Water from Stone - a Novel (24 page)

Fifty-Four

Sy.

Before going to bed, Sy calls Dora. “Listen, Dora,” he says after he’s woken her up and waited ‘til she is through cursing him out, “I’m not going back to New York. I’m heading outta here tomorrow morning and going to Denver. This woman headed out west somewhere. She comes from Colorado and she’s got a thing about mountains. Maybe she went home. Maybe she’s got some family or friends there that know where she went. In any case, that’s what we got. Meantime, I want you to start a search for single mothers, mothers on welfare, that kind of thing.”

“Sy, isn’t it time to call in the Feds? I mean, they’ve got more access to this kind of information…” Dora begins.

He thinks about that for a second. His initial thought is to say no, offhand. But, if Dora says it is time to call the FBI, it probably is. He rubs his hand across his balding head. Screw it. “Nope,” he says, “this is my game.”

“Yeah, OK, Sy,” she grumbles. “I’ll check records for welfare, W.I.C., whatever local programs they got out there. Maybe something’ll pop. You going out to the dad’s place?”

“Yeah, this little town, called Saliva or something. I fly into Denver and then drive out. He’s dead, but maybe someone remembers him.”

“What about Joe?”

“Joe?”

“Yeah, Joe Doodle? You know, Noodle Joe?”

“Holy shit! That’s right! Is that where he ended up? In Colorado?”

“Yeah, somewhere out there. Call me when you get in. I’ll try to find his number when I get to the office.”

“You think he’s still active? Maybe he’s on the force?”

“I don’t know. He was pretty pissed when he left here. Just wanted to get out there and be a cowboy or something.”

“Yeah, but he’s maybe got some contacts, probably friends with the sheriff or something.”

“Anyway, I’ll get his number for you.”

“You’re the best, Dora.”

“Yeah, fuck you, too, Sy.”

Fifty-Five

Sy.

The plane touches down at Denver International Airport around three in the afternoon. Sy goes immediately to the Hertz counter and rents a car. The desk agent hands him printed instructions for the GPS. Sy hands them back, asks for a real map. The agent insists the GPS is easier, tries to give the instructions back to him. Sy loses it. “Just give me the fucking map!” Freakin’ techno-nerds, taking over the world, so many of them they’re even working at Hertz, probably McDonald’s. Pretty soon you’ll have to order online, get your burger.

It takes him several hours to get to Salida. Just getting out of Denver confuses the hell out of him. The roads don’t seem to end up where they’re supposed to, and the locals show no fear on the roadways. A lot like Manhattan cabbies, always zipping in and out, but these guys do it with pickup trucks. Big pickup trucks, with oversized tires and gun racks on the back.  Shit, you drive around with a gun rack in the city and they’ll haul your ass in, send you on a nice, long vacation. These guys’re driving around with rifles in their cabs, hanging in their windows for everyone to see. And then, there are the hats. Real, true cowboy hats. Like in the movies, but these are real guys wearing them, not like some actor putting on a role, these guys – and the ladies, too – actually wear the damn things, keep them on in their cars. Probably cover a lot of bald heads. He thinks about getting himself one. Fucking New Yorkers would laugh him outta the city.

Salida itself is worth the drive. An old mining town nestled in the Fourteener Mountains, mountains in excess of 14,000 feet, it has experienced a rebirth, an influx of creative energy that has revived it and made it into a hip, funky, fun place to be. As he drives the streets, he sees too many art galleries to count, along with restaurants, bars, hotels, all the signs of a thriving economy. He pulls into the hotel courtyard and parks the car.

“Hey, Dora, it’s me,” he says when she answers. “I just checked in. What’s going?”

“Damn it, Sy, I wondered when you’d call. Why didn’t you call from the airport? Hell, why don’t you have a fucking cell phone like every other civilized human being in America?” she gripes.

“Ah, Dora, I guess that’s because I’m just not too civilized,” he grins into the phone.

Dora is silent. Sy does not, stress, does not, tease. Ever. “Uh, you getting enough air out there, Sy? You want me to call the hospital, get you an oxygen tank or something?”

“No, no, this is great! I’m feeling great. This place is beautiful, Dora. The mountains, I’ve never seen anything like them.”

“You’re worrying me, Sy. You’re gushing. You never gush. What’s going on?”

“I’m telling you, nothing. Not a goddamned thing. It’s just, these mountains…”

“Yeah, OK, the mountains. Uh, Sy, you wanna snap outta it a moment? Come down off those mountains, maybe pay attention?”

Fucking-A, is that jealousy creeping into her voice? Sy pulls the phone away from his head and looks at it in bewilderment. Is she freaking jealous of mountains? Sy shakes his head and laughs. Maybe he’d better pick up an oxygen tank. Or cut back on his meds.

“Listen, Nature Boy, snap outta it, will ya?” Dora says.

That gets Sy’s attention and he laughs again, feeling good. “Yeah, Dora, I’m here. Whatcha got?”

“I found Joe. It wasn’t too hard. Checked with the Chaffee County Sheriff’s Office. By the way, you’re in Chaffee County. Anyway, he’s a deputy there. Been with them a coupla years. Anyway, he’s gonna meet you for dinner, what, uh, let me see, uh, like seven minutes ago.”

Sy glances down at his watch. He hadn’t realized how late it is getting. Suddenly, he feels hungry, ravenous. His belly churns and he laughs again. “OK, so tell me where I’m supposed to be meeting him.”

Sy jots it down. “OK, Dora, thanks. You’ve been great. You want me to call you after I talk with him, or you want to sleep some?”

“Sy, it’s two flipping hours ahead of you here. I’m beat. Call me in the morning.” She hangs up.

Mountains! Shit.

Fifty-Six

Sy.

The restaurant is all frontier funky, with plank walls, floors and beamed ceilings, glassy-eyed dead animal heads on the walls, a huge fireplace with a real fire burning.

“Well, hell, if it ain’t Sy Colomanos,” booms a voice from behind a tankard of ale. The tankard is set down and Joe “the Noodle” Doodle stands up. He is a contradiction in every term imaginable. Barely tall enough to get himself admitted to the NYPD, a runt from every physical standpoint, he owns a huge voice, a voice that belongs on a much larger, much heftier man. He speaks, and the people in the next room hear him. In addition to his squirt-like stature, he looks uncomfortably like a weasel, all beady-eyed and sharp angles. Feral teeth and slim little hands add to the image. Joe never let his looks, nor his size, stand in his way, though. One of the nicest guys you’d ever want to know, and one of the smartest. Several years ago, he’d opened a magazine and seen a spread on Colorado. Joe Doodle decided to become a cowboy.

“How ya doin’, Joe?” Sy asks, realizing he is truly happy to see his old friend. And realizing there is something different about him, something off.

“I’m good, Sy. Sit, sit. You want something to drink? A beer? Whiskey?”

“I’ll have a draft, whatever he’s having,” he tells the waitress. “You look good, Joe. This place must agree with you.”

Joe laughs, a rumble that comes from his non-existent belly. “It does. Life’s great out here. Can’t even imagine going back. In fact, won’t ever go back. Who needs that shit when you’ve got Colorado?” And he laughs some more.

And then it hits Sy. There is something different about his teeth. They are huge, pearly motherfuckers. Not that little, rat-like stuff he used to have. Hell, these teeth look good enough for a toothpaste commercial. “You got teeth”, Sy says, somewhat indelicately.

Joe grins, showing them off. “Yeah, finally did it. I got married. You didn’t know? Well, yeah, how could you? Met this girl out here, owns herself a little ranch.  Shit, little. The things a thousand acres! Anyway, it was love at first sight. She suggested it, thought it’d help with the smile. I’ll tell you, man, I’ve been smiling ever since I met her!”

“Yeah, they look good,” Sy says. “Big.” And then he laughs, too. Must be the freaking air, he decides. He isn’t getting enough oxygen to the brain. But something, something about the whole place just makes Sy feel good.

Sobering up, Joe brings him around to the matter at hand. “So tell me about this case you’re working on. Dora – that’s her name, right? Well, Dora told me a little and I did some research. Hey, she tell you I’m a Sheriff’s Deputy now? Tried doing that cowboy stuff, but those horses are big! I’m telling you, they move fast, too. I leave that to the wife now, and I’m back in law. Anyway, Dora told me a little. I’ll tell ya, though, nobody around here remembers that girl’s father too fondly. He had a bad reputation for hurting women, that girl included. But I did track down an aunt. She’s on the same rodeo circuit as my wife. Anyway, I gave her a call and told her I’d be taking you out her way tomorrow. Can you be ready around nine? It’s about an hour’s drive from here.”

Fifty-Seven

Jack.

Jack puts his fork down and looks across the table. DeJon, usually so vocal at dinner, at breakfast, throughout the day, is silently picking at his food. “It’s OK, you don’t have to eat the leeks,” Jack tells him.

“Nah, man, it’s not the leeks. They’re not so bad.”

Jack nods. He’d figured as much. “What is it, then?”

“It’s just weird, you know? This whole thing?”

“The adoption?”

“Yeah, man. It’s like, I’m almost fifteen. Who gets adopted when they’re fifteen?”

“I don’t know,” Jack shrugs. “Is it your age that’s bothering you?”

“Naw, it’s not the age so much. I don’t know, Jack. It’s just weird.”

“Are you having second thoughts? Maybe you want to think about it some more?” Jack is due to sign the papers in the morning. DeJon’s mother, somewhere in Texas, where she’d finally turned up, has signed them already. Jack has been wondering when the boy’s meltdown would occur.

DeJon shakes his head and swallows hard.

The fact is, no matter how bad the woman has treated him all these years, she is still his mother and DeJon is struggling with the fact that she signed the papers. He wants to be with him, Jack is sure of that, but he is hurting because his mother signed her kid away.

“DJ, it sucks, I know it does,” Jack intuits his thoughts. “I can’t tell you what’s going through her mind, what happened in her life. I can’t, I’m sorry. I can tell you, when I talked to her, I thought, and I still think, that she thinks this is what’s best for you. ‘You give my baby a chance,’ is what she said.”

“It’s like she don’t want me.”

“Maybe she knows she can’t keep up with you and she’s letting you go so she doesn’t get in your way.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jack sighs. Talking to a fourteen year old, so full of opinions, is hard, but talking to one about his mother is like walking in a field full of landmines. “You’re smart, for one. Very smart. The school you were in just couldn’t give you the challenges your mind needs. You like school now, don’t you? You’re always talking about how great your new one is.”

“School’s fine,” DeJon mumbles.

“And you’re safer. Traffic sucks, there certainly are drugs to be had around here, if you’re looking for them, but the dealers aren’t hanging out on the corners, playing target practice with each other. Every other building isn’t a crack house. These are things your mom has to have been thinking of. She did what she did with her own life, but I know she wants more for you.”

DeJon pushes his steak aside and begins flattening his mashed potatoes into a pancake. “But, I’m black,” he mumbles.

“What?”

“I said, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m black.”

“I noticed.”

“And you’re white.”

Jack bites back a smile. “Can’t be helped.”

“So, is this some sort of social experiment or something?”

“Is that what’s bothering you? You think you’re a cause for me? Like Eliza Doolittle?”

“Who?”

“Forget it,” Jack shakes his head. “DeJon, listen, if you’re uncomfortable with this, we don’t have to go through with it. You can still live here, I’ll still take care of you, make sure you get a good education, put you through college. I don’t need to adopt you to do that.”

“Then why? Why are you doing this?”

A million memories race through Jack’s head, any single one which would have been answer enough for him. DeJon as a little kid, fiercely holding the basketball Jack had just bought him, afraid that someone would try to take it away. The same little kid crying brokenly a week later when someone had taken it from him. DeJon proudly showing Jack his first grade report card, his second grade report card, the trips with Lindsey out to the shore, taking him to his first Broadway play – that hadn’t gone over too well, but still – times on the court, at Father Mac’s, in arcades, taking DeJon up north to see the leaves change, taking him ice skating. “I love you,” he says simply.

“Ah, shit.”

Jack smiles. His own dad is forever telling Jack how much he loves him, so for him it is normal to hear it. He knows, though, that it has to be pretty uncomfortable for a kid DeJon’s age to hear it. “I’d be proud to call you my son,” he continues. “And I certainly think that my life’s been a lot better since you came here, so my reasons are kind of selfish, too.”

“I’m not gonna be your little girl,” De Jon tells him.

Jack nods. “I know. And I wouldn’t want you to try. The dresses, I don’t think I could stand it.”

“Shit. You know what I mean.”

Jack sobers. He knows that they’ve finally gotten to the heart of the matter, DeJon doesn’t want to be a substitute. “I know, and you’re not. Just like Mia, if she ever comes home, wouldn’t replace you.”

DeJon seems to weigh the truth in Jack’s words. Finally, he looks up at Jack and nods. “OK, just so we’re clear.”

“We’re clear.”

“We got any more of this gravy, Jack?”

Fifty-Eight

Sy.

At nine sharp, Sy is outside the hotel waiting for Joe, stomping around to keep his feet warm. When he drives up a few minutes later, it is in the requisite dirty pickup truck. Perched jauntily on Joe’s head is the requisite cowboy hat. He laughs loudly when he sees the look Sy gives him. “You live here long enough, son,” he says as Sy maneuvers in, “you take to the way of locals. Wasn’t no way the locals were gonna put up with a Deputy all gussied up like a city slicker. Those words I quote from the great Big Daniel Rasmussen, my boss, the Sheriff of Chafee County. Amen.”

“At least you don’t have a gun rack,” Sy concedes with a nod.

“Nah. That’s in the wife’s truck. Bloody coyotes’ll bring down a calf if you don’t get ‘em first.”

An hour or so later, Joe turns off onto a dirt road. They roll over a cattle guard that sets Sy’s teeth on edge, reminding him of the pain in his shoulder, and Joe announces they’ve reached Myrna’s aunt’s ranch. “Lady’s name is Trudy Mason. A real spitfire, if our phone conversation’s any indication. Or maybe hearing her brother’s name just pissed her off. I don’t know. Just understand, she’s not too fond of talking about him, and I didn’t even get into the real reason you’re here.”

The ranch house is a one-story affair with an unpretentious, wrap-around porch. As the pickup drives up, a variety of ranch dogs run out to meet them, run beside the pickup the last few yards, barking up a storm. 

“Get back, you dogs!” a voice calls out from the house. The door slams open and a rail-thin woman in denim and boots steps out. “Tango! Moon! Get outta here! Stupid dogs. You can get out,” she calls to Joe and Sy. “They won’t hurt you.”