The Prodigal Girl

by Evan Ronan

An employee, looking so very weary beyond her twenty years, comes over and plasters a fake smile on her face. She is tatted up and sports a nose ring, if one can be said to “sport” a nose ring. She does not open the door, but instead speaks to me through the glass.

  “We’re closed, sir. We reopen tomorrow at ten AM. You can call or stop by then.”

  “Oh, damn,” I say, putting on air of disappointment. “I thought I saw a young woman I used to know stop by here. I was in the middle of checking out in Mirk’s.” I point. “And I saw her through the storefront walking past. I tried getting out of there as quickly as I could, but they screwed up the order so I had to—” I smile apologetically. “Look, long story short, did a young black woman stop by a few minutes ago?”

  The employee is confused, more than anything, by my rambling story. Which was the point. She frowns, eyebrows migrating closer together. I hope she doesn’t realize it was more than a few minutes ago that Shannon Lahill stopped by, otherwise that will make my already suspect story even more so.

  “Yes,” she says tentatively. “There was a young woman in here a …”

  I can tell she’s trying to think of how long ago it was. I don’t want her to do that.

  “Pretty, right?” I hold my hand up. “Hair down to her?”

  The employee gives me a look. “Yes.”

  I nod. “I think she and my daughter went to high school together.”

  The employee looks at me with skepticism.

  “But for the life of me, I can’t remember her name. Shawna, or Shonda, maybe?”

  The employee shakes her head. “I can’t give out information about our customers.”

  “Was she booking a party?” I ask. “Because my daughter will be so excited to hear her friend is a mother.”

  The employee must think me some kind of creep. I can hardly blame her, since that’s how I feel.

  She doesn’t answer my question. But she doesn’t have to.

  Her eyes say 0-0

  Which I translate as, Yes.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but like I just told you I can’t give out information about other people that come in here. My manager would fire me.”

  The sir is like a dagger in my heart. Do I look that old?

  I hold out a palm, all sincere apologies. “I understand. I shouldn’t have asked. I was just hoping to reconnect her with my daughter.”

  And I leave, armed with the almost-certain knowledge that Shannon Lahill was just booking a child’s party at Partastica.

  Ten

  The next morning, a woman twenty years older than me answers the door. She has glasses dangling from a chain around her neck. Gives off a vibe that I interrupted her crossword puzzle.

  “Good morning. I’m Greg Owen. We spoke yesterday.”

  “Myron’s in the den.” She hesitates. “He’s not doing well today.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” I linger by the door, trying to read between the lines. Is that her politely telling me to go away? “I won’t take up too much of his time.”

  This does not score me any brownie points with her. Frowning, she pushes open the door. “If this were about anything other than the Lahill girl, I’d tell you to take a hike, buster.”

  Buster.

  I smile my way through the unpleasantness. She leads me through a cozy, well-furnished house full of family pictures. Her hair is streaked with grey, her clothes look a little old and worn, but I don’t blame her. Myron and Betty Strommel have more important things to spend their money on these days.

  Myron is half-sitting, half-lying in a recliner in the den. Sunlight slants through the blinds and several bands of white light slash across his stomach. He shifts in his seat a little but doesn’t wake up. He’s fallen asleep with his Kindle on his chest and his mouth hanging open. The IV line hangs limply from the bag above him all the way down to his arm.

  “Ten minutes,” Betty says, giving me a sharp look. “He needs his rest.”

  “Thank you for letting me in at all.”

  She makes a disapproving sound that’s kind of squirrelish, then bends so her face is only inches from her husband’s. He’s wearing three, four days of stubble. He doesn’t have much hair left on top of his head. Grass doesn’t grow on a busy street, as they say.

  Betty Strommel lovingly and tenderly rubs her husband’s arm. I can hear her quietly speaking his name, over and over, like she’s waking a child up for school, and not her husband who’s dying of something wicked and terrible.

  Myron’s eyes come half open slowly, then jolt the rest of the way. For a moment, panic fills those eyes and his whole body tenses. I wonder if his disease has affected his mind. I wonder if this is going to be helpful at all and if I should have just let the retired private investigator wither away in peace. I’m pretty sure Tarika Lahill would have never brightened my doorstep if Myron Strommel were in good, maybe mediocre, health. But the man is dying.

  Betty continues to gently pat her husband’s arm, till the tension ebbs and his face relaxes. The eyes are still wide open. Finally, Myron shifts in his recliner and peers past his wife to find yours truly, some tall, dark, and arguably handsome man, standing in his den.

  He reaches for a gun that isn’t there. “Who the hell are you?”

  He strains to get up, but Betty puts a gentle hand on his chest and gives me a harsh look. “Today is not a good day.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, feeling lousy. “I’ll show myself out.”

  “Hold on,” Myron says. “I know you. Where do I know you from?”

  Betty turns away from me. “Myron, you need your rest.”

  “You’re Greg Owen,” he says, a light filling his eyes. And the dying man is replaced by a smiling one. “We were supposed to meet this morning. Have a seat.”

  It’s amazing how quickly his energy returns. A minute ago he could have passed for dead. Now there’s an energy.

  Betty’s eyes are shooting daggers, arrows, bullets, and Death Star-sized laser beams at me. I smile as apologetically as I can and sit across from her husband on the arm chair.

  “I won’t take up much of your time, Myron.”

  “Betty,” Myron says, “would you bring us some coffee? Caffeine always helped me when I was—”

  Betty storms out. I’m pretty sure she’s not coming back with coffee.

  “Women, right?” Myron blows out a surprised breath. “She’s in a mood today.”

  “She didn’t want me seeing you,” I come to his wife’s defense. “I think I ticked her off.”

  Myron waves a hand. “You’re not married to her, so you’ll get over it.”

  If human interaction were only that simple.

  “I do feel bad, so I’ll keep this short.”

  “I don’t get much company,” Myron says, trying to sit up and failing miserably. He doesn’t have the strength to reposition himself. “So you’ll stay as long as I want.”

  “Can I help you?” I ask, regretting it instantly.

  “Do I look like I need help?” At first I think he’s pissed off, but then he smiles and gives me a wink. “I’m a powerlifter, did you know that? I once pulled seven-forty-five.”

  “You should come with a warning.”

  He laughs, but it pains him. A skeletal hand goes to his stomach. “I should come with a lot of warnings.”

  I laugh too, though have to wonder what my warnings would be.

  Myron’s laughter morphs into a coughing fit. He gets himself under control, but I’m amazed his lungs are still in his body.

  “Alright enough bullshit. Let’s get down to business. Shannon Lahill. What do you know?”

  “Everything Tarika does,” I say. “I read through your reports and the case file too. Very good work.”

  “Greg, don’t pump sunshine up my ass. I did what any other two-bit private dick would have done. I retread the same ground as the first guy and didn’t get anywhere. If Tarika didn’t get that anonymous tip, I would never have gone down to Mexico in the first place. I
flew down there, spent a few days pissing the locals off, and came up empty. I told Tarika I didn’t want her money. I knew that woman had been through absolute hell and I felt awful I wasn’t able to help. She sent us a check. We ripped it up. She sent us another and another, till we deposited it. I always planned on returning the money, but now I can’t. We’ve spent just about everything on my treatment.”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  “Shit happens,” he says, like he just got a flat tire and not a terminal diagnosis. “So what do you want to know?”

  “Your report was very thorough,” I say. “But I’m wondering what you left out of it.”

  He gives me a dangerous look. “Excuse me?”

  I hold out a palm. “That came out the wrong way. What I meant was this. You only wanted to share tangible, provable facts with Tarika. You probably heard some things down there but didn’t know what to make of them. You didn’t think it’d be productive to tell Tarika every unfounded thought you had.”

  “My clients know what I know,” he says with a professional pride.

  “How about what you just thought? How about all the hunches you could never prove, maybe the ones that didn’t make any sense?”

  Myron purses his lips. “Nothing comes to mind. I went down to Caba, didn’t get anywhere, then drove to Todos Santos which is this great place that few people know about. Then I schlepped over to Chiapas and … no, now I’m getting confused. Betty? Betty! Are you there?”

  He tries to look over his shoulder in the general direction in which his lovingly protective wife just stormed off to. She does not answer or appear.

  “Betty?” He waves a hand. “Ah, hell, I can’t remember if we went to … what did I just say?”

  “Chiapas.”

  “That’s it.” He snaps his fingers. “The wife and I vacationed in Mexico about ten years ago and now I can’t … oh hell. This damned medication.”

  “It’s alright,” I say, hating myself for bothering these people. “Either way, you went down to Mexico and talked to a lot of the locals.”

  “There was this American guy down there. A middle-aged surfer.” He laughs. “You’d think that would make him a bit pathetic, this fifty-five-year-old living out his days in a tiny shack, getting up early to surf, but it was actually pretty inspiring. He’d worked hard and saved up a lot of money and had retired early. No wife, no family, just this dream of living on the cheap in Mexico and surfing. He knew everybody and everything about the place. When I asked him about Shannon and Marcus, he said he knew who I was talking about, though they hadn’t gone by those names with him.”

  “He ever mention anything about a child?” I try.

  “A child?” He frowns. “No. Why do you ask?”

  “It’s probably nothing,” I say.

  “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Greg.”

  “They were together five years and, at least at first, were desperately in love,” I venture. “People like that tend to have kids, don’t they?”

  “Don’t they,” he agrees. “No, the surfer didn’t mention a kid.”

  “How do you think they supported themselves?” I ask.

  “It should be in the file,” Myron says. “Best I could figure, Shannon took jobs waitressing and he knocked around doing whatever.”

  “Why do you think she came back?”

  Myron shrugs. “Because she wanted to. You know what happens, Greg. Kids that young don’t know any better when they run off. Then they realize being an adult is harder than it looks and they come back home eventually.”

  “Tarika’s worried,” I say.

  “She thinks Shannon will pull a Houdini again. That’s why she’s worried. She doesn’t want to lose her daughter.”

  “She says Shannon isn’t the same. She thinks there’s something off.”

  He sighs. “Pretty girl like that, with an older guy manipulating her … you wonder what they did to survive. You wonder what he made her do.”

  I’ve already thought about that. But still, hearing him say it makes my stomach roll over.

  Myron shakes his head. “I’ll never forget what he told me.”

  “Who?”

  “Who we were talking about,” Myron says testily. “The surfer down in Mexico.”

  I don’t feel the need to tell him the conversation had shifted away from that unidentified man.

  Myron shakes his head again. “He told me that Shaniqua—that was what she called herself—wore the pants.”

  I sit back. It has to be a mistake. Maybe Myron is misremembering, or this surfer met two entirely different people. Shannon Lahill was just a girl, infatuated by an older boy who had convinced her to run away with him. No way was she in charge.

  Myron can sense my disbelief. “I know. I didn’t believe it either. But the way he said it, he had me believing it for a moment.”

  “Can you remember anything else he said?” I ask.

  “It’s tough … I asked him what they were like, I didn’t want to lead him, and that’s what he told me. Shaniqua wears the pants.”

  We talk for a few more minutes, but he doesn’t remember anything else that’s not already in the case file. I can tell he’s getting tired, but Myron pretends like he’s got the energy to run a marathon. As I’m trying to gracefully excuse myself, Betty Strommel marches in.

  “You’ve been talking for half an hour.” Now she’s angry with both of us. “Myron, you need your rest. Greg, you can leave now.”

  Myron smiles at her. “Yes, sir, General, sir.”

  She shakes her head, but cracks a smile. “You really need your rest, sweetie.”

  “I’ll rest when I’m dead,” Myron says.

  I hope that’s true.

  Myron is already fading, his eyes fluttering.

  On the way out I try to thank Betty again but she gives me the palm. “He’s close now. Don’t come back here.”

  And she shuts the door in my face.

  Eleven

  Tarika has Shannon at church, so I’ve got the rest of the morning off. I head on over to the hall to find Roy waiting in his car in the lot. We don’t open for another twenty minutes. He gets out with his carrying case and looks like he doesn’t know what to do next.

  “Hey, Greg.” Roy says. “Mind if I come in early?”

  “You don’t need to ask.”

  He smiles at the small kindness and we head in. I go through the morning ritual. Turn on the lights, check the arcade games, do a quick cleaning in the bathroom, plug in the hot dog roaster, bring the computer online. Fifteen minutes and the hall is humming. I’ve got Bernie coming in at three o’clock to cover the later shift.

  “Ten-ball?” Roy asks.

  It would help. I need to get my game ready for the tournament out in Valley Forge. And look at Roy suggesting ten-ball, the same Roy who was bashing it yesterday.

  “Perfect.”

  He even gives me the first break. I gladly accept. I’ll need every advantage I can get to keep up with this guy.

  And we’re off. I chop my way to the seven ball, miss a long cut shot, but leave the cue ball in a nasty spot. Roy tries a bank to get at it but scratches. Ball in hand, I make quick work of the rest and take the first game.

  “Nice shooting,” he says.

  In the next game, Roy misses a duck. The three ball rattles around in the pocket but hangs stubbornly on the lip and he leaves me in great position. I string together a couple haphazard runs, getting out of position twice, but am able to bail myself out.

  “Good recovery,” he says.

  And there’s so little enthusiasm in his voice, I can tell his heart isn’t in it. After the third game, which is a mess of bad shots by both of us, he sits down.

  “Gotta take a break,” he says.

  We’ve been playing for seventeen minutes. Roy and Wally normally went for an hour or two before taking a breather.

  Playing with me just isn’t the same.

  I don’t banter like these guys. When I’m shooting, I pla
y fast and loose and don’t say a word. Half of Roy and Wally’s fun was needling each other between shots with their endless one-liners and snaps, learned and earned over a lifetime of shooting the shit. I can quip but that’s not me. Roy experienced a different energy with Wally, and it’s clear to both of us he’s missing it.

  Some customers start to trickle in, and I have to get to work. One right after the other, and all of a sudden I’m running five tables. It’s lunch time too, so half of them order pretzels and dogs and sodas, and next thing I know twenty minutes have gone by. Just as I’m about to head back to the table to shoot with Roy, I see him unscrewing his cue and putting it away.

  “Come on, pal, you can’t leave.” I smile. “I need your help to get back in the game.”

  Roy smiles and we have a silent conversation. He knows I know how he’s feeling. No need to say anything.

  “I think I need a day off,” Roy says.

  “How about tomorrow afternoon?” I ask. “You can give me some tips on my long cuts.”

  He nods. “I’ll have to get back to you. I think I’ve got something already.”

  We both know he doesn’t. “Alright, Roy. Good to see you.”

  “Yeah.”

  He shleps off, moving slowly through the hall. It’s just not the same for him without Wally. And he’d never admit that to anyone. Maybe not even to himself.

  Before I can get weepy-eyed, some more people trickle in. Sunday at lunchtime and I’m running eight tables. Pretty damned good.

  But I don’t feel good, because I’m thinking about Roy.

  ***

  Tarika’s text comes through a little before three o’clock.

  Shannon still with me.

  I fire one back.

  Following up on something. Talk later.

  Bernie saunters in at a fashionable three-thirteen. “Hey, Greg.”

  “Hey, Bern,” I say in Boss Voice. “You’re thirteen minutes late.”

  “Yeah.” He makes a face devoid of shame, embarrassment, or apology. “I just couldn’t get up today.”

  I’m about to come down hard on him, but remember our conversation yesterday. He’s ready to give up on his dream of writing the Great American Novel, and now he can’t get up early enough to be somewhere at three o’clock in the afternoon?