Mr. Nash sat at the back of the waiting room, his face buried in last night’s Kansas City Star. He wore a rumpled, cheap-looking gray business suit, jacket unbuttoned over the beginning of a paunch, but it was the loud tie that jumped out at you. He must have salvaged it from his dad’s World War II wardrobe. It was purple, flowery, and way too wide. His light-brown hair had probably always been thin, but now, the top of his head was bald, and the hair he had left was graying around his ears. He sold shoes for a living, but Mrs. Nash, his wife and my client, became suspicious that his frequent traveling and dwindling paychecks did not match up. She started looking for a private detective after she found the love letter in his breast pocket in the closet. He called the whole thing a one night stand after closing time, but she didn’t buy it. He claimed the temptation was the price he paid for having to drink to sleep at night after slaving for so many hours to earn a decent living for her. She claimed that temptations like those usually came in a door left intentionally ajar, which, by the way, was the most poetic thing I ever heard her say.

“You can see what a heartless bastard he is, can’t you, Mr. Crow?” she had said through broken sobs, placing her hand on my forearm as she leaned across the desk in my tiny office. “If my third husband had paid his taxes, I wouldn’t have to deal with all this! And he was no saint, I can assure you. He operated a cock fighting pit in the basement of our house, but until the trial, which I can tell you was a joke from the start because the judge was paid off, he earned twice as much money as this one! I just couldn’t stay married to him after he went to jail! I mean, what woman could?”

With her, it was usually too much information. I probably should have squeezed her hand and said, “Please, call me Bart”, and told her that jerks like her husbands got whatever they got, but I couldn’t do it. Maybe that’s why I had a drawer full of unpaid bills, too.

“Now, now,” I consoled instead, as much to change the subject before she got into the pros and cons of being married to a convicted felon doing prison time as anything else. “You don’t need all this. It isn’t fair, is it?”

That caused her to collapse on my arm, shaking her head, whispering “no, no,” weeping piteously, and peeking at me from the corner of her eye. Good thing my sleeve was rolled up, or all her makeup would have ruined my fresh shirt.

Anyway, that’s what had brought me to the bus station in the middle of the night in the first place. For the last hour or so, I had set up shop behind a pillar, out of sight from most of the room, but in clear view of the doors coming from the busses. The Kansas City depot was grand by bus terminal standards, big enough for me to be inconspicuous. It covered the basement of the Pickwick Hotel, and even had escalators coming down from the hotel lobby.

The place was fairly crowded for that time of the night. There was the usual assortment of sailors and soldiers, either going home or catching a last bus back to their bases. 1970 had begun like the last years of the sixties, keeping score by the body counts on the Sunday night news. President Nixon had resumed the bombing of Hanoi, and the Vietnam War drug on. I had paid my dues there, but not before some shrapnel in my thigh bought my ticket home. So, it wasn’t hard for me to read the faces behind the uniforms. The rest of the crowd was different, though. People minded their own business, smoked cigarettes and read magazines or newspapers.

There was still a little time left before the bus pulled in, so I stepped onto the public scale I had been alternately leaning against and using for a footrest, and deposited a dime in the slot. The scale was one that told your fortune, too. “Someone special will pay you a visit,” it said. The dial stopped on 210 pounds. I had gained a few since the summer, drinking too many beers and spending too much time on my butt. I stooped to see my face in the mirror, and pushed the K. C. A’s cap higher on my forehead for a better look. Even in the winter, my skin looked sun tanned. That was the Cherokee blood from my mother and grandfather. The jet-black hair and high cheekbones came from them, too, but the hump in the bridge of my nose came from a bull ride that ended with my face in a fence.

I tugged the Athletics hat back into place and arched the brim with both hands. It was tough for me to let the A’s go, even though they had packed up and moved to Oakland. At least, the city still had baseball, although I hadn’t completely bought into the new team, yet. I listened to the games. The Royals had just been there a year.

The riders from Denver began trickling in from the 3:30 Hound, so I stubbed out my cigarette and went to work with the 35mm camera I had brought back from Saigon. Mr. Nash’s girlfriend was one of the first through the door. He was glad to see her judging from the way he kissed her and had his hands all over her. She must have been glad to see him, too. She gave back what she got. She traveled light, just like the last few visits. All she had with her was a small, carry-on bag, so they didn’t have to wait for any suitcases from the bowels of the bus. If they stayed true to form, they would head upstairs to the hotel.

I wanted one last shot as they rode up the escalator, but a face blocked my view. I lowered the camera to ask the person to move, but I never got the words out. I found myself looking into a pair of deep, dark eyes, so clear and sharp they seemed to pierce right through me. They reminded me of another pair of eyes that I used to know, in another lifetime, it seemed, and I couldn’t help staring. The young lady who owned them stared back without flinching.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” she asked

I watched Mr. Nash and his girlfriend to the top of the escalator, and she followed my gaze. She seemed about to say something, but stopped short. I could see her changing directions as she played catch-up with me.

“You were taking pictures. Do you know those two?”

I started to answer before it struck me how crazy this was.

“You don’t, do you?” she quizzed, more of a realization than a question.

“Excuse me? Have we met? I mean, what’s it to you?”

“Are you a detective, or something?” she asked tentatively, like she was thinking out loud.

“Yeah, or something!” I shot back, mad at myself for allowing her to muddy things up.

It had to be the eyes. A slight smile began playing on her lips.

“Oo-o-o! I’ve never met a detective! Why the pictures of that guy and his wife? Are they spies?”

“No, they’re not spies! You’ve watched too many James Bond movies! And she’s not his wife, either! Listen, why all the questions?”

“Will you help me?” she asked.

The question caught me flat-footed. I lowered my eyes from hers, and began putting the camera back in the bag.

“Girl, I doubt if you need much help, the way you just barged in here and screwed up my whole night’s work!”

“I’m sorry!” she exclaimed. “I really am! I didn’t know at first what you were doing! Don’t be mad!”

I finished zipping up the bag, knowing how easy I was, but not caring.

“Where’d you come from, anyway? Were you on the bus?”

She nodded.

“I just got off the one from Denver.”

The eyes might have been like ones from another lifetime, but the rest of this girl wasn’t. Her face was clear of makeup, and her straight, dark brown hair hung down to the middle of her back. She wore a big, red-plaid flannel shirt halfway unbuttoned over a white T-shirt, and faded, bell-bottom jeans with a hole in one knee. Bright, multicolored, embroidered bands of cloth were sewn around each cuff, mostly hiding the dirty sneakers underneath. I guessed her at twenty. She had a short, flat nose that turned up just a little, and a wide mouth that looked comfortable wearing a smile.

“Will you help me?” she asked again.

“Sounds like there’s an echo in here,” I cracked.

It was a weak joke, but it made her smile. She swept her long, dark hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ears.

“You’re not a cop, are you?”

“No, I’m not a cop.”

I fished a business card out of my jacket pocket and gave it to her.

“Bartholemew Crow?” she asked, heavy on the Bartholemew.

“Bart,” I said.

“I’d like to hire you, Bart. I can pay.”

She must have seen the doubt in my eyes.

“I really can!” she insisted. “My parents are loaded.”

“They send you all the way here by yourself?”

She gave a short pause.

“They don’t know I’m here.”

“What’s the trouble?”

“I’m looking for my daughter.”

“And you think she’s in Kansas City?”

She nodded as she spoke.

“Her father took her. He’s hiding her somewhere.”

At that moment, I didn’t need someone else’s problems. What I needed was to follow an errant husband so his wife would pay my fee, but there was an ache in these brown eyes that wouldn’t let me go.

“When did it happen?” I asked.

“About a month ago. I’ve been trying to catch up to him, but I spent all I had on this bus ticket.”

“Did you report it to the police?”

“Yes, but they didn’t do very much.”

I looked at her hard before I continued.

“How old is your daughter?”

“She’s three. Three and a half, actually. He took her from the baby sitter’s place while I was at work.”

“Can I see a picture of her?”

She looked surprised for a split second, like it caught her off guard.

“I left home so fast that I forgot to bring one.”

Again, I gave her a hard look. Something wasn’t right.

“What makes you so sure they’re here?”

“I just know this is where he would come. He has an aunt that lives here.”

She paused to sweep her hair behind her ears.

“Will you help me find them?”

“If they’re in Kansas City, I can.”

That made her smile.

“Far out!”

It struck me that she hadn’t introduced herself.

“What’s your name, anyway?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s Delores, but everybody calls me Dee Dee.”

Sounded like something a younger brother or sister came up with.

“Whatever you say. Dee Dee it is. Listen, are you hungry?”

She nodded.

“There’s a diner down the street that stays open all night. Come on, and I’ll buy you breakfast.”

“Bitchin’!”

Whatever she had with her besides the clothes on her back was rolled up in a sleeping bag. She stuck it under her arm, and we walked outside to my car.

 

 

TO BE CONTINUED