by Rob Cornell
“I don’t understand. We were friends. Good friends.”
“I’m glad you put that in the past tense. Lets me know we’re on the same page.”
I found it hard to breathe. A painful knot tied itself up in the center of my back. Hot air roared from the vents in the dashboard. I’d gone from cold to sweating. I stared at the fan control, but couldn’t motivate myself to reach over and dial it down.
“Did I lose you?” Bobby asked.
“I’m here.”
“This doesn’t change anything, do you understand? The terms remain the same. Million bucks wired to my account, or I find your daughter and play matchmaker with one of my prison buddies.”
Knowing this was Bobby turned my perspective of everything that came before. His mention of doing time was one of those things. “I can’t believe you would end up in prison. For what?”
“For none of your fucking business.”
“At least tell me what you want.”
“I’m pretty sure I covered that about a hundred times. I want your money, honey. Nothing complicated about it. No reason to think too hard. I need money. You have money. See how that works?”
“You mean to tell me you’re willing to throw away years of friendship for my money?”
He made a disgusted tsk sound. “Friendship? That was another life, bro. Right here, right now? You’re my pretty cash cow.” He chuckled. “Poetry is beautiful.”
He had always had a knack for whipping up a batch of sarcasm, wit, and undiluted clowning around. He was a big part of my smart mouth training. But I would always be the student to this master.
I said, “We might have lost touch, but I still saw you as a friend. Someone who’d made a big impression in my life.”
“See? I’m just returning the favor. I want to make a big impact on your life.” He sighed, his tone of voice turning serious. “Is it working?”
“That’s all you want is money. That’s what this whole con is about?”
“I hate talking in circles. If you don’t have any original topics of conversation, I’m going to go back to finding your daughter.”
“You need to stop this.”
“No. You need to stop this. You’re the only one who can.”
I could sense him ready to cut out. I threw what I had at him before he could hang up. “What’s this got to do with Eddie Arndt?”
A pause. Long enough to make me think he’d already hung up, but I could hear a faint something. A TV? No. Music. Familiar music. A song my parents had written. I suddenly faced this image of Bobby in some seedy hotel room, a wall covered with photos and newspaper clippings all about my parents, about me. A miniature stereo playing a collection of my parents’ songs on a steady loop. None of that was probably true, but it spoke to the maniacal nature of his behavior.
“Who is Eddie?” he asked finally.
“I think you know. He part of another angle with this scheme you’ve got going.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, right. What about Hal? Where have you got him?”
“Have him? What makes you think I have him?”
“Quit screwing with me. What are you up to?”
“And there we are back to that. Good-bye, Rid. Don’t bother calling again. I’m tossing this phone. I’ll just keep checking my account until I see your deposit. Until then, the race continues.”
“You’re a fucking animal,” I shouted, but I was the only one who heard it. Bobby had hung up.
Breathing heavy, the car’s heater pushing the oppressive level, I glared at my fancy phone as if it were to blame for the wreck of a conversation I had just had with Bobby. The phone innocuously displayed the time so that I could tick off minutes while I sat stunned, letting the car run, the needle on the gas gauge sideling toward the E.
I felt like I had spent a lot of time on the phone. Too much time. But while I sat there I determined I had to make at least one last call. While it had been years, I still remembered the phone number.
I didn’t expect the female voice that picked up. “Thank you for calling the Quinn agency. How can I help you?”
“May I speak with Mort Quinn please?”
Her voice gigged a little before she recovered. “I’m sorry. Did you mean Robert Quinn?”
No thanks. I’d already talked to him. “I would like Mort if he’s available.”
“Well, he’s…can you hold a moment?”
How hard is it to get your boss on the phone? “I’ll hold.”
Pan flute music filled my ear after she put me on hold. The pan flute is a beautiful instrument, but it was never meant to play the likes of Lady Gaga. Apparently, no one had informed this particular flautist of that.
About three minutes passed before I was saved from the pan flute edition of Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean.” And, no, I’m not kidding.
“This is Colt Barclay. I’m an investigator with the agency. How can I help you?”
Colt? Really? A PI named after a gun. Life sure did like its irony. “I’m sorry,” I said. “There must be some confusion. I asked for Mort Quinn. Is he not available?”
“Can I ask who’s calling?”
Can I ask you to turn down the coy and stop answering questions with questions? “I’m a personal friend of Mort’s. I used to work for him.”
“I see.”
He didn’t say anything else. I knew this trick. Let me stew long enough that I felt I had to fill the silence with more talk. I wondered what would happen if we both used that technique at the same time?
I took note of the position of my watch’s second hand. And…go!
The bulk order of silence might have had me laughing if my wise guy side weren’t tempered by…well…my tempter. A game of quiet chicken. Who would have to speak first?
Thirty seconds passed. Still nothing.
Forty-five. Sixty. This had to be a record. Seriously, was this guy such a douche that he couldn’t let me talk to Mort without taking a statement? I locked down hard. I’d sit on this phone saying nothing for an hour if I had to.
He either got bored, antsy, or sensed my resolve because he lost. “You say you worked for Mort?”
“Yes. Several years ago.”
“I see.”
He seemed partial to that two word phrase. “Good,” I said. “Because I don’t. Why the run around? Tell him it’s Ridley Brone. Trust me, he’ll want to talk to me.”
“I apologize. Mr. Quinn is unavailable.”
“Your secretary couldn’t have told me that? She had to get a gumshoe to give her permission?”
He cleared his throat. “Please accept my apology. Things have been in a bit of disarray around here as I’m running the agency on my own at the moment.”
Because good ol’ Bobby had bailed. But I still didn’t know what had happened with Mort. “Is he sick?”
“No,” Mr. Barclay said. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this…”
Hell. That was never a good line to hear.
“Mort Quinn passed away a little over a month ago.”
Chapter 22
Fucking cancer.
I remember when I first met Mort and got to know him. He seemed invincible, immortal, the kind of guy that would live to one-hundred and still go dancing on Friday nights. Sixty two was too damn young.
Once Barclay opened up, he gave me all the details I asked for and some of them I didn’t. Did he suffer?
“He spent six months on Hospice. He fought for every last day.”
I took that as the nice way to say yes, he suffered. I asked about the specifics of the cancer. It had started with Melanoma on his ear. Too much time in the California sun had done its damage. Mort, the stodgy mule that he was, had put off having it looked at until it was too late. The cancer had spread, first into his lungs, then up to his brain—a rather circuitous route, but cancer played by its own rules and they didn’t have to make sense.
Finally I asked about Bobby.
&
nbsp; “Robert’s taking it hard. He’s been on leave since the funeral. I certainly don’t blame him.”
If what Bobby was up to was considered leave, I’d hate to see him on vacation.
I thanked him and was about to hang up when the secretary said something in the background. Barclay fumbled between listening to her while trying to say goodbye to me. “Hang on a second,” he said with a shade less formality.
I heard his hand cover the phone, then muffled voices, urgent but not panicked or anything. Piqued my curiosity, that’s for sure.
When Barclay came back on the line he sounded slightly out of breath. “Sorry about that. Wanda thought she recognized your name.”
“Really? I don’t think we’ve met.”
“No. Not like that. She recognized it from some paperwork. You see, Mr. Quinn included you in his will. You were on the list of beneficiaries to contact, but you seemed to have beat us to it.”
Another inheritance? Was I cursed to receive things from the dead? Unlike my parents, Mort didn’t even breach the ceiling of middle-class. He made a good living, but I couldn’t imagine what he had that he would want to hand over to me.
“Are you sure?”
“Quite. Ridley Brone of Hawthorne, Michigan. That’s you, correct?”
“What does he want to give me?”
“I’m afraid we won’t know until the reading of the will. I have a date here if you would like to attend in person, though it isn’t necessary.”
I let him give me the date, though I doubted I’d cross the country to be there. Mort didn’t owe me anything. I was the one who owed him. Everything I’d become started with his taking me under his wing.
“Do you mind if I ask? Are you the executor of the estate?”
“No, no. Robert is handling that. I know just enough to keep things in order until he’s ready to take over.”
I had one more avenue to travel that could lead me to Bobby, or at least give me an edge toward finding him. Eddie.
I pulled out of the park, my ear sore from so much time on the phone. But I had to man up and make the next call. I started in the direction of Eddie’s apartment while I listened to the phone ring on the other line. Calling was a formality, just to make sure he was home and I could come over.
I got voice mail.
I hung up without leaving a message, grunted. I really needed to talk to him and his cousin. I needed to confirm or discount Bobby’s connection to Eddie’s con. It made a sick sort of sense. While surveilling me all around town, Bobby picks up on my case with Eddie. Decides he can use it as a distraction to keep me off balance and from getting to him while he runs his race. Stokes Eddie’s fears by making calls and using info Eddie thinks no one else could know—except maybe his cousin, who let it slip to a passing stranger with a gift for making others gab.
I juiced the gas and quickly wove trough traffic, keeping a careful eye out for patrol cars. Last time I got popped for speeding, the cop had all but given me a cavity search on the side of the road before giving me a standard ticket. The extra humiliation of placing my hands on my hood, spreading my legs, and getting the pat down was strictly for the officer’s amusement and fodder for the story back at the department about screwing with me in the name of policeman solidarity. Yuk, fucking, yuk, yuk.
(Guess I’m still a little bitter about that one.)
I tried Eddie a couple more times on the way. Voice mail and more voice mail. No real Eddie. It made a PI’s job real difficult when people carried on with their lives instead of waiting around at home to get questioned.
I came to a stoplight right as it turned yellow. I could have blown through—I think the guy in the Toyota behind me wanted to blow through—but I hit the brakes. This gave me a chance to pull up the Yellow Pages on my phone and get the number for the dealership Eddie worked at. The light turned green and I pulled through the intersection, listening to the phone ring.
The receptionist that answered sounded like a little kid, gender hard to figure.
“Can I speak with Eddie Arndt please?”
“I’m sorry, he isn’t here today.”
I went out on a limb. You never got anywhere if you were afraid to ask questions, no matter how dumb they sounded. “Do you know where he is?”
“I’m sure I don’t. We don’t keep tabs on employees outside of their scheduled work time.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just important that I speak with him.”
The receptionist’s voice turned to a whisper, which made him or her sound even more childlike. “Is there something wrong?”
“I just have a very important matter to discuss with him.” I risked laying it on too thick with the emphasis on very. The receptionist’s conspiratorial manner suggested it might work, though.
“I’m not supposed to give out this kind of information.”
“I understand,” I said. “I just hope I can connect with him before it’s too late.”
I won myself a startled gasp from that. “I don’t want Eddie to miss out on anything. He’s a sweet guy. Is this about a job? Gosh, I hope it is. I know, you can’t discuss it, I’m sure.”
Referring to Eddie as a “sweet guy” tipped me off to gender. I know guys can call other guys sweet, I guess. But it’s not common. “I’m afraid not. But clearly you understand. Thanks for your time.”
“Wait. It’s not a big secret or anything. He just called in sick. You should try him at home.”
If he was sick, that could explain his not answering the phone. When I got sick, I liked nothing more than to simulate a coma with the bedcovers pulled halfway up my face. “Thank you. You’ve been a great help.”
“Just don’t tell him I told you he called in. I might hate my job, but you know how it is. Some aren’t lucky enough to have any job at all.”
Only I didn’t know. But the more I talked to people, the more real the doom and gloom in the news seemed. “Not a word. Thanks again.”
I kept Eddie’s phone ringing while I drove the rest of the way to his apartment. I figured at the very least I could rouse him out of bed before I came knocking at his door.
No luck, though.
When I reached his door, I gave it good pounding and stood listening for any sign of movement inside. Nothing. I felt bad bugging him like this, but if Bobby was behind Eddie’s con, I needed to know, and I needed to know now. I just hoped he had talked to his cousin before getting slugged by whatever bug he had managed to catch.
I thumped the door again and got an earful of silence in return.
New strategy. I drew my phone and dialed Eddie’s cell—like most people these days he used his cell as his house phone as well. Depending on how sick he was, he might have gone to the doctor. But if he was still home…
I heard the chitter of his phone ringing through the door. I let it ring until it stopped and his voice mail message came on. I paced in front of his door. Come on, Eddie. Bobby’s out there, looking for my daughter. I need your help.
I kicked his door a couple times.
The neighbor’s door opened and a woman with dirty dreadlocks poked her head out the door. The dishwater dreads did not compliment her spoiled milk complexion—matched, but did not compliment. “What the fuck, dude?”
I tiled a head at Eddie’s door. “You know him?”
“Yeah,” she said. “He’s my neighbor.”
Now that we had established the basics. “Do you talk to him often?”
“I hardly ever see him. What do you want?”
What business was it of hers? I decided to play nice. “He’s sick. I’m worried about him.”
Her expression turned from annoyed to bored. “Can you keep it down? I’m trying to listen to “Dark Side of the Moon” while watching The Wizard of Oz with the sound off.”
Only after she said that did the smell of pot reach me from her door. “Sounds fun,” I said. “I’ll worry more quietly.”
“Thanks.” She slammed her door. Guess the quiet rule didn’t go both ways
.
The pot smell still lingered. It reminded me of the first time I had come to Eddie’s apartment, that faint whiff of it clinging to the furniture. Yet I had never seen him the least bit stoned. Not even that red-eyed daze after the high wore off.
I rapped on his door one last time, trying to temper it so as not to disturb the psychedelic experiment going on in the neighboring apartment. I got nothing for the effort, but while I listened, I did hear the faint strains of Pink Floyd from next door.
I get antsy when I come up against a lead I want to follow and can’t. I should have let Eddie have his beauty rest. But the sooner I could connect Bobby to Eddie’s con, the sooner I could get the information I needed to help me find him. Hence the trip back to my car to retrieve my lock pick set.
When I came back, Pink Floyd sounded considerably louder. Warning, kids. Dope not only kills brain cells, it can make you hard of hearing.
I did a back and forth glance of the hallway to make sure I was alone, then went to work on Eddie’s lock. He didn’t have the deadbolt in place, just the door lock. Which led me to think he had to be home. Made it easy to get inside, in any case.
The metallic scent slapped me the second I stepped through the door. The animal part of my brain recognized it before my conscious mind, raising my hackles like a cornered cat. I used my foot to swing the door closed, instinct telling me not to touch anything with my hands.
A steady spray sound, muffled, came from the hall off the living room
I followed the scent and sound through the living room and into the bathroom. Eddie lay naked in the tub, face down, his back arched unnaturally because the length of the tub did not accommodate his height. Watery blood swirled into the drain as the shower spray rained over him. Hot fingers of steam rose off of him.
I crouched low, trying to see where the blood was coming from. I had to stand back up and lean over his body to see the dented gash in his skull. The blood roiled pink from the wound as the water washed it out.
I wanted to cut the water. The sound of it pelting his limp body cut at my ears like fork tines scraped against a blackboard. The steaming spray also seemed to heighten the butcher block tang in the air rather than wash it off.
