  “No sweat. ‘Goes with the territory.”

  My relatives had been coming and going steadily for the last couple of days. Apparently, news of a reincarnation travels quickly in Heaven. It seemed that everyone wanted to tell me how much they loved me and to wish me well in my new life. The only relative I hadn’t seen anything of was Uncle Finneus, which concerned me for several reasons: I feared that maybe my decision had angered him to the point of ruining our relationship or that maybe that our relationship had been nothing but a farce on his end. But the worst of the three possibilities was that maybe I had hurt him when I decided to leave. Surely he knew how much I would miss him.

  I was anxious to see him.

  Suddenly, I had another suspicion: would Uncle Finneus stay away, knowing I wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye? After all, every minute he kept me in Under-Heaven was another minute he could avoid his return to Hell.

  No matter the reason, I knew I had to find him.

  Grandma Clara, Aunt Alice and Uncle Albert were the last of the angels to leave. They all had the same sad but supportive expressions. Though they hated to see me go, all three had long before sensed my soul would one-day return to Earth.

  “I’ll miss you,” I said to Grandma Clara as I hugged her tightly.

  She ran her fingers through my hair.

  “No you won’t, Nate, because you won’t remember any of this for as long as you’re alive. But don’t worry, I’ll miss you and keep an eye on you down there. And, most importantly, I’ll be here to hug my little boy just as soon he gets back.”

  I moved on to Aunt Alice. Of all my angel relatives, I think she had helped me to grow the most. She taught me about true honor and the goodness of deeds that go beyond your everyday be-a-good-boy variety. I, of course, had long ago learned my Aunt Alice’s husband had been caught plotting against the Czar Nicholas and had been killed. When the Russian soldiers arrived at her estate to take vengeance on anyone else who might have been involved, my Aunt took full responsibility and was shot in full view of her three children and all her serfs. With the execution of the Lady of the estate, something the soldiers had been loath to do, the Czar’s representatives considered the estate clean of revolutionaries. Thereby, with her sacrifice, my Aunt Alice had delivered the safety of her three children and the wellbeing of their family estate, an estate that had ultimately safely nurtured five more generations until the rise of communism scattered lords and peasants alike all across Eastern Europe.

  I hugged my Aunt Alice for a long time.

  “You’re not so bad,” I whispered to her.

  “Shhh,” she said. “Let’s not start rumors.” When she finally got free of my grip, she said, “God speed on your next journey, Nathaniel. I, too, will be watching.”

  Finally, there was my Uncle Albert. It was odd that though he and I had spent little time together alone, he had been a staple of my life here in Under-Heaven. Every few days, he would trundle in some new relative or another; and without him I couldn’t have imagined how uncomfortable those introductions would have been. I remembered the way he had first stepped between my Aunt Alice and me. The memory made me smile.

  “It appears your time has come, Nate,” Uncle Albert said. “I’m going to miss playing tour guide around here.”


  “And I’m going to miss you,” I said. I hugged him as tightly as I had the others.

  In apparent embarrassment, Uncle Albert turned his head and wiped at the corner of one eye. I had long-since given up wiping my own tears. They had been running steadily for hours. My time in Under-Heaven was nearly over.

  Clay followed Bluto back to the tire warehouse. As the dark LeBaron pulled into the parking lot, Clay continued on past. When he returned a few minutes later, he again pulled into the Verizon parking lot across the street. Bluto had already gone inside, and once more Clay was left to watch an empty white van and a black car. It was almost half an hour before Detective Conroy called.

  “This is Clay,” he said, having long-since fallen out of the habit of answering with his last name as most policemen did. He hadn’t thought to look at the screen to see who was calling.

  “Clay, it’s Conroy.” She sounded wide-awake. “I just got a call from the techs. Your boy was on the phone with the police department in Ormand Beach, Florida, just one town up the coast from Daytona.”

  “Damn,” Clay said, “why the police department? Can I get that number from you?”

  “I’m one step ahead of you, Clay. I called the chief on night shift down there. Seems the name Wagner Largess came flashing across all their screens a few minutes ago, and right after that someone claiming to be his brother called to see if they had heard anything about him.”

  “Had they?”

  “You could say that.”

  “What’d they nab him on? Something to do with drugs, I’ll bet.”

  “I’m not sure anyone has a handle on that yet, Clay. Wagner was dead when they found him less than an hour ago. They think he was driving a rented van and got car-jacked, but everyone’s still shaky on the details. The only thing they found on him was a slip of paper with your guy’s name and phone number.”