I continue to scan my collection and I am temporarily smitten with Dragnet, but for some reason it just doesn’t fit my mood, nor does The Twilight Zone or Alfred Hitchcock Presents. Rockford Files, Simon & Simon, Remington Steele and Magnum PI stick out to me for a moment from my Private Eye Section but I eventually settle on my favorite television family, the Tanners. Not the Tanners from ALF, but the Full House Tanners. I always wondered why there were two sitcoms on around the same time that had families with the same last name. Oh well. Full House it is. Old faithful. I always seem to return to either this, Seinfeld or The Simpsons. They’re the only three shows that have never failed to put a smile on my face no matter what my mood. Yes, I am an adult, thanks. I open up the box set, which is actually a miniature cardboard version of the house they fill up, grab a disk at random and pop it in. Season 3.
I need something to distract me. Something I can have on and still retreat into my thoughts. Something I have seen so many goddamn times it’s a comfort just to hear. As of right now, it’s the only comfort I can think of that I actually have. Besides, this show always, in a weird way, reminds me of my youth. Deceased mother, father trying his best to make it while enlisting his closest friends for help. Pure comfort television. It’s been one week exactly since the funeral and I have hardly left this sofa. I guess you could call this a funk. Hell, I’ve only been to my office twice since Marianne’s death, and both trips were less than five minutes each. I need to snap myself out of this and find a center of focus. This ridiculous cable bill that I hate isn’t going to pay for itself.
Right around the time the family doggy ate little Michelle’s ouce-cream my phone takes me from my blank stare. Wrecker is un-phased. I check the number; it’s not one I recognize. I continue to listen to the Magnum P.I. theme for a few more seconds before I pick up.
“Archie Lemons,” I answer
“Mr. Lemons?” a woman’s voice asks.
“Yes ma’am, how may I help you?”
“I need your help with a problem I am having.”
“A case?” A case!
Good. Something to concentrate on, a new case to tackle since my current one is as dried up as… Sharon Stone’s vagina? As a Pentecostal woman’s hair? As Jaleel White’s career? Ok, stop it! Pay attention.
“Um, yes. Are you any good?”
“Yes.”
Nope
“Great. When can we meet? I’ll come to your office,” she said.
“Yes, um, hold on, let me check my books and see when I’m free.”
I set the phone down and turn my attention towards two leather-clad assholes singing Louie-Louie without really knowing the words. Oh no, they woke the girls up. Okay, that’s enough.
“Ma’am, yes, it appears I am available all day tomorrow. Do you have a time preference?”
“I will be there at 8am.”
“Do you need the address?”
“No. Goodbye Mr. Lemons”
Click.
To dead air, I ask, “Wait, what is your name?”
Aw, man. 8am means I need to be up at 6am just to be at my office and presentable in time. Time to try to relax and let the sandman do his work. I still need to decide what to do about my current case. I haven’t heard from my client in over two weeks and I’ve hit a wall. And I haven’t received payment. But damn it, I was so close. Can I handle two cases at once? I can barely handle one at once. Ugh. Oh well. I’ll hear this new woman out and see what she has to say then I’ll make my decision.
I set the alarm on my phone for 6am, plug it into a charger I have coming out of an extension cord plugged into the wall and toss it on the floor next to my sofa. I haven’t so much as even touched my bed since Marianne died. I wouldn’t be able to sleep there. The sofa is my new bed for now. I grab my pillow, fluff it up a bit, and rest my head upon it. Wrecker notices my plans for slumber and scootches on over to cuddle with me. I grab the folded blanket slung over the cushions and cover us both up. I tell my dog I love him and give him a little pat on the head and before my eyes lose all focus, I see the television father return home from a trip to Los Angeles dressed like a greasy douchebag and I realize this is the closest to comfort I’ll probably ever be from now on.
Remember those old Popeye cartoons where whenever Olive Oyl was in trouble with Brutus she would flail her arms around as if they were completely boneless? For some reason this is the way my alternate reality is right now, but except for Olive Oyl, it is my wife, flailing around, begging me to help her from Brutus, who isn’t Brutus at all, but a man with eyes as black as coal, holding a gun. I try desperately to save her but she is always just out of my reach. My jerk of an alarm clock pulls me farther and farther away from my love before eventually bursting the entire world I was inhabiting and drops me back into the real world with a Beastie Boys song called Pop Your Balloon. Kind of ironic. I hit snooze and try desperately to finish my battle. To save my Olive Oyl wife so we can continue living our lives and have our own Sweet Pea in a few more months. But it is all for not. I do end up falling back asleep for nine more minutes but this time I have some vague dream about something I can’t even remember. I wish you could go back to dreams. Return to them like a movie in your brain, but alas, it’s not to be. My Olive shall have to wait.
As I’m getting dressed, I begin thinking about the phone call from last night and I’m pretty sure I’ve seen this movie cliche before. The one where the sexy lady calls upon a private eye to solve her problems. Maybe even she herself is some sort of femme fatale trying to seduce the lonely PI in order to manipulate him in some sleazy way. Unfortunately, that never happens. Not to me at least. Just once, I would like a movie cliche to become reality. My cases have never been very exciting. Every time I get a call from a woman, I always secretly kinda hope for Kathleen Turner in Body Heat but most of the time I end up with Kathleen Turner from Californication. Yuck. Therefore, I was pleasantly surprised after finally arriving at my office to see a very petite and mousey redhead standing by my door waiting for me. I was still eight minutes early.
“Mr. Lemons?” she asks, extending her hand to me.
“In the flesh.”
Stupid!
“My name is Monica Fick.” We shake.
“Fick?”
I did my best not to let a childish giggle come out and I only mildly succeeded. A small smile escaped me. Damn.
“Yes, thanks Lemons, I’ve heard all the jokes.”
“I apologize, Ms. Fick. It’s been a rough week. What can I help you with this morning?”
“Thank you, and it’s misses. In fact, that’s why I’m here. The misses’ part I mean. It’s my husband.”
“What about him?”
She paused for a few seconds before she finally managed to get out, “I think he’s dead.”
“Please, let’s come in to my office.”
I unlocked the door and lead her to a chair by my desk and I walk around and sit in my far more comfortable chair my wife had bought me as a present when I first rented this office. I try to do a quick study on the woman sitting across from me. I usually have a good read on people and an even better bullshit detector, even though I rarely understand them, interact with them or even like them, but this one was providing me with some difficulty. I mean, how do you THINK your husband is dead? I studied her face for any telling signs of bullshit but all I could come up with was that she kind of reminded me of a human version of the female chipmunk Gadget from Chip N Dale’s Rescue Rangers. She was pretty hot for a cartoon chipmunk.
Seriously, Lemons?! Focus, man! I’ve never understood how I could have two completely conflicting ‘disabilities.’ Most of the time, my concentration on something will be so deep and intense I close out everything else around me, lose all track of time, and won’t stop until I complete my task, no matter how upset or frustrated I get. Marianne used to have to literally shake me to break my concentration on things. Then other times, like this one apparently, my A.D.D. kicks in and I can’t even focus my mind
on one important thing and start thinking about random crappy cartoons from the early nineties. Not good. Please concentrate! This woman is pretty hot though. Hubba hubba!
Okay, enough of that. I force my brain to get back on track. The way it usually works when I meet a new client is that I just ask a broad question about their situation and let them tell me the whole story. While they’re telling me I look for any of the person’s tells that could indicate that they are lying to me. Weird as it may sound, clients lie to me all the time. I think that maybe they just don’t want to admit the truth to themselves, and when this happens it makes my job more difficult. However, if I can pick up on it, then I can work around it.
Mrs. Fick seemed full of confidence and I couldn’t notice any tells. She seemed like a strong woman. Anyway, back to how this works. After I listen to their stories, I decide if I want to take on their case. If I think I can crack the case then I will accept it, explain to the client my methods and quote them my prices (that’s when I usually lose the most clients and my rates are the most reasonable I’ve ever seen!) After jumping that hurdle, my toughest job is to convince the client that I’m a professional and not a completely immature jackass. It usually doesn’t work.
Right now, with Mrs. Fick, it’s time for me to ask her to tell me the whole story, why she thinks her husband is dead, make her think I am not a jackass, and have her hire me. At this point, I have decided, I’m willing to take any case. Now I just have to find the one question that will encompass all my needs. I need to be smooth.
“Uhhh, why?”
Argh!!! Way to go, Rico Suave.
3.
Monica Fick talked to me for over an hour, filling me in on the details that led her to believe in her husband’s untimely demise. The fact of the matter was that he was just missing. She provided no real evidence to actually enforce her theory of earthly departure other than the complete lack of contact with him for several days. I asked if he could have just left her and she refused, saying that they were in love. I tried to explain that sometimes it may seem that way but it’s not always the case. She was unconvinced. I asked if he had been acting strange in any way. Anything different about him, the way he dressed, the way he acted. Had he changed anything about his personal appearance lately? All these questions were returned with steadfast Nos. I was treading water. More likely than not he had a girlfriend somewhere and ran off with her. I’ve seen it happen a hundred times. Fick was getting impatient with me. She gave the impression that no matter what theory I came up with, she was going to hire me to find her dead husband. So I gave in. Why not? Just like Tom Cruise in ‘Risky Business’ said, sometimes you’ve just gotta say ‘What the fuck.’ I explained to her that I had one active case, which she didn’t seem too pleased with, but I assured her I would be closing it very soon, as it had stalled, which was pretty much the truth. She agreed. She paid me in cash, up front.
Now here we are in the lobby of my office building. Me walking Mrs. Fick out. Widower and possible widow, side by side, past the security cameras and front desk, out the lobby doors into the brisk chill of the morning air, light coverings of wet snow beneath out feet.
“Shall I walk you to your car?”
So polite, I am.
“No need. I have a taxi waiting for me.”
A taxi? Really? Who the hell gets a taxi in this town? And an even better question, who the hell has the taxi wait for over an hour instead of just opting to call another one when they’re ready to go? Curious.
Monica Fick extended her right hand in a friendly waving gesture and up came the sorriest looking cab I’ve ever seen, stopping directly in front of us. Always the gentleman, I open the back door and allowed her to get in with ease. I closed the door and she rolled down her window to say her goodbye. She dug in her purse, pulled out a small piece of cardboard, and handed it to me.
“My card Mr. Lemons. I know you have my information upstairs, but please keep this with you at all times and call me as soon as you find anything. Anything at all. Any time, day or night.”
“Sure thing, ma’am. I’ll get started this afternoon as soon as I officially put a stop to my current case.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lemons. I look forward to hearing for you.”
I then did what I thought was the universal cabbie signal for ‘all clear’ and slapped the top of the cab twice. Unfortunately for me, the driver didn’t see all those movies, apparently and yelled at me, saying something about how he doesn’t slap my car, and what kind of fucking moron actually does stupid shit like that. Come on, me hitting the top of the car is the least of this things worries. This piece of shit looks like Fonzie drove it the demolition derby.
I glanced at the huge dent by the tire, rolled my eyes and said, “Oh, uh, sorry sir, just letting ya know it’s okay to go now…”
“Yeah, well I’m pretty sure I could figure out when it’s time for me to go without some jackrag hittin’ my fuckin’ car.”
“Wow. Jackrag. Thanks so much.” Ya goofy lookin’ motha…
As he revved up the engine and floored it out of there, I heard him tell me to fuck off. I wonder how one would go about fucking off. Is there a fucking on?
Oh well, no time to ponder. Have work to do!
Hey, I just remembered I never told you what the P in HIPAA stands for. You ready for this?
Portability.
I know, right?
Back now in my office I go through the files on my current case. I’m sitting at my desk holding two large manila envelopes. I open my desk drawer, grab my iPod, and push the earbuds into my ears after setting it to random. Of course, the first song is one my wife’s favorites, ‘Here’s Lookin’ At You, Kid’ by Gaslight Anthem and it reminds me that no matter how busy I try to keep myself I’m still going to be alone. The sadness I instantly feel is like a kick to the gut. Everything important I thought my life would amount to has been changed and I am left without direction. My thoughts stray to the daughter I almost had. The daughter of mine who never even had a chance to take her first breath, see the world, or meet her mother. The daughter who still had five and a half more months until these opportunities would have even been available to her, but alas, just as with my wife, she was stolen from me. Now she gets to spend eternity with her mother and I am here with absolutely nothing except a dead end case and a redhead named Fick who won’t even entertain the thought that her husband probably ran off with some dim-witted bimbo with big fake boobies and not much rattling around upstairs.
I need to stay focused and press on. I need something to live for now and these two envelopes filled with a month’s worth of work and Mrs. Fick’s new file are as good a start as I can think of. I open up the envelopes from my current case and dump the contents onto my desk. I need to take one last look at all this stuff and then I will decide if I can officially close it, unsolved. Unpaid for, too.
Here is the rundown of the case I was working before Marianne died. A woman around the age of forty-five or so named Amanda Colley comes in to my office and says she has a job for me. She tells me her daughter is missing and she wants me to bring her home. I explained to her that I don’t have much experience in this area and that the vast majority of the cases I have worked have involved cheating spouses or theft. She tells me she doesn’t care about that and knows I can do it. She fills me in on how the police refuse to help her. Her daughter, Mallory, is eighteen years old and left on her own accord. Ms. Colley informs me that her and her daughter have been having a lot of problems together, and Mallory often said that as soon as she was eighteen she was moving so goddamn far away her mother would never find her. Things went on and off like that for a while and then three weeks after Mallory’s eighteenth birthday there was a rather large fight about her schoolwork. Mallory got pissed, stormed into her room, grabbed a few things, threw them into a bag and left the house, on foot, since her mother had taken her car key off her key ring before Mallory had grabbed them, saying it was her car, not Mallory’s, who had never ma
de a single payment on it. One month into her final semester in high school and she has not returned there or home.
Needless to say, Ms. Colley is extremely worried and panic has set in. The police won’t even file a missing persons report because of her age. Apparently, I am her only hope. She informs me that this is not like her. Mallory has run away from home a total of three times before this, the shortest amount of time being one hour and the longest being three days when she stayed with a friend. She begs me to find her daughter and send her home, or if she won’t listen to him, just tell her where she can find her and she would go pick her up herself.
She gave me a photograph and a list of her friends and her usual hangouts, so that is where I got started. I questioned all her friends and came up with nothing to go on. Just heard the same basic story about how Mallory was always complaining about her mother and that she couldn’t wait to get away. Everyone was convinced she would return soon, especially with prom coming up and other senior activities she was knowingly looking forward to. No one really seemed too worried, except her best friend, a girl named Joanne Seeder. She informed me that while she often heard Mallory talk about catching the next train out of town, she didn’t believe she would ever actually do it, especially so close to graduation. She informed me that Mallory was enjoying her senior year and wouldn’t miss it for the world. Joanne seemed genuinely worried and I made a promise I wish I hadn’t made…that I would find her best friend.
I then took her picture around to the local hotspots, asking anyone if they had seen her. A few people recognized her and a couple shop owners even had some security video footage of her that was easy enough to find. Other people had remembered seeing her hanging around various spots in our downtown area recently, all alone. They didn’t know if she was homeless or waiting for someone though. One person recalled her asking for change.
Lemons 01 Darkness Once More Page 2
