by Ron Base
“If I knew my mom’s name I wouldn’t need you to find her, would I?”
There was a certain undeniable logic to that, Tree thought.
“And I don’t have no more money,” added Marcello.
An Irish guy named O’Hara had threatened him first thing this morning, and now a black kid named Marcello, a client by any definition, had paid him money. Maybe he was a real detective after all. Okay, detective, he thought. How do you go about finding a kid’s mother?
His eyes fell on the red bicycle. “Is that new?”
5
I thought you only wore your glasses reading,” Marcello said, seated beside Tree in the Beetle.
“I only need them for reading,” Tree said.
“Then how come you have them on now?”
“I have to read traffic signs.”
“This is a really crummy car,” Marcello said.
“It’s a Volkswagen,” Tree said. “The Beetle. My pride and joy. The only thing I own in this life.”
“I hate this car,” Marcello said. They rode in silence for a couple of minutes. Marcello looked over at him. “This is all you own?”
“Well, how much do you own?”
“I’m just a kid,” Marcello said. “When I grow up I’m gonna be rich.”
“That’s great news,” Tree said. “How are you going to do that?”
“Not gonna tell.”
“Just as well,” Tree said. “I might steal your idea and become rich myself.”
“That’s the truth,” Marcello said. “How come you’re all grown up and you’re so poor?”
“I ask myself that all the time.”
“Don’t you own a house?”
“Belongs to my wife,” Tree said. “I’m lucky to have a roof over my head.”
“You got no money, what kind of detective are you?”
“The kind that’s willing to help you for seven bucks,” Tree said.
That silenced Marcello. Tree drove onto Periwinkle Way and turned into Fennimore’s Cycle Shop.
“Do you want to come in or wait here?“
“I’ll wait here.”
Tree wheeled the bike into the interior of the shop. He wound his way through rows of bike racks until he encountered a heavyset woman in a stripped T-shirt and jeans. Her left arm was etched in dragon tattoos.
She said, “Your wife works over at Dayton’s, doesn’t she?”
“That’s right,” Tree said. “Freddie’s running the place.”
“Ray Dayton runs the place.”
“That’s what Freddie keeps telling me.” Tree smiled disarmingly. That is if sixty-year-old males could still smile disarmingly. “But I’m such a blind fan of my wife that I just can’t believe she’s not in charge.”
The woman chuckled. “I hear you’re a detective. That true?”
Tree held out his hand. “Tree Callister. “
She took his hand. “Molly Lightower.” She held up her arm.
“They call me the Dragon Lady.”
“Because of Terry and the Pirates?”
“Because I’m festooned with dragons, baby. Head to foot. Places I can’t show you without being arrested.”
“I see.”
“I used to run with Hell’s Angels in Cincinnati,” she said.
“Are there Hell’s Angels in Cincinnati?”
“My first old man was a sergeant at arms for the local chapter.” She held up her right arm. Angel wings framed the letters AFFA. “That stands for angels forever, forever angels.”
“Is there a Hell’s Angels chapter on Sanibel Island?”
“Are you kidding? That was my dark past, honey, I’m a good girl now.”
“Sorry to hear it,” Tree said.
“Yeah, some days I am, too.” She looked at the bike. “What can I do you for? You out detecting or what?”
“I’m trying to find out who bought this bike.”
“The Electra Townie.”
“Is that what it is?”
“Twenty-one speeds. More bike than you need around here, but that’s what the kids want. Also, there are linear pull brakes on both wheels. Makes stopping easier. That’s what parents like—and the saddle’s easy on the bum thanks to the elastomers.”
“Did you sell the bike?”
“Me? I didn’t, no. But then I’ve been away for the past week. Up in Tampa. Mother’s appendix burst of all things. Ninety-years-old and her appendix goes. She hates my tattoos. Russ probably sold it.”
“Is Russ in?”
“My man Russ. Saved me from myself, that boy did. Tamed a Hell’s Angels mama. Today, he’s not in. But it would be in the computer.”
“Would you mind looking it up?”
“How’s your wife get along with that bugger Ray?”
“Pretty well I think,” Tree said. “They talked for a long time before Freddie came to work for him so they both knew what to expect from each other. So far they’ve managed to co-exist pretty well.”
“I’ve known that old bastard for thirty years. He was in Nam, you know.”
“So I hear,” Tree said.
“Those Nam guys, who knows how screwed up they got over there. Drugs, Agent Orange, booze, clap. No end to the way they could mess themselves up.”
She was moving toward the desktop PC on the counter.
“Let’s see.” She put on a pair of glasses and clicked away at the keyboard. “Yeah. Here it is. Russ sold it last week. Red Electra Townie.”
“That’s the one.”
“Jeez,” Molly said, “four hundred eighty bucks. That’s practically our most expensive bike, at least for kids. Hold on.” Her fingers clacked against more keys. “Okay. The bike was sold to a woman named Dara Rait. She paid by credit card. Visa. The address is off-island, interestingly enough. Seven hundred sixty San Carlos Blvd.”
Tree wrote the address down on the back of a hydro bill he found in his back pocket “I appreciate this.”
“I helped with your detecting?”
“You certainly did.”
“Hope you can make a living at this detecting business,” she said. “Because you know what?”
“What’s that, Molly?”
“I don’t think your wife is going to last long with our Mr. Ray as he likes to be called. No one does.”
“No?”
“He’s a mean old Nam vet. Lot of crazies were over there. In Nam, I mean. I knew some. He’s one of them.”
“Then I’d better get to work, hadn’t I?”
“Good luck, honey,” Molly said.
Tree rolled the bike out to the car. Marcello wasn’t inside. He had disappeared.
“You little bastard,” he said out loud. Then he was sorry he said it. Maybe something scared the kid. Or worse, maybe someone took him away.
He stood beside the Beetle for a few minutes in case the boy returned. He didn’t. He put the bike in the back seat and then pulled the hydro bill out of his pocket and stared at the address he’d written down. He stood there, trying to figure out what to do next.
What the hell, he thought.
____
Along San Carlos Boulevard, closer to Fort Myers Beach, the theme was distinctly nautical—the Mariner’s Hotel, a crab shack called Pincer’s, storefronts full of bikinis and beach balls. He swung right just before the Matanzas Pass Bridge, turning onto Main Street and then another right onto San Carlos Drive.
A stern sign warned the Bon Air Motor Court was private property, and there was no trespassing. Tree parked on the shoulder of the road. Number 760 stood at the intersection of San Carlos and a gravel road going off into the motor court. A knot of residents gossiped at the far end of the road near the water. Further along San Carlos Drive, workmen moved construction machinery aimlessly around, pretending to repair the road.
A white-painted motor home stood under impressive oaks. Rusty lawn furniture was scattered in front of a faded lattice-work barrier. The ornate face on a hanging clock said 2:20. A narrow, parched garden, ma
rked off by white-painted stones, ran along either side of rickety aluminum steps leading up to a peeling screen door. Tree could hear the sound of a TV. Riotous laughter followed by delighted applause.
Tree knocked on the door. The sound of the television abruptly stopped. Tree thought he could hear movement inside. He knocked again, rattling the glass panel of the door. A short-haired black woman appeared and launched a fight with the screen door. The door finally gave up and popped open.
“Hey there, brother,” she said. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for Dara Rait.”
The woman eased the door open wider. She wore a brown pantsuit, the jacket open to reveal a cream-colored blouse. “Are you now? Who shall I say is calling?”
“Are you Dara?”
“Supposing I am. Who are you?”
“My name is Tree Callister.”
“And why would an individual named Tree Callister be looking for her?”
“Are you Dara or not?”
“Brother, I asked what you might be doing looking for Dara.”
“I’d like to talk to her.”
“And supposing Dara doesn’t want to talk to you?”
“I’ve got information about a boy named Marcello,” Tree said.
“Who is this Marcello?”
“Maybe her son.”
“Her son?”
“That’s right.”
“You sure Dara has a son?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. Who are you?” Tree said “Are you a friend of Dara’s?”
“I’m no friend, but I do know her,” the woman said, producing a badge. The badge said Sanibel-Captiva Police.
6
The police officer drew Tree into the gloom of the motor home. He half expected to see a dead body lying on the floor. But there was no body among the clothes strewn everywhere.
The police officer said her name was Cee Jay Boone. “It’s not the initials, though.”
She spelled it out for him. “C-e-e. J-a-y. Detective Cee Jay Boone.”
“I didn’t know Sanibel-Captiva had a detective.”
“In fact there’s two of us. So now you know who I am, and you know a little something about the workings of my department. So brother, remind me again of your name.”
“It’s Callister. Tree Callister.”
“That’s right, Tree. What are you doing here, Tree?”
“I’m a private detective.”
“Are you now? I didn’t know they had a private dick on Sanibel Island.”
“They’ve only got one as far as I know,” Tree said.
“And you’re it.”
“Don’t sound so disappointed.”
“Well, you know, Tree, you could have worn a trench coat or something.”
“It’s too hot. When it’s cooler, I wear the trench coat.”
“Okay, Tree Callister, private detective. You’re looking for Dara because you think she has a son named Marcello.”
“That’s right.”
Tree told her about Marcello and how he had tracked Dara to this address. Cee Jay listened to him without comment and then asked, “This Marcello, what’s his last name?”
“I don’t know.”
“So then where does he live?”
“Maybe he lives here.”
“Here?” Cee Jay looked around at the mess of the place. Then her gaze returned to Tree. “I don’t get it. Who’s paying you to help this kid?”
“Marcello’s paying,” Tree said.
“A twelve-year-old boy hired you?”
“That’s correct,” Tree said.
“How much is he paying you?”
Tree paused before he said, “Seven dollars.”
She stared at him. “Seven dollars?”
“It’s a retainer,” Tree said.
“What are you?” she said. “Some kind of idiot?”
“Just a guy who works cheap.”
“Boy, you sure do,” Cee Jay said.
The door opened and a squat man stepped inside, mopping his perspiring forehead with a white handkerchief. His hair was cut close to his bullet head, making him look like a wrestler at a job interview. He wore a badly fitting blue sports jacket and a white golf shirt.
“Come on in, Mel,” Cee Jay said. “Join the party.”
“I checked around the park,” the man named Mel said. “Nobody’s seen her for at least a week.”
He looked Tree up and down.
“This is Tree Callister,” Cee Jay said. “Tree here is a detective. Tree, this is my partner, Detective Mel Scott.”
“A detective, huh?” Mel looked right through him. “What kind of detective?”
“The private kind,” said Cee Jay “You got six bucks? You can hire Tree. He works cheap.”
“Seven,” Tree corrected. “Seven dollars.”
“The cheap detective.” Mel issued a snort of laughter then turned to Cee Jay. “She’s taken a powder. So let’s get back to the office.”
“Why? What’s Dara done?” Tree asked.
“It’s not what Dara’s done,” Cee Jay said. “It’s her friend Reno O’Hara. That’s who we’re looking for. Can you help us out, Tree?”
In an attempt to redeem himself somewhat in Detective Boone’s eyes, Tree told her that he’d encountered Reno O’Hara that morning. Mel listened, cocking his head in Tree’s direction as though not sure he was hearing correctly. He kept his eyes on Cee Jay.
“Why would Reno O’Hara want to see you?” Mel asked.
“He said he was looking for someone. He thought I knew where this person was.”
“Did someone have a name?”
“No.”
Mel said, “So Reno thought you knew someone. Only you didn’t know anyone.”
“Could be he thought I know Dara Rait.”
“Except you don’t,” said Cee Jay Boone.
“No, I don’t.”
“But Tree, here you are, looking for Dara Rait.”
“I’m looking for a boy’s mother.”
“Oh, yeah,” Cee Jay said. “The kid who paid you seven dollars.”
“Here’s the thing,” Mel Scott said. “Doesn’t make any difference who you know or don’t know. You got Reno O’Hara on your tail, you are one sorry dude.”
Cee Jay nodded agreement. “If you’re on Reno’s radar screen, brother, you better hope we find him sooner than later.”
“What’s he done?” Tree asked.
Cee Jay and Mel traded glances. Cee Jay said, “That’s police business. It’s not private detective business.”
7
You haven’t seen my glasses have you?” “Why don’t you put them in the same place every time and then you won’t lose them.” Freddie brushed pesto on fresh grouper.
“I do put them in the same place, except I forget where that place is.”
“The last time I saw them, they were on the kitchen counter.”
“I would not have left them on the counter, I can tell you that much.”
Tree disappeared into the house. She put the filets on the barbecue, and then stepped back into the house. She encountered Tree wearing his glasses.
“Where were they?”
“On the kitchen counter.”
Tree watched the fish on the barbecue while Freddie fixed a salad with baby arugula and small tomatoes.
Once the fish was done, she added oil and vinegar to the salad and they sat on the terrace watching the sun set while Freddie recounted the events of her day: the continuing attempts to update the computer system, a general manager who said he could deliver but didn’t, her efforts to persuade Ray to adapt a realistic planning strategy for the coming year. Sometimes, she said, she felt as though she was speaking to him in a foreign language. Then it was Tree’s turn. He told Freddie about Reno O’Hara, Marcello on the beach, the bike shop, and the boy’s subsequent disappearance. He told her about the Bon Air Motor Park and the police. He did not say the police thought Reno O’Hara highly
dangerous and capable of killing Tree. That was not a conversation over chardonnay and sunsets on the terrace.
Even so, by the time Tree finished, Freddie was sitting up, calm as always, but more intense than usual. She put her plate to one side without finishing the grouper.
“Not to sound like the concerned wife or anything.”
“Of course not.”
“But are you sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?”
“I don’t have a clue. A guy named Reno O’Hara shows up at the office looking for a woman. I have no idea who she is. But he doesn’t believe me.”
“Okay, I’m following you so far,” Freddie said.
“Then I end up at a trailer park looking for a woman named Dara Rait. That’s when the police showed up.”
“What were the police doing there?”
“Looking for Reno O’Hara.”
“Why?”
“They won’t say. But they do say that Dara Rait is mixed up with him.”
“So you’re thinking Dara is the woman Reno came to your office looking for.”
“He must have followed Marcello.”
“Who is looking for his mother. Dara?”
“I don’t know. The police don’t seem to think Dara has a son. Marcello disappeared before I had a chance to ask him.”
“What did they think of you showing up in the midst of all this?”
“The two detectives gave me the distinct impression they think I’m an idiot.”
“Not an idiot,” Freddie said. “Maybe just a nice guy in over his head.”
____
Tree was back in a newspaper city room, desperate to finish a story. What story? He couldn’t remember. The big wall clock ticked loudly. Smoke curled in the air. White men in white shirts jabbed at typewriter keys so fast their fingers blurred. The sound was deafening. He couldn’t find a place to work, and he still could not remember what story he was supposed to write. If he did not produce a story he would lose his job. He couldn’t lose it. The job was all he had. It defined who he was. Without it, he wasn’t anything.
Tree jerked awake in the dark. It took a few moments to realize he was no longer at the newspaper; there was no need to worry about stories or deadlines. He looked over to where Freddie slept, her back to him, a reassuring presence in the darkness.
