When Reason Sleeps

by Rex Burns

  “Was he a philosophy major?”

  “Philosophy? No—art history. I tried to convince him to major in something a bit more realistic. But Dwayne, like his mother, has a penchant for doing the opposite of what I suggest.” Vengley’s hand strayed to a stack of papers on his desk and he lightly thumbed the pages. “So now he has a degree for which the demand is, to say the least, quite limited.”

  “Is it possible that he knew Dorcas Wilcox or a girl named Shirley while he was at Occidental?”

  He looked up. “Did they go there? Then, yes, it is possible—the school is small. That’s one of the reasons Dwayne chose it.”

  “But he never mentioned either of them to you.”

  “No.” He glanced at a clock on the wall. “Mr. Steele, I wish I could assist you further. But there’s nothing more I can tell you. And my next appointment is waiting.”

  Far be it from me to cut into the attorney’s billable hours. I asked for Dwayne’s last address and thanked Mr. Vengley. He walked me to a different door, one that opened directly on the hallway around the corner from the suite’s main entry. “Naturally, if there’s anything I can do—”

  My smile was equally sincere. “Thank you.”

  The address was on the east side of downtown in a section that urban renewal hadn’t yet reformed into condos and boutiques. Heavy traffic funneled off a nearby freeway and hissed and squealed among warehouses and shops to leave a film of dust and diesel soot along the naked streets. I found a parking place in front of the barred display window of a liquor store. Its sale prices were higher than the suburbs, but it did most of its business in Ripple and Thunderbird, anyway. I walked back along the trash-strewn sidewalk to the three-story house. It stood like a broken tooth between a brown-brick building whose sign advertised electrical repairs, and an open lot whose weeds were cut by sandy trails that glittered with broken glass. Sprayed over the shops and walls and spilling onto the apartment house, graffiti formed designs and cryptic messages. More names and drawings, among them a “666” and a cartoon of Satan, marked the warped porch boards that creaked under my shoes.

  No one answered my knock. No one challenged as I pushed past the rusty screen door into what used to be a formal entry. Apparently no one cared. There was little reason why they should. A heavy, scarred door blocked off the old living room. Down the hall, other doors were shut against intruders. A dented and splintered stairway led up to the second floor. Dwayne’s room was near the landing. This hallway smelled a bit less of urine, but similar empty bottles and scraps of newspaper and brown bags were kicked against the chipped baseboards. A large hole in the plaster showed the laths beneath, and the ceiling sagged with water stains. The door I rapped on was also scarred. A ragged smear like old blood splashed down the lower panel. I waited. From somewhere on the floor above came the jangling, repetitive beat of heavy rock. In the walls, water gurgled briefly down a pipe.

  “Dwayne? Dwayne Vengley?”

  “Who’s it?”

  The voice was female and sleepy.

  “A friend of Dorcas Wilcox. Is Dwayne Vengley here?”

  A heavy bolt slid back, a hasp grated, another lock clicked. The door opened to show a length of chain and a young Negro woman’s eye and cheek. “Who you a friend of?”

  “Dorcas Wilcox. Does Dwayne Vengley live here?”

  “Never heard of no Dorcas. What you want with Dwayne?”

  “Are you Shirley?”

  She shook her head. “Why?”

  “I owe Dwayne some money.”

  The eye stared at me. A heavy, sweet odor of incense or candle wax seeped out through the crevice.

  “Dorcas gave me some money for him. Is he around?”

  “You can give me it. I’ll give him it.”

  “I don’t know … Dorcas told me to be sure and give it to him in person and get a receipt.” I smiled. “Is he around?”

  “Was he around, he be at the door now.”

  “Do you know where I can find him?”

  “His mamma sent you, didn’t she?”

  “Why?”

  “Why? ’Cause she always doing shit like that!”

  “When will he be back?”

  “He gone. Been gone.” The eye, a black iris surrounded by a white so bloodshot that it looked rheumy and brown, glanced down to my shoes and then up again. “You ain’t a cop?”

  “If I was, I’d have a warrant and a badge. What I’ve got is a check.” I tapped my jacket pocket. Her eyes stared at the cloth as if they might see through it. “It’s a lot of money. But he has to sign for it in person.”

  The eye blinked. “Dwayne, he owe me some money. Left without paying his share of the rent.”

  “How much?”

  “Four hundred. Two months’ rent.”

  “He’s been gone two months?”

  “Yeah. That’s what he owe me.”

  “And if you knew where he was, you’d already have that money, right?”

  The eye blinked again. “Shit—you ain’t from his mamma. And you ain’t got no money for him. Get on away from here!” The door closed and I heard the series of locks snap into place.

  Back in the car, I twisted my way through one-way streets to the main post office on E Street. The fee brought a shake of the clerk’s head. “No address card on a Vengley at that address.”

  “How about any other address?”

  Another shake. “Sorry.”

  Sorry didn’t get Henry’s two dollars back this time. Apparently the main post office had a no-rebate policy. On a hunch, I stopped at the pay phone near the entry and thumbed what was left of the ripped telephone book. Vengley was an uncommon name, but there were five listed: one Roger, an attorney with home and office numbers—and I guessed that might be Dwayne’s father; an A. L. Vengley, followed by Barbara Vengley, Sherman Vengley, and Stanley Vengley. No Dwayne. I started feeding quarters into the slot and was uncharacteristically lucky with the first one, A. L.

  “Yes,” said the woman’s suddenly nervous voice. “I have a son named Dwayne. What’s happened to him?”

  “Nothing that I know of. I’m trying to locate a missing woman who may be a friend of his. I’d like to interview him—find out if she told him where she might be.” The word “interview” was softer than “talk to” or “ask a few questions.” Those phrases sounded like police.

  “He has an apartment on Island Street. Downtown.”

  “I was just there. He moved out a couple months ago. I wonder if you know where he went.”

  “Two months ago?”

  The line was silent and I sensed the woman about to hang up. “Ma’am? Can I come over and speak with you? It’s very important for me to find this young woman—her parents are very worried about her.”

  With some hesitation, she agreed. I verified the address. The condominium was out past the furry green hills of Balboa Park and perched on the face of a mesa in University Heights. The sand-colored units stepped up the side of the canyon. Each balcony overlooked the twisting roads and roofs and occasional swimming pools below. The “A” stood for “Annette,” the “L” I didn’t ask about, and the relationship with Dwayne’s father was sore.

  “We’ve been divorced for three years, Mr. Steele. And I should have left that bastard long ago.”

  I nodded. The woman’s anger at her ex-husband showed in tense gestures that accompanied the words.

  “He’s one of the most self-centered, materialistic, and greedy people I’ve ever known. And a hypocrite—egotistical and manipulative. He had a hundred ways of imposing—” She caught the bitterness in her voice and said sweetly, “But those are virtues in an attorney, aren’t they?”

  That was one way of looking at it. I nudged her further in the right direction. “He didn’t like it that Dwayne wouldn’t go to law school?”

  “Roger didn’t like anything that contradicted his wishes.” She looked down at the Kleenex fraying in her hand and then out the balcony doors to the view of neighboring ridges with
their own condominiums. “It’s no wonder our child has … .” Again she caught herself, lips clamped against the words. “You say he moved out two months ago?”

  “That’s what I was told. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

  “No.” She dropped the tissue into an unused ashtray. The room was crowded with furniture designed for larger space and with knickknacks collected over a lifetime. They were, I guessed, her part of the settlement. “He’s been looking for work for a long time, I know that. He’s had job offers, but they aren’t exactly what he wants. God knows what he’s living on— he stopped asking me for money when I couldn’t give him as much as he wanted.” She sighed. “I’ve tried to tell him: take any job just to get started, build up a work record. But he won’t listen; he doesn’t want to start where everyone else does. And then he moved into that horrible place. I tried to convince him to at least live in a decent part of town—he refused to live here. I tried—” She fell silent.

  “And he told you to get lost.”

  Surprised, she looked up at me, then smiled wryly. “You have children, I see.”

  “Two daughters.”

  “My friends say they’re as much trouble as sons.” Another deep breath. “You said you were looking for a missing woman. One of your daughters?”

  “Not mine. Dorcas Wilcox.”

  “Wilcox? Dori Wilcox is missing?”

  “Has your son been in touch with her lately?”

  “They went to high school together. And college.”

  “Did he speak of her often?”

  “No—they were friends, but I don’t think they were dating. You know, not a girlfriend-boyfriend thing. But on vacations they’d go out to movies or see other college friends.”

  “Can you give me the names and addresses of some of these people?”

  She mentioned a few, including Stacey Briggs and Kimberly Overstreet. There was no Shirley. I noted the new names and, when Mrs. Vengley couldn’t remember addresses, the areas of San Diego where she thought they lived.

  “Do you know when Dwayne last saw Dorcas?”

  “No. I’m sorry. Do you think … something may have happened to her?”

  I shrugged. “All I know for certain is that she’s disappeared. Did she or Dwayne ever mention any friends in Colorado?”

  Puzzled, the woman shook her head. “Not that I remember. Is that … do you think that might be where Dwayne went?”

  “Wouldn’t he say something to you before moving that far away?”

  Her teeth nipped at a spur of dry skin on her lower lip. “Not any more. He thinks I’ve already meddled too much in his life.” The anger was gone, now, replaced by a weary sadness. Her voice was flat as it stated fact. “His father’s turned him against me. It started long before the divorce. But since then, since he’s come back from college, it’s been worse. No matter how much I try—”

  Again she cut herself off. I couldn’t figure out if she didn’t trust me with what she thought, or if that was her technique for hinting at deeper meaning while demonstrating grace under pressure. I wrote my name on a slip of paper. “If he does call, would you get in touch with me?”

  That wry smile again. “If you’ll do the same for me.”

  CHAPTER 8

  STEVEN GLOVER, THE first of the names provided by Mrs. Vengley, didn’t answer his telephone. A recorded, cheery jingle was happy to sing me another number where he could be reached. It turned out to be a real estate office out near La Mesa. A man’s voice said Glover was showing homes—if I wanted to talk to him, I could leave a message. Better, I should come out and see what the Sueno Grande Estates had to offer.

  A flag-bedecked model home served as the sales office. Automobiles crowded the curbs of a winding street that had baskets of plastic flowers dangling from its name plate, “Pulga Vista Avenue.” A large sign announced “Starting at only $250,000.” Smiling salesmen in white shirts and striped ties squired couples from one lot to another. Glover was tall with butter-colored hair and a slender build. He had a firm handshake and a straight, honest gaze. “Yes, sir—good to see you again!”

  I explained that it wasn’t again and told him what I wanted. The white, perfect teeth disappeared. “Dwayne? Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him for a few weeks now.” He led me outside, distant from the handful of sales people shuffling papers on the folding work table that, with a few equally foldable chairs, furnished the empty living room. “Dwayne. I guess he could have moved. I wouldn’t know.”

  “You went to Occidental with him and Dorcas Wilcox?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know where Dorcas might be?”

  “Dori?” He shrugged. “Last I heard, she was living up around Julian. You—ah—want to tell me why you’re looking for them?”

  “She seems to have disappeared. Her parents are worried.”

  “I see. Well, I wish I could help you, but like I say, I haven’t talked with either one of them in a long time.”

  “Are she and Dwayne involved with each other?”

  “Involved? Like going together?”

  I nodded. For some reason the young man wasn’t comfortable talking about them.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. All the time I’ve known them, they’ve been just friends. We’re all just friends. But I haven’t talked to either of them in months. I didn’t even know Dwayne had moved.”

  “Has Dorcas mentioned anyone she’s serious about?”

  “No. But like I say, I haven’t seen her in a while, so who knows?”

  I wrote my name and number again on another slip of paper. If I went into the detecting business full-time, I’d have to get business cards. But what kind of business would the card list? Retired Spy-Catcher? Tracer of Runaways? “If you hear from either of them, would you give me a call?”

  He looked at the slip. “Sure.”

  “Do you know if Dwayne found work?”

  “Work? You mean a job?”

  “His mother told me he was looking for work.”

  “Oh—his mother. I guess he wouldn’t have told her. Dwayne and his mother didn’t get along too well.” He shrugged again. “I think he’s working as a salesman, but I don’t know where.”

  “Can you tell me where Shelley Aguirre works?”

  Glover’s blue eyes blinked and the uneasiness increased. “What do you want with her?”

  “Maybe she’s heard from Dorcas or Dwayne.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.” Glover didn’t add anything.

  “I have her home address. But I could save time by talking to her at work.” I studied his face. “There’s no reason why I shouldn’t talk with her, is there?”

  “No! It’s just I don’t think she knows where they are either. I mean if Dwayne wouldn’t tell me something, he wouldn’t tell Shelley. Dwayne and I are closer,” he added lamely.

  “I still should talk to her. Do you have that work address?”

  Reluctantly, he did. It was a graphics firm not too far away in the Encanto section. In the rearview mirror, the young man stood and stared after the car as I pulled away. Then he turned and walked rapidly toward the sales office.

  The graphics building was a brick box that faced a blank wall to the street. A receptionist directed me to a long, low-ceilinged room. A line of six drafting tables ran under large windows on the north side. Work tables littered with T-squares and papers formed a parallel line under bright fluorescent lights along the other wall. Many of the desks were empty, but a few people bent here and there over their work. Shelley Aguirre seemed to be looking for me, and as I approached, I could see the fright in her eyes.

  “Did Steven Glover call to say I was coming, Miss Aguirre?”

  The small woman’s brown eyes widened “yes” as her cropped pale-blond hair shook “no.”

  “All I’m trying to do is locate a missing girl, Shelley—a friend of yours, in fact.” She didn’t say anything. I looked over her shoulder at the sketch she was working on. An elongated woman le
aned back in a tense arc to stare toward a roughed-in square. The figure echoed Aubrey Beardsley and the turn of the century. “Nice work,” I lied.

  “Thanks.” She lied, too.

  “You were an art major at Occidental, right?”

  “… Yes.”

  “And had some classes with Dwayne Vengley.”

  “How did you know?”

  It wasn’t too hard to guess—studio majors and art history majors shared a number of classes. But I let the question hang. Sometimes a little mystery works for you. “Come on, I’ll treat you to a cup of coffee.”

  She didn’t really want to go. I didn’t give her a chance to hold back. Her arm was like a thin stick in my hand as I guided her toward my car. “Where’s a good place? I’ll have you back in twenty minutes.”

  The good place was a fast-food restaurant, one of those brightly colored boxes that sit on every corner in a business district. This time of the afternoon, only a few people were scattered among the booths and tables. I set the Styrofoam cup in front of her. “Were you and Dorcas friends in college?”

  She stared at the cup. “We knew each other.”

  As I leaned forward to hear her soft words, I tried to study her eyes. But she kept them focused on the steaming coffee. “When did you first meet her?”

  “In our freshman year. She … she was a suitemate.”

  “So you saw a lot of her.”

  “Yes. I guess so.”

  “And that continued through school?”

  “… yes …”

  “And Dwayne Vengley, too? You saw a lot of him?”

  “No—I mean I did. But I didn’t really know him that well.”

  “Did he and Dorcas date?”

  She shook her head. “They were friends, but it wasn’t like that—not dating or in love. Just friends.”

  “How about Steve Glover? Did you see a lot of him?”

  “Yes. I guess so. We dated.”

  “And you still do?”

  She nodded.

  “And Shirley. Did you know her?”

  “Shirley Norris?” The Aguirre girl frowned. “She left school after her sophomore year. The sophomore slump, I guess.”