Toledo, where make-overs start, but never end…
Sandy was driving and humming in time with the radio as it played a song about a guy who painted his name and Bobbie Jean's on the water tower in John Deere green. I'll have to remember that the next time I want a date in Iowa, I thought.
“What do you think of Parini?” she looked over and asked.
“Parini?” I shrugged. “That's like asking me what I think of an avalanche.”
“Be serious.”
“I am serious. He's big, he's powerful, and you don't want to get in his way.”
“Then, you think he's a bad guy?”
“Good? Bad? He does what he's told to do. That could be planting flowers, picking them, or stomping the Bejeezuz out of them, but he does what he's told.”
“Well, I like him. I see something in his eyes.”
“Is that the photographer talking? All I see is the chrome-plated. 45 in his hand.”
“Maybe. I just don't think he's all bad.”
“Speaking of bad…” I looked over at the gas gauge and at the clock. “Let's get off at the next exit and get some gas. I need to make a phone call.”
“Your friend in Boston?”
“Yeah.”
“But if he doesn't know anything, why would Tinkerton bother him?”
“Because Tinkerton doesn't think that way. He'll keep his goons stomping around in the dark until they step on something. Then look down and see what it is.”
We found a Shell station in a small town east of Niles. Sandy started filling the tank while I headed for the pay phone. As I dropped in some change and dialed Doug's office number, I watched her check out the car. She looked at the oil and the air pressure in the tires. She even took off the cover the air cleaner and held the filter up to the light, shaking her head disapprovingly. If my car ever was stolen, I hoped it was by a thief with a mechanic fetish like this one. Then I remembered. My car was stolen. By a County Sheriff back in Ohio, about a hundred years ago.
On the third ring, I heard a friendly receptionist's voice say, “Symbiotic Software, how may I help you?”
“Doug's office, please. If he's not in, put me through to Sharon. Tell them it's Pete Talbott and I need to talk to one of them.”
I heard a couple of minutes of what I guessed was a Mozart piano concerto. I didn't call in very often, and it was nice to see Doug had risen from his Grateful Dead phase to a higher intellectual plain. Finally, someone came on the line, but it wasn't Sharon.
“Pete? Hi, this is Jeanie Simpson in HR.” She sounded hesitant, almost unsure. “Doug isn't here. He didn't come in this morning and we're getting worried.”
“What about Sharon? Isn't she there?”
“She didn't come in either,” Jeanie paused, still not sure. “Look, I know you two are old friends or I wouldn't say this, but when Doug and Sharon's desks were both empty this morning… well, the common assumption was they had gone off somewhere together.”
“Doug and Sharon? That didn't happen.”
“I didn't think so either, but it wasn't my place to question. However, he missed two appointments this morning and a conference call with the bankers.”
“Doug missed a call with his bankers? Have you called the police?”
“I called Ted McDermott, our attorney. He said the police won't touch it for forty-eight hours, so we had to sit tight.”
“Ted's right, Doug will probably come wandering in tomorrow morning with some lame excuse, so sit tight,” I told her, not believing a word I was saying, but I didn't want to get the office staff involved. “Jeanie, when you came on the line just now, you sounded surprised to hear from me.”
“You had several phone calls this morning. A man was asking if we knew where you were. He was polite enough, but my radar went up. First he tried the receptionist, then Programming, and then he tried working me.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he was calling from California, from your old office, and that he had to talk to you about some project the two of you had been working on. He was very, very persistent and he wanted to know if I knew how to reach you. But it just wasn't right.”
“What wasn't”
“Excuse me for being blunt, but I'm HR. I knew you had been out of work for quite some time in Los Angeles, so what could you possibly have been working on with this man? And he said he was calling from California.”
“California?”
“Yes, but we have Caller ID on all the incoming lines and the display showed the call was from a local Boston number. That's why it didn't seem right. And then the Boston Police started calling this afternoon, asking if we knew where you were.”
“You did the right thing,” I reassured her. “Tell the office staff, if they get any more calls from that guy, they should play dumb. You haven't heard from me, you haven't talked to me, and you don't have a clue where I am. But if you can, get them on tape.”
“Are you coming back? Can you help?”
“I'm going to try. I'm in Amarillo, Texas. If I can, I'll call you again tomorrow.”
After I hung up, I stayed in the phone booth for a long minute, playing the “what-ifs” back to myself. As usual, I came up with more questions, but not very many answers. What I did know was that we had to get to Boston and we had to be careful.
The rest of the drive across southern Michigan was uneventful. I took the wheel for the second half of the trip. We took it slow and stopped for coffee and a late lunch before we hit Toledo at 6:30 PM. There wasn't much traffic by that time. What there was, was all leaving town, not going in. That made it easy to find the train station. It was a big, neo-classic building named Union Station, like most other downtown train stations in the Midwest. It was south of the tall buildings, down on the river. We circled it twice, staying a full block away. All we saw was a cop car parked near a donut shop, no SWAT Teams or ugly sedans with black-walled tires were lurking nearby.
“Drop me at the front door,” Sandy said. “I'll look around the waiting room.” She could tell I didn't look very happy at that thought. “You're something else, Talbott.” She pulled the blond wig from her shoulder bag. In seconds the transformation was complete. “We need to know, and it's better to find out now than later. If I come running back out, you'll know it was a really bad idea.”
It did not take more than three minutes before she came strolling back out and hopped in the car, holding a newspaper in her hand. “Unless they're disguised as bored ticket agents, a very old black porter, or a couple of really gross homeless guys laying a bench in the back corner, nobody's home. Let's go.”
As I drove away, she opened the newspaper. It was the Cleveland Plain Dealer. She flipped through the pages in the first section. “Oops!” she said. “We made the AP wire.”
I pulled over to the side of the street and read the story over her shoulder. It was inside, on Page 4, but they had the photo from my California driver's license next to the story. Nothing makes you look more like a perp than one of those. I made a mental note to cross Arnold Schwarzenegger off my Christmas card list.
TWO WANTED IN MIDWEST CRIME SPREE
Chicago. Chicago Police joined a three-state manhunt for a modern-day, Bonnie and Clyde. Following a high-speed chase through the south side this morning, two police officers were seriously injured when the pair shot their way through a roadblock at 35th Street creating havoc on the Dan Ryan Expressway. They escaped north on an El train and disappeared in the Chicago Loop. A large manhunt is continuing downtown and police sources consider both suspects armed and dangerous.
The pair are believed to have escaped with the help of the Disciples, a notorious south side street gang. CPD Gang Intelligence says the two white fugitives may be major players in an interstate drug trafficking syndicate from the west coast believed to be muscling its way into the Chicago rackets with the help of a Columbian cocaine cartel.
The man is identified by Chicago Police as Peter E. Talbott, a drifter from Los Angeles who faked his own death in Mexico last year. He is wanted for questioning regarding the death of a private security guard on the north side earlier this morning, and in Ohio for the murders of a county sheriff and two ambulance attendants.
His unnamed female accomplice has not yet been identified. She is described as a short, punk rocker with black hair and heavy make-up…
That got a rise out of my unnamed female accomplice. “A punk rocker with heavy make-up!” she exploded.
“And short.”
Her eyes became thin dark slits. “Don't let your mouth get your butt in trouble, Talbott, but what's this stuff about us shooting our way through a roadblock?”
“And “the death of a private security guard… major players in an interstate drug trafficking ring… a drifter who faked his own death in Mexico last year”? Tinkerton is losing it. Odd, though, there's no mention of the Feds. No “FBI sources”, only the Chicago cops.”
“Well, he's got you labeled as a cop-killer now. He wants you dead.”
Not just me, I thought but didn't say, and that is what I'm afraid of. “We have almost six hours before the train leaves,” I told her.
“A girl can always shop. Let's go back to the Interstate and find a mall. I need some things and you could use a new look, too. Besides.” She gave me that look again. “The balcony of a dark movie theater is a good place to hide and kill some time.”
“They don't have balconies anymore.”
“Darn!”
We found a mall at an interchange in the suburbs and wandered through a large department store. I picked out a pair of dress jeans, a plum-patterned Polo shirt, and a dark blue casual blazer. Sandy bought a light blue top, a dark-blue skirt-shorts combination, and a jacket. We had the clerk cut off the tags, and we went to the fitting rooms to change. When she came back out, she took me by the arm and pulled me down the concourse. “There's something else I still need to do with you.”
“You've been trying hard enough,” I mumbled.
“Not that!” She smacked my arm and pulled me into a makeup shop. “Your face. Your hair. It would be great if you grew a beard, but there's no time. Besides, they get scratchy in all the wrong places while they're growing in.” I looked at her, but it did no good. “What if you go blond? The hair and the eyebrows?” She started rummaging through the tubes and bottles on the shelf. “Nothing phony or bleachy, just a nice soft natural look.”
“I suppose you know how to use that stuff?”
“Six months in beautician's school, that's like graduate school for us bimbos and ditzes.” She looked at me with a twinkle in her eyes. “I have the blonde wig, but I think I'm going to get a light brown color and maybe something coppery-red. I've done them all.”
“I'll miss the black, is that your natural color?” I asked, not thinking.
“That's for you to find that out, Talbott.” She stuck out her tongue and turned away.
Out in the mall we found a 12-plex theater. There was no balcony, but she was right. It was a great place to hide. The movie was a singles dating comedy staring a bunch of twenty-somethings I had never heard of, but it was her pick and I didn't care. The theater had those big recliner stadium seats and it was mostly empty.
“Can I pretend we're a couple again?” she asked as she snuggled close. It didn't matter, because five minutes later I fell sound asleep.
It was probably an hour later when I woke up with my head buried in her shoulder. “God, I'm sorry, Sandy, that must have killed your arm.”
“Don't be,” she whispered. “I haven't had a guy fall asleep on me for a long, long time, not one I cared about anyway.” I looked at her, but she shook her head. “Don't! It was only a nap, nothing you need to feel guilty about.”
“I don't feel guilty.”
“Oh, yes you do.” She leaned closer and kissed me gently on the cheek. “You feel guilty about a lot of things you have no reason to feel guilty about. That's one of the many subjects you and I need to talk about. Now shut up and watch the end of the movie.”
After the movie, I had her drive back to the train station. That gave me a chance to look over the Amtrak schedule and routes. “Some of the trains have private compartments,” I said. “It would be great if we could get one all the way to Boston.”
“Like Jack Lemmon and Marilyn Monroe in “Some Like It Hot?” But that's in black-and-white, so I doubt you ever saw it.”
“I did so. But the Amtrak compartments are a lot bigger now, like a small room. Maybe we could get one of those.”
“Yeah? You and me, alone in a small room. I can't wait.”
“Would you stop that! This is hard enough for me as it is.”
“Yeah, I'll bet it is.”
I looked over at her and glared.
“All right, I'll behave. I promise.”
“Seems to me, you said that before,” I reminded her. “But if we get stuck sitting in an open coach, we'll have to bail out in the morning, maybe a couple of times, and try something else. So we really want a compartment.” I looked at the schedule and ran my finger down the chart. “Wow. It'll run us almost $1,200.” I dug in my pockets and counted out what was left of the Sheriff's Coffee Fund and Louie Panozzo's envelope. “We have enough, but it will take us down to maybe $500 in cash. That's okay, if I can get some help in Boston.”
“I've got another idea.” Sandy said as she dug into a pocket in the shoulder bag and pulled out an American Express Gold Card with the name “La Magnifique” embossed on the front. “I forgot all about this. Old Man Fantozzi gave it to me so I could handle CODs and drop offs at Fed Ex, stuff like that. It's in the store's name, not mine, and it has a $5,000 line of credit. Nobody knows about it except Fantozzi.”
“You're sure?
“He won't even see a bill until the end of the month. I know the charge card confirmation number and codes by heart, so I can call the credit card company and find out if anybody put a hold on the number before I use it. I can even get the charge pre-approved.”
“You sure about that?”
“No, but if I hear anything funky, I'll hang up and we can use the cash. So what's to lose?” There was a pay phone in the foyer of the restaurant. While I paid, she called American Express. It only took a couple of minutes, but when she came back, she was smiling and waving her Gold Card. “Like I thought, nobody knows about this card.”
We left and drove back downtown. I found a city parking garage four blocks away near two big department stores. I picked the middle level and backed it into a dark spot next to a big SUV. It was perfect. No one would even know the Chevy was there. It was after 11:00 PM by the time we walked back to Union Station. I hung around a rack of Amtrak maps, while Sandy went to the ticket counters. She returned five minutes later holding two ticket folders in her hand.
“Any problems?”
“Nope. The train is only half full. I got one of the bedroom compartments, like it showed in your brochure, all the way to Boston. But I still can't believe it costs eleven-hundred and eighty-six dollars.”
“Le Magnifique can dock your pay.”
“My pay? That's a joke. They'll have to fight with my landlord, the IRS, and Dombrowski's Funeral Home on Montrose if they want what's left.”
“Dombrowski's Funeral Home?”
“Eddie even stiffed me for the funeral. I told them they could dig the little shit back up and flush him down the toilet for all I cared. Instead, they sent in the lawyers.”
The train didn't leave for two hours, but there was no sense trying to leave the station. The waiting room was exposed, but everything downtown was closed by then and we'd be even more visible out on the street. I looked around and picked a heavy wooden bench in the rear corner. I sat with my eyes on the door and she lay on the bench with her head in my lap, staring up at me, saying nothing. That in itself was remarkable, but I knew I couldn't take it for very long.
After about fifteen minutes of awkward silence, I finally got up enough nerve to say what I had wanted to say for two days. “I need to tell you something.”
“I've heard that one before, Talbott. If you tell me you're gay, I swear, I'll kill you right here and now.” I laid one of my fingers across her lips. That was the only way I ever found so far to shut her up, then or now. Then I put my hand over her eyes so she couldn't look at me.
“What are you doing?” she mumbled.
“Please be quiet. I can't talk to you while you're looking at me like that, or when you keep interrupting me. In fact, I can't talk to you at all, and that's part of my problem.”
“That is ridiculous.” She ran her tongue up my finger and kissed it.
“Stop that!”
“Oops, I forgot.” She giggled. “Sor-ry.”
“And be quiet. It's not ridiculous. I'm always afraid of saying the wrong thing to you, and all you ever do is crack jokes and say or do something suggestive. I'm having a real problem with that, Sandy.”
She didn't say anything at first. “And you don't have a clue, do you?”
“A clue? Don't say it's because I'm in love with you. We barely know each other. And don't say it's because I'm an awkward computer geek who can't handle a real woman like you… God knows that's probably true, but I've known plenty of women. You're hardly the first. I talk to women. I was married to a woman. But you, I can't talk to.”
Her answer came very matter-of-factly. “It's because you're terrified of me,”
“More jokes, see what I mean?”
“It's not a joke, Peter. You may know plenty of women, and you may talk to plenty of women, and I know you were married to a truly wonderful woman who I know you loved very, very deeply. But how many women have you been with since Terri died?”
I looked at her for a moment, realizing this conversation was spinning dangerously out of control. “ Been with?” I asked. “You mean slept with?
“Not really. How many have you let touch you? How many have you let inside those walls you've put up, and let help you?”
“None,” I finally answered, my voice barely above a whisper. “Not since Terri. No, the truth is, for a long time before Terri.”
“Because you feel guilty. Because I make you feel guilty, and that's a big, big wall that none of us mere mortals can ever hope to climb over.”
“What I'm feeling, it has nothing to do with you. Well, it does, but…”
“Women can read you like a book, Peter. If you look at one of us, or think about one of us, or think about physical contact or any kind of intimacy, or, god-forbid, think of having sex with one of us, you have a panic attack. You think you're being disloyal.”
I couldn't say anything, because somehow, in two days, this elf had me nailed.
I bet I've gotten closer to you than anyone, but you've made Terri an impossible act for me or any woman to follow.” Even with my hand over her eyes, I could feel tears in the palm of my hand.
“Oh, don't do that,” I groaned, feeling even worse as I wiped away the big crocodile tears running down her cheeks. “That's not fair.”
“I'm not going to apologize this time. I can't help it,” she sputtered. “I told you I was a sap for stuff like this. Well, the fact is, Peter Talbott, you can't talk to me because you are afraid of what it might mean if you let me get close. And you are right. All I do is crack jokes, try to get you in he sack, and cry, because I'm just as terrified of you.”
“Why would you be terrified of me?”
“Are you kidding? That kind of love? That kind of loyalty? I know you think I'm a silly little girl who doesn't come close to measuring up to what you need or what you had. And I know we don't know each other very well, but I know everything I will ever need to know about you. I knew it that back in Chicago at my aunt's, maybe before that. So at least give me a chance. Guys like you come along maybe once in a million years and I'm petrified that I'm going to blow this thing with you.”