by MK Alexander
The back pages, community news, the library schedule, house ads… the rest of the paper was left to Amy and I, well me mostly. Amy usually just complained and did what I asked with a loud sigh. Frank Gannon took care of the sports pages, did his own cuts and jumps. Eleanor would occasionally correct one of his headlines. And he had some trouble sizing the pictures. Somehow, he still hadn’t grasped the whole column thing, and would always come to Amy for help. I couldn’t understand why he didn’t just sit in front of the computer and finish it there. This Thursday he was done in a flash and out the door, muttering something about an ultimate tournament the whole time. If it wasn’t Thursday, I’d probably be playing too.
Eleanor had finished as well; she packed up, lit a cigarette and wished us a good night. All we had left were the back pages. We were alone. A month ago, I was the creepy old guy… now… well… now things seemed different.
“So... what are you doing tonight, Amy… after we’re all done?”
“I don’t know, not much… go home, eat dinner, watch a movie.”
“You like movies?”
“I love movies.”
“What’s your favorite?”
“Hmm… I can’t answer that. It’s like asking what’s your favorite ice cream. Plain vanilla or chocolate chip cookie dough? It all depends on your mood.” Amy got up from her computer and leaned against the drawing tables with a very fetching pose.
“Still some are better than others, right?”
“You mean flavors?” She gave me a big smile.
“No, movies.”
“Absolutely not. They’re all good,” she said and walked closer. “Speaking of flavors…” Amy brushed against me none too subtly. “What’s your favorite font flavor?” she asked and came right up to me, face to face.
“Font flavor?” I asked nervously. “You mean like typeface?” I looked into her eyes.
“Sure… are you a Mistral kinda guy, or maybe a Freestyle Script… she pushed me back against one of the tables. Definitely not a Snell Roundhand.” She did a slow twirl in the middle of the room and started giggling.
“I don’t know, Times New Roman?” I smiled.
“No way. Maybe a Bodoni or a Souvenir Book…” She came close again and slid her hand down my side. She started unbuttoning my shirt. “Or maybe you’re into the whole san serif thing. Antique Olive or Avenir?” Amy stepped back and unzipped her hoody cardigan. That left a tight, white midriff shirt. Her belly button appeared just above her jeans.
“Definitely feeling italics here.”
She reached up and undid her pony tail, shook her head and her dirty blonde hair fell to her shoulders. She came over again and leaned against me. I could feel her, every part of her against my chest…We kissed savagely, she was biting my lip. Moments later we were on the new carpeting, tearing at each other’s clothes. Stop the presses. This was definitely an alternate timeline... Was she going to follow me up to Partners for open mic? I actually hoped not, hard enough having stage fright...
***
It was a warm night, finally. I saw some of the regulars hanging out by the side entrance, smoking, cigarettes mostly. I heard the strains of live music from inside, leaking from the door anytime anyone opened it. I recognized the strains of All Along the Watchtower. It was either Fat Jack doing Jimmy, or it was Davy doing Bob. Both guitarists, one of them had a huge level of talent, the other more of a plodder. The door swung open again. I heard, There must be some kind of way out of here, said the joker to the thief…
I got there late, probably just before midnight. It was wall to wall crowded. Murray came up to me instantly. He put his arm around my neck, affectionally, I guess. “Patrick... time for a haircut, you’re starting to look like a hippie.”
He had to be joking. His hair was tied back, but probably went down below his shoulders. He was pretty wasted as usual. If I were to draw Murray as a cartoon, I’d have to include tiny little bubbles that followed him around, popping all the time. He was a super nice guy but somehow all those years of drugs and alcohol had softened his brain to mush. Murray told me I was second on the list. That meant I had ten minutes to gulp down a beer and stuff down my anxiety.
On the stage, that is, the spot just in front of the pool table, was a small three piece drum kit. I walked over to Teddy and whispered in his ear. He was a consummate jazz drummer and a jam buddy. His eyes lit up, he smiled and followed me to the stage. I heard somebody introduce me through the PA as Gary Sevens. Teddy took his place behind the kit. I was always a little nervous when I first started. I strapped on my guitar and checked my levels. “Hey everyone, welcome to spring,” I said into the mic. “I’d like to start off with a Procol Harum tune. It’s called Whiter Shade of Pale.”
It was one of those weird songs with indecipherable lyrics about something that happened to someone else, and that should make no sense to anyone; yet it did, perfectly. I knew exactly what this song was about, though I didn’t know at all. What a contradiction, a wonderful contradiction. This was music, the most temporal of arts, only the moment counted, only the now. You might mess up or hit it spot on.
“I was thinking maybe Randy could help me out on this one. A big hand everyone, please, for Randy.”
And older guy stepped up onto the stage amidst some scattered applause. He was one of those shaved-heads-with-a-goatee kind of guys. Usually wore a bandana, and tonight he carried a beautiful handmade accordion, bright red and white with brass trim. To my surprise he plugged it into the PA system and played a few quick scales. He adjusted the volume, then signaled ready with a smile. I turned to whisper: “I had to bring this into G instead of C.”
“What?” he asked.
“I changed the key to G, so I can sing it.”
He nodded and I counted off, one, two, three... Teddy started with a slow four-four. I came in on the one with a finger-picked electric. Randy hit the signature melody, a beautiful mimicry of Bach… somehow it didn’t sound like an accordion at all, but much more like a Hammond organ. He played his perfect measures and then it was my turn to sing, We skipped the light fandango…
I have a bad habit of closing my eyes when I sing, screwed up tight, maybe like Joe Cocker. I had to, I had to leave the room and go to another place to belt out this song properly. I opened my eyes for a second and a shock came to me. I looked around the room and it wasn’t Partners any more. It was some huge venue, like a stadium. There was a sea of faces before me in the dark. I was on a giant stage. I kept singing though:
That her face at first just ghostly...
Something was not right, not right at all. It seemed like another reality was superimposed on mine, almost as if they were existing at the same time. I glanced over to my left, expecting to see Fynn himself sitting just off stage, perched on a little stool with his arms folded and grinning at me. He was not there however.
The song was still playing, I finished the refrain: “...turned a whiter shade of pale…” The crowd went wild, the music continued and someone, Teddy I guess, skidded across the beats and started a slow roll. A stand-up bass picked up the iconic melody. It was a magical moment. I closed my eyes and opened them again. It was Eddie from Fish City… it was Partners again. He hit every note perfectly, he filled the tune with poignant starts and stops on his acoustic bass— just incredible.
I sang the verse again, then Janice hit the stage with her fiddle. She attacked the melody with her bow and careened through the solo with a sorrowful flourish… This was a jam. The music died off again, and we were left with just drums and bass. Practically a cappella… the beat was perfect. I sang out the last verse and wound up into the chorus. Fat Jack had taken the stage as well, the world’s loudest lead guitarist. I dimly saw him plug in behind me and noticed Murray rushing to the mixing board to turn his channel down. But Jack nailed it. I’d never heard such a great solo, sustaining each note flawlessly, soulfully and subtly. This guy was savant. We came to a crescendo, then I sung the final line again in the silence that fo
llowed …turned a whiter shade of pale…
The crowd actually applauded, almost cheered, something rare for Partners— usually no one even noticed if your song was over or not. I was done for the night. There was no way I could do another tune. I was a hard act to follow.
***
It was early Friday morning when I stumbled into the Sand City Chronicle office. No one was there yet, no cars in the lot. The door however was open. It was dark. No Miriam at reception either. I did notice the glow of a computer screen coming from the main office. I walked in and found Joey, sitting alone.
“Morning,” I mumbled.
“Morning, Patrick. Hey, you were pretty good last night… I really liked that tune.”
“Thanks…” I shuffled off to the break room to make coffee. Everything was there: coffee, filters, half-and-half, and sugar. Yes… I started to fill the pot with fresh water. Nothing came out of the tap. I called out to Joey: “Hey, what happened to the water?”
“It’s shut off till ten o’clock,” Joey called back.
“What the f—?”
“They’re doing some tests…”
“Tests?”
“The EPA, I think.”
“Are they testing the wells or the city water system?”
“Hmm, don’t know, people have wells?”
“That might make a good story…”
“Right… I’m on it.”
I started searching for water bottles, clattering around in the cabinets.
“Oh hey, there’s a note on your desk,” Joey called out again.
“Really? Who’s it from?”
“Looks like Amy’s handwriting.”
“What’s it say?”
“I don’t know.”
“Read it to me.”
“Goudy bold italic, all caps.” He gave me a puzzled look when I came in. “What does that mean?”
“Not a clue, Joey... not a clue.” I sat down in the adjacent cubicle and looked over his shoulder. “What the heck are you doing now?”
“Oh… just browsing the internet.”
“I can see that, but what are you looking at? I don’t see any pirates on your screen.”
“Don’t laugh… I’m trying to see if I can tell the difference between a Hoplite and a Centurion.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, by their uniforms…”
“Can you?”
“I’m no expert… but so far it’s not that easy. They look pretty much the same.”
“Okay Joey, this is the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen you do.”
“It is a little strange, I guess.”
“Did Fynn put you up to this?”
“Fynn?”
“Inspector Fynn.”
“Well, yeah, in a way. I mean, he mentioned it to me and funny thing is, I can’t get it out of my head now.”
“I’d love to know how he started that conversation.”
“Me too,” Joey said and grinned. “I’m not really sure.”
“When was this?”
“Oh, Eleanor sent me to do a month-on-the-job update.”
“Wow. It’s been a month already?”
I hadn’t seen Fynn for what seemed like weeks, but it was probably only a few days. I think part of me was still avoiding him. Our conversations were increasingly unsettling to say the least.
“Joey, a question for you…”
“What?”
“Who invented the telephone.”
“What’s this, a trick question or a joke?”
“No, seriously.”
“Elisha Gray.” He squinted at me, almost cringing, expecting a verbal counter-strike.
“Not Bell?”
“Bell? Never heard of him… oh wait… that does sound familiar. Joey clicked to Wiki. “I thought I remembered something. He read aloud, That same morning, February 14, 1876, Alexander Graham Bell’s lawyer filed an application with the patent office. There is considerable debate about who arrived first and Bell later challenged the primacy of Gray’s patent...
chapter 22
sister switch
A week later, Friday morning, I was in the office early reading Molly Gossip:
Yacht Club Antics—
A certain Mrs Smith clamored up to the podium at the Yacht Club the other night... I swear, I’m not a member, just a guest. Public speaking skills aside, it was her escort who caused the real ruckus, that hat, that cane, those shoes. That man could certainly dance up a storm.
Melissa stopped by my desk and tossed down a flyer.
“Amy did this for the Policeman’s Ball.”
“It’s good, don’t you think?”
“Good? It’s fantastic. Wow.” I looked it over. Amy was incredibly talented. Her poster had a film noir quality to it, just black and white, and red. A shadowy figure was half in the foreground, a trench-coated silhouette, a cigarette burning, and a red spot light. Down at the bottom was an old fashioned constable’s cap and a pair of handcuffs. I read it through: Cash Bar, Dancing Till Dawn, Raffle, Auction and Other Prizes. All proceeds to benefit the SCPD Benevolent League. Music by Randy and the Rumblers. Special Guest: Gary Sevens.
“Wait a second, who put Gary Sevens on here?”
“Randy did. He said you were going to do a couple of numbers.”
“That’s news to me.”
“You can’t back out now, your name’s on there.”
“That’s not my name.”
“Everybody knows who Gary Sevens is, Patrick.” Melissa gave me a wink.
Joey came into the office a few minutes later and stood at my cubicle. His grin seemed wider than usual.
“What?” I asked.
He said nothing, but his smile grew larger.
“What?” I repeated.
He reached into this pocket and held up a folded slip of paper between two fingers, but still didn’t say a word.
“Joey… what did you find?”
“A picture of Lorraine Luis, from her yearbook, nineteen seventy-four.
“Wow, that’s great work. I couldn’t find any old yearbooks when I looked.”
His grin was wider still, if that was possible. “That’s not all.”
“What then?”
He let the paper fall to my desk. I hurried to unfold it.
“Meet Elaine Luis, Lorraine’s older sister.”
“What?” I was in utter shock. I stared at the photo; there she was, Elaine Luis, class of 1973. “Wow, they look exactly the same.”
“Pretty much.”
“Where’d you get this?”
“You’re not the only one with contacts, Patrick. I’ve got a buddy in Oldham and he owed me one.”
“Really?”
“No… I found it online.”
“Joey, you’re a genius.”
***
I high-tailed it to Fairhaven. I had a date with Wilma Peterson in the records room.
“Back again, eh?” She was no less surly than usual.
“I had the wrong sister…”
“Where’s your note from Durbin?” Wilma asked.
“I didn’t know the last one had an expiration date.”
“Okay, I’ll let you in anyway. You seem to understand my rules.”
“Not everybody gets through that door, do they?”
“Not without a court order… or a signed FOIA form.”
“Has anyone else tried?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is anyone else looking for Luis?”
“Your buddy from the Times for instance?”
“He was here?”
“Standing where you are right now, not a week ago.”
“And?”
“I sent him packing.”
I smiled at Wilma. “I bet you used to work at the DMV, right?”
“How did you know that?”
“Just a guess...”
Wilma screwed her face up into a smile. “Well, nobody keeps better records.”
“Huh?”
> “Nobody has better records than the DMV.”
The security buzzer sounded and I made my way back to the microfiche machine. Ten minutes later I found exactly what I was looking for: Missing Persons case number 31-17809, Elaine Luis, vanished without a trace on July 7, 1977. Despite what Eleanor had said, it seemed that she had not reappeared a month later, at least as far as the county records were concerned.
***
I was back in the office sometime later. The telephone rang and that sparked a dim memory. There was something I needed to do that I had now forgotten. I hate when that happens… Must be getting old, maybe it’s time for a To-Do list. Usually, I never forget. I did this time. Then I saw Miriam float by my desk with an armload of books. I offered to help and she handed me half the stack.
“What are these?” I asked idly.
“New phonebooks.”
“Phonebooks? How old fashioned.”
She gave me a hostile look. “Yeah well, better in here than my office. I don’t have any room for ’em.”
I helped her dole them out; stacked a set on Eleanor’s shelf and brought another set into the advertising annex. That same memory was sparked. There was definitely some errand I had forgotten, and now it seemed to do with phonebooks. Then it came flooding back. I put my palm to my forehead and a bit too hard. It made a smacking sound. Miriam looked at me again. She always thought I was a bit strange anyway.
I grabbed two of the books, the local listings for Sand City, Oldham, and Garysville; and the county book that reached well inland, and which was much, much thicker. I decided to search the second. I went right to L, then right to Luis… there were at least thirty pages in the county book. This might take some doing. Out of laziness perhaps, I picked up the local book instead. A better move maybe, there were only seven pages of listings. My finger led my eyes down the page… L. Luis, L.L. Luis, Larry, Lamar, Lefty, Lorraine Luis. Holy shit, there she is… or is it?
