The Lost and the Damned (2 page)

“Lowell, between her and reruns of Mr. Belvedere, the show would have been more entertaining.”

“Yeah, you think a girl’s going to be fun, that it’s going to be heaven. It’s not even the Garden of Eden. It was just so boring. She was beautiful, but no amount of beauty makes up for boredom.  She’s no Helen of Troy.”

“That’s too bad. I know I was after her too, I think everyone was. I always thought that girl was a million bucks. I envied that you got lucky and had a date with her.”

“I’m not even sure if she’s worth half that. She’s a lot of trouble. Now I’m not saying to not go after her. Just, if you go for her, realize it’s going to be way more difficult than you think. Maybe a little scary.”

“Yeah, thanks for the warning at least. Say, the place you picked her up from, it’s –“

At this point I realized that someone was tapping me on the shoulder. I wanted to keep listening to the two men, because I knew it was important. But after I felt the tapping, I just wasn’t able to concentrate. It was as if something kept dragging my attention away whenever I had finally gotten it latched onto the two men. Finally I gave up on the conversation and turned to the man who kept tapping my shoulder. It felt weird to turn, almost like I was pushing against the course of a river, but I finally managed to swivel around.

When I turned and looked at the man, I was surprised. Generally people in my dreams are three types: people I know, the utterly average, and the bizarre. People I know are put in odd roles, but they’re generally familiar. The average are more like the two men speaking, utterly unremarkable without being remarkable in their unremarkability. The third was rarer, usually displaying one-note quirks, like a strict disciplinary schoolteacher with a giant mole that I dreamed of during college exams.  This man definitely was in the third category, probably some type of remnant from old episodes of the Fugitive I watched when I was unemployed.

Why? Because this man only had one arm. He wore a long overcoat, which I somehow knew was inappropriate to the season. Though the sleeves were long, I could plainly see that there was no arm on his left, starting (or ending?) somewhere below the shoulder. He was a thin, gaunt man with a pale face, sharp features, and thin lips. He had a strange knowing look and he did not flinch when I looked him in the eye.

He smiled when I finally gave him my attention, a grin of white teeth. He opened his mouth to say something, but instead of words, all I heard was a sound akin to a siren or a horn. His mouth moved as if he was speaking normally, but the siren seemed to be purposely censoring his words. He stopped talking and smiled, the siren ceasing as he stopped talking. He then reached into his pockets and pulled out two large pieces of paper, maybe poster board. He held one sheet in his hand and held it up to me as a sign.

This is where he did something which I thought pretty amazing. Even though it was a dream, I remember being really impressed by this. I admit that it was also somewhat creepy. But I think the feeling of amazement won out with me.

Still holding the first piece of paper, he raised the second piece of paper. This he did as if he had an invisible arm where his missing arm should be. He held the two pieces of paper in front of him, one of them held in his right hand, the other floating in space, his empty sleeve raised slightly. On the sheets of paper there were numbers. Spread out across the sheets were 44 47 072 32. The numbers didn’t mean anything when I looked at them. I did have enough consciousness to commit them to memory for later. He opened his mouth again, producing the siren noise. But this time, it seemed his voice broke through the siren, becoming a muffled shout almost garbled by distortion. He said but one word: “Now.”

The man smiled again.

I found my attention yanked around.  The two average Joes from the table were standing in front of me, their faces just inches from mine. Their eyes were completely black, no pupils, just black.

"KEATS -" began one of them in an otherworldly voice.

I woke up gasping for air.

The clock on the nightstand said four in the morning, the darkness of the room marred by faint light from a streetlamp streaming through the slats in the blinds. I was disoriented. Things never seem the same place I left them in the room when I wake up from a dream.  I seem to remember them in the layout of previous apartments I’ve had, sometimes the room I grew up in. After a few moments that disorientation ends and the dark shapes in the room are replaced with a certain sense of familiarity.

A few more moments and I would have forgotten about the dream entirely. With a shock, I knew I needed to hold onto it. I quickly turned on the light and grabbed the notebook I keep by the bed. I’ve had enough of these dreams to be ready. The first thing I wrote down was the numbers. After that, I quickly began scribbling down as much as I could remember from the dream, particularly the conversation between the two men. I felt that conversation was important and it would be necessary to get their exact sentences down. When I listened, I had the impression that they were talking about something else while seemingly having a boring conversation about a girl.

Eventually the memory of the dream faded and I was no longer confident if they had said this word or that word. It was starting to become subjective, which would be the place where I’d want to put my pen down. I stared at the words while chewing on the end of the pen, hoping that I had gotten it right and wondering what it all meant. So far, no bells were ringing.

I rubbed my eyes. Four twenty–five in the morning. I knew I should sleep, but I was a little juiced up by the furious writing. I went and watched TV for a while. MASH was on. That’s always the sign that you’re up too late. Mr. Smith, my feline friend, was on the ottoman next to me, but he didn’t even react when I got on the couch. He remained sleeping. Sometime during the episode I passed out on the couch and fell into a fitful sleep. I woke late in the morning, sore from the couch and not feeling rested. The television was still on, playing some game show. I flipped it off and forced myself to exercise.

I exercise every day – if I can. Sometimes when I’m tailing someone or staking out their home, I just don’t get the chance to exercise. But when I can, I exercise. I hate exercise, to be truthful. It’s not that I’m a lazy bum. I just get so bored because it’s so repetitive. I generally do a routine of stretches and martial arts exercises. I never got very far in any martial art, but their warm-up exercises don’t require any equipment and can be done anywhere. I’ve spent enough time in hotels and gas stations to know the value of do-anywhere exercise. I still hate exercise, though. I know I should do it, and that’s why I do it. For health and image.

I’m about six-foot-one with a strong frame. I’m not one of those guys who just naturally ripples with muscle. What muscle I have I worked for. One of the reasons I exercise is that I want to look and feel good. Other times I exercise purely for image. A six-foot-one man with muscle is more imposing and intimidating than shorter or less defined men. This opens doors when you’re a detective. Not that I directly threaten people, but it’s easier to add a little lean to my conversation to make them squirm and make a mistake.

After exercise, I waited for the hot water to heat up for the shower. I scratched my head and looked at myself in the mirror. Pretty good looking, if I say so myself. Not too worse for the wear after my thirty years on this earth. A few scratches and a very small scar on my cheekbone, but still pretty good. I count myself fortunate that my nose hasn’t been broken yet. I hear it gives a man character, but I’m not buying that. I prefer to keep my nose pristine for the lady in my life.

Unfortunately, there’s no lady in my life. Do you want to hear the lonely guy detective story another time? Start up the lonely guy jazz, pour me some gin in a dirty glass and start the tortured narration. You’ve heard it all before, even the narration telling you that you’ve heard it all before. It’s the same story, boy meets girl, boy loses girl. Things just don’t work out for me. I’m taking a break right now. Dating can be trouble.

I finished the shower and got dressed. I began packing my suitcase of things I would need on my trip. Mr. Smith finally deigned to spend time with me, rubbing his furry head against my arm as I packed the suitcase. Mr. Smith is the only real partner I have in this life, though I wonder if he would even want to call our relationship so close. I know he doesn’t like the hours I keep and since he’s an indoor cat, it’s not like he can go outside to seek adventure. If it wasn’t for Frannie, he would be a very angry kitty when I got home after a long day of surveillance. As it stands, he’s fickle and petulant when I do get home.

After I finished packing, I took a quick look at those numbers again. Just to see if anything clicked. No such luck. I got my shoes on and went next door.

Frannie answered the door after three knocks – I don’t think I’ve ever found her not home. She works from home programming account management software. She gets her groceries delivered and has every cable channel imaginable. I don’t think she’s actually agoraphobic, I think she just likes having everything she wants right there in her apartment. The door opened tentatively, just a small crack, but enough for me to see red curly hair and freckles. Once she saw it was me, she opened it up. “Morning, John,” she said lazily. “Another job?”

“Morning,” I said, “Yeah, another job. Out of town one, actually. I fly out a little later.”

“That’s a new one,” she said with surprise. “Must be big bucks if they’re going to fly you out. Sure it’s business and not pleasure?”

“I wish,” I replied. “If it were pleasure, I wouldn’t be going to Chicago.”

“Not a fan of the Windy City? I have a friend who just loves it there.”

“For pleasure, I’d go more Maui, Barbados, or Cancun,” I said. “Nice sandy beaches where the liquor flows freely.”

“Mmm, sounds nice. Need a companion?” she asked.

“For Chicago? Nah. Only if I’m lucky will there be sandy beaches. If so, we can talk.”

“I guess that’s the best a girl could ask for with you, huh?” she asked, then continued without waiting for an answer. “So you need me to watch little Smithy?”

“He prefers ‘Mr. Smith’,” I said.

“I think at this point, I spend enough time with him that I might know better,” she said.

This was almost true, sadly. I’m not the best cat owner. With the hours I keep, I just can’t be there. When I can’t be home, Frannie watches him, feeds him, and plays with him. She also likes to put him with her cat Barbara and pretend that they have a little kitty wedding. She always suggests we get them married “for real”. The subtext is not lost on me, as suggestions for dinner are not far behind. It’s not that I haven’t considered it, visions of red hair and freckles dancing in my head. Last New Year's Eve I was one glass of wine short of a reckless kiss, but I held myself back. While romantics would cite fate for us living next to each other, dating your next door neighbor has certain potential complications. Besides that, I mess every relationship up, so I’d lose her as a friend as well.

And yes, that’s cowardice you’re recognizing.

“I just need you to watch him for maybe a day or two,” I said.

“Maybe? Not sure how long your trip is? I figured you’d have a return flight.”

“I don’t know,” I said distantly, thinking about the dream. “I might have a lead. I might not. It’s… one of those things.”

“Well, don’t get lost there and never come back,” she said. “You’ll have someone who loves you very worried about you.”

Did she just say that she…? There was an awkward moment. She blushed and became as red as her hair.

“W-what –“ I started.

“Mr. Smith!” she blurted out, her eyes wide. “Mr. Smith would miss you.”

“Ah, yes,” I said quickly. “He doesn’t need to worry. I can take care of myself. But you’ll take care of him?”

“Of course,” she said, becoming just a little less red, “Just like he was my own. As always.”

“Good,” I said, pausing. “Well, I gotta go run and pack. Thanks!”

I beat a hasty retreat back to my apartment. I sat on the couch stroking a purring Mr. Smith where I had fleeting thoughts of red curls and freckles before getting back to the job.

When I arrived at the airport, I was no closer to figuring out my dream. I ran the numbers into a search engine, but didn’t get any meaningful returns. I tried different permutations of the numbers, but gave up on that. There were spaces between the numbers on the signs I saw. I think. The memory was getting fuzzy. But I wrote them down with the spaces, so that must be significant. I figured if I tried too many permutations, the results might be meaningless.

I waited for my flight, looking over the Vanders dossier again. Katie was the lead singer of SVMM, a four member rock band. She didn’t appear to have a day job, even when the band wasn’t making any money. I paged through the documents and confirmed she had a trust fund, which was what paid her bills. I confirmed again there was no credit card activity since her disappearance. I had her cards flagged so that if any were used, I’d have an email sitting in my inbox. So far, nothing. I looked back at the profile. She had a BA in Communications from the University of Chicago under Katherine Van Derholm. Shortly after graduation she had the name legally changed, probably to make a break from her father. Mother had passed away when she was young. Estranged from her father, who was now dead.

She was now the heir to the Van Derholm estate, currently uncollected. I read in the dossier that she disappeared within days of her father’s death. I wondered if there was some type of link. Maybe someone had a score to settle with the Van Derholms? But then I saw that the father’s death was a heart attack, so I put that theory on the back burner.

The dossier indicated her apartment was untouched, not even a suitcase missing. Kidnapping was definitely on the table. But why? She wasn’t famous yet. She disappeared before MTV started playing her video ad nauseam, launching her into success and stardom. Nobody had known she was really a Van Derholm, only a Vanders. She wouldn’t have been a ransomable target unless someone could tell the future.