adoption?”
“We’d do anything to help our daughter,” Mrs. Williams said, her voice trembling.
Mr. Williams pushed himself out of his chair and left the room. While he was gone, Mrs. Williams offered me more coffee. When her husband came back, he handed me a folder. “Mary said you’d be needing this. I made a copy,” he said.
I went through the folder. A downtown Denver law firm had handled Mary’s adoption. “Don’t know if they’re still in business,” Mr. Williams remarked sullenly. “It was twenty years ago.”
“They’re still around.” I’d dealt with the firm before. “Do you know anything about Mary’s birth parents?”
“No,“ Mrs. Williams said. “Mary was only a couple of months old when we got her. We think of her exactly as if she were our own.”
“And I think of you as my mom!” Mary cut in, her eyes growing moist. “I love both of you! But that doesn’t mean I don’t need to know where I came from!”
Mrs. Williams lowered her head. “Of course it doesn’t, dear.”
I stood up. “I’d like to thank both of you for your help.” Then to Mary, “I’ll let you know when I find something more.”
She looked drained. “I better get ready for work. Thanks for coming, Mr. Lane.”
“Johnny,” I said.
“Johnny,” she agreed. “I’ll walk you to the door.”
“Why don’t you get ready, dear?” Mrs. Williams said. “I’ll show Mr. Lane out. I’d like to talk with him for a minute.”
Mary didn’t look too happy, but she didn’t argue. She left the room, Lucy following her, wagging her tail, her body brushing against Mary’s.
Mrs. Williams smelled faintly of bathroom deodorant. She touched my arm in a conspiratorial sort of way. “I’d like to pay for this,” she said.
“I’m sorry. Your daughter and I have already made an arrangement. I think it’s important for her to do this herself.”
“My daughter’s a very stubborn girl,” she said, more to herself than to me. “This hurts,” she confided. “I know it shouldn’t. I understand why Mary’s doing it. It still hurts, though.”
I got to the door. I muttered something polite. Mrs. Williams stopped me. “I wish you could say something to her,” she said, an almost desperate pleading in her eyes. “But of course it wouldn’t do any good.” She sighed. “When Mary makes up her mind, there’s nothing anyone can do to change it.”
I agreed with her.
When I got home I checked in with my answering service. There was one message. Rude wanted me to see some fresh meat he had locked away in a freezer.
* * * * *
It was a slow night at the strip club. A handful of customers were seated around the stage watching a chunky brunette move sluggishly to a tired beat. When she slipped out of her panties, it was a completely mechanical motion. She could’ve been frying burgers at a fast food joint. The tables were all empty, except for one in the back where Rude was sitting, sipping coke from a can. He waved me over. The bluish green scorpion tattoo on his forearm wriggled its stinger, welcoming me.
“How much you willing to pay for some fresh meat?” he asked.
“Fifty dollars?”
He gave me a disgusted look. “That’s not even fifty cents a pound. Make it two hundred.”
I didn’t bother arguing. I paid him. He flipped though the bills, not really paying attention. “I do all the work and you get all the glory,” he said.
“Tough life, isn’t it? Where is she?”
“Haven’t finished my coke.” He took another slow drag on the can. “What do you think of Candy?” he asked, nodding towards the dancer on stage.
I took a quick look and caught her stifling a yawn as she lifted a leg. “Doesn’t look like she’s putting out much effort,” I said.
Rude frowned. “I can’t understand that type of work ethic.”
“Yeah, it’s a shame.”
“Damn right.” Rude drained the rest of his coke and threw the can at the dancer. She ducked and sent Rude a nasty glare. “You better show some life up there,” he yelled at her. “Or I’ll boot your fat ass out the door.” A couple of customers hooted in agreement. Candy started shaking her body a little more energetically, her small black eyes smoldering with anger.
“You gotta help put some passion into their work,” Rude said with a wink. “Let me give you what you paid for.”
I followed him to a storage closet in the back of the bar. He unlocked it and showed me Debra Singer sitting on the floor, knees pulled tight to her chest. By her feet were a sandwich, a bag of potato chips and a can of coke. She glanced up at me, her eyes small blue ice chunks, then looked away.
“Came by a couple of hours ago looking for employment,” Rude said. “I’d like you to know, I’m not charging you for the food.”
“You got a heart of gold.” I crouched next to Debra. My heart was pounding. I said to her, “I wish you had stayed put. I promised you I’d take care of things.”
“I’m not going back,” she murmured weakly.
“He’s not home. He’s in a hospital now.”
She turned to me, eyes wide.
“I guess he fell down a staircase. If you ever see him again, give me a call and I promise you he’ll fall down a much longer and steeper one.”
Tears burst out of her. I helped her to her feet. Her shoulders seemed so tiny and frail that I worried they might crumble into dust. As I walked her out of the place, Rude got next to me, looking sheepish.
“You’re going to write about this, right?”
“Any reason I shouldn’t?”
He licked his lips, watching me carefully. “You going to mention how I really found her?”
“You want me to?”
He lowered his eyes. “It would be a nice thing to send my mom.”
I pretended to consider it and then shook my head. “Sorry, I’d have to make a few editorial changes. I wouldn’t want my readers knowing I associate with the likes of you. It could hurt my image.”
Of course I wasn’t planning on writing about it. I couldn’t afford to. Not with my agreement with Craig Singer. But it didn’t mean I couldn’t needle Rude. As I left with Debra, I heard him suggest what I could do with my column. I don’t see much point in spelling out the details, not with them being as vulgar as they were.
Before taking Debra home, we stopped off for some pizza. She surprised me and ate a couple of slices. We talked for a quite a while. I explained how even with the rotten deal she’d had, she could still be okay. It would be an upward struggle for her, but hell, it was an upward struggle for us all. I told her I knew folks who’d had it just as rotten and somehow survived and did okay in life. Maybe even better than okay. Before we left, I gave her what remained of the three-thousand-dollar bonus her father had paid me. I mentioned she could use it for counseling.
When I brought her home, her mother answered the door. She didn’t say a word to either of us. Her mouth was squeezed into a tight oval, her eyes full of hate. Debra started to say something, then clammed up and ran past her, disappearing into the house.
“Don’t you ever show up here again,” Mrs. Singer warned me.
“Your daughter needs help right now. She needs you to-”
She slammed the door in my face.
I stood there for quite a while. I don’t know how long exactly, maybe ten minutes, maybe twenty. In any case, it took that long before I trusted myself to move.
All in all I felt lousy about the deal. Deep in my gut I knew Debra would’ve been a whole lot better off if I’d left her in Rude’s strip club.
