Debts Unsettled, page 4
Jacob looked at Michael with a wide grin. “Almost,” as he brought his right hand back around and shook Michael’s hand. “I’ll keep trying ‘til I get it.”
“Won’t be long and you’ll have it perfected.”
Michael turned his attention back to the book. The book’s title, ‘Making Pictures Come to Life,’ had caught his attention.
The clear packing tape that bound the book piqued his curiosity the most.
Why keep it from being opened? The stains on it, wine, blood?
“All right, I’m interested in photography, so I’ll give you two bucks for it, but that’s it.” Jacob was about to counter. Michael made a stop motion with his hand. “That’s 100% more than your mom wants for it.”
Jacob’s eyes widened. He grinned and couldn’t help but give a small fist pump. “Okay, it’s yours,” Jacob said, as he placed the Matchbook cars on the table. From the waistband of his Portland Trail Blazers gym shorts, he pulled out a plastic Walgreens sack and dropped the book into it.
Before paying, Michael asked, “Hey, Jacob, I collect vinyl record albums. Do you have any?”
Without speaking, Jacob mouthed, Vinyl record albums, like it was a foreign language.
Michael handed Jacob two one-dollar bills. “That’s okay, Jacob. Good doing business with you. And I enjoyed meeting you.”
Jacob arched to see Michael’s face. “You too, thanks.” It was not because Jacob was small for a 12-year-old. Most people looked up when talking to Michael.
When they did, they found he had dark brown hair, green eyes, and chiseled facial features. Women considered him handsome and single men viewed him as competition. Although he wasn’t as lean and fit as he was in his college sports days, he was still strong and agile.
Monday through Friday, Michael dressed in either a suit or sport coat and slacks. On weekends, his choice was to get out of his “uniform” and into denim and un-tucked flannel. That morning, he also wore a jacket.
After the yard sale diversion, Michael set out for the first of his two Saturday morning destinations, The Coffee Shop. Not a clever name, but there is no doubting what they sell.
The Coffee Shop was on a corner. During the 1930s, the building was a drugstore and soda shop. The two floors above the business still housed renters. Or, as The Coffee Shop’s owner called them, “built-in customers.”
The owner had refinished the original oak cabinets and counter. Customers enjoy sitting at the counter and talking with the baristas.
On the two exterior sides of the shop, the original wood casement windows stretched from the ceiling down to table height.
The builder had set the front door in the building's corner, where the two windowed walls met. Customers entered the door from two sidewalks.
Every time Michael entered The Coffee Shop, it reminded him of waking up to the good-morning aroma of coffee in his grandparents’ house.
He ordered coffee and a chocolate filled croissant, then wound past several tables to a window table he had spotted when he entered. He placed his things on the table and returned to the counter. His grandmother came to mind as he waited for his order. She had not allowed him to drink coffee until he was a senior in high school.
I’ve more than made up for what I missed.
Back at the table, he ate his croissant and placed his lips on the rim of the cup, blew, and sipped. The coffee cooled as he made his way through the mid-week Oregonian newspaper, which he’d saved for that morning.
He had access to the daily on-line editions, but enjoyed holding the real thing, snapping it open, and taking in the fusion of ink, newsprint, pastry, and coffee.
Smells like weekend mornings.
Tomorrow morning, he would be back having coffee and a chocolate croissant with Sunday’s Oregonian, the second of the two weekly printed editions.
He opened the sports section first and read a report on the latest Blazer game.
That was a good game, Blazers 111, Kings 108.
He recalled hearing a co-worker say with sarcasm, “Just give each team 100 points and two minutes on the clock. The results would be the same.”
While sipping his coffee, he looked out the window. The dark, threatening skies brought Gwen to mind. He loves basketball and wished he could have seen that game sitting in his season-ticket seats.
But that ended with Gwen’s divorce settlement, or as Michael said too often, “Gone with the Gwen.” He told his mind to go elsewhere, nothing good to see in that storm cloud.
His mind jumped.
Why is that book taped shut?
Jacob is a sharp 12-year-old. I’m impressed.
Blood or wine stains?
His coffee and croissant gone, he checked his phone. It was 9:50, 10 minutes until the record shop opened.
Most Saturdays, he left his newspaper on the table for the next Saturday morning coffee junkie. But the skies were getting darker and more threatening. He folded the newspaper in half and placed his yard-sale sack between the fold.
Might need an improvised umbrella.
Michael stood and turned to leave. He noticed Stephanie Clark sitting at the table behind him. His face lit up.
Stephanie was in her mid-thirties. There are people who would say she is plain. Michael found her attractive. Freckles crossed the bridge of her nose, and her cheeks dimpled when she smiled. She was always up and positive, although a touch sarcastic, which Michael enjoyed.
“Hey, Steph, I didn’t see you come in. I thought you hadn’t shown. How goes your morning?”
She looked away from the window and smiled. “Great.”
Without a doubt, that smile could push aside my search for old vinyl records.
“Even better now,” her smile growing. “When I walked in, your newspaper had you engrossed. I hoped you’d look around before you left.”
Stephanie had pulled back her auburn hair. It cascaded over the hood of her rain jacket.
“You’re prepared for what the sky’s threatening—beautiful color,” as he pointed to the rain jacket.
“It’s called ‘Wild Geranium’.”
“Whatever it’s called, you make it look good. Auburn hair and blue eyes against wild geranium… stunning.”
Her face became the color of her jacket. “Be still my heart.”
They hurried into their typical small talk.
Though not unusual for a professional photographer to carry, Michael pointed to the camera on the table. “I don’t think I’ve seen you with this camera.”
“It’s new. I bought it to use with a 300 MM, f2.8 lens… blah, blah, blah,” as she waved her hand as if brushing the camera off the table.
“I think I mentioned I’m teaching a Saturday afternoon photography class.”
“That’s right, you told me that two weeks ago.”
Well, the vinyl record search is back on.
“Today, I’m teaching my last session. I meet my students downtown for lunch and give them feedback on the photos they’ve shot during the past week. Then we’ll be on the streets of downtown Portland until dark.
“I’m hoping the rain holds off, but then again, rain can make for interesting shots. I must walk back home to get my car. So, just in case, I’ll grab an umbrella.”
“I hope it goes well for you, rain or no rain.”
A white-haired man approached them. “Excuse me.”
Stephanie and Michael both looked up. “Hi.”
He smiled and shook their hands. “My name’s Joe. I’m leaving and wondered if you could help me?”
“We’ll try,” Michael said, as he glanced at Stephanie.
Stephanie jumped in and covered Michael’s lack of introductions. “Hi, Joe, I’m Stephanie and this is Michael. How can we help you?”
“Thank you. But first, what a good-looking couple you are. Do you have the same last names?”
“Well, we’re… we’re… not a couple.” The words stumbled out of Michael’s mouth.
Stephanie jumped in again. “But we are good friends. We see each other here most Saturdays. And, no, my last name is Clark and his is Mays.”
“Hmm, fooled me. I think you should rethink your relationship.”
Stephanie and Michael both blushed, then Stephanie said something that left Michael speechless.
She looked at Joe and cocked her head while making a slight nod of agreement. “You might be right, Joe.”
Joe said, “I’m not from Portland. I’m here on business. I hear there’s a used record shop in this neighborhood. Do you know where it’s located?”
“Yes,” Michael said, then gave him directions. “That’s my next destination. Maybe I’ll see you there.”
“Thanks. Yes, I might still be there.” He winked at Stephanie as he turned and went back to his table to gather his coffee and coat.
Michael recovered from Stephanie’s response to Joe. “Anyway, I’d love to see the photos you get today. Will you be here next Saturday?”
Her response both disappointed and pleased Michael. “And I’d love to show them to you, but I’m going to the East Coast on assignment. So, I’ll be out of town the next four Saturdays. But when I get back, buy me coffee and I’ll show you the photos… and… I’ll throw in the best of those I shoot back east.”
“Deal, and I’ll throw in a pastry of your choice.”
“Thanks again,” Joe said, as he raised his coffee cup in a salute, then walked by with his coat on his arm.
“Goodbye, Joe,” echoed both Michael and Stephanie.
Stephanie added, “Good luck finding what you’re looking for at the record shop.”
Walking toward the door, Joe again lifted his arm in a salute. “Thanks.”
* * *
Michael and Stephanie did not know the man they’d just talked to would as soon kill them as talk to them. Outside the shop, white-haired Joe—AKA, Daniel Wygal—thought, Michael hasn’t realized it yet, but we’ve met. I’ll make sure he never realizes it.
Just a folded newspaper in his hands; wrapped around a plastic bag, the book could have been there… or not.
Daniel couldn’t take that chance. If Russell was telling the truth, keeping Michael from using the book motivated Daniel to do whatever it takes, including killing him.
After meeting Michael face-to-face and hearing his voice, Daniel knew beyond doubt Michael was the same guy from 30 years ago.
7
After saying goodbye to Joe, Michael wrote his cell number on one of his business cards. "Stephanie," he said as he handed her the card, “Call me when you get back in town. I have a better idea than just coffee and croissants. I’ll take you to dinner and you can show me your photos as you tell me about your trip.”
“You’re on. I’d love that.”
Michael gave her a hug. “Have a wonderful trip; I look forward to seeing you when you get back.”
Her blue eyes smiled. “Likewise.”
Michael headed to Vinyl Grooves. A vinyl junkie for as long as he could remember, he had always admired his mother for resisting the transition to compact discs in the early 80s. During the first 12 years of his life, the only music she played was from vinyl records. His earliest memories were of sitting on the floor with her as she interpreted lyrics. Michael believed his vinyl habit was a tribute to his mother—keeping her memory alive by rescuing old vinyl albums.
He walked into Vinyl Grooves. The familiar musty odor that permeates used record stores met him. To Michael, it was the aroma of a quest, even adventure.
After half an hour, he gave up his search. He was not enjoying the search. Stephanie leaving was on his mind.
But he made a great find. Left Banke’s 1968 album, ‘Left Banke Too’ in excellent condition.
“Thanks for the directions, it was easy to find.”
Michael looked up, “Hey, Joe… did you find something you can’t live without?”
“What I found I can live without.” Michael tilted his head and his brow wrinkled as he looked Joe in the eyes while considering his response.
Joe turned to leave. “Good to see you. I hope I run into you again.”
“Yeah, who knows, Joe. We might cross paths again.”
Michael went to the cashier counter. The attractive, pierced and tattooed young woman rung up his sale. “That will be $15. Do you know there are tracks on this album that have a young Steven Tyler, pre-Aerosmith, as a backing vocalist?”
“Yes.” Michael marveled as he pulled out his wallet. “I am stunned. We’re probably the only people in Portland who do.”
“Well, I read anything that discusses the history of rock. I love both power and baroque pop. Both were Left Banke’s genres. We sell new and used music magazines, and reference books too. I enjoy reading when business is slow.”
“Okay, you’ve elevated yourself in the world of my favorite music genres.”
She handed him five dollars change. “I’m glad.”
He put the five in his wallet and moved to pick up his newspaper. As he did, the book slid out of the bag. She looked at the newspaper and the book, then at him. She pulled out a big plastic bag from beneath the counter. “Those, along with your album, will fit into this.”
“Thank you, again. Please don’t take this as me hitting on you, but you have a beautiful, friendly smile.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your compliment. Truth-be-told… guys hitting on me all day long wears me out—tiresome.”
“I bet it does.”
She looked down, placing his album and book into the Vinyl Grooves bag. “You’ve been in here before, right?”
“I come in almost every Saturday. You’re new, aren’t you?”
“I’ve only been here a month.” She smiled and considered Michael for a few seconds. “Are you an attorney?”
“I am. How did you know?”
“A friend, well, more like an acquaintance, mentioned you last week as we talked music.
“She told me you come here every Saturday after visiting The Coffee Shop. I told her I’m in a band that plays the same genre of music as on the CD she bought. She asked me if our band plays original songs. I told her, yes, but I’m the only member who writes.”
The salesclerk handed Michael his bag. “She recommended I ask if you’d be willing to give me copyright advice over a cup of coffee… I’ll buy.”
“First you try to impress me with your knowledge of power pop music, then you invite me to have coffee with you. You’re right, it gets tiresome being hit on, even by a beautiful woman.” That caused them both to laugh, and her to turn red. “What’s your friend’s name?”
“Stephanie. I don’t know her last name, but she comes in and buys CD’s. She’s been in at least once a week since I’ve been here. We’ve connected, so if I’m not busy, we talk for a while.”
“Isn’t Stephanie great. What’s your name?”
She reached out her hand. “Leanna Jones.”
“Leanna, my name’s Michael Mays. I’d be happy to sit and talk over coffee. I can steer you in the right direction.”
“Wow, that would be great, thank you.”
“My pleasure. I’ll be back next Saturday.”
As Michael turned to leave, Leanna said, “Oh… Michael. Yesterday, the guy you were talking to a few minutes ago was here earlier asking about you.”
“What? Did he give you a name?”
“Yes, Joe.”
Michael turned his head and looked out the windows. “Hmm, did he say why he was looking for me?”
“No. Just that he was an old friend and hasn’t seen you in years, but wants to reconnect. Which struck me as odd—if he hasn’t seen you in years—how did he know to come to this shop? Even more so now. I couldn’t help but hear your conversation. There was no sign he’s an old friend.”
“Wow, that is odd. I met him minutes ago at The Coffee Shop. He stopped and asked for directions here.”
“But he was here yesterday? And before you came in this morning, he walked around, but didn’t look at anything other than me. Several times, I caught him staring at me. It was creepy.”
“Yeah, I bet it was.”
Michael pondered what Leanna told him as he wrote on one of his business cards. “Here, I’ve written my personal cell number on the back. Call me when you’re ready to meet.”
“I will... thank you.”
“I look forward to meeting with you, Leanna.” Michael started to turn, but stopped. “Before I head home, I’ll walk around the block to make sure he’s not lurking outside.”
“I appreciate that,” Leanna said. “See you next week.”
He walked out of the shop with both Saturday morning treasures protected and the possibility of a future client. He stopped and, on his phone, noted Leanna Jones’s name, along with the date and location where they met.
As he walked around the block, he stopped at each corner. His survey included cars parked on both sides of the street.
There was no sign of Joe. Back at the entrance to the record store, Leanna was watching him through a window. He smiled, gave her a thumbs up and waved. She returned his smile and wave.
As he headed home, his thoughts returned to Stephanie, and how their Saturday mornings are the closest he’s been to dating since his divorce.
Pitiful.
After walking a block, something in the corner of his eye caught his attention.
A white van was racing toward him and increasing speed.
It swerved into him.
Michael jumped.
But the van’s rear quarter panel hit him hard, sending Michael flying.
The van sped away as Michael tumbled twice. His left hip slammed against the curb, stopping his momentum.
Blinking his eyes, he sensed he’d just regained consciousness. Before trying to stand, he assessed the seriousness of his injuries. His clothes were dirty and there was a blood-soaked tear in the right knee of his jeans. The lump on the back of his head throbbed, and there were bloody scrapes on both elbows.
Sloth-slow, he moved his arms and legs.
They’re okay.
While standing, he picked up and checked the plastic bag. The book and record album were okay. His phone was lying five feet away. It still worked. Judging from the timestamp on the note he’d made about Leanna, he figured he was unconscious for less than a minute.
