hope to be surprised.”
He thought about this for several seconds. Then he said, “If you don’t mind me asking, you know who Art Schlichter is, right?”
I sighed. I got this question a lot. “Former Ohio State and NFL quarterback who lost everything to his gambling addiction. Yes, I know who Schlichter is. What does that have to do with anything?”
“Nothing, I guess.”
“But you asked.”
“There are some similarities. You know.”
“Here’s the difference,” I said. “We both went to prison, but I’m the one sitting in a coffee shop on my day off trying to save your ass.”
4
Hamilton chose Door Number 3, though without telling his wife yet, while I’d attempt to make the problem go away as much as it was possible in the digital age. It wasn’t the option I’d have picked, but I was now up by a $500 deposit plus $100 a day in expenses. I lingered after Hamilton left, gulped a bit more coffee and took another bite of my muffin. I had one task to do before I got to work, and I wasn’t looking forward to it. I dialed the number from memory.
“Hello?” I could tell right away I had awakened her.
“It’s Andy,” I said. “Sorry to call this early.”
“Damn right it’s early,” she said, and I didn’t respond, despite the fact it was nearing ten.
Instead I said, “Something’s come up. A job. Guy called me while I was having coffee this morning.”
“You can’t make it.” A statement, not a question.
“I could lie and say there’s still a chance. Or I might be there, but just a little late. But, you’re right, I can’t make it. I don’t know how it’s going to unfold. So I’ll tell the truth.”
“And you know how I feel about the truth.”
“Absolutely.”
“And you also know how I feel about broken promises.”
“I’m sorry.”
“And how I feel about that expression.”
I didn’t say anything.
“On that note,” she said, “Goodbye.”
The hardest thing was not knowing whether she was disappointed I couldn’t make it. I knew I was.
At least, I think I was.
Back in the house I rent on Mohawk Street, I started by searching Facebook for Jennifer Rawlings. I found the same pretty-looking blonde from the video, her page locked to outsiders. I thought about sending her a Facebook message, but that could cut either way: it might provoke a return call, or it might scare her off.
Not sure what else to do, I called the number for the only Rawlings I could find listed in Upper Arlington.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice. Too old to be Jennifer.
“This is Mr. Weatherbee?” I said. “From the high school? For Jennifer?”
“She’s not here right now. Something I can help with?”
“Wouldn’t you know, our website’s gone down and I’ve been getting calls and e-mails about the assignment—lot of kids say they can’t access it, and it’s due tomorrow. I thought I’d just pass on the details by phone. Quicker that way. Do you know what time she’ll be home?”
“She didn’t say. Could I take a message?”
“Might be easier if I just talked to her myself. Or maybe I’ll e-mail her and you can just tell her to check that. As long as you think she’ll see it in time.”
“Oh, I’m sure she will. And I’ll text her just to be sure. She’s at the library, supposed to be doing homework. What class did you say this was for?”
“English history.”
“What did you say your name was again?”
“How about I leave you my number?”
It’s a funny thing, but over the years I’ve found that nothing allays suspicion on calls like this more than offering a way to contact me.
“Ah, sure,” she said. “Just a moment.”
When she returned to the phone, I gave her my cell number. “Nice speaking with you, Mrs. Rawlings. You have a nice day.”
“You, too.”
One of the things I like about Columbus is that, as big a city as it’s gotten to be, it still takes only about twenty minutes to get anywhere. And so it was that in almost exactly that amount of time I was driving up Tremont to the library in Upper Arlington. It was a tony old suburb full of comfortable houses, wide boulevards, tall trees, fine golf courses, stellar schools, and a Fourth of July parade that people start reserving lawn space for days ahead of time. It was a bit much at times—the ’burb’s nickname, “Uppity Arlington,” was not always undeserved—but its charms were hard to argue with. Jack Nicklaus grew up there, and Dave Thomas, the guy who founded Wendy’s, called it home for forty years. My namesake, the real Woody Hayes, moved there after landing the Ohio State job in 1950.
Which was one of the reasons, the cost of real estate aside, why I’d never considered living there myself. Just wouldn’t have worked out.
I eased my blue Honda Odyssey into an open space in the library parking lot, got out of the car, and headed for the entrance. Then I reconsidered and took a stroll around the lot instead. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking for, but I found it anyway underneath a tree at the end of a row of cars: a gleaming new red Mini Cooper with the license plate “JENI KAR.”
I walked into the library, went over to the information desk, and explained my situation. A minute later I heard the announcement over the PA system. And a few minutes after that Jennifer Rawlings walked up to the desk, wearing a tight white sweater, jeans that fit her quite nicely, and a frown that could have stopped Sherman’s army.
“I’m really sorry,” I said. “I dinged your car as I was pulling in. Do you have a sec—” I said, and gestured toward the door.
“Oh geez,” she said, with no improvement to the frown.
“Sorry,” I murmured, and we walked out together, the librarian at the desk casting a sympathetic look in my direction.
We walked without talking until we reached her car, at which point she stopped and demanded, “Where is it?”
I took two steps toward her. I said, “You’re Jennifer Rawlings?”
“Yeah, that’s me,” she said. “How’d you know my—”
“Here’s the deal,” I said. “I’m going to talk for five minutes and you’re
