Debts Unsettled, page 18
There was something else gnawing at the back of his mind. His feelings toward his father troubled him. His trips back to the Little League game and OMSI, and seeing his mother, had uncovered the resentment he had buried for years.
What happened to my father? What caused him to abandon me?
Michael’s father turned his upbringing over to his Michael’s grandparents and never looked back.
His grandmother told Michael, more than once, his attitude toward his father seemed hostile. He had maintained that it was more disappointment than hostility.
Needing to shift his mind to another subject, the mess waiting for him in his home office came to mind.
I can’t put it off any longer.
At his apartment building, he trudged up the stairs and through his door. He walked into his office and turned on the light.
A complete mess… I never use it… close the door… call it a storage room.
But he knew what he needed to do.
He’d decorated the office with what little of his father’s memorabilia he had.
Michael re-hung three pictures and the high school letterman jacket his mother had framed for display. The stripes on the jacket’s left sleeve declared his father’s abilities in baseball. It amazed him the glass didn’t break when the weasel flung it to the floor.
Michael returned two bowling trophies to the credenza, along with his father’s framed Bachelor of Science degree in marketing.
It was a struggle to put intact lamps, books, and pictures back in their pre-disheveled positions.
He stopped, sat in one of his office’s two overstuffed chairs, and pondered his purposeful avoidance.
Truth is, I don’t want to put them back—they’re the reason I don’t come in here. I need to get past this.
Michael knew his grandmother is right. Hurt, anger, and resentment pierced him through and through. But, since his father died 24 years ago, he couldn’t sit and talk, man-to-man.
He was staring at a framed photo’s glass, shattered from the weasel throwing it to the floor.
He leaned forward and, while letting the glass slide off onto the floor, pulled the photo from the broken frame. It was a picture of his father and his bowling team. Michael’s grandmother gave him the picture when he moved out.
Until grandma gave me this picture, I didn’t know he was a bowler, let alone that he’d been on a team that won their league’s 1988 championship.
Michael decided to cause an opportunity to talk to his father.
Walking to the living room, he removed the book from his briefcase, grabbed his phone and a jacket, then returned to his office.
He propped the photo against a lamp on the end table and set his phone’s timer for 3 hours and 50 minutes.
That’ll give me a ten-minute warning.
He opened the book and looked at his father’s team photo.
Michael was standing close behind a group of people watching. They stood 10 feet behind the woman who was taking the team photograph. “Let me take one more. Smile… on three, then counted: 99, 98, 97.” Everyone laughed; she snapped the photo. After the camera flashed, they applauded.
A short, portly man, wearing tan khaki pants, a red and black bowling shirt, and an ill-fitting toupee, turned while still laughing and clapping. He bumped into Michael. “I’m sorry. You snuck up on me,” which re-energized his laughing.
Michael gave him a friendly slap on his shoulder. “No harm done.”
Re-directing his focus, he saw his father walking back to where his teammates were gathering. His dad reached beneath one of the plastic benches, picked up his bowling ball bag, sat on the plastic bench, removed his bowling shoes, and placed them and his ball in the bag.
The back of his yellow and green bowling shirt read: Al’s Nursery.
Above the left front pocket read "Gutter Garrett."
From a table overlooking the lanes, Michael watched his father talking with his four teammates. There was a sadness in his demeanor, even when he was joking with his friends.
He was disconnected and… sad, the only word Michael could make fit.
They ended their conversation with an idea that brought on high-fives and laughter.
The idea turned out to be a celebratory drink in the adjoining lounge.
Michael followed the team and sat in an empty booth beside them. He sat and slid over until he was right behind his father.
He signaled the server and ordered an IPA, which resulted in a confused look. “Is that a beer?”
He realized that in 1988, the craft beer movement wasn’t in traditional bars yet.
“Yes… but I think I’ll take an unsweetened iced tea instead.”
“You got it. Iced tea coming your way.”
He sat drinking his iced tea and listening to the five team members relive the past season and complement one another, over… and over… and over again, until they, one by one, said good night. Michael was waiting for his father to get up to leave so he could approach him and start a conversation.
That didn’t happen. His father sat alone in the booth and ordered another whiskey, straight up.
Michael finished the iced tea he’d been nursing. He stood and turned to face his father.
“Excuse me, but I couldn’t help hearing you guys savoring your championship and wanted to offer my congratulations.”
No response. “Sir… did you hear me? Sir?”
“Yes, son, I hear you.”
He called me son. I can’t remember the last time he called me son.
Michael slid into the booth. “What’s going on? Anything I can do?”
“There’s nothing anyone can do.”
“Maybe I can help.”
“Are you a psychiatrist?”
“No, but I’m a good listener.”
“Well, I’m a lousy talker. Even more so when I’m not in the mood, and I’m never in the mood. The last thing I want to do is place my burden on a stranger.”
Michael leaned forward. “What’s your name?”
“Garrett… it’s Garrett.” He looked up and considered Michael for a few seconds. “Sorry I called you, son. I thought you were younger.” He held up his empty glass, signaling the server for another whiskey.
“That’s okay. My name’s Michael.”
His father winced. “That’s my son’s name.”
“Before I sat, you called me son. Should I call you dad?”
“No one’s called me that in a long time, which should tell you I’m an even lousier communicator with family.”
“Why is that?”
“Listen, I appreciate your concern, but this conversation is over.”
“Again, maybe I can help—”
His father held his palm in front of Michael’s face, cutting him off. “I told you… I am not good at this!” He tipped back his whiskey glass, downed it in one gulp. “Leave… me… alone!”
He turned his whiskey glass upside down and slammed it on the table. He grabbed his bowling bag and hurried away.
Michael felt like a kid again.
The server approached the table. “Excuse me, I heard Garrett yell at you—are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Do you know Garrett?”
“Yes. When I started three years ago, he was already a regular here.”
“Did you meet his wife?”
“No, but after she died, he talked about her a lot, especially when he’d had too much to drink.”
“What did he talk about?”
“How much he loved her, but when he’d been drinking too much, it was a different story.”
“What changed?”
“He cried and blamed himself for her death—”
The warm omni-directional wind hit him.
Michael was back in the overstuffed chair in his office. “What… that wasn’t four hours?” He said aloud while pulling out his phone to check the timer.
Only 61 minutes?
He wondered what went wrong. He read the entire book and should have had four hours.
Baffled, but time was insignificant at that point. He sat back and reflected on his conversation with his father.
After a few minutes, his conversation with the server came to mind.
My disappearing may have caused her to order herself a drink.
Her comment that his father "blamed himself for her death” bounced around in his head until his phone rang. Linda’s name came up on his phone’s screen.
* * *
BTH, hidden behind the low-hanging branches of a Red Cedar tree, watched Stephanie as she returned from dinner. He called Daniel.
“Yeah.”
“Boss, I’m watching the girlfriend. She just returned to her cabin.”
“What cabin? And where?”
“She’s staying in a cabin on a golf course in Helen, Georgia. I know you said you’re gonna call someone else in, but I can take her with no conundrums.”
“When did she check into the cabin?”
“We got here around 12:30 and—”
Daniel cut him off. “You’ve been there for hours, and you’re just now calling me? I told you to follow her and report back. That’s all I wanted.” He sighed. “We need you to have an alibi established when this goes down. Text me her address. Do you understand?”
“Yeah. You can make me do it, but you can’t make me like it.”
“I don’t care if you like it. If you want to work for me again, head back here tonight. Send me the text now. Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it, boss, and I’m commencing back.”
Daniel ended the call.
I’ve got to take his dictionary away.
* * *
Michael set the book on the end table and answered the phone. “Hey Michael, what’s going on?”
“I’m putting my apartment back together. How are you and Jacob doing?”
“We’re great. Jacob is still talking golf. You may have created a monster.”
He took a seat in one of the overstuffed chairs. “I love it.”
“We’d be happy to help if you need us.”
“Thank you. Please don’t take this wrong. Do you remember asking if I needed help with the room behind the closed door?”
“I do.”
“That’s what I hope you won’t take wrong. When you asked me what I’m doing, it’s something that I must do alone. I’m putting that room, my office, back together. It’s not that the office is more complex or harder than the rest of the apartment. It’s the emotions I’m working through. I don’t use the office and it’s becoming clear why.”
Linda didn’t respond.
Michael looked around. “The lack of memories associated with my father’s memorabilia… it’s like I bought a bunch of stuff at Goodwill and decorated my office with it.”
“Do you want to discuss it, or process it for a while first?”
“I want to discuss it. But give me some time. I’m discovering I have more resentment, even bitterness, towards my father than I thought.”
“Whenever you’re ready to discuss it, I’ll listen.”
“Thanks, Linda.”
Linda took a deep breath. “There’s something we need to discuss.”
“Okay, but my listening will be better than my discussion.”
“That’s okay Michael. I’ve been thinking about your meeting with Russell. I still believe he’s guilty, but I’m asking you to promise me something.”
“What can I promise you?” The conversation fell silent.
“I want you to promise me—” her voice broke, “that if you find Russell is not guilty—” She struggled to complete the sentence.
Michael cut in. “Linda, I once told you I’m very good at what I do. If I discover Russell’s not guilty, I’ll do everything in my power to find and bring the killer to justice.”
A few more seconds of silence. “Thank you, Michael.”
“I promise you, if that scenario plays out, I’ll get Russell to agree to never contact you or Jacob again.”
“I don’t understand what that deal could be, but I trust you’ll make it.”
“Thank you. Okay, let’s change the subject.”
Linda sniffled and took a deep breath. “That sounds good. You sure you’re okay to continue? We could talk tomorrow.”
“No. Let’s keep going. The weather forecast for next Saturday looks terrible, so I’ll check with the Hindler’s and see if their family cave is available. If so, I want to give Jacob his first golf lesson. Why don’t you come and encourage him?”
“I’d love to. But I guarantee Jacob won’t be as enthusiastic about having his mother come along, but count me in. Excuse me, Michael.” He heard her set her phone on the end table and blow her nose. “Okay, I’m back.”
“Let me call Matt and Carrie to see if it works.”
“Great, let us know. Talk to you later,” she said as she sniffed.
“I will, and thanks again for trusting me.”
“If you recall, I did a thorough background check.”
“Yep, all the more reason I’m surprised you still trust me.”
She laughed, then hesitated. “Michael, one more thing. I’ll say it again, please be careful. Russell is a liar and good at twisting his words.”
“And I’m good at untwisting them. But I will be careful.”
34
Michael headed to the Willamette State Penitentiary. Prior to leaving Portland, he stopped by his office to lock the book in a security file cabinet. When he walked in, Trevor looked up. “I thought you were out this morning, Mr. Mays?”
“I am. But I needed to stop by and take care of one item of business. I’ll only be here three or four minutes.”
“How’s your grandmother?”
“She’s okay. We can talk after lunch, unless my meeting gets cut short. If so, I’ll update you when I get back.”
“Oh, Mr. Cailen’s attorney got back to us. There was a voice mail when I came in this morning.”
Michael turned and walked back toward Trevor’s desk. “Great, what did she say?”
“They can meet with you this Thursday, at 2 P.M.”
“Okay, set it up and let the members of Hauler know. I want Ian and at least one other member at the meeting.”
“I’ll get on it.”
After stashing the book, Michael hurried to his car.
Michael walked into the Willamette State Penitentiary’s check-in room and approached the window. The uniformed officer was 60ish, matronly, and serious. “How can I help you, sir?”
“My name is Michael Mays and I’m scheduled to meet with Russell Curt.”
“Just a moment while I check.” She found his name on the approved visitor list. “Okay, there you are. You’re an attorney, sir?”
“That’s correct.”
“What’s the nature of your visit?”
“Reviewing his case.”
“I’ll tell the Guard’s office to bring Curt to the visitation room. An officer will be here in a few minutes to escort you.”
“Thanks.”
Michael took a seat in an orange plastic chair set against the concrete block wall opposite the check-in counter.
After five minutes, the Guard arrived. “Mr. Mays, I’m Officer Morrow, please follow me.” She was a taller version of the Portland police officer gym rat who investigated the break-in of Michael’s apartment.
Could be her big sister.
As they walked, she said, “I’ll be accompanying you and standing by as you meet with Curt. How long do you expect your meeting to last?”
“I shouldn’t need more than an hour. Will it be a problem if it takes longer?”
“No, but we want prisoners to take part in lunch, which begins at 11:45.”
Michael stopped at the door to the visitation room. “I’ll make sure we’re done in plenty of time for him to make it to lunch.”
Officer Morrow smiled, turned her head, and unlocked the door. “As will I.”
She pointed to a table. “Have a seat in the back corner.”
“Thank you, Officer.”
Michael opened his portfolio notebook and reviewed his notes. He stood when he heard the door being unlocked. Russell walked toward Michael, but his head turned to a table in the far corner of the room where an inmate was meeting with a middle-aged man in a tailored suit, whose leather briefcase sat open on the table.
Russel turned his head only enough to make eye contact with Michael. He lowered his head and raised his right eyebrow. His body language told Michael he did not want to be there.
“Mr. Curt, my name is Michael Mays. I’m an attorney. Do you prefer I call you Mr. Curt, or is it okay to call you Russell?”
“You can call me whatever you choose.”
They both sat. “But who are you, and why do you want to talk?”
Russell was a handsome man, early 40s, with brown eyes, black hair combed straight back, and a trimmed mustache. Tall, but three to four inches shorter than Michael.
“I’m an attorney, but the discussion I want to have with you isn’t a legal matter. I want to discuss a book on photography.”
In a heartbeat, the room went from being the last place Russell wanted to be to the only place he wanted to be.
Russell placed his hands on the table and tapped his fingers. “What do you mean, ‘book on photography?’”
“I met your wife. She told me your story.”
Russell looked away and shook his head. “Why? Who are you to her?”
“I’m a friend, and I bought the book from your son at their yard sale.”
Russell sat back in his chair and rubbed his forehead with both hands, then continued his fingers up through his hair. He clasped his hands behind his head while squeezing his arms against the sides of his head and leaned forward until his elbows touched the table.
Russell looked up, his fingers slid apart, and his arms dropped. His eyes met Michael’s. “What do you know, other than what Linda told you?”
“Enough to believe your testimony—I’ve used the book—as you claimed.”
Russell’s mouth dropped open while closing his eyes and shaking his head. Opening his eyes, he sat studying Michael for a few seconds. His right hand rubbed his cheeks and chin as if he were stroking a beard. “Too many thoughts are going through my head. But I keep coming back to this. If you bought the book at Linda’s yard sale, why would she give you background on it? She couldn’t do that with every customer.”
