Lil looked at Latasha as the older woman entered the room; “he out of here?”

 

“Yeah,” Latasha said, as she sat down, wiping some remnants of Allen’s drink from the desk with her hand.

 

Neither spoke for several minutes; until Lil got up saying, “I don’t like him.”

 

Latasha stared straight ahead at something over Lil’s shoulder, but didn’t say anything. As was their habit, they’d not discussed Allen, or his case before the initial visit, preferring to wait until after Lil’s first interview.

 

Continuing, Lil said, “He’s too frigging cute for my book. The mystery here isn’t his girlfriend’s disappearance,” tapping the thin red folder on her desk with a finger, “it’s why he’s still looking for her after all this time?”

 

“I agree,” Latasha said, “and what about the gap?”

 

The “gap” was a reference to the time between now, and the hiring of the private detective, which had been the last “admitted” effort by Allen to find JoJan.

 

Sitting back down, Lil opened the file, and studied the sheet of paper, which was a capsule summation of Latasha’s telephone interview with Allen. “You say here that he hired the P.I. in March of 03, which was three months after she disappeared.”

 

“A little over three years ago,” Latasha said, wiping some more on the desk though it appeared clean and dry.

 

“You don’t believe him?

 

Latasha looked at her, “no, he’s still looking, his kind doesn’t stop; he’s probably already caught up with her once, maybe more than once.”

 

Lil grimaced a little, as she opened her desk drawer for another cigarette; but why come to us, two women?”

 

“He’s a slick one,” Latasha said, “I’ll give him that; the ‘buffoon’ act was good, but, he’s ‘playing us,’ and he knows we know it, or at least suspects that we do.” Adding, “my question is why?”

 

“You think he knows about you, Lil asked, as she lit up?”

 

“Maybe,” but I doubt it, “I think he’s seen you before, and we know he’s been told about you by someone.”

 

Lil was reading the summation intently, lightly drumming the fingers of her non-cigarette hand, on the desk.

 

“K.C. referred him…” she said, a little under her breath as she read; he said that he wasn’t asking about anyone in particular, just talking about hiring a P.I. for a little job.”

 

“That’s another thing,” Latasha said, “What’s a guy like that doing taking the advice of a shoeshine man?”

 

“Or, she continued, even discussing his business with K.C. in the first place?”

 

“That’s easy, Lil said, We’re not exactly listed in the phone book… so if you’re looking for someone who’s a little under the radar, why not drop hints around everywhere?”

 

“Maybe I shouldn’t have taken him on,” Latasha said, more to herself than Lil.

 

“No, you did right, Lil said, he fits the profile, even though he’s playing a weird game.”

 

“Ok,” Latasha said, standing up, “I’ll put Kinky on him, check him out a little, guy like him has a woman around somewhere.”

 

“Be sure we do it without him knowing it,” Lil said, as she rose from behind the desk, tossing the file toward Latasha.”

 

Latasha looked at her, “and if he’s not what we think he is?”

 

“Oh he is,” she said, shaking her head wearily, but if by some miracle, he’s not…”

 

“Get rid of him?” Latasha finished for her.

 

“Yeah, make up a story, whatever.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

I stared at that door for what seemed like an hour or more, but my watch told of minutes creeping by like tired old men.  Less than 10 of those kinds of minutes later - it opened - and out walked this girl, hell, she looked to be in her twenties, who introduced herself to me as “Lil.”

 

Absorbing the shock internally, I held out my hand saying, “Allen Moorehead,” with my best poker face displayed.

 

She acted as if she could of cared less in any event, and motioned for me to follow her.

 

Behind her, as we went through the blue door I had a chance to process everything.  She was of average height for a female, at least to me, appearing to be about 5’5 or 5’6.  Her auburn hair shone in the dim light, and lay lightly and longish on her shoulders, a single red ribbon tied in the back.  Her figure was ample, but not the kind that knocked you out, and from what I had ascertained from a quick first glance, her breasts were full without being heavy, and were covered only with a red t-shirt, no bra, and no need of one. She was moving deceptively fast down the hallway in a smooth, but purposeful glide, on legs that appeared muscular, as outlined by tight Levi’s, which were faded almost white. All in all she was the whole package, and to say I was only slightly intimidated would have been kind. 

 

It was a different hallway than the one I’d come through a few minutes before, for there was no rat shit or trash laying about, and the floor was carpeted with a deep, soft rug.  It was beige in color, looking almost new, and sang a tune about “money,” along with the pictures hanging on the walls, portraits mostly, of old white headed men, although a few were of children playing.

 

We cruised past a couple of closed doors, both made of glass, but painted black, making it useless to try and see anything through them.  I was beginning to wonder exactly where we were going, the hallway looked to be dead-ending in front of us, when she reeled right - walking through an open door way, tossing a “shut it,” over her shoulder, as she crossed into another doorway and disappeared.

 

Shutting the door, I went the way she had, and entered a large office that could of passed for a gentleman’s den, with just a few deer heads mounted in strategic places.  As it was I would have loved to of had it; the walls were heavily draped with lush, dark green, ceiling to floor drapes, and I could only imagine what they hid.

The carpet was a brilliant white, and I wondered if my shoes was tracking dirt in, as my eyes took in the massive wood desk centered in the room, it’s top completely clear, and shining from the recessed but bright enough lighting.  A single, large, and heavily padded leather chair was in front of the desk, and with a wave she indicated I was to sit, as she walked around to the other side and slid easily into an high-back wood chair that along with the desk looked to be a hundred years old if it was a day.

 

She opened a drawer and removed a small red file, removing a single sheet of paper from it, laying it on the desk; all of which gave me a few more seconds to collect my wits.  My expectation had been that she would have been a cross between an old witch-like woman with dirt under her fingernails, and a gypsy looking woman carting a crystal ball around.  Never in my wildest you know what had I expected what now raised its head, and smiling, said, “Ok, let’s start.”

 

Later, it would be her voice that stuck with me.  It was deep for a woman’s, and almost guttural, but it had a richness to it that over-rode everything else, and left me wanting to listen instead of talk.  But, her questions were short and to the point, drawing out tons of information about me before I knew it.  When I questioned all her questions about me, she asked another, and I quickly learned to answer straight; she had no time for evasive answers and said so.

 

Finally, she stopped with the 3^rd degree, and turning in a perfectly timed move, she greeted the Oriental lady who was entering the room, with two glasses of icy clear liquid on a tray; she also at the same time, gave her a name… “Latasha.”

 

As I sipped my drink; a deliciously mixed Margarita, she steepled the fingers of her hands together and recapped some of the information I'd given her, as she ignored her drink and looked intently at me.

 

‘Name, Allen Moorehead, age, 47, occupation, Loan Manager at City Bank, married twice, divorced twice,” adding, “two for two,” with a tight smile on her face.

 

A pause then… “No children,” no comment, but slightly raised eyebrows.

 

Continuing… “Income, $65,000 a year, 12 years with current employer, car, late model BMW,” again no comment which disappointed me, no movement of the eyebrows either. “Renting instead of buying, no family in the city, not even an ex-wife, a few friends, mostly golfing buddies, and no present girlfriend.”

 

“Is golf your only sport?” she asked, finally taking a drink from her glass.

 

I tried to say yes, but it came out “yuhg,” as I coughed at the same time spittling driblets of my drink at her.

 

She laughed, and lighting a cigarette, she leaned back in her chair, and stretched her arms high above her head, saying, “Christ! Moorehead; don’t be so frigging nervous. You appear to be worldly enough, what exactly is your problem?”

 

Caught off guard by the question, and still trying to wipe the tequila-laden drops off her desktop, I tried out a smile while saying, “never expected all the "personal" questions really.”

 

“So… she said, “what exactly did you expect?”

 

Before I could answer, which was a good thing, cause I didn’t have one, Latasha re-entered the room saying, “time’s up Lil.”

 

“Lil,” God! That name did not fit her, nodded her head, slid the paper back in the red file and said, “Next Thursday, 9 p.m. sharp, see you then.”

 

With that I was “motioned” out of my chair, wondering what had prompted the conclusion of our meeting, my spilt drink or the clock, I’d been in her office for exactly an hour.  Following Latasha from the room, I stole a backward glance at Lil, who was standing behind the desk smiling to herself, not me, as I was led from the room.

 

In less than a minute I was back to the little dingy outer office, watching Latasha disappear again through the blue door.  In another minute I was outside in the night air, staring at the building I’d just came from. 

 

“Next Thursday, 9 p.m., sharp,” I thought to myself, yeah, I guess I’d be there alright, not a problem.

 

 

 

     

 

 

There were two odd things about the day that JoJan disappeared, one was how much she loved that particular kind of day; a winter day, overcast sky, dampness, and the whole bit. The second was that I had always figured she would disappear on a day like that. A cool guy like me should of added both of these oddities up - and been able to prevent it.

 

Ever seen a discarded lover at the airport? Looking around…. everywhere… into everyone’s eyes, yours, mine?

 

That was me that night.

 

But I wasn’t at the airport.

 

I was in my apartment; dinner cold on the table, a bottle of wine in a bucket of water that once held ice, with me walking the floor counting the hours she was late.  I can still recall that big hand spinning around the twelve, as Clapton sang the blues. Yeah, I tried her cell, but it just rang and rang.

 

We’d met a year before, and that day was our 1^st “together” anniversary, and the last time I ever saw her.  It’s been over three years; I quit counting after the 3-year mark - so don’t ask me the months, weeks or days. At first I thought I could find her, even hired a detective who promised he “could find anybody.” 

 

Now here I am, sitting in this little room, waiting for a lady who goes by “Lil,” who I’ve been told, can give answers to questions you’ve not any for.  It’s a shabby room, about 12 by 12 – furnished with a chair and a couch, with walls of dim yellow, no pictures, and for light - a single bulb dangles it’s low wattage from a cord that hangs from the center of an abnormally high ceiling.

 

From the outside it’d looked like a single story flat roof house, like was popular in the 50’s and 60’s, but upon entering you were immediately dropped a floor lower, by stairs that took you down to a short hallway littered with fast food literature, and rat droppings, with 3 doors on one side, and 2 on the other, each painted a different color. 

 

I’d been told to go to the door with the numeral “17” painted on it, and ring the doorbell.  My door was a brown one, the seventeen was hand painted with something white that looked a little like correction fluid.  I’d hesitated with finger poised above the little black button, and thought of turning around and leaving, only to watch - as my finger moved forward, and pressed the button.

 

A small Oriental lady, Korean or Vietnamese, I'm not sure which, or even if - either, had opened the ‘ring a ding ling’ summons, and without a word pointed me to this imitation leather chair I’m sitting in now.  As I await for her to return from  the faded blue door she'd swished through a few minutes ago, I feel a foreboding of some sort.

 

Perhaps she’ll bring Lil.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It seems strange to me; this little walk with Jackie and Leo, but then again - my life has always seemed a little strange.  I wonder if the others feel the same?  One thing about life, you never really know if you’re in the middle of reality or just flirting around the edges of it.  Take these black words against this white background and reverse them and what do you change?  Makes me think of that question can a leopard change it’s spots?  I think so…. But I wonder if it really wants to?

 

Everything seems real to me… here.  The ground is firm beneath my feet, the air is fresh, though a little crisp; Winter must be lurking close by.  We seem to be in a valley of some sort, making our way up a little rise.  I can hear music, faint but distinct; I even know the song that’s playing, as Jackie sings it lightly under her breath; we pick up the pace a little it seems.

 

I have no idea where I’m at, or what’s going on, but I leave where I’ve been without thought, either good or bad.  A lifetime of searching is coming to a conclusion, and I’m reminded of Emily, reminded of those words she wrote so long ago; The world is not conclusion….. A sequel stands beyond…

 

Everybody wants to believe that - in one form or another, but I’ve always known it to be true; I’ve always known of the sequel; just couldn’t find it.  How can I say that?  Because the story about the lost thirteen was not just a creative process for Ice, it really happened, pretty much the way I’ve told it.  I lived in 1846, breathed the air, and walked on the surface of the planet over a hundred years ago, without a clue; that is till I ran into a woman named Jackie.  She too, was not exactly who she appeared to be; to those of us who knew one of her secrets, and certainly not to those who knew none of them.

 

How does one describe the single most significant moment in their life?  When I first met Jackie, she appeared to be a man, and indeed, I would think of her as one for more than a month, before on a rare day when the sun was a friend, she lowered an unseen shield, and bathed in warmth I’d never felt before … I knew.

 

Only to lose it all when the riders came.

 

For it was then I chose to not believe.  I was scared, and felt that I was soon to die.  She’d told us that we’d have to believe with every fiber in our bodies, that she would need all our help to accomplish the feat she was attempting.

 

I ran.

 

Chased by two men on horses so big I thought them eerily unreal, though their heavy breathing through nostrils dripping in foamy spittle, only intensified my situation, and I thought my heart was near exploding.  Running crazily through shrub bushes, while wishing for a forest, I knew the end was near.

 

I could see the wagon from where I’d ran, several men were dismounting from their horses and piling into the back.  I could hear screams, and gunfire. 

 

And still…. I ran.

 

Into a small ravine that was wet and muddy, I remember hearing my boots splashing in water, and watching over my shoulder as I scrambled up the opposite bank, I saw one of the horses lose its footing, falling head first to the ground; its rider sprawled in the mud.  The other rider tried to keep from trampling both horse and rider, but instead, rode his own horse into the horse already on the ground, and fell into a crumpled heap - and I ran.

 

Into a mist, thick like a fog, and I remember being stunned by my good fortune as I ran harder into the fog, wanting to be enveloped completely into it’s beautiful lost essence. 

 

I could hear the men cursing and shouting as they remounted their horses, I heard a gunshot, and I fell to the ground, trembling and immobile. 

 

I gave up.

 

Her voice came out of the fog, and her words caused me to jerk my head up from the ground. 

 

I’m going to have to leave you here, but I’ll be back.

 

No!  - Don’t leave me!

 

Get up, and walk toward me.

 

Somehow I stood up, and trying to figure out from which direction her voice had came from I started walking.

 

This way.

 

Turning in the direction of her voice, I walked toward it….

 

Into a world from which I’m now leaving; after all this time.

 

Better a reality nearby than a dream afar.

 

 

 

 end