All the Old Bargains

by Benjamin M. Schutz

  “Love to.” She slipped her hand into mine and we walked out to the dance floor. I put my arm around her waist. She laid her hand on my shoulder. We began to move together: surprisingly pleasantly, fluidly. Wendy Sullivan taught me to dance. Rather she taught me not to be so self-conscious that I wouldn’t try.

  On the faster songs our dancing was restrained. No pelvic thrusts, no shaking fannies, no bump and grind, no frantic melting into the beast with two backs. The intensity was all in our eyes. Every so often I felt us exchange frank appraisals of what might be with no attempt to make it happen.

  Slowly over the next couple of hours her hand came to rest on the back of my neck, our cheeks would brush, our temples touch, and I held her hand against my chest. Eventually, it was closing time and we meandered out of the bar, hand in hand, listing a bit against each other. How much of that was affection and how much alcohol I didn’t know.

  When we arrived at my house Samantha asked to use the bathroom. I opened the front door and let us in. I pointed down the hall to our left. “Bathroom’s the first door on the left, opposite my office.”

  As she walked down the hall I wondered what she thought of what she saw. As surely as Randi Benson’s personality was reflected in her room so did my self speak out from these walls. I knew what aspects of myself I wanted the world to see. What else was revealed I did not know. She came out of the bathroom and stood in the doorway looking at the living and dining rooms. Again I wondered what she saw. I wondered if she saw a space with her name on it.

  “Can I have the nickel tour?”

  “Sure.” I crossed over to her and pointed to the room on her right. “This is my office.” She stepped in and flicked on the light. There was a bookcase on one wall. She went to it and began fingering the spines of books.

  “You read funny things. I mean I guess I didn’t expect you to read these kinds of books. It’s all novels and some philosophy. I guess I expected legal codes and technical stuff.”

  “These tell me more about people than all the legal cases ever written.”

  She continued to look at my books. “Do you know that you don’t have a single novel written by a woman? I’m not sure I could send my ‘baby’ into such a forbidding place.”

  I threw up my hands and tried for a contrite smile. “I’m ready to mend my ways. How shall I begin?”

  “I’ll get a few books together for you. Some Anne Tyler, Margaret Atwood, Jayne Anne Phillips. There’s a whole ’nother world out there.”

  Tell me about it. Please.

  She turned to my desk with the typewriter, telephone and draftsman’s lamp. My license was framed above it. Next to that were my locked files and in one corner my locked gun case. The other corner had my easy chair, side table and reading light.

  She turned slowly and looked at me. “Tell me something. Are you carrying a gun?”

  I turned around and lifted up my coattails. She saw the butt of my Bren 10 sticking out above my waist band.

  She shook her head. “Jesus Christ. I’m going out with a guy who carries a gun. Guns scare me. People who carry guns scare me.”

  There was nothing I could say. Sometimes I was scared for me and sometimes scared of me. I’d walked away from a lot of dangerous situations. I’d also gone looking for a few.

  I was starting to get uncomfortable with this and pointed toward the bedroom. “The bathroom you’ve seen; this is the bedroom.”

  She stuck her head in and looked around. I told her the shower was around the corner. When she turned toward me our eyes met again as they had a couple of times on the dance floor. For a moment we just looked at each other. Swiftly my orbit began to decay and I started my descent. I kissed her. Then she kissed me. We were fitting our mouths together as if to heal a common wound. For a moment our tongues danced like snakes and our arms wound around each other. Abruptly, we parted.

  I pulled her body close to me. She gently pushed her fists against my chest. I released her.

  “No more. Not now. I’m tired of being modern. I’m not saving it for marriage or anything. It’s just I stopped liking myself when I was giving it away all the time. I never seemed to get what I wanted in the deal so I’m cautious these days, that’s all.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Look, I like you, okay. But I’m also a little afraid of you. You don’t look like a safe bet to me. Before we go any further sexually I want to know a little more about what I’m getting into with you.”

  She smiled ruefully. “Sex is not dentistry, the slick filling of aches and cavities. Not for me anymore.”

  “I’ll buy that. Is the line yours?”

  “No. It’s from one of those women writers I’m going to introduce you to: Margaret Atwood.”

  “Okay. So be it. I’m not just interested in you horizontally.”

  “That’s nice to know.” She brightened. “I think I’d better leave now. I’ve got a long day tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  She picked up her purse and went to the door. After letting her out I stood in the driveway and watched her pull away up the street. I waved good-bye but couldn’t tell if she saw me.

  Chapter 7

  Five-thirty came and I reached over and cuffed my alarm’s ears, trying to still the gonging in my head. I staggered up to my feet and quietly padded to the bathroom. My mouth felt like someone had turned over an ashtray in it. I gargled, brushed my teeth and rinsed my eyes. I’d shave at the club. Getting dressed, I thought of Samantha as I was slipping on my Bianchi shoulder holster. Would I ever become as comfortable with her as I was in it? I combed my hair and went to the kitchen.

  I take my work seriously, and staying in good condition is essential. Might may not make right but it sure does make do. What quickness and agility I’d had was gone. They’re gifts anyway. Strength and endurance you earn. You get to keep them only as long as you work for them. Whenever I can I try to work out.

  Most days, that’s with my associate Arnie Kendall in the weight room. Once a week we shoot at his range and then we hit the mats.

  I got to the club, locked my car and went in. As I was signing in I looked up and saw Arnie coming toward me. He’s the same size I am, about six feet tall, two hundred pounds. He looks like something you’d dream up in macrame class: all ropes and cables, knots and braids. He changes his appearance regularly. Sometimes he’s bald, sometimes bearded, sometimes a Mohawk, sometimes a Vandyke. Today he was Fu Manchu, complete with topknot.

  I’ve worked with Arnie enough times in enough tight places to know I can count on him to do what needs doing. In fact, I know very little about him except that he’s very good at what he does. Courtesy of Green Beret University, Vietnam Campus.

  I stuck out my hand to greet him. He enveloped it, pumped my arm and returned it.

  “Ok! Let’s get to it,” I said.

  “Fine.”

  We changed in the locker room and went up to the weight room. I passed my idol, “Captain Humble,” on the way in. At sixty-six he can still bench press the Pentagon. I went through my stretching routine, then hit the weights. I worked on my lats, my pectorals, did my curls and dumbbell presses and then hit the bench. I did a set with 300 pounds to warm up my muscles and loosen the joints. Then I began to increase the weights: 350, 375, 400. Finally I put on a new maximum for myself: 425 pounds. I laid back on the bench and cinched my belt in another notch. I set my feet, twisting them onto the floor for the right feel. Arching my back, I wiggled on the bench, getting set. I looked at the plates and the bar, losing the world in their tiny irregularities. I set my shoulders and adjusted my grip, looking for the right feel in my fingers and palms. Arnie and Mo, the weight room coach, stood nearby to catch the bar. Benching without spotters is asking to die a painful death. If you can’t manage the weight and it falls on your chest or across your throat, it’s lights out. I began to pump my lungs, filling them and then settling into a rhythm. I mentally checked the feel of my feet, legs, back, grip. Then I began to empty my mind until only the pressure on
my hands existed; when that had happened and my breathing was full and rhythmic I knew I was ready.

  Lifting has the same stages as an orgasm: impending, inevitable, irreversible and then done. I bellowed and the bar began to rise. I could feel the shock down my forearms, through my shoulders and back. I was conscious of the pain and strain as my entire being was focused on moving over a fifth of a ton by millimeters. The reality of shattered joints, of tendons and muscles snapping off the bone like telephone lines in a tornado sat in the back of my mind. Fortunately, overwhelming pain is just that: overwhelming. A brief flash and then shock. The mind just shuts down.

  Finally, I made the lockout. Arnie and Mo helped guide the bar to the rack. My eyes focused on a hand reaching out to me. I shook it and sat up on the bench.

  “Nice work. That’s a new max.” Arnie was smiling.

  “Thanks.”

  I finished my workout with a couple of hundred sit-ups and a half-hour stretch on the rowing machine.

  After showering Arnie and I went to sit in the sauna. While it was empty we talked.

  “What’re you doing these days, Leo?”

  “Runaway kid—looks pretty easy at this point. Angry teenager. Home isn’t what it ought to be. Maybe I’ll find her staying at a girlfriend’s house. I doubt it. More likely she’s with a new boyfriend who, when he gets a load of her age, will drop her so fast she’ll bounce for a week. Doesn’t look like there’s anything in it for you. There may be some surveillance if this really drags out but that’s it.” I pushed open the door and followed Arnie.

  “That’s cool. Listen, I’ve got the Colt fixed. I put on a slide release and a speed safety. While I was at it I put on new grips and combat sights and adjusted the trigger. I’ll give it to you when we leave.”

  We showered and shaved and dressed quickly. On the street I followed Arnie to his car. He opened the trunk and unlocked the steel case. Inside were my Colt .45 in its pancake holster and a handgun I’d never seen before. He handed me my gun.

  “What’s that, Arnie?” I gestured to the case.

  “That’s a Grizzley .45 Magnum. I’m testing it for the shop. It’s unreal. The thing’ll stop a truck. The action is beautiful too, very smooth. They won’t be on the market for a while. Here, heft it.” He handed me the piece. It was a bit heavier than my Colt. A true hand cannon. I gave it back to Arnie and saw it disappear into his fist. He locked the trunk up again.

  “Listen, I’ve got to hit the road. I’m going over to this kid’s school. I’ll see you Wednesday sometime. If this is cleared up by then we can go to the range. I’d like to try a few rounds with that thing—okay?”

  “Sure. Good hunting.” He folded himself into his car. I watched him back out and waved as he sped away.

  I went by Samantha’s apartment and caught 395 south to the beltway. Going east I stayed on the beltway past Route 1, then went south on the parkway. I preferred to use the parkway rather than Route 1 even if it wound up being the long way to some places. The school was off Fort Hunt Road below Bucknell and Belle Haven. I pulled into the driveway and up around the building to the visitor’s lot. It was 8:45. I parked the car and headed to the main entrance. The school was one story, except for the gym in the background. Rows of slitted windows angled open. Trees and shrubs were planted right next to the building but nowhere else on the grounds.

  I went into the school looking for the main office. The hall was filled with children and I stopped to watch them for a second. Examples of the current tribal groupings sauntered by: preps, freaks, punks, grits, and nerds. They all looked older than I remembered myself at that age. They seemed to be accelerating through childhood. Trying desperately to be adults even without all the equipment. The g forces of that pursuit twisted their features. The faster they went the more bent out of shape they got. I had wanted the same things at that age. It was just more furtive in my day. Whether that was a step up or a step back, I didn’t know.

  I went into the office and stood at the counter peering up and down to see if anyone would come to see me. After a couple of minutes a woman came out of the principal’s office and asked if she could help me. She was short and had been starched, buttoned, cropped and pinched into a flat green skirt and white parochial school blouse. She wore a crucifix the size of a broadsword, flat black shoes and—I was sure—support hose.

  “Yes. I’d like to speak with Miss Simpson, please.”

  “And who may I say is calling?” The words slipped out of her pinched mouth like air from a drowning man.

  “Leo Haggerty.”

  She turned her back to me and went to one of the empty secretary’s desks. After punching a few buttons and with her back still to me she spoke in a whisper. I wondered what I looked like to her. She covered the phone with her hands and turned back to me. “She wants to know what it is in regard to.” Her back straightened just slightly. I wondered if she’d plant her feet soon and bar the door.

  “It’s a confidential matter. I’m a private investigator. I have a letter of authority from my client if she’d like to see that.”

  Again she huddled over the phone with her back to me. I leaned forward with my elbows on the counter, wondering when this would end. The last time females whispered in my presence I was fourteen and was making awkwardness an art form. If she started to giggle I was going to leave. She put down the phone and said, “Miss Simpson will be right down.”

  I turned to face the door. As I waited, leaning back on the counter, I wished I had a fedora to fondle or a cigarette to snarl around. Miss Simpson came briskly through the door. I thought someone had thrown snow down my shirt. She was an explosion in pastels: peaches and cream, golden blonde, pearly whites, baby blues. She wore white high-waisted slacks, sandals, a pink cotton blouse and plain gold jewelry. Hoops in her ears, a thin choker and bracelet and one ring. She reached out to shake my hand. My head was swirling with color shock. I was going to need goggles if she smiled again. Her hands were strong: small palms, short fingers and nails, no polish.

  “I’d like to see that letter you mentioned, please.” I reached into my coat for it and handed it to her. Her eyes zigzagged down the page and she folded it up and gave it back to me. Her mouth had set into a line and the light in her eyes was dimmed. She seemed to have set her body on “serious.” “Come this way. We’ll talk in my office.” She spun on her toes like a marine honor guard doing about-face and I followed her out.

  Her office was down by the gym. I followed her through the side marked Girls Gym. As she descended the stairs she said, “The girls don’t come in until after homeroom. There’s no one down here.” She opened her door and motioned me to a seat. I sat across from her in her painted cinder block office. She straightened papers on her gray steel desk. On top of a filing cabinet were a number of golden trophies of girls holding wreaths over their heads. I couldn’t tell what sport they were for.

  She looked up at me and said, “What do you want to know about Randi?”

  “Everything and anything. I’m not sure what would be useful. She seemed like a kid who changed quite a bit in the last year—friends, interests, habits. I understand you were her phys ed teacher and cheerleader coach and probably knew her best of all her teachers.”

  “You’re right. She did change quite a bit and I don’t know why. She seemed at the start of the year to be a bright, eager kid who enjoyed school. She was pretty and popular.” She stopped for a moment, perhaps trying to better fix Randi in her memory. “I guess the first thing to change was that she closed herself off. She didn’t talk to anyone anymore. Then she dropped out of things. She dropped out of cheerleaders, dropped her friends and started cutting classes. Judging from her new friends I’d say it was a good bet that she was using some kind of drugs. Pot, Quaaludes, PCP, god only knows. I remember there were two strange incidents. One was the same week she quit cheerleaders. She was sitting in front of her locker, just staring. It was late, so I came by and told her to move it and get dressed. She really flare
d up and said she wouldn’t, she wasn’t coming to gym anymore. I asked her why but I couldn’t get anything clear from her about what it was. She was a good athlete and she had an excellent body. Some girls are shy around the others if they don’t feel as well developed so they come late to class and dress alone. But that couldn’t have been it. Randi was popular with most girls and like I said a good athlete. Gym was kind of like a dessert for her. A treat compared to her other classes. She just refused to come back at all or even discuss it, even though she knew she’d get an F in the course. I don’t know why she was so adamant.”

  “You mentioned there was another incident.”

  “Yes. Her father used to pick her up every day after practice. I mean, he was a hawk around that girl. He’d get her at the locker room door and walk her to the car. I remember once thinking that Randi looked like she was walking to the gallows or something when she went to that car. I don’t know. Anyway what struck me as strange were Mr. Benson’s questions the day she quit cheerleaders and left school. He sounded like he had no idea about her behavior changes at school. I was surprised. For someone who seemed so concerned about her he really didn’t seem to know her very well at all.” Her palms came down on the table to emphasize her point and end our time. She glanced at the clock for support and said, “Classes begin now so we’ll have to stop. I hope this was helpful.” I reached across the desk and we shook hands. Silence hung heavily between us. “And I hope you can find Randi and help her.” I nodded my unspoken agreement and went back upstairs to the main floor.

  Back at the school office I glanced at my watch and decided to call Josh from the phonebooth. He got the phone on the second ring. “Josh? Leo. Are the prints ready?”

  “Yeah, Leo, no sweat. Strange looking kid; part child and part adult. Looks like she’s in a time warp, aging faster than the rest of us.”

  “Listen, I’ll be by to pick it up in about a half hour, okay?”

  “Fine. See you then.”

  I went to my car figuring that I’d want to be at the mall around two-thirty to soak up the feel of the place and get settled in. I wanted to be part of the background the kids would come to populate. First I’d watch their migration patterns, social order and dominance rituals. Then I’d begin to move among them on my search. I realized in a flash that I didn’t have pictures of either Angie Martindale or Cindy Fosburg. I went back into the school. On the bulletin board next to the office was a map of the school with a “you are here” mark to locate yourself. I found the library and walked down the hall toward it. There I met the librarian, who by her name tag was Mrs. Winchell. After letting her read Benson’s letter I asked her for the current school yearbook. She gave it to me with a stare as if I were asking for pornography. I sat down at one of the tables and looked up the girls’ names and the pages on which their pictures were. There were no group activity portraits, just the mug shots. I stared at them each a long time. This was going to be my one chance to memorize their looks. Angie Martindale: black hair with lots of curls, plucked eyebrows arched high like sooty rainbows over her eyes; button nose, a touch of baby fat still in her cheeks, small mouth with a bowed upper lip—a perennial pucker. Cindy Fosburg: brown hair straight down her back, long face not quite horsey—her features were better than that—straight nose, high broad forehead, prominent overbite so that her mouth was always partially open. She was barely prettier than a gopher. I etched them into my memory. Returning the book to Mrs. Winchell, I resisted my impulse to tell her that just as she’d thought there was a naked girl on page 47.