funnier line than mine. What I thought was even more humorous though, was that twice within the past hour two perfect strangers had correctly identified that my love life was in need of repair.
Was I really that transparent?
“So are you glad to be back home?” Linda asked in a gentle tone, when our mutual laughter died down.
I thought about it for a moment.
“After a rough start, it’s definitely turning out to be better than I’d hoped.” A short time later, I left the community centre feeling somewhat rejuvenated. Not only had I met a beautiful intelligent woman, who had never once alluded to my very noticeable facial scar, but she had invited me to her apartment the following evening for dinner.
Now if only the Jones file could be resolved so effortlessly.
I debated what I should do next. The thought of driving past the empty lot where my house once stood depressed me. I then toyed with the idea of finding Linda’s apartment building to decide if I should spring for a bottle of wine or a six-pack for our little get together. (I quickly came to the conclusion that a nice chardonnay would go great with her infectious smile.) I even dismissed the notion of touring past the Jones place for a look-see - at least for now.
Although it was still relatively early, I went back to the village’s only motor inn to go over the case file again. A few hours later however, I was awakened by a car horn honking outside of my window. I then glanced at the pile of papers sprawled across the bed, ones that I’d been reviewing when the need for a siesta overcame me. I straightened out the documents I’d slept on and picked up a few more strays off the floor. As I put them back in the folder, I hoped I hadn’t lost any.
Not that it would matter a great deal. The case was simple enough: On March 20, 1990, at 8:15 a.m., 45 year old Barry Jones - after kissing his wife goodbye and telling his two boys to behave in school - walked out the front door of his residence, entered his brown Buick and then drove off the face of this wondrous green planet. Or so it would seem.
Now seven long years later, Mrs. Jones was petitioning the courts to declare her chronically absentee husband legally dead, at which point the Global Insurance Company would have to pay out Barry Jones’ life insurance claim.
Terence McCormick, Global’s chief adjuster, had assured me that in most disappearance cases the company went along with the local police department’s reports and settled very quickly. But when the policy was for $750,000 and taken out by Mr. Jones only three months prior to pulling a Houdini, the company (as one would imagine) needed to confirm if the initial investigation had been run by Elliot Ness or Barney Fife.
I promised the adjuster I would do my best to find out.
“Just one final thing,” I’d said as I took the case folder from McCormick’s hand. “Are you hiring me because you think I can do the job, or because you think people will talk more freely to a local boy?”
“Both,” came the reply.
I then looked at the attached cashier’s cheque and knew the clock had begun ticking.
I had one month before Mrs. Jones’ petition was rubber stamped by a judge.
One month to find out what really happened that fateful morning.
And most daunting of all: one month to come face-to-face with my own demons and past indiscretions.
After a hot shower, I found myself in the dining area at Scooter’s and ordered wings and a beer.
The decor and feel of the place had changed very little from my youth. The biggest difference was a small dance floor where a four lane bowling alley used to reside. Never an avid fan of the sport, I did have fond memories of working one summer as a pin-setter. Not a glamorous occupation, but it required no thinking, the alley was air-conditioned, and I could engage in my new cigarette smoking habit in private.
Paid three dollars per game, I was able to substantially increase my fledging record collection, go to the movies with my friends every weekend, and still have enough money to treat my girlfriend to a romantic dinner of milkshakes and pizza at Henrietta’s Pizzeria. Henrietta’s had in time closed to make room for Fred’s Chicken Emporium, which in turn transformed itself into Heaven’s Burger Hut. Over the years the Hut must have fell out of favour because it was now Scooter’s Bar & Grill, whose claim of “The World’s Best Wings” I was about to put to a test.
“I don’t believe it,” the male voice behind me said. “Steven Cassidy in the flesh.”
I didn’t have to glance up to identify my one time best friend, Wayne Dugan. “Speaking of flesh - violated any farm animals lately?”
“Still have the world’s smallest penis?”
“Why don’t you ask your sister?”
We looked at each other and smiled. Wayne was as big and as dumb looking as I remembered. He stood 6’2” with a trim muscular build, achieved by working day and night on his father’s pig farm.
Wayne in turn appraised me. Like him, I imagined I hadn’t changed much over the years, at least not in appearance. I was still just shy of six feet tall, weighed about 175, with collar length brown hair, and a police-issued moustache. Just an average guy with average looks.
And a boat load of emotional baggage.
“Been a long time, buddy,” Wayne said, extending his hand which I shook enthusiastically. “Do you want some company?” he asked, grabbing the vacant chair across from me, spinning it backwards and sitting down.
“Go right ahead.”
Wayne shook his head in disbelief. “When Maria said you were back I thought she’d been sniffing paint thinner at first,” he said, reaching across the table to pick up one of my chicken wings.
“You were talking to her?” I asked surprised.
“We talk everyday.”
“You two aren’t . . . you know . . .”
“What - married?” Wayne laughed. “Are you kidding? I wish, but my wife would kill me!”
“You - married? Didn’t your mother tell you not to fall for institutionalized girls?” I joked.
“Constantly,” Wayne continued to laugh.
“So who’s this unfortunate creature that took pity on you? Do I know her?”
“Remember Trudy Babich? Blonde haired, 5’7” . . .”
Dumb as a beach ball, I recalled. “Played basketball,” I said diplomatically. “Tutti Fruity Trudy.”
“She’s the one,” Wayne replied. “Mother of our four kids.
Oh my, I thought, hoping Wayne hadn’t seen me wince at the news.
“Good
