Blind Man and the Bimbo
by Paul Anders
35,000 words
Blind Man and The Bimbo © 2009 by zanybooks.com
Smashwords Edition
2940000807903
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblances to persons, living or dead, places, events, or locales is purely coincidental. They are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
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Chapter 1
The smells of newly cut grass and horse dung from the track nearby mingle with the tang of Eucalyptus and the occasional heady whiff of pine. The air, for once, is free of tobacco fumes and the music, loud and raucous, promises heavy doings in the evening ahead.
The Big Hoss Dance Hall outdoors next to the Santa Anita Race Track is well worth the extra half-hour’s drive, and I hoped by now Girl had regained some of her normal good temper.
"I want to dance," I said to her, "Who’ve we got?"
"Buxom blond, maybe too buxom, wearing stretch pants."
"You know how I feel about ..."
She pressed on ignoring me, "Foxy brunette, tall, slim ... no, forget that one, she and her partner are wearing matching outfits, probably married. Now here’s an odd one."
Girl’s hand shifted on my arm and I could hear the faint whisper of her fingers running through her hair. The sound was accompanied by the delicate odor of perfume, shampoo, and Girl herself. This odd one must be competition, and competition do make Girl nervous.
"The woman’s in her mid-thirties, I’m guessing, with short dark hair, her partner’s just a teenager."
"Little short fellow?" My voice, deep as a nighttime disk jockey’s, could have belonged to a news anchorman, but was just the speech of a once-upon-a-time professor of anatomy.
Girl’s voice was deep too, for a girl, and resonant—she’d sung in a choir in high school, and still did when she went to church. "No, he’s quite tall, towers over his mom. That’s probably what it is, mother and son."
"Bad idea for her to dance with him. Give the kid an Oedipus complex—if he doesn’t have one already. I’d better dance with her, give the child a chance to strike out on his own."
Girl laughed, amused rather than impressed by my logic. She continued with her summary of the passing crowd and, a moment later, called out to someone walking nearby. I stood mechanically as Girl took my wrist and placed a small feminine hand in mine.
"You’re...?"
"Brigitte."
"I know a Brigitte." I began.
"I’m the one," Brigitte announced and giggled.
Yes, I knew a Brigitte all right: short, red hair—almost orange I’d been told; she smelled good, real good. But she giggled, wore too much hand lotion, and had no real sense of the music. Why had Girl stuck me with her? What had happened to the brunette? One dance; that was all I’d give this Brigitte.
"Oh, dance this next one with me," Brigitte said, "you know I love the cha-cha."
So do I. "I’d like to but I promised Girl."
"Why do you call her Girl? Her name is Marci."
"What’s the point of learning their names? They never stay around long enough, none of them have, not since the… explosion." There, I could say the word now, didn’t really bother me anymore.
Brigitte’s temper was in keeping with her red hair. She raised her voice to tell me what I already knew. "Maybe they’d stay around longer if you were nicer. Maybe if you were really nice, you could find someone permanent to live with you, you wouldn’t have to hire a girl."
Like you, I thought, with your permanent smell of honey, and hand lotion, and fresh salt air. And that dammed giggle.
We’d stopped on the edge of the dance floor to talk; the other dancers whirled by inches from us; the long skirts of one brushed my pant leg. For an instant, I felt an intense sadness.
I should have danced the cha-cha. Would have shut Brigitte up. Damned conversation with these women never leads anywhere.
"Get me a dancer this time," I begged Girl.
"I’m trying." she said, "Brigitte was a volunteer, she likes you. Some of the women find you ill-tempered, not her. Trouble with you is you’re so fussy, they’re always ‘too short,’ or ‘tries to lead.’
"I’ll tell you something, Professor Anders. At this particular out-of-the-way dance place you insisted we come to tonight, ‘can’t stand the smoke,’ you said, ‘want fresh air,’ they’re either all married, or they don’t know how to do anything but line dance."
"What about the brunette? The one with the kid?"
"So far she hasn’t let go of him. Wait, I see her doing Slapping Leather. A couple of minutes from now could be your big opportunity."
"It will be if you get your big butt over there."
Girl got; at least she got out of range of what remains of my poor vision. As always, I felt helpless when she was out of earshot.
"Redneck Girl," went the tune. What other kind was there?
Returning bootsteps and multiple silhouettes said Girl had been at least partially successful; I just hoped it wasn’t another damned Brigitte.
"This is Donna Clark and her son Greg. I’m going to dance with Greg, maybe you could entertain Donna."
But I had already taken Donna’s hand and was leading her out onto the dance floor. What did I want to be introduced to the son for? He was probably as cute as a dancing bear.
Donna Clark said her son was only 13 and well on his way to being a competition dancer. "I spend most of my free time taking him to and from dance lessons. He taught me to dance, the west-coast swing anyway."
Touch told me Donna wore a short-sleeved blouse with fringe on the shoulders, jeans with a braded leather belt, and boots. She was slim, each of her ribs sharp and definite against the skin, hips not much wider than mine; she smelled of sunflowers.
"You’re a good dancer," she said, the light puff of her breath against my cheek suggesting she’d just been eating peaches.
Slow, slow, quick, quick, I said inwardly in time with the music. I took a deep breath, wondering what I could say aloud in reply. "It’s easy to dance with you, too. You’re so very light on your feet."
"Thank you," she said and rested her head against my shoulder for a brief intoxicating moment. "I’ve seen you before," she confided. "In Cahoots in Fullerton."
"I’m a Wednesday night regular; Saturdays too, if I haven’t got a date." Slow, slow, quick, quick.
"I usually go Saturdays," she said.
"Be there tomorrow?" I asked, trying to sound calm and unemotional.
"I might be." She sounded uncertain rather than flirtatious; not at all the commitment I wanted her to make. "I should go check on Greg. My son," she added when she saw his name was still a mystery to me.
She left me, and I wished my eyes could follow her across the floor. I wondered if I’d dance with Donna again.
I danced with Girl; we dance well together—she stands at 5’11," an inch taller than I am, so we truly dance cheek to cheek—but her heart is never really in it. As with my own daughters, she seems distracted, as if her eyes are constantly darting about the room appraising, searching for someone her own age.
After making sure that I had the retaining wall of a planter at my back and was out of the way of traffic, Girl drifted away on some mysterious errand. Probably she had found that someone, or at least someone who would do for a dance or three.
I waited patiently, not dancing, as cooler air crept down from the San Gabriel Mountains. It was getting late; we probably should be on our way. "Girl!" Where the hell was she anyway? Someone about Girl’s height stood a few feet from where I sat by the planter, had been standing there for some time. I’d assumed it was Girl. Then, why didn’t she answer?
"Who are you?" I demanded.
"Me, Sir?" An adolescent’s voice, unsteady, oscillating between a boy’s and a man’s.
"Yes, you."
"Greg. I’m Greg. I was looking for my mother. She was dancing with you earlier."
"I thought she’d gone home."
"We were supposed to half an hour ago; I can’t find her," the kid said, whining. Grow up kid. Life is tough.
"Check the rest rooms. I could send Girl to look. If she were here that is."
"I am here," came that fresh young voice from off to my right, "and the name is Marci."
"Girl," I snapped.
"Marci. But don’t worry; you’ll get it right sooner or later, Professor. You want to go home I suppose."
"No, I’m planning to spend the night. First, we’ll find the young man’s mother."
"I thought you two were together," Girl said to Greg. He kicked the side of the planter with his foot, hesitated. "I was dancing with Barbara; she likes to do the west coast swing. When I came back my mother was gone. She said this would be the last dance." The boy’s voice descended in an instant from suave maturity to helplessness, and finished on a note of despair.
"She’s got to be here," Girl said, "They’re shooing people out toward the gates."
"I’ll find her," I announced, and started back across the dance floor. We couldn’t all afford to be helpless.
"They’ve turned off the lights."
"Not a problem." For me it wasn’t a problem. Not anymore, I was always in the dark now.
"Where are you going?" Girl called out behind me as I started up the stairs to the racetrack proper. The answer should have been obvious, though I forbore from telling her so. If the boy’s mother wasn’t on the dance floor and wasn’t in the rest room, then she had to have gone out to the track. I often do when I find a willing female; the darkness is romantic as hell, and the San Gabriel Mountains in the background seem to have an erotic effect.
I could hear them clattering up the stairs behind me. A man’s voice cried out, "You can’t go in there. Closed." Ignoring the voice, I continued to thread my way across the linoleum floor. For an instant, I lost my balance—I’d stepped on a discarded racing program, but then I was back outside again, with only the track and the mountains ahead of me.
I had to be careful now; the occasional stair interrupted the ramp leading downward. Behind me were the sounds of a generator. Off to the right: voices, two men and a woman. Not a conversation, an argument.
A figure loomed ahead of me out of the darkness; I stopped, giving him or her a chance to go around me.
"Where do you think you’re going?" a man’s voice challenged. "We’re trying to be alone here."
"Tell him to fuck off," a second male voice, deeper than the first, instructed from the shadows.
"Donna?" I ventured. If I were wrong, I’d just have to fuck off; if I were right, well, hopefully, Girl and the boy were right behind me.
From ahead of me in the darkness by the railing, Donna’s clear resonant voice asked, "Professor? What are you doing out here?" She sounded relieved rather than inquisitive.
"Greg sent me to get you."
"Thank you. I was just telling Frank, Greg would be worrying about me."
"Both of you shut the fuck up," the deeper male voice, Frank’s, instructed. "Professor, whoever you are, go away. We got business to discuss. Tell the brat his momma will be there when she gets there."
The shadow of the other man pushed against me, and I’d just locked his arm and elbow in a push-me, pull-me hold when Girl, Greg, and a puffing security person finally arrived. Why do sighted people have so much difficulty getting around in the dark?
"Put on the damn lights," puffed the guard who’d been chasing us.
"We’re not supposed to," whined a fifth person, a custodian presumably.
"All of you get out of here," Frank said.
The second man, still bent over in the half-crouch where I’d twisted him, tugged on his arm. I let go of him and a grunt announced his hitting the row of chairs behind. He lay on the concrete for a moment, rubbing his arm, presumably, and muttered something about that "damned blind man."
Donna chose that moment to link her arms with Greg and I, and to march us away from the discussion. I felt eminently proud of myself. Donna’s breath, redolent of peaches, was again in my ear. "Thank you."
Chapter 2
"Donna’s a very pretty girl," I said to get the conversational ball rolling.
Girl and I had sat in almost total silence since we’d slipped into my new Volvo sports coupe. (Total protection plus enough engine to power through a twenty-car pileup. Perhaps, this was like locking the barn door after the bull was stolen; I hadn’t the insurance money to spend on such necessities before.)
We’d packed Donna and Greg safely away in their ancient Toyota—I’d insisted on doing that before we left; I’d stayed quiet out of respect for my driver through the slalom course that was the exit from the race track, had endured a mile or so of the fragrant duck farm that marks the first few miles of the freeway south, but enough was enough. Half the fun in going places with a companion is talking about it with them afterward.
"I told Donna we’d be at In Cahoots tomorrow," I added. What was Girl so uptight about anyway?
Her staccato reply took me off guard. "What makes you think we’ll be at In Cahoots? I do get days off; it’s in my contract." She slapped the steering wheel indignantly. "What makes you think Donna will be there? Besides, she’s not right for you."
What had gotten into my not-so-little buddy? "Are you jealous?"
Girl snorted and twisted about on the genuine leather seat, making a sound like escaping gas. "For one thing, she’s half your age."
"You’re half my age." I scored one that time.
"If you were ten years younger…"
"Five."
Ooh was she angry. Girl flipped on the radio, hunted for a station and found Yani’s music to ride elevators by, which I knew she disliked almost as much as I do.
In less than half a record ("White Christmas?" "Get By With a Little Help From My Friends?" "Sail Away?" hard to tell with that kind of beat) she flipped the radio off again. "I’ll take you to In Cahoots," she said, "but you won’t be happy, that woman will be all kinds of trouble. Besides, she has no hips."
Hmm, now that was something to think about.
The next night, we went to In Cahoots. I knew we would, never had the slightest doubt of it. Girl knows almost as many dancers as I do. Both of us are shaking hands or exchanging hugs almost as soon as we walk through the door. Never mind that her age group doesn’t really show up until mine is leaving. Enough in-betweens are always present to keep us both happy.
I wore my black outfit: black denim jeans, black Pierre Cardon shirt, and big silver belt buckle with my initials in raised lettering. Too hot to wear a hat; besides, women like hair they can run their fingers through.
It looked to be a two-dance night. On a three-dance night, a Monday, say, I’d pretty much dance with the same girl until they played a line dance or something, and then I’d get me a new partner after I sat a dance or so out. On a one-dance night, a couple of super-crowded Fridays each month, too many willing partners make it impossible to spend more than one dance with any of them. This Saturday evening was somewhere in between. Brigitte again, and Sally, and Kim, Mary, Marie, and Maria. (The Mary and the Marie are actually best friends; can you believe it?)
First west coast swing of the evening, I danced with Girl. The next, somebody took my hand and said with the slight lilt of Tennessee, "Could I have the pleasure?’ Donna had shown up after all.
She wore a long-sleeved blouse with fringe on the arms like the feathers on the wings of the Andean Condor and the same perfume she had worn the previous night. I felt as if I’d walked into a field of sunflowers. Each and every one smelled wonderful to me.
After the swing, we danced a waltz, a cha-cha, and a riding double. We got better and better as a couple each time we danced. I didn’t think I’d be dancing with anyone else that evening, but "I’ll be back," she told me before I could protest.
I spent a vacant half hour dancing with partners I didn’t particularly care for, and then Donna was back in my arms again. I held her as closely as I thought I could get away with.
The interval had given me a chance to rehearse my speech: "I always go to Mile Square Park on Sundays," I said to her. "There’s usually a concert scheduled. Will you come with me to the park tomorrow?"
"Sure," she said. "Although, I was kind of hoping you’d take me to…" Her voice died in the middle of the sentence.
"What did you want to do instead?"
"Well I was hoping you’d want to come here Sunday night, for the lesson." She squeezed my hand. "But that doesn’t mean we can’t also go to the park."
"We’ll do both." I was surprised to find both my feet were still on the ground. If my feet had been true to my feelings, they’d have been dancing along the ceiling of the club.
She pulled closer and whispered in my ear. "Should I phone you tomorrow to work out the details? Or, I could write down my phone number and give it to Marci."
"You tell me your phone number," I countered, "and I’ll memorize it." And for the next fifteen minutes, instead of slow, slow, quick, quick, I went 555–4711, over and over in time with the music.
"Who else is she dancing with?" I asked Girl during one of the breaks. By this time, I didn’t have to explain who "she" was.
"That idiot who was holding her hostage last night at the track for one."
"You’re kidding."
"But that was only the one time. She’s danced with a lot of guys. She’s a popular girl."
"You know why I like her?" I asked—I wasn’t really changing the subject. "Last night at Big Hoss, she told me I was a good dancer."
Girl snorted.
"Not ‘You’re a good dancer for a blind guy.’ Just, I was a good dancer."
"You are a good dancer."
"Then stop wondering what she sees in me."
And it was Girl’s turn to hug me as tightly as she dared.
Chapter 3
I waited impatiently till ten the next morning before phoning.
Maybe calling so early wasn’t a good idea; maybe Donna would think I was too eager, but I had to know if I really had a date with her. Despite my bravado on the ride home, the difference in our ages did concern me, and so did my lack of sight. What did I have to offer a woman like Donna? Security, I suppose, I’d put a good deal away before the accident, and we both liked to dance. She’d said I was a good dancer.
"Hello," her boy answered in a tentative, shaky voice.
"Hi, this is Paul Anders, we met two days ago at the Santa Anita Race Track."
The joyous "Hi" in reply did make it sound as if he were at least pleased I was calling, but he didn’t say anything more and, for a moment, neither did I.
"Could I speak with your mother?"
"She’s not home."
He didn’t sound very happy about it. I decided to remain silent another moment or two to see if the silence would stimulate more of an admission. It did.
"She didn’t come home last night."
Shit, and I’d been worried about coming on too strong. Some other guy had caught her. How does the old county song go: "I should have asked her faster."
"I’m worried," the boy, Greg said.
He was worried. I have kids too, had, (three daughters, youngest is 19, she lives in Seattle) and I recognized the tone. "Was she supposed to come home?"
"She didn’t call." Again the note of desolation.
"Want me to come over there?"
"If you want to."
He wasn’t too sure of the directions, few kids are, at least until they get their first driver’s license. I got better results when I asked him what school he went to. "Marina," I repeated back to him. "That’s just around the corner. I’ll pick you up, then we’ll go look for your mom."
"I could come to your house," he said, sounding more confident, "I’ve got a bicycle."
"Okay" Kid would probably get a kick out of riding his bicycle. I always did when I was his age. More important, with him riding his bicycle, I wouldn’t have to wake Girl up to drive the car.
Figuring Greg might be hungry, I went into the kitchen and started fixing a second breakfast for the two of us. It was a lot like my first, only this time I skipped the orange juice and made herbal tea instead of coffee. I figured Greg would drink milk and hefted the carton to be sure there would be enough for him. Teenagers are fussy, but I knew he wouldn’t object to that morning’s main course—peanut butter sandwiches and granny smith apples.
His knock on the door came just as I was visualizing my own teen-age bicycling days, those endless rides through the neighborhood, always looking everywhere at once, hoping some girl might come out for just a moment on her porch.
"What’s that jingling sound you make when you walk?" I asked.
"Wallet chain."
"No trouble finding the place?"
Hard to answer with your mouth full. Peanut butter, apple, and milk proved to be just what Greg had been hoping for. I don’t doubt he could have fixed his own breakfast, he was 13 after all, but he probably had been too upset till then to stop to eat.
"Where do you think your mother is?" I asked him, when nothing was left but crumbs. "Has she been dating someone?" Okay, so maybe that last question was for my benefit and not his. But she hadn’t been dating anyone, Greg told me. "Frank?" This was the guy who’d been manhandling her at the racetrack. But he was just someone she’d met dancing, oh, and Frank knew Greg’s Dad.
"Did you phone your Dad?" I asked, thinking her ex must be my real competition, if she hadn’t gone back to him already.
Greg said he’d called his Dad, and his Dad wasn’t home, which was odd, Greg said, "‘cause he was supposed to be spending the afternoon with me."
"Do you want to go over to his place and look around?"
Greg pushed back his chair and stood up ready to go, so I guess the answer was "yes." Fed, with another person for company, and a definite plan of action, he was as excited as he’d been desolate and alone less than an hour before.
"We’ll go to your Dad’s place then. Can you drive?"
"Sorta."
I didn’t like the sound of that "sorta," and debated waking Girl, but then thought no, she might just nix the whole idea. I mean, what business did I have chasing after Donna, anyway?
The drawback was I had no one to check my clothes. I didn’t think I could trust Greg’s judgment. Pulling my shirt from the green end of the closet, I reached for a pair of walking shorts. Hopefully, these were also green or brown, not blue.
"We’ve got to be quiet until we’re out of here," I warned him, much as a hundred years before Tom Sawyer might have cautioned Huck Finn. "Don’t make a sound till we’re away from the apartments."
We made it undetected down the walk past my scented garden—rosemary, sage, all kinds of basils, and roses, to the carport. I was just showing Greg how to adjust the mirrors when Girl caught up with us.
"Where are you going?" she called out in that insufferably cheerful voice. For a kid that’s had to overcome so many problems just to get the beginnings of a college education, you’d think she’d be a little less upbeat.
"Just the two of you, uh. Do you have a driver’s license?" she asked Greg and not waiting for his mumbled, "No." added, "I suppose Professor Anders was going to take over when you reached the freeway."
"Weren’t going to use the freeway," Greg said.
"Exactly. Well, why don’t I drive then? Greg, you just pop in the back. I was going for a run, but seeing as you two are so eager, I’ll come with you."
Judging from the tang of healthy young womanhood that joined me on the front seat, she’d already run several laps. I wondered what the appearance of her striking, near six-foot blond figure in a body glove would do to Greg’s father.
Girl was a natural athlete, had competed in half a dozen sports in high school and would probably be on her college team if she didn’t have me to squire around.
We’d met at the Aikido dojo, Aikido being one of the few sports I have remaining to me (other than running and swimming which in their self-induced isolation have always struck me as singularly depressing). I’d had the "pleasure" of working with Girl on her first day. Not her first day in Aikido, I discovered shortly, just her first day with my training group.
I began with a Front-Strike First Control at Sensei Segal’s suggestion and was impressed with how rapidly she picked up the move. We went quickly in succession through most of the lower-belt exercises, when I finally deigned to exchange a few words. "I’m testing fourth," I said. "Looks like you could work with me."
"Glad to," she said not even puffing, and when she didn’t offer her rank, I asked straight out, "What color is your belt?"
"Brown," she said, "I’m a third-degree brown." which meant she was something like five belts above me and could be testing black, if she wanted to. Testing black in Aikido means you’re willing to devote your life to the training, and take vows of poverty or something. She was at the top as far as a civilian was concerned. "Thank you, Arigato," I said, bowing, and vowed to forever keep my mouth shut.
Later, when I learned she was looking for a job she could fit into her college schedule, I made her an offer. The next evening, she accepted. It’s not a bad deal; she gets her own apartment, rent free—I own the whole building—and we arrange the hours so we’re both satisfied. I just need to get to the store and the library once in a while (they have books on tape and CD’s; too late for me to learn Braille) and in the evenings she’ll take me to a concert or dancing, dropping me off if she has a date, then picking me up later.
Not everyone likes the idea of being dependent on a blind person’s whim. She’s the exception. Okay. I like her. I hope she likes me, too, and I can start thinking of her as a Marci instead of just another Girl.
Chapter 4
"Where are we going?" Marci asked after we’d been driving for a while, hopefully in the right direction.
"I’m not sure," Greg said, an answer that didn’t surprise me. I wondered how the two of us alone would have gotten anywhere if he’d had to drive as well as navigate.
Artie Clark’s place was located in an area where nobody had painted their home or cut the grass in a long, long time. If location was everything, this place had nothing. Or maybe it was Greg’s father who was bringing down the neighborhood.
Artie’s house could only be distinguished from its neighbors because it was a little more desolate, its door, according to Marci, more in need of a coat of paint. Lack of water had killed off most of what passed for a lawn. I was advised to bypass the cracked cement walk and make my way among the gopher holes.
Not even a lock on the door. I turned the handle and we were inside. Dust and mildew, drying paint: perhaps Artie was trying to make things better.
We made it to the kitchen guided by the smell.
"Someone’s just cleaned up," Marci said.
The trashcan had been emptied, though an eggshell lay beside it on the floor, and the sink was clear of dishes. The refrigerator held a quart of milk—maybe Artie was expecting his son for the weekend—hot dogs, carrots and an apple.
"How long do you think he’s been gone?" Marci asked.
"Day, couple of days at most; he might even have been here this morning. You can tell by the cooking odor.
"The phone’s been disconnected." I turned to Greg accusingly, "I thought you said you phoned him."
"I did." His indignant adolescent voice climbed a full octave in protest.
The phone calls were being forwarded someplace else. Where? And why?
Girl and Greg were in the second smaller bedroom, where Greg had some of his things, when the light was suddenly cut off from the doorway. I looked up and saw an immense silhouette, like that of the offensive guard the man must have been back in high school.
Who the hell was he?
I stepped forward quickly, both to put him on the defensive and to give Girl and Greg a chance to stay out of the way. "Hi," I said, "How can I help you?"
"Artie Clark?" he questioned in response to my touch. His arm could have been cut from the trunk of a small tree.
"Not here. How can I help you?" I repeated.
Greg, alas, chose that moment to come out of the bedroom. "I can’t find—" he began and stopped when he saw the big man. "Who are you?" Greg said, "Do you know where my father is?"
So much for my plan to tell the big one I was Greg’s father.
"I’m Lionel," the man said. "I’m looking for your Dad, too." He brushed past me and headed for Greg. Was he going to hurt him? I felt about me for something I might use to lure the big man close with. The only objects that came easily to hand were an almost empty bag of corn chips and a cream cheese dip that had hardened, thankfully, before it could adhere to my fingers.
Maybe I was overreacting. The big man could simply be one of Artie’s bowling buddies. "We’re looking for Greg’s mom, Donna," I said, intercepting him with my voice if not my body. "I guess she’s with Artie."
"She didn’t come home," Greg added.
The big man paused, at least the floor no longer vibrated with his movements. "She didn’t come home. Geez that’s tough." He sounded sincere.
During the pause that followed, you could almost hear the wheels turning in his head. "I should be pushing off. Check out some other places."
Only he didn’t leave. He just stood there, uneasily shifting his weight from leg to leg. Maybe something about the two of us intrigued him. Or maybe, he somehow identified with Greg, had divorced parents, himself, or had lost one or the other of them in an accident.
"Do you know my Dad?" Greg persisted.
"Not exactly." So much for the bowling buddy hypothesis. I began to fear the worst again.
"Will you help us find him?" The way Greg said the words—boldness, shyness, hope all mixed in a single sentence, they came out half request and half prayer.
Again, I could sense those wheels turning. "I think I know one place he might be. Your Dad, I mean."
Something in Lionel’s tone made me sure he was more certain than he sounded. And Greg’s Dad was the only lead we had to Donna’s disappearance. "Could we tag along?" I asked innocently.
"Sure," Lionel said. "I’d be happy to help the kid." Especially, the realization came to me, if you think he might get you in the door.
I decided to play coy with the big fellow. "I don’t know, Greg," I began, dissembling. "Weren’t there a few other places near here we should be looking for your mother first?"
"But if Lionel knows where my Dad is—"
"I think the kid wants to come." Lionel said. He was no longer being a nice guy.
"Maybe we will Lionel, " I replied, my tones as sweet as a zookeeper calming an 800-pound gorilla, "if you’d just cut out the bullshit and tell us why you want to find him." I smiled. Confrontation is often the quickest way to the truth. Of course, it’s helpful if you keep an ice pack handy to cover the occasional bruise.
"You’re awfully feisty for a blind guy." Lionel said.
"Try me."
"No thanks, you probably know Judo or something." His good-natured tone suggested he didn’t give a shit one way or the other. "Kid, why don’t you leave the room while I talk to your uncle."
Greg was not easily fooled; he wanted to be though. "It’s something bad about my father, isn’t it?"
"Not real bad."
"He owes you money, doesn’t he?" Greg asked.
That would have been my first guess, well second, and I wasn’t at all surprised when Lionel told me later, out of Greg’s earshot, that he was an enforcer for a loan shark—"Artie’s into my boss for a lot of money. We already know he didn’t spend it on what he was supposed to."
What Lionel said to Greg then was that his father did owe money.
"A lot?" Greg asked.
We all knew what Greg wanted the answer to be. The big man thought for a moment. I could tell he wanted to say something nice, something reassuring, but there was nothing he could say.
Greg’s footsteps clattered back up the hall.
"Hey, where you going kid?" Lionel asked.
"Just to get something."
Damn. I hoped Greg would have sense enough not to start a conversation with Girl while he was in the bedroom. I did and did not believe Lionel was being straight with us. Girl was the only edge we had.
To keep Lionel from following, I put my hand on his arm as if I needed assistance in walking and headed for the front door. It occurred to me as I did so that we were beginning to resemble a scene out of the Wizard of Oz: Greg as Dorothy, me as the scarecrow, and the cowardly Lionel (maybe). All we needed to complete the picture was a bimbo with a heart of gold or a tin man in search of one.
Chapter 5
Passers by might have thought it just another Sunday morning outing: Lionel in the driver’s seat of his 1988 Cadillac with me, (his father? his older brother?) by his side; Greg, the grandson, in back, with the Frisbee and the deck of cards Greg had brought with him from his room. Hopefully, Girl was now trailing us several car lengths back.
She’d stayed hidden in Greg’s bedroom the entire time Lionel was in the house. Our ace in the hole. I hadn’t risked going back to talk with her for fear Lionel would overhear us. Her being behind us now in my Volvo was strictly blind faith on my part.
The guy parked next to us at the traffic light needed a valve job. Not my car then. Not that I was sure what my Volvo did sound like. From outside, I mean. How would I know when Girl was near?
Proof it was just another Sunday outing came when Greg announced he wanted to go to the bathroom. Lionel chuckled and pulled in at the first gas station we came to. He and I remained behind making forced conversation, with me trying to learn more from Lionel than he was willing to tell and Lionel doing likewise.
Lionel said he thought it was a shame, the poor kid’s mother not coming home like that. I said it sure shot my plans for the day.
Lionel said she’d probably stayed over with the guy she’d been with the previous evening. I said she’d been with me most of the time, unless she’d had another blind date afterward.
Lionel’s high-pitched giggle surprised both him and me.
"How’d you get that way, Professor? Blind I mean."
I guess he could tell I hadn’t been born blind. "It was an explosion," I told him, the words coming easily for the first time, "at the Olympics. Someone set a bomb off in the park."
"Geez."
When Greg finally came back, his first words were, "Can I get a Coke?" Lionel gave him a buck and a half before I could get out my billfold, and we had Cokes all around.
Next stop was a drugstore. Lionel said he needed sunglasses, Greg said he needed them, too, and a Snickers bar. I nixed the Snickers bar—kids get much too much candy—"wait till afternoon at least," and the two of them looked at sunglasses while I waited by the front counter sniffing a display of men’s cologne.
How far now to where Artie was staying? It seemed to me only a short time and a drive-through taco stand later when Greg and Lionel mutually decided we should stop at a grocery store to pick up the makings of lunch—apples and bananas for me, sandwiches from the deli for Lionel and Greg. I began to suspect we really weren’t making progress toward our announced destination, nor did Lionel intend us to, we were simply wandering about aimlessly.
Had Lionel changed his mind about taking us to Greg’s father?
I’d only the memory of too many turns to guide me. No point in asking Greg, his was the backseat view and indifference of the young. Half the time he hadn’t been looking out the window but simply playing endlessly with the deck of Sorcery cards he’d brought with him. Girl could confirm my suspicions—if she were following us.
A second thought struck me. Had Lionel begun to suspect someone was tailing him? Were all these false turns and digressions simply to throw that someone off the scent? I would have to wait for Girl’s appearance to be sure.
Chapter 6
I was standing by the apples, hefting a firm aromatic golden delicious, when I sensed her standing next to me. The pressure of her hand on my arm confirmed it. "You guys get around quite a bit," Girl said.
"But we don’t actually seem to be getting anywhere."
She took a step back, to get a better view of me I supposed. "Boss, for a blind man you see a hell of a lot."
"Gas station, drug store, Del Taco, and now here. It’s the long way round."
"Where are they now?"
"They’re supposed to be off getting Twinkies." I pointed toward what I thought was the far corner of the store.
"Looks like they got a year’s supply. Where did you get those walking shorts?" She chuckled and made a clicking sound with her tongue.
"Are they blue?"
"No. They’re plaid. Bye Boss. Don’t want them to catch me." She slipped away up the aisle.
Greg came up beside me. "Wasn’t that Marci?" he whispered.
"Pick me up a few of these apples will you." I said in a loud voice. "Say nothing about seeing her," I hissed in a much lower one.
An ominous quiet followed or as quiet as it can get in a busy store on a late Sunday morning. Where had Greg gone? "Greg, did you hear me?"