tomeubanks.com

                                            PART TWO
                                  Friday, August 22, 1987

                                        CHAPTER TEN

                                      Dutch Youngblood

9:15 a.m.

Wearing black-rimmed dark glasses, Robby Catlin leaned against the wall by Joe's office with one leg over the other and his arms crossed over his chest. Joe got out his keys, biting his lip to keep from grinning.

"Take off the glasses." He unlocked the door.

"Down in the lobby? Says you open at nine," Robby said. He uncrossed his limbs and tucked his fingers in his blue jeans pockets, letting his thumbs hang out. "You're fifteen minutes late."

"You're three years early. What're you doing here?"

"Coming to work."

"No, you're not." Joe entered his reception area; Robby trailed behind him. Joe placed his hand gently on Robby's chest and held him back. "Your mother would kill me–slowly." He closed the door.

"Mr. Cox," he said through the door. "Let me work on her, I'm good at it, she'll change her mind, I know her, I can do it. Give me until Monday."

Joe switched on the lights and sniffed deeply, enjoying that aroma of responsibility that lingered in empty offices.

Robby called out, "What do you say, Mr. Cox?"

"Goodbye."

"Mr. Cox, give me a chance to change her mind–I can do it!" The door cracked open and Robby peeked in. "Please."

Joe pushed his head out. "Goodbye, Robby." And closed it again.

"Please, Mr. Cox–"

"Goodbye!"

A few moments later, mumbling complaints under his breath, Robby left. In half a minute the phone on the reception desk rang. Joe answered it.

"Mr. Cox. Please." He was calling from the downstairs lobby.

"No. Your mother forbids it, my partner thinks its irresponsible...and besides, I don't know nuthin' 'bout birthin' no babies."

"What's that supposed to mean? I'm a good worker. I learn fast. I need this job."

Joe had a thought. "Hey, check around the building. Maybe someone else has an opening for a kid, something better suited to a fifteen-year-old." Robby sighed. "It's just not going to happen right now. When you're eighteen, call me." Joe hung up.

There was a moment long enough for Joe to gather his thoughts and the phone rang again. He answered it, "Robby, I said no!"

"Is this Joe?"

"Yes, I'm sorry, Mrs. Weldon. I expected someone else. Good morning. How are you?"

"Joe, I'm doing great! You won't believe this! Jackie called me last night and she's coming home!"

...coming home, coming home, coming home, home, home....

"Well...that's"–he should be happy for her–"I'm happy for you," he managed to say. "When is she coming home?"

"Tonight. I pick her up at the downtown Greyhound station. Supposed to call me today for the time. I'm beside myself, I'm so happy. It's her eighteenth birthday next Friday. I thought I'd miss it."

"Did she say where she was?"

"She didn't say and I didn't ask. Maybe I should have, but...she sounds fine and she wants to come home–that's all that matters."

"I think I know where she is."

Teddi's breathing stopped briefly. "I don't know if I want to know."

"Paley, California–I think. She's with two characters named Reggie Thomas and Ivan Sonneborn. Coincidently, we all have a mutual acquaintance and he's a friend of the mayor's."

Weldon's voice softened when she said, "You've done a great job, Joe. I mean that. And if anything goes wrong...you'll be the man I call."

"Thanks." Something twisted in Joe's stomach. "I'll get your...your refund"–he gagged on the word–"in the mail today."

"I'd prefer that you hold on to it until Jackie's back. Once Jackie's home and back in school and everything's normal, I'll be okay, but if anything goes wrong–"

"She'll be okay," Joe assured her.

"Yeah, you're right. She's a good kid. I have to get her away from the losers she's with. There's a boy–a nice boy, from a good family–who's called here a few times. Jayne talked to him yesterday. He seemed very upset that she was gone." She put her hand over the mouthpiece, it sounded like, and then she said, "Joe? Jayne wants me to tell you, 'Daisy says hi.'" Jayne, in the background, giggled. He pictured the teenager with her hands in her back pockets, her hip cocked to one side, and a teasing smirk on her face. And a rattlesnake in her pocket.

"Thanks, Joe. I'll let you know when she's home."

They hung up.

The front door opened. Leah didn't smile. She was still ticked off about yesterday. Her black pants, cream-colored blouse and red and cream scarf tied around her neck made Joe think she was headed to the mall.

"What?" Leah said, as if things were already bad. Her purse slid down her arm and onto the green and beige plaid couch in the waiting area. "Somebody die? What?"

Joe put on a smile; a little tight, but it would do. "Good news."

"I could use some. Freezer at the North Hollywood shop pooped out last night and I lost 33 gallons of product. And as if that isn't enough, my Sherman Oaks shop got broken into." A pasted smile followed. Smoothly, she said, "They didn't get anything either."

"Jackie Weldon called her mother. She's coming home."

Disappointment crumpled the smooth skin around her eyes. "We have to give her money back." She glanced at her watch. "Nine-thirty in the morning. Already, this." Her face displayed a disturbing thought. Her voice jumped an octave. "I got stuck in a bathroom window for nothing! I could have been hurt! The cops could have rolled by and I'd be in jail."

"I got you out of the window."

"This time. But don't ask me to break the law again, mister, because I knew it was wrong when I did it, and I didn't like the way it felt when it was over."

"Okay," Joe said. He went to his office, took a stack of files from the edge of his desk and returned to the reception area. "Here. Prep these."

"What are they?"

"Our caseload. Six cases." She perked up. Her eyes lit up with interest. She shuffled through them, flipping pages to see what they were about.

"I get to work them?"

"You get to prep them. Order DMV, public filings, check Secretary of State for corporate status, check Voter's Registration, order a credit report–"

"Wait, wait...what're you talking about?"

"You're going to learn how to do the in-house stuff."

"And then what?"

"And then I'll take a look and finish them up."

"Why can't I finish them up?"

"Because you don't know what the hell you're doing yet."

"When you finish them up, you'll show me what you're doing, right?"

"Soon enough."

She slapped the files on his desk. "Give me a break, Joe! I see what the hell you're up to! You don't fool me!"

"Then we understand each other."

"Wrong." She folded her arms and sucked air. "Explain it to me." Her sigh reminded Joe of his mother, the way she demonstrated authority.

"When I think you know how to prep a case, I'll show how to do the rest of the investigation."

"You mean the field."

"Right. First you crawl, then you walk."

"Wrong. I never crawl." She turned to leave, then stopped. "Staring at microfiche viewers and computer monitors, thumbing through cross-directories–or whatever you call them– and making a bunch of phone calls isn't my idea of detective work."

"There's the rub," Joe quipped. "Detective work, Leah, wasn't your idea. And when I took you into the field, you didn't like it."

She stepped up to him, stood right under his nose and said: "The field? You call crawling through a bathroom window–for nothing–working the field? Give me a break. You don't like me. I don't know why you don't like me, but you don't. Maybe you feel threatened by a woman in business, maybe you hate frozen yogurt, maybe I'm a necessary evil."

She was right on all three accounts. Joe's resolve to play dumb dissolved under her plain truth.

"What exactly don't you like? You got two locates there–those are fun–"

"If I get to go out and look for people, sure, but you're saying I have to find them from the office?"

"Most of the time that's how it's done. More profit that way, too. Running around L. A. tracking somebody down isn't efficient. We go into the field when we have to. That's why we use cross-directories. Gag a neighbor."

"Gag? You mean like choke them?" she said incredulously.

"A gag is when you use a pretext–pretend to be someone you know they’ll talk to.  They'll tell you practically anything you want to know. You just have to know who to be when you call. It's a blast."

"Gag a neighbor. Lie, you mean. Lie to some poor old lady who happens to live next door to somebody we want to find. Doesn't sound like fun to me. Sounds sick."

"This business isn't for you then. That's what we do."

"Why can't I go out and talk to her in person, eye to eye? You did it on this Weldon case. I read the report you put in the file. You went to I.Q.'s house, you talked to the guy downstairs, you went to the RV place, you talked to the lady there–"

"This was a situation where I had to go out to make contact. I still had to use a gag at both places. You aren't ready for that."

"You were just showing off for the kid."

"Now give me a break. We may be partners. But I'm in charge. Period. You'll do as I say. Prep the files."

Leah looked at the stack of files. She picked them up, went to her little office off the reception area and closed the door.

"Thank you," Joe said.

The Weldon file, with its orange label, indicating that it was a locate, rested in his IN tray like a lonely cadaver–flat, lifeless. He shoved it into the file cabinet behind his desk. The drawer was labeled: CLOSED.

Joe called Sad Café. Dutch's secretary said he was home working on his room addition. Joe called the house.

"Hey, guy, how's it going?" Dutch said, in his usual excited manner. "Caught me in the middle of a bench press."

"Keep it up and you'll look like that Schwartzenegger guy."

"I was in great shape when I worked construction. Went to flab during the Steiger years. Gotta keep in shape for the babes."

"So what's up? You called Tuesday."

"Opening night, guy. Tonight. Got two tickets for you."

"Sure. Last play you put on was great."

"Bring your new partner," he snickered.

"Cut it out."

"Let her defrost first."

"Okay, okay."

"How's business?"

"It's coming. Got a nice runaway case in yesterday, but the kid called and she's coming home."

"How many times that happen at Steigers? Huh? Never fails."

"Remember that child custody case you and I worked in Paley?" Dutch didn't answer. "About four years ago."

"Oh, yeah. Yeah."

"Went yesterday to Otto's office–"

"How is the piece of shit?"

"–and he knows the creep this kid ran off with."

"Wow. Karma in the air."

"He didn't like it, but I twisted his arm into telling me they went to Paley."

There was a moment of silence, then, "What're they doing there?"

"Who knows. Didn't you make a friend in town while we were there?"

"Yeah. John." Another moment of silence.

"And?"

"And what?"

"Did you keep in contact with him?"

"Yeah."

That Dutch wasn’t offering information meant only one thing to Joe: he’s trying to figure out what I know, what I’m after. He thinks I’m fishing for information. So Joe threw out a lure and said: "You don’t know what I know, so you might as well tell me."

"Oh, you thought I was trying to– No, man, I’m just distracted here. It’s no big deal. John and I got a little joint venture going."

That surprised Joe. Dutch had never mentioned it.

"When did this happen?" Joe asked, trying not to give away that he didn’t know about it.

"Plans started a year ago. Got started in June."

"Where you getting all this dough?"

"Here and there."

He was being his evasive self. Joe didn't push it, because he didn't really care.

"So what's the venture?"

"Another theater."

"Here?"

"No. In Paley. We're getting ready to open. Fact, I just came from there."

"Well, if the girl doesn't come home like she says, maybe you'd like to join me in Paley."

"Hey, guy, I'd love to, but the play's all weekend–two shows on Sunday. Thanks for the offer." He hesitated again. "But, hey, what about lunch today?"

Dutch had never asked to have lunch in all the years they'd known each other. Why now? "Sure."

"Say, two. At the theater."

"What's the occasion?"

"Does there have to be an occasion for me to have lunch with an old buddy?"

"No."

"Okay, then. See you at two."

"See you."

The clock on the wall read 9:55. What now? Leah was prepping all six of their files. Did he sit here and wait for the phone to ring? Hell, no. If any calls came in, Leah could flash them to the car phone. He had to get business. Drop in on a few attorneys around the Valley, leave a few Fee Schedules.

He peeked into Leah's office. "I'm going to change and see some prospective clients. I'll be back around one." She sneered. At the elevator, the doors opened. Robby stood inside. He saluted. Beside him was a mop in an industrial-size mop bucket with attached wringer. He cocked his head at the mop handle he held.

"Thanks for the advice. Mr. Kanawyer gave me a job for after school. We'll be seeing a lot of each other."

It had taken this kid only thirty minutes to get a job. His mother knew Kanawyer, but Joe suspected it had nothing to do with it. Kanawyer was a push-over anyway. He'd be putty in this kid's hands.

Holding the mop handle, Robby pushed the bucket out the door on its wheels and headed down the seventh floor hall. Hanging from his belt was a clip of keys. Over his shoulder, he called back:

"If you need anything–something cleaned, something mopped, something fixed, surveillance–stuff like that–call the maintenance number." He winked.

Joe held the elevator doors open to say: "Lo siento, muchacho, pero no hablo Ingles!"

"That's okay, Mr. Cox! I speak Spanish! Hasta la vista!"