a couple of watts and was slyly replaced by a devilish expression.
“Like I said, my boyfriend hates the beach.”
Our eyes met again in an I won’t tell if you won’t tell conspiratorial way.
“Your secret is safe with me,” I said.
This time when she smiled, I realized she still possessed that elusive sparkle which I had so envied earlier in the day. We have more in common than you would ever know, I mused to myself. Her walk on the beach with her boy-toy was a mirror image of Samantha and I walking across the parking lot at the Tecumseh Motel. We were both just selfish horndogs, with no sense of decency or respect for others.
“By the way, my name is Dawn.”
“I’m Steve.”
“Well, Steve, would you like a drink tonight?”
In my fragile state, I knew if I started to drink I wouldn’t be able to stop. That scared me. Alcohol is a depressant and I didn’t think I needed to be more depressed right now.
Why bother? the rational side of my brain asked.
“Why not?” I said to Dawn the waitress. “What do I have to lose?”
After taking my order, I watched Dawn saunter toward the bar. I knew I was in the midst of making a huge mistake but was unable to stop myself. I had long ago lost the phone number of my AA sponsor and didn’t think Wayne or Maria would want to hear from me again today.
When Dawn returned, she placed two cardboard drink coasters on the table and put my beer on one of them. I looked at the second coaster. “Is someone going to join me for a drink?”
“Maybe,” she laughed as she turned away. “That’s a commemorative coaster. Make sure you don’t lose it.”
I picked the coaster up and noted Dawn had graciously written her cell number on it. I watched her take an order at another table and wondered how many souvenirs she handed out each night; how many different collectors had taken a moonlit walk on the beach with her. Probably more than her boyfriend at home would care to know about.
I took a large swig of beer and placed the personalized coaster in my jacket pocket.
This is going to be a long night, I thought.
***
“Steven, he wants to talk to you.”
It was almost noon the next morning and my brain—now embalmed with beer and tequila shots—understandably took several seconds to kick into gear. When it did however, panic soon followed.
The voice coming from the next room was definitely female but what did she mean by he wants to talk to you? Dawn’s boyfriend? Her father? A Sex Crimes Investigator? I forced myself upright and took in my surroundings. I was fully clothed on my own bed and there were no signs I’d had any company the previous evening.
Then who was in the living room?
“Steven, pick up. This is important.”
Realizing the voice was coming from the answering machine, I sprawled across the duvet and grabbed the phone.
“Hello? Who is this?” I asked.
“Thank goodness you’re home,” the woman’s voice replied. “I already left you two messages and was getting worried.”
“Maria?”
“Of course it’s me. Who did you think it was?”
“I’m not exactly in the thinking mood yet.”
I knew her brief silence was an indictment of sorts; she was too classy to pursue the issue.
“I’m sure I don’t want to know, right?” she finally asked.
“Right.”
“Anyway,” she started with a disapproving sigh, “I called the penitentiary and spoke with Max.”
“And how did that go?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Meaning what exactly?”
“Meaning the person he really wanted to speak to was you.”
I adjusted the pillow under my now throbbing head. “Then why call you?”
“Because he figured I was the one person from high school who might know your current whereabouts.”
“They don’t get newspapers or cable in the big house?”
“Apparently not.”
“Did he say why he was looking for me, because when felons want to get together it’s not usually for a surprise party.”
“He said he needed your help but couldn’t go into detail over the phone.”
“Did you get the impression this was a personal matter or a professional one?”
“All he said was it had to do with his case.”
“Did you tell him I was a P.I.—or at least used to be?”
“I was going to, when the operator came on. She said we only had sixty seconds left before the phone would automatically cut us off. Max then asked if I could get hold of you and have you call him.”
I mulled this over a moment. “Don’t you find it odd that after all this time he wouldn’t try to contact me directly? What if you had married and changed your surname? Then what? Even getting hold of Doogie would be easier—he’s at least listed in the Delta phone book.”
“That is strange,” Maria said slowly. “I wonder how he got my number? It’s been unlisted for years.”
It was my turn to reassure Maria. “There are plenty of ways you can get an unlisted phone number—most of them legally. Companies sell customer lists to one another all the time. A magazine subscription or charity you’ve donated to in the past might have your home number on file.”
“Still . . . like you said, tracking down Wayne would have been simpler, don’t you think?”
“For all we know Max gave his lawyer a list of names from the old days and yours was the first and only one he checked.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“If it makes you feel better, I’ll ask him when we talk, okay?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Anything for you, Maria. You know that,” I said.
I hoped she knew I was being sincere but I’d understand if her trust level was not very high. She gave me the phone number and explained the procedures she’d had to go through to talk with Max.
“Did
