The Prodigal Girl

by Evan Ronan

  “You okay, Bernie?” I ask.

  He gives me a startled look. “Wow. Greg. Just wow.”

  “What?”

  “Thank you for asking,” he says. “That really means a lot.”

  And without further explanation, he shuffles to the counter. He checks the dogs and sets up his laptop and settles in on the chair. But he’s not really facing or mildly interested in his computer. He’s just staring out into space.

  Bernie is always a touch off. But today he’s on a different planet.

  “I have to run out now,” I say. “Let’s touch base when I get back.”

  “I’d like that,” Bernie says, like we haven’t spoken in years.

  Outside it’s hot. Summer in full swing. I get in my car and crank the air. As I drive down the strip, I glance inside the space where Lee’s Chinese restaurant used to be. The new owners are doing a number on the inside, there’s a whole lot of remodeling. I keep meaning to ask one of the contractors what they’re up to.

  On the road, my mind is drifting from Roy to Bernie to the case, all the way back to the hall. Maybe it is time to sell. The old-timers come around maybe once a month, so Roy is all that’s left at this point. The last of Pop’s friends I see on a regular basis. It’s a different place now. Eighty percent teeny-boppers, mostly decent kids who have nowhere else to hangout. As soon as they’re in college, they’ll have better things to do. The remaining twenty percent are the good amateur players who come out for tournaments or the specials I run on game nights or holidays.

  I could get four-fifty for the property. It would just take finding the right buyer. And with something new going into Lee’s old place, maybe the strip just became a little more attractive to other businesses.

  It’s probably time.

  I drive out to Willingham and stay decidedly away from Tarika’s house. I’ll get there later. First I want to check something else out.

  Shannon’s once boyfriend, Marcus Tanner, lived with his parents on the other side of Willingham. Close to where the machine shop used to be. His parents still own the house. It sits on a decrepit block. Across the street two vehicles at separate houses sit on cinder blocks. The house next to the Tanners is abandoned, its porch far from level and looking like a Burmese tiger trap.

  The Tanners’ place is falling apart too. A pair of shingles dangle from one side. Their cars are twenty plus years old. The paint along the second story panel facing the street is chipped badly.

  But they’ve got the satellite TV dish.

  Of.

  Course.

  I drive past slowly, pretending to be lost. I don’t see much. The house sits close to the street but everything’s closed up. A window AC unit roars on the side of the house.

  I keep going.

  There’s nowhere to park on the street without looking like I’m a private eye, so I take the next right and wander through the neighborhood for a couple minutes. Eventually I’m forced to admit there is no good place to park for surveillance of the Tanners and, accepting my fate, stop at the far end of their street in front of another house. I was a little smart, though, and brought a clipboard and helmet so I can look official.

  And I hurry up and wait.

  An hour groans by. There’s not much doing on this street. At the other end, a couple kids set up a half-firing sprinkler on their lawn and run through it. I’ve had to turn the car off but have the windows down. Clipboard up, I try not to sweat but my back is stuck to the car seat. It’s pretty damned hot out.

  A few minutes later, some young guy rocking a gangster limp appears at the other end of the sidewalk. He’s wearing baggy shorts that are below his knees and, if I were a betting man, probably don’t cover his ass. He’s got a billowing t-shirt on under a long-sleeved athletic jacket, despite the heat. His hat is on crooked and pulled low.

  “Hello, Marcus,” I say.

  He doesn’t hear me because he’s half a block away.

  So …

  Creepy Marcus came home too. Surprise, surprise. Only there was no fanfare at the airport, and definitely no media coverage. I wonder what he’s been up to. He didn’t come back with Shannon, at least not on the same plane. I recall that detail from Tarika’s story, about the Tanners peppering her with questions about their creep son. They were at the airport, hoping he would show up too, unless that were all a game.

  I don’t think the Tanners would go the trouble of pretending like their boy wasn’t home, though.

  So that means Marcus Tanner came home after Shannon, with Tarika none the wiser.

  The creep cuts across the lawn and heads inside his house. There are times in a man’s life when he wishes he could just walk up to an asshole and punch him. How much sweeter would life be if we were allowed to do that?

  This is one of those times.

  But I sit and wait. Dressed like that, Marcus Tanner wasn’t coming home from work, unless he was coaching boy’s summer league basketball. And I doubt, very much, anyone in a position of authority would let Marcus-frigging-Tanner within shouting distance of children, after he spirited Shannon Lahill away.

  No.

  Make that—

  Brainwashed.

  And kidnapped.

  I chew on a knuckle while I ponder what to do. I’m still doing that when an ancient old woman with a wretched looking dog that weight about five pounds moves glacially along the sidewalk, the whole way peering into my car. I pretend to check something on my clipboard, looking very official indeed. She starts muttering to herself as she goes, something about the damned government always checking up on them damned citizens all the damned time.

  The worst part?

  She isn’t wrong.

  Another ten minutes.

  And another.

  Marcus Tanner hasn’t come back out. I can’t see inside the house either. Decision time. Patience might be a virtue, but sometimes waiting makes you miss.

  I grab the clipboard and get out of the car. Adjust the tie I’m wearing so it looks alright. I knotted this one about ten years ago. It’s been knotted ever since.

  I take my time as I go through the neighborhood. With the clipboard out, I stop in front of each house, check the address, then act like I’m comparing it to what I’ve got on my official-looking piece of paper. It’s an old phone bill, though I’ve marked it up with a Sharpie. I’m clever like that.

  I stop at the house next to the Tanners. Knock. The boy that answers is fifteen or sixteen. I can’t tell if he’s even looking at me because his hair is in his face.

  “Yeah?” he says, before looking down at his cell phone.

  I project my voice. “Hi, son, I’m with the local Democratic council. I’m here to see if your parents are registered to vote.”

  He almost looks up from his phone. “They’re, like, not here.”

  “When do you expect them back?”

  Shrugs.

  “Alright, I’ll try them again later.”

  Without a goodbye, the boy turns away. His eyes never leaving the cell phone. Fair enough. I wasn’t really here about politics anyway.

  I walk to the end of the yard, make a big show of holding the clipboard out, and scribble something on my paper. Just in case anybody’s watching.

  I decided to go with the Democratic angle considering the neighborhood. It’s blue collar and a little run-down. Though with politics these days, you never know I guess.

  I make another big show of checking the Tanners’ address from the street, then walk purposefully across their yard to the front door, making sure to put a bounce in my step.

  Knock.

  Wait.

  “Was that somebody at the door?” a woman with the voice of a harpy grates.

  “I don’t know,” comes the helpful answer.

  “Well get it! I’m doing something!”

  “You think I’m not doing something?”

  Oh boy.

  It’s a male voice answering the harpy, though the door muffles it quite a bit so I can’t t
ell if it’s Old Man Tanner or his model citizen son, Marcus.

  “I’m making your goddamned dinner!” she screeches.

  That ends the debate. I hear movement inside and wait for Marcus Senior or Marcus Junior to open the door.

  But they don’t.

  The door slowly swings open about two feet. And a little girl, who looks about four years old, stares up at me with wide eyes.

  “I told you you can’t open the door, sweetheart,” comes a man’s voice, much gentler than it was a moment ago.

  The girl stares sheepishly up at me. She is black with light, creamy skin. If I was a gambling man …

  I give her a big, big smile. “Well, hi there, cutie pie.”

  She giggles.

  The doors opens the whole way. It has to. Otherwise this guy wouldn’t fit through it.

  Marcus Tanner, Senior, is a large man. He’s got a few inches on me, and I’m no slouch, and he’s also got about one hundred and fifty pounds on me too. Gently, lovingly, he pats what I assume is his granddaughter’s shoulder.

  “See if Nan needs help in the kitchen, sweetheart.”

  She looks up at him, mouth agape and stares for a moment, before running off.

  Marcus Senior’s pleasant demeanor evaporates. “I don’t like people coming to the door, guy. I ain’t buying anything, and if it’s political I might slug you.”

  “In that case, I’ll take my leave.” I smile. Kill him with kindness.

  It actually works. He’s taken aback.

  Marcus Senior lowers his voice. “Sorry about that. You’re just trying to make a living, I guess, like everybody else.”

  “Not everybody tries to make a living,” I say.

  He rolls his eyes, chuckles. “You said it, buddy.”

  And by the way he says it, I can tell he’s thinking about someone near and dear to his heart. I’m guessing it’s his boy. Maybe the wife too. Who knows.

  “What you want?” he asks.

  “Forget it,” I say, waving him off. “It’s politics. That’s a very beautiful daughter you’ve got there.”

  “Daughter.” He finds this hysterical, thinks me an idiot. Marcus Senior must be sixty, maybe sixty-five, and judging by the short exchange I overheard involving his significant other, I doubt he and his lovely woman have had sex in the last ten years.

  “Ha, I wish,” he says, all but confirming my thoughts. “No, that’s my granddaughter.”

  “Just beautiful,” I repeat. “I’ve got a fourteen-year-old myself, just the light of my life. What’s her name?”

  The transition seems smooth enough. But all the same, Marcus Senior is not in the business of giving out information about his granddaughter to perfect strangers.

  “Who’d you say you were again?” he asks.

  “I didn’t.” I wave apologetically. “Larry Fullins, with the Democratic council. Enjoy the rest of your weekend.”

  He gives me a slow nod before closing the door.

  I assume Marcus Senior, or somebody else in that house, is watching me, so I continue with the charade. I skip the next house, try the next one, espouse the merits of the local democratic party members to a woman who’s failingly polite, then move on. I take the High Road to China, all the way around the block, circling to another street in the hopes the Tanners lose interest. I wait a whole ten minutes before coming back from the other direction and jumping in my car.

  The Tanners have a daughter and a son. Their girl is thirty-five years old and lives in Montana with her husband. This is not her daughter.

  Marcus Junior must be the dad.

  Twelve

  Back at the pool hall, Bernie’s got three tables running. Slow for a Sunday evening. He comes out from behind the register just when I start practicing my cuts.

  “Hey, Greg, I’m worried about Roy,” he says.

  So am I. “Yeah?”

  Bernie nods. “It’s like him and Wally were married.”

  That joke has been made no less than a million times over the years. “They were our Waldorf and Statler.”

  Bernie frowns. “Who?”

  Kids these days. “They’re like our …” I search the data files for the appropriate comparison. “Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson.”

  Bernie’s frown deepens. “But Roy and Wally aren’t funny. And they’re not young.”

  “Forget it.”

  “They’re more like Abbot and Costello, I’d say.”

  “Wait.” I can’t believe this. “You know who Abbot and Costello are, but you don’t know Waldorf and Statler?”

  “Who doesn’t know Abbot and Costello?”

  “Anyway, you’re worried.”

  “Yeah, I’m worried. You ever hear those stories about long-time spouses dying within a few weeks of each other?”

  “Except Wally didn’t die. He moved to Florida.”

  “Same difference!” Bernie says. “He might as well have be dead to Roy.”

  “Bernie, I don’t think Roy is going to die of a broken heart because Wally moved away.”

  “Then where is he?” Bernie looks around the pool hall to underscore his point. “He should be here.”

  “He’s got no one to play with.”

  Bernie points at my chest. “Exactly, Greg. Exactly.”

  “Why don’t you give him a call then?” I say. “Just remind him to come out for the nine-ball tournament on Tuesday.”

  “Call him?” Bernie acts like I’ve asked him to fart in Roy’s cereal. “Me? You should call him.”

  The funny thing is, I’m not sure I even have his number in my cell. He’s just always been here. I’ve never needed to call him.

  Another pair of customers comes in, and Bernie surprisingly hops to. He gives the teeny-boppers their own table, far from the rest of the customers. I go back to working on my cuts, though now I’m thinking about Roy. My phone buzzes. I assume it’s Tarika, but it’s my ex.

  I answer. “Hey, Lorelei. How’s it going?”

  I assume this is about Shawn.

  “Hey, Greg. Listen, I was calling because one of my friends saw something online.”

  Saw something online. More ominous words are not spoken these days.

  “Then it must be true,” I quip.

  She chuckles half-heartedly. My ex-wife is probably tired of my jokes. Have to keep that in mind.

  “Ann went to eBay and was checking out some of your shirts.”

  I don’t like where this is going. “Uh-huh.”

  “She’s into vintage clothing herself. Ann goes to thrift stores a couple times a week. She looked at a couple of your shirts and … I don’t know how to say this, but she thinks they’re reproductions.”

  “What?” I ask. “How could she tell that by looking at a picture online?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past her. She knew you were selling them, so she bought a West Coast Video shirt. She got it this morning and she doesn’t think it’s real.”

  “All of our stuff is vintage,” I say defensively. “My guy is good at finding these things. It’s all he does all day, while I manage the ads and web flow.”

  “Greg.” Lorelei takes a deep breath. “Ann isn’t one to start trouble or go looking for it. How well do you know your friend?”

  “Carl? For years. I—”

  My phone buzzes. Tarika calling.

  “Lor, I gotta take this. Would you mind texting me Ann’s number?”

  “Sure, Greg.” She pauses. “And Greg?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I heard a rumor about Carl once.”

  “What?”

  “You hear things all the time, but I’d check it out.”

  “What is it, Lor?”

  “He cheated on his wife.”

  I don’t want to get into that. Adultery is a fairly common occurrence, much more so than people think. It keeps many a private eye in business, unfortunately. It’s so common, in fact, that I don’t think it always means the cheater is doing other nefarious things.

  Damn I’ve be
come so jaded.

  “Alright. Thanks, Lor.” I switch over to the incoming call. “Hey, Tarika.”

  “Hi, Greg,” she says sweetly. “Shannon is taking a nap right now so I thought I’d swing by.”

  “Great.” Even though I’ve got some jarring news for her, I’m very excited to see Tarika. A little too excited. Cool it, Greg. She’s a client. “I’ll be here.”

  I go back to work on my cuts. A lot of people don’t practice the very thing they want to get good at. I’ll never understand why. Recreational golfers won’t take a lesson, won’t go to the range, but every three months they’ll fork out five hundred bones to buy a brand new driver that’ll fix everything. Same goes with pool. Fifty percent of the guys that compete in the weekly tournaments rarely come here other days. To me that seems like a waste of money.

  They say not all practice is created equal. And it’s true. The new term is deliberate practice. Pick out something very specific and work on it. Give yourself focused goals. I want to make this shot three times out of five. Then four. Then all five.

  Those that do practice tend to work on their strengths the most. They shoot the short ducks for twenty minutes, then work on position for five minutes.

  Me? I recognize the very mortal fact that I’ve got limited time on this earth. Seven hours of each day is taken up by sleep. Many more hours are taken up by my various business interests. Then there’s driving here and there, and eating. Seeing my daughter. Exercising. When you take stock, you realize there’s only so much time left. Might as well make the absolute most of it. So if you’re going to work on getting better at something, don’t waste your time practicing what you can already do well.

  About ten minutes through my routine, I come to a startling conclusion.

  When I’m shooting across the table to cut the ball right, I’m stunningly accurate. However, when I’m shooting across the table to cut the ball left, I’m a rank amateur.

  Why have I never noticed this before?

  What is different about looking down the cue? It’s the same aiming point, same angles, same everything … except I’m cutting the object ball in a different direction.