It was one of those Hard Rains; you know the kind that makes you wonder exactly when it started, and if it’ll ever stop. I could hear it pelting the roof of the trailer, and the sound pulled me into semi-consciousness, the whiskey fog clearing enough for me to hear her rummaging around in the bathroom. She was making “quiet racket” in my head, on purpose I was sure.  It was pissing me off again, and I knew she would swear that she was trying to be quiet. A drawer opening, a cabinet door snapping shut, the frigging toilet “flushing” - for god’s sake. 

 

It was all her fault anyway, if she would just not piss him off all the time, everything would be okay, but no, she was constantly fucking up. Like tonight when he’d come in from work, stressed out and with a headache.  She’d started in on him about the furnace being broke down, and why didn’t he get it fixed. It’ll be cold again tonight, please get it fixed, blah, blah….

 

The repairman had said it would cost $250 and he had to have the money upfront, no credit. He’d told the guy to come back tonight and fix it; it was payday, he’d have the cash.  And the dumb-ass did come, but at the wrong time.  She’d just mouthed off to him one too many times, and after a couple of body punches and a few to the head, she was a crying heap in the corner. When the doorbell rang it was like the bell at the end of a boxing match. 

 

Round over.

 

The question was “had he heard anything”?  Looking out the window, the drape pulled back to peeking range, he watched the guy, standing on the porch waiting for the door to open.  He looked over at her again and said in a low voice “that they would not be answering the door tonight.” He’d watched as she stood, blood leaking from her mouth, and moaned loudly, holding the right side of her head.  With a shaky gait, she’d stumbled down the hallway toward the bathroom, and he’d noticed again how fat she’d gotten after 20 years of marriage.

 

With a sudden grunt he’d gone to the window and watched as the repairman got back in his van; watched the van closely as it backed out and pulled away from the house. Striding to the front door he kicked it open with his foot and went out into the night air.  He could smell rain, and felt the urge to drink beer, drink a lot beer.  Al down at the bar would cash his check; there might even be a girl for him somewhere. 

 

Now as he lay in the bed, with her making enough racket in the bathroom to make his head begin to throb, he began to get even madder.  He’d tried to get one of the sluts down at Al’s to take him home with her, but she’d told him to get lost. Before the words were hardly out of her mouth he’d grabbed her by the neck and was watching the terror in her eyes when Al had blindsided him with the baseball bat he kept under the bar.

 

 

The blow struck him on the right shoulder, and was delivered with Al screaming at him, telling him to get the fuck out of the bar.  But before he could respond to the attack, he was lifted up by strong arms and carried to the back door and tossed in the alley.  Trying to get back in, he was met by Al, who threw his jacket at him and told him he was calling the cops.  As the door slammed shut again, he saw a police car cruise by the entrance of the alley. 

 

Running around to the side of the bar he managed to locate his keys, unlocked the door, and in swift sure motions started up the car and eased away from the bar. He always prided himself on being able to react to the situation and sober up enough to escape.  Later, safely across town and at the “Nightdive,” another bar he frequented, he’d told everybody a completely different account of the incident.  All the guys laughing at his descriptive narration of scaring the crap out of the slut, and how he’d made her go out in the parking lot and give him a blowjob. It was after 3 a.m. when he’d staggered out of the bar and drove home, now barely remembering the drive.

 

She was in the bedroom now, in the closet, still rummaging, but quieter now; but not so quite he couldn’t hear her. Raising his head from the mattress he tried to get up, but realized he was way too drunk to stand as he watched the room spin around, and tasted guile in his mouth.  “Shit” he thought, what would it take to get her to leave him the fuck alone.  I’ll just lay here for a minute he thought, but must of drifted back asleep because when he opened his eyes the light was on in the bedroom, and he felt something hard at the back of his head. 

 

“Randall.”

 

“Randall.”

 

He could hear her voice but didn’t know where she was, and as he thought about it a little, he really didn’t care; he just wanted her to shut up.

 

“Randall,” can you hear me?

 

“Yeah,” he answered.  “I hear you bitch.”

 

“Do you remember that night a few years ago, when that guy cut you, and you thought you were dying?  How scared you were, how you cried in my arms telling me you didn’t want to die.  How scared you were of death.”

 

Her words straightened out his thoughts a little, and he began to wonder about the hard object at the back of his head; he tried to raise an arm to feel it, but couldn’t get the message from his brain to either one of his arms, and instead, he just stared at something on the floor.  It was gray, a case of some sort. What is it he wondered, thinking he should know what it was. 

 

“Randall, I’ve got your gun at the back of your head and you are about to die.”

 

Her words burned into his brain, and he finally recognized the gray object on the floor for what it was.  It was his gun case, the one that held his .45, always loaded, always at the ready, now opened and empty.   

 

Outside he could hear the rain, it was a Hard Rain, and then he heard the thunder.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yeah it’s time, but that’s all it is; it’s not yesterday, and only pretends to be tomorrow. I’ve been trying to catch it, but you know - cause you’ve tried too - that it’s the “old catching wind in a bottle” thing. That’s a tired cliché for sure… can’t you do better? Oh I don’t know… that’s a pretty neat little saying when you think about it. “catch wind in a bottle.” So… what are you two up to? He’s tripping on the “wind,” and you really don’t want to know about me. How bout you? Trying to find time. “Time?” That’s funny, because he’s been trying to catch it, though come to think of it…. I really doubt if he knows what it looks like, time that is. You’re right.. nobody’s ever really identified it, much less explained it. Didn’t Einstein find it? No, he didn’t - but that’s not relative, merely a theory. I was thinking today while I was walking in the mall, smelling all the different aromas, taking in the pre-Christmas shoppers, how time was the same today as it was 30 years ago, nothing’s really changed, time is still time. Yeah, you’re right; the only thing that’s changed is you. Ed Bradley died today. Yeah I read about it. He was only 65. Yeah, I thought he was older. Daze was 59 the other day. Yeah, and I’ve always thought of her as being in her forties. Everybody’s trying to find a way out of this maze. No, not really, everybody knows there is but one way out. Not right, not right at all, there is no certainly about only being one way out, there could be another. Of course but what? I don’t know, but there could be. The Eternal Optimist? Today I am – but check me tomorrow, I’ve been known to flip…. flop. Did you vote? Yeah, straight D, that be a capital D. Me too. Aye! Me too. Aye? Damn, sounds like something the Cap’n would say. So… we hung one on Bush and the Republicans, now what? They have to rein it in a little, shift in a new direction. Get something done is the phrase you’re looking for I think. “They” being all the politicians, D’s and R’s, right? Yeah, we’ve put them all in the same boat now, let’s see something get done. They’ll come up with a way to exit with a little pride, and it’ll be wrap by 08. Then, and then….. comes Hillary! That’s her one and only goal, her burning desire. And don’t ever underestimate a single minded burning hot – Desire. You think she can win? I think she’s picking out her cabinet this weekend is what I think. Maybe Bill will be Secretary of State or something? At least he wouldn’t be a yes man like Condi is. Yes woman. Yeah, she’d be a yes woman. You could still call her a yes man. Yeah you could. I seen John Lennon in person. At a concert? Yeah. He made the hair on the back of my neck literally stand up. He was incredible, nobody I ever seen, ever done what he done to me that night. To really appreciate him, his music, his voice, you had to see him in person. I wasn’t anticipating him blowing me away like that. I’ll never forget it. I know what you mean. Santana did it to me, and many years earlier, the Beach Boys did the same thing to me on a California beach. I know seeing someone “live” intensifies everything and seems better, but man, I don’t know. I seen the Eagles a few years ago, and they were good, and I enjoyed it, but not like Santana in Germany while we passed the hash pipes around. Our whole music scene blows me away when I think about it. When was the last time you got really relaxed and listened to the AWB? I did it just a few minutes ago. Man! Yeah man, a great band. I haven’t been “really relaxed” in years, raising the kids and all that. Time just oozes by; I just try and hold on. Yeah those child-rearing days can be looonnnnng, and before you know it they’re getting married and having kids. Can you believe Thanksgiving is nigh, and Christmas just a few weeks away? Yes, I'll need to shoot a turkey soon. Thanksgiving 2006 style? Yeah, but on second thought, I think I'll buy one at Wal-Mart. We got a lot to be thankful for. Hey! Have you found time yet? No, but I’m still looking. I tell you what, you find time and then I’ll catch it a bottle and we’ll hold it for ransom money. We could be rich! No, I doubt it, cuz if’n we found it and if’n we caught it – nobody would want to pay the ransom to get it back. Yeah, I guess you’re right; another great idea down the hatch, eh? There’s a new book out about the future. Many thousands of years in the future. Dogs rule the earth. Anyhow, these two dogs, which are the main characters in the book, are discussing what happened to the human race. Really? What did happen to them? Well according to the storyline, they messed around somewhere along the line and eliminated themselves from the earth. Dogs eventually evolved to intelligence and although few (dogs) could remember exactly the circumstances for the human disappearance (from earth), it was the general consensus that humans went down the wrong trail following the gene tract mixed in with cloning. Hmmm… that’s interesting. So… what happened? In the book that is. Don’t know yet, haven’t finished it, but I’ll let you both know as soon as I do. So… what’s up with you today? Going to the city? Yeah, as a matter of fact, I am. Want me to pick you up some good cigars? No, I’ve quit smoking those damn things. Ah, that’s good. So… are you back on Blogstream? Well I don’t know about being back and all, but I do think that whenever I feel like posting something, I will. You know what I mean? No, but then again I doubt if you do either? Right you are ol chap, but you know our’s is the “feel good” generation. Yeah, and we’ve really done a good job feeling good haven’t we? Hey man, I’ve located time. It was here all the time we’ve been talking. No kidding. What does it look like? Well the best way I can describe it – is that it appears to resemble a stream of water, and the water is in constant movement. So… which way does it flow? Oh it goes both ways, sort of like my cousin Shiela. Yeah, I know. So, would you say time is like a stream then? Yeah, a never ending stream that just keeps on flowing. So, what do we call it? TimeStream would be appropriate I would think. Sounds really neat. Kinda like BlogStream, eh? Yeah, sort of. Maybe they are kissing cousins? Like cousin Shiela? Yeah, sort of. Ok, now all we have to do is figure out how to catch it. Right you are. Oops, we’re here. Where? End of story.

p.s. Happy Birthday Daze!

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.