They talked softly for a few minutes, then he held the door open for her, giving her his model’s grin.
McGinnes, knocking the dirt off his shirtsleeves, moved quickly up the aisle towards the cashier’s station. Malone arrived at the same time. McGinnes folded his arms and stood straight.
“Yeah,” he said. “Twenty dollar spiff. Another ten bucks commission at four percent. And a fifteen dollar pop for the service policy. Forty-five bucks for fifteen minutes’ work.” He paused to rock back on his heels. “I love this business.”
“I’d love it too,” Malone said, “if I could get an up.”
“You had an up,” McGinnes said.
“That wasn’t no up,” Malone said. “That was just a freak.”
McGinnes said, “If you hadn’t ntyou hadnbeen dickdancing around with her in the back, you could have had my customer up front.”
“That’s all right. I got a date with that redbone tonight. And I’m still gonna smoke your ass this month, Mick.”
“Listen, you guys,” I said, “this is fascinating. But I’ve got to run across the street for about an hour. Tell Louie when you see him, hear?”
The old man’s apartment was in the same disarray as the night before. Sunlight came through the window in a block, spotting the layer of dust that had settled on the cherrywood furniture.
Pence was wearing what appeared to be his only outfit. His hair was slicked down, and he had begun a part on the left side of his head but apparently had given up on the idea halfway through. He smelled of whiskey and Old Spice.
“You want some coffee?” he asked. “I reheated it when you buzzed me from downstairs.”
“Black, thanks.” He marched into the kitchen with short, quick steps.
I avoided my old chair and found another seat. Near the dining room table, on a two-tiered stand, was the color set McGinnes had sold the old man, a middle-of-the-line profit model. Below it was a videocassette recorder that I didn’t recognize. I got up and walked over to the unit to examine it more closely. The nameplate read “Kotekna,” which I gathered to be a Korean brand. Stamped across a metal plate on the back were the model and serial numbers, the model number being KV100. Following industry logic, “KV” stood for “Kotekna Video” and the “100” series indicated that this particular unit resided in the lower end of the line. The recorder was not hooked up to the television.
“Professional curiosity?” Pence asked, returning with two mugs of coffee and setting one down on the small table next to my chair. I got off my knees, crossed the room, and took a seat. Pence sat in his chair, lit a smoke and leaned forward.
“A bad habit of mine, from being in the business too long. My hosts always catch me inspecting their equipment.”
“My grandson bought that recorder for me,” he offered. “Some kind of employee purchase deal he worked out with your company.”
“That’s a new brand for us, then. I didn’t even know we sold Kotekna.”
“You sell it, son. It came from your warehouse. Still have the box.” He dragged on his cigarette.
“When’s the last time you saw Jimmy, Mr. Pence?”
The old man waved some smoke away from his face to get a better look at me. I sipped from the mug of coffee. “It was the last Monday in September. He left for work at the usual time, near eight.”
“And you haven’t heard from him since?”
“No. Your personnel lady called two days later, on a Wednesday.”
“And you made no effort to contact anyone about this until you reached me, two weeks later?”
“That’s right.”
“You must have been worried.”
“You’re damn right I was worried,” he said, agitated. He butted his cigarette. “Let’s go on.”
“When he said goodbye to you that morning, was there anything unusual about the way he acted, something that may have made you suspicious in any way?”
“I’ve thought about that a lot since he’s been gone, as you can imagine. Jimmy wasn’t one to show his affection. But on that last morning he kissed me good-bye and squeezed my hand.”
“Like he knew he wouldn’t be seeing you for a while?”
“That maybe. Or he was in trouble and asking for help.”
“Was he carrying anything with him that morning? A suitcase?”
Pence laughed sharply. “I’m old, Mr. Stefanos, not senile. He only had a small knapsack, and he carried that with him every day. Kept a radio in it with earphones.”
“Is his suitcase gone?”
“No.”
“Mind if I have a look in his room?”
“Of course not.”
I followed him down a short hallway. We passed Pence’s room on the way. The shades were drawn and the air was stale with cigarette smoke. Pictures of his dead wife and daughter sat on his nightstand, facing an unmade bed. I walked on.
Jimmy’s room was brighter than the old man’s. The single bed had been made up neatly and clean underwear had been folded and placed upon it. Posters of postpunk bands like the Minutemen and Husker Du were crookedly tacked to the wall. A bulletin board hung over his dresser, on which were tacked ticket stubs from concerts. Many of the stubs were from larger halls, like Lisner and DAR. A few were from the Warner. But the majority of them were small red tickets with black stenciled lettering, reading “The Snake Pit.”
“You see anything?” Pence asked.
I shook my head and admitted, “I don’t know what I’m looking for. I’ll head downtown tonight and ask around. I could use a photograph of Jimmy if you have one.”
“I thought you might,” he said and produced two folded pictures from his back pocket. “One of him’s his graduation picture from Wilson High last year. The other one I found in his drawer. Looks like him at a party or something.”
I took them both. The graduation picture was typically waxen and told me little about the boy, though there was a small skull and crossbones pinned to his lapel which suggestetthich sued a touch of insolence, not unusual for someone his age. I thought his eyes drooped rather sadly at the corners.
The second photo said more about the boy. He stood erect, facing the camera, while his companions danced around him. He was unsmiling, had a cigarette cupped in his hand, and wore black motorcycle boots, jeans, and a T-shirt. A shock of hair hung down over his left eye.
I felt a faintly painful blade of recognition slide into my stomach. Though the T-shirt had changed from Led Zeppelin to Minor Threat, this was me, over a dozen years ago.
“This is how he looks now?” I asked.
“Everything but the hair. He shaved it off a couple of days before he disappeared.”
I put the photos in my jacket as we left the room and walked towards the front door of the apartment. The old man grabbed my arm to slow me down.
“I took the liberty of calling some private detective agencies this morning,” he said. “The average going rate seems to be two hundred a day plus expenses. That will be my offer to you.”
“I’m not a private detective,” I said. “And anyway, I could run into him tonight. We’ll settle later.”
“Yes, of course,” he said halfheartedly. He looked small standing in front of me. My sight lit again on the VCR wires lying unconnected on the floor.
“You want me to hook up that recorder for you before I go?”
“No, thank you,” he said. “Jimmy brought that to me, and he can hook it up, Mr. Stefanos. When you bring him home.”
The old man’s eyes were still on me as I closed the door and stepped out into the hall.
