Rubbed Out

by Barbara Block

I wanted to believe her suitcase had some sort of secret compartment, but I knew it didn’t. It was just an ordinary piece of luggage that she’d probably bought at some place like Marshall’s. The only thing that was unusual was that I couldn’t find an address book or anything of that ilk. I knew she hadn’t been carrying it in her bag. Maybe she’d kept it in the car.

  By the time I was done putting everything back in order, my arms were aching, my nose was itching from the dust, and I was no nearer to finding the two hundred and fifty thousand dollars than I had been when I’d come up here.

  “You find anything that would help you?” Mrs. Marino asked as I handed her the key.

  “Unfortunately not.”

  “Don’t worry. Your sister will call you when this guy dumps her. Believe me. I know.” And she closed the door and went back to her cooking.

  The rain had stopped, but it was still cold and damp. I zipped up my jacket and turned up the collar and put my gloves on and began my search for Janet Wilcox’s car. I started on the block I was on and then began walking in ever widening circles. Of course, there was a chance that the car wasn’t even on the street. Wilcox could have stored it in a garage or the police could have towed it. But right now, in light of any evidence to the contrary, I had to assume that Janet Wilcox had off-loaded her suitcase, then parked her car nearby—rela—tively speaking.

  Occasionally I’d pass a dog-walker or someone coming home with a bag of groceries, but mostly the streets were quiet. People were in their houses eating dinner or watching television. I wondered what Manuel was eating as I walked through the streets. Not much, I was willing to wager. The only thing I was grateful about was that Manuel’s mother was still away. I couldn’t imagine what I would say to her when she came home.

  I touched base with George and Bethany. Nothing new in Syracuse. Finally, an hour and a half later, I lucked out and located Janet Wilcox’s car. It was parked five blocks away, at the end of a residential street, right behind an alternate-side-of-the-street-parking sign. The windshield was covered with tickets. Another week or so of that, and the city would probably get around to towing it.

  I peeked inside. The seat and the floor, unlike Janet Wilcox’s house or the flat she’d been staying in, was littered with bottles and newspapers and pieces of paper. I had the odd feeling that this was the place Janet Wilcox had really lived in. That this was her home. I wondered if I’d find her address book as I tried the door. It was locked.

  I glanced around. No one was out on the street and even if they were, it was dark out, which would make it difficult to see what I was doing. I hoped the car wasn’t alarmed as I took the little handy-dandy tool that Manuel had given me out of my backpack and stepped off the curb and walked over to the driver’s side.

  If it were alarmed, I’d just walk away. If anyone came after me, I’d deny it. One of the advantages of being white, female, middle-aged, and marginally middle class, is that people don’t link you with criminal activity. They leave that for the young, teenage blacks and Hispanics.

  I looked around one more time. The street was empty. I popped the lock and waited. Nothing went off. I opened the door, slid inside, and quietly closed the door behind me. The odor was the first thing that hit me. It had a musty smell to it, which was overlaid with the odors of mildewing fabric and old pizza, but since the windows were electronic and I couldn’t open them, I was just going to have to live with it. Anyway, I’ve been in places that have smelled a lot worse.

  I left the interior cars lights off—it seemed better to attract as little attention as possible—and started going through the stuff on the seat and on the floor. It turned out to consist mostly of old newspapers, empty soda bottles, and candy wrappers, plus an old towel that smelled of mildew.

  I leaned over and opened the glove compartment next. I found the usual stuff people keep in there. An insurance card made out to one Janet Wilcox. The car manual. Receipts for repairs. A Ziplock bag full of quarters for the parking meters. A couple of old candy wrappers. And then, stuffed in the back, I found something that looked as if it could be a possible lead.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  I called George as I walked toward the subway.

  “Listen,” I told him. “I found a copy of a UPS transaction form in the glove compartment of Janet Wilcox’s car. She sent a package shortly after she arrived in New York to a woman out in Adams, a Mrs. Bonnie Gilbert.”

  “The name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “No. But the timing is right, so it might be what we’re looking for.”

  “I don’t get it. Whatever happened to wire transfers? Who would send a quarter million dollars in cash through the mail?”

  “Maybe someone who’s desperate. I think we should go talk to this lady.”

  “You want me to drive out there now?”

  I looked at my watch.

  “It’s too late. Why don’t you hold off until tomorrow morning? I’m figuring on taking the bus up from Port Authority.”

  “The bus? Boy, you travel in style.”

  “That’s what everyone always says about me. It’s the only thing that’s running. I should get in to Syracuse somewhere around six-thirty in the morning. Why don’t I call and you come and pick me up and we’ll drive up to Adams together.”

  “See you in the a.m.” And George clicked off.

  I was a couple of blocks away from the subway when I called Stephanie and told her about the car and her mother’s clothes.

  “Let Alima handle it,” she snapped, hanging up before I could reply.

  I’d like to think I’d be more charitable, but the truth is I’d probably act the same way in similar circumstances. I stowed my phone, got my Metrocard out and went down the stairs to the subway station.

  When I lived in the City, I used to ride the subway all the time, but it had been a while since I had. When I’d left, the subways were dangerous. They’re a lot safer now, but the platforms still look grim with their white tile walls and cement floors and dim lighting. The Number 6 is one of the busiest lines in the City, but it was way past rush hour, and there were only a handful of people on the platform. We all stayed close to each other—but not too close. Just near enough to keep within easy eye range.

  About twenty minutes later, a train rumbled in. The car I stepped into was new, but kids had already scratched their tags into the glass in the windows. It looked worse than the graffiti. And you couldn’t wash it off.

  I had nothing on me to read except the UPS paper I’d gotten from Janet Wilcox’s car. After I got tired of doing that, I spent the rest of the time watching the people across from me. A group of teenagers were laughing and talking, but everyone else was slumped in their seats looking pale-faced and slack-jawed, their faces devoid of expression, anxious to get home.

  I called George when we got to Utica, and he was waiting for me when my bus pulled in. He handed me a coffee and a bagel with cream cheese as I walked through the door into the terminal.

  “Here,” he said. “I figured you could use this.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How can you sleep on a bus?”

  “Have enough Scotch and you can sleep on anything.” George grunted.

  “Just kidding.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Okay. So I’m not. What’s going on up here?”

  “Nothing. You were right about Manuel’s friends. Nobody knows anything.”

  “Too bad. I was hoping I was wrong.”

  “Me too.”

  We stopped by my house so I could take a shower and change my clothes. By the time I’d finished talking to Bethany and petting Zsa Zsa, it was a little before nine. George and I left my house ten minutes later. We stopped at the Mini Mart and got some more coffee and hit the road. Right after we got on Route 81, George got a call on his cell.

  He nodded and said, “Okay,” into the receiver a couple of times. Then he said, “Thanks. We’ll be in touch,” powered down, and tossed his phone on the seat n
ext to him. “That was Phil,” he said to me.

  “I thought maybe it was.”

  “I asked him to run Bonnie Gilbert through the computer for us.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. She’s an old lady. A ninety-one-year-old lady, to be precise.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  George took a sip of his coffee and changed lanes.

  “Nope. Why would Janet Wilcox be sending the money to a ninety-one-year-old woman out in the middle of God-knows-where?” he said.

  “Maybe we’re wrong. Maybe she wasn’t sending her the money. Maybe she was sending her a knitting pattern.”

  “Now there’s an example of blatant ageism, if I ever heard one.”

  “You going to report me to the PC police?”

  “Immediately.” George handed me his coffee, and I put it back in one of the cup holders. “The Russians should be calling soon.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “Phil and I have been talking.”

  I waited. The mounds of snow piled up on the margins of the road were black with car emissions. George took his eyes off the road and looked at me.

  “Even if it turns out that this Bonnie Gilbert has the money, we still have some serious decisions we have to make.”

  “I know,” I said to George.

  George went back to looking at the road. “I know you know.”

  “I just want Manuel back. I don’t care about anything else.”

  “That’s what we’re going to try to ensure.”

  It was quiet in the car for a few seconds. I could hear the tires turning on the macadam. I opened the window a crack, then reached into my backpack, got out a cigarette from the pack, and lit it.

  “Phil wants to bring everyone in on this,” I said as I put the match in the ashtray.

  George didn’t say anything.

  “He already has, hasn’t he? Hasn’t he?” I repeated.

  George reached over and turned on the radio. “He didn’t have a choice.”

  We spent the rest of the trip in silence.

  The town of Adams is situated up north. It’s located on Route 11, between Pulaski and Watertown, one of those places that, if I had to guess, had sprung up on the crossroads to service the travelers coming through. But then the Thruway got built, leaving Route 11 to its own devices. Now the town is a cluster of houses and a few stores hanging on as best they can.

  We found Bonnie Gilbert’s house without any trouble. As we pulled up on the side of the road, I realized we should have called to make sure she was there, but then it occurred to me: Where the hell would a ninety-year-plus woman be going? George turned off the ignition and looked at me.

  “So what are we going to say?” he asked.

  “I’m waiting for inspiration to strike.”

  “You don’t have a plan?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “No.” George opened the car door. “This is going to be interesting.”

  The cold air rushed in. It was so icy, it hurt to breathe. The sky was a wash of pale blue. The house, a brown-shingled affair, was surrounded by cedars that had been allowed to grow taller than they should have. The driveway contained a battered pickup truck and an old station wagon. Two snowmobiles sat off to one side.

  As George and I walked up the steps to the porch, a dog started barking. The barking got louder as I rang the bell.

  I heard a “Just a minute.” A few seconds later, a tired-looking, middle-aged woman came to the door. An apricot-colored miniature poodle followed on her heels.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “We’re looking for Bonnie Gilbert,” I told her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “But she isn’t seeing anyone right now. You’ll have to come back another time.”

  “We came from Syracuse.”

  “You should have called first. She’s sick.” And she closed the door in our faces.

  “That went well,” George remarked as we walked back to the car.

  “Didn’t it though.”

  “So what do you think?” George asked when we were sitting in his car again.

  “I think I’d like to know who that woman is.”

  “Me too.” He put his key in the ignition switch and turned on the engine. “I think it’s time we talked to the locals.”

  “I saw a grocery store two blocks back.”

  “My thought exactly.”

  The store was small to begin with and felt even smaller when I stepped inside because it was crammed from bottom to top with everything from canned soup to antifreeze. Turn too fast and you’d knock something over.

  The man standing behind the counter looked as if he’d been standing in the same spot for the last thirty years and would be there for the next twenty. His face reminded me of one of those apple dolls that they sell at county fairs, all crumpled in on itself. His eyes widened when I came in. They got even wider when he saw George.

  “What can I do for you folks?” he asked.

  He propped his elbows on the counter and waited for our answer. We were probably the first new people he’d seen in the last couple of weeks. Maybe even longer.

  “I’ll take a pack of Camels,” I said.

  “You’re not from around up here, are you?” he asked. Then he answered his own question. “Most people living in the area buy these at the reservation store,” he said as he got the Camels down from a shelf and put a pack of matches on top. “It’s getting so it hardly pays for me to carry them. Damned governor,” he muttered. “But you don’t want to hear about my problems. So what brings you up this way?”

  “The newspaper in Syracuse sent us,” I said as I pushed a twenty-dollar bill across the counter.

  “Syracuse?” He made it sound as if he were talking about the South Pole. “What do they want with us?” he asked as he gave me my change.

  “Well, I don’t think it would be telling if I said that we’re up here to interview Bonnie Gilbert.”

  “Bonnie Gilbert?” The man snorted. “What on earth for?”

  “The paper wants to do an article on people in their nineties. Their views on how the world has changed. That kind of thing.”

  “Well, you people down in Syracuse aren’t very sharp, are you? Bonnie’s in her fifties.”

  I looked incredulous. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  The man cackled gleefully. “If she’s in her nineties, I got to tell you she’s done a darn good job of fooling me.”

  “Can I ask what she looks like?”

  “Maybe five-five. Dull brown hair. Got these front teeth that are bucking out.”

  I pretended to think. “Doesn’t sound like the description we’ve got. Sure you’re right?”

  The man squared his shoulders. “’Course I’m right. She comes in here most every day.”

  “Well, you should know.” I pocketed my cigarettes and my change. “Thanks. I guess I should call my editor and see what he wants me to do.”

  “Guess you should. In her nineties, eh?” He was still laughing when George and I left the store.

  “We go back,” George said as we drove away.

  “Absolutely.”

  This time when Bonnie Gilbert came to the door, George shouldered his way in.

  “I told you, Bonnie Gilbert isn’t feeling well,” she cried. “Now get out of here or I’m going to call the police.”

  George corrected her. “What you said, to be precise, was that she wasn’t receiving visitors.”

  I chimed in. “We talked to the guy in the grocery store. He pretty much described you as Gilbert,” I told her. “My problem is, according to the information I received, you’re supposed to be ninety years old.”

  Bonnie Gilbert put her hands on her hips and tried to look tough, but the expression on her face betrayed her. She was looking at us as if we were the nightmare she knew would arrive on her doorstep someday. For a moment, I felt as if I’d wandered into somebody else’s dream.

  “I don’t know
what you’re talking about,” she insisted.

  “I think you do.” George raised an eyebrow and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Ninety years old, and you don’t look a day over fifty. How about that. I’m sure there are lots of people who’d love to hear your secret.”

  Bonnie Gilbert absentmindedly picked up the poodle that had been dancing around her feet and cradled it in her arms.

  “Who are you?”

  “People that have developed an interest in you,” I replied.

  As I watched her, I couldn’t help thinking that whatever her age, she hadn’t led an easy life. She wasn’t wearing any makeup. A rectangular patch of sunlight from one of the windows was playing across her cheeks, exposing every line and pore and age spot in her face. Her brown hair was dull and brittle and looked as if someone had hacked at it with a dull scissors.

  The clothes she was wearing—jeans, a man’s flannel shirt, and a down vest—had been washed so many times, the colors were a memory of what they’d been. Bonnie Gilbert looked as bleached out as her clothes.

  “Listen,” George went on. “We don’t care who you really are or what you’ve done.”

  “You have no cause to talk that way to me,” Bonnie Gilbert protested in a cracking voice.

  “Sure I do,” George said.

  I stepped forward. “We want the package Janet Wilcox sent you.”

  Bonnie Gilbert widened her eyes in a pantomime of innocence. “What package?”

  “This package.” And I held out the UPS receipt.

  Bonnie Gilbert put the poodle down and took the slip from me. Her lips moved as she read it. While she did, a large, long-haired, black-and-gray cat skirted the edge of the room, jumped up on one of the windows, and fixed us with a baleful glance.

  “They must have delivered it to someplace else,” she said. “See.” She pointed to the bottom. “I never signed for it.”

  “Really.” George rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet as he stared at Bonnie Gilbert. After a few seconds she began to fidget. “You like history, Bonnie?”

  “History?” She sounded confused. Unsure of where George was heading.