Vanishing Act

It was dark when Jane left her groceries on the back seat of her car and walked out of the parking lot and across the street to the newsstand. It was a little open shanty made of boards with peeling white paint and a green metal awning that Raymond Illia covered up each night at sundown. Raymond was busy rearranging the bricks he put on top of the stacks of newspapers to keep the wind from blowing them away. He glanced up and grinned. 'Hey, Jane. Want to play cowboys and Indians?'

'No, Raymond,' she said. 'The Indian always has to talk funny.'

'You can tie me up.'

'You’ve been reading your own magazines again, haven’t you? The ones you keep face-down.'

'Caught me!' he said, way too loud. Raymond was Jane’s age, but for some reason his mind had stopped growing at about the time they were in eighth grade. Everybody knew it, and now it was long past the time when people had mentioned it in whispers and clicked their tongues, which was what they did when there was a tragedy. Deganawida was too small to ignore people. Instead, some subtle shift had occurred to accommodate Raymond, and life had gone on. Raymond got some sort of disability payment from the state, but he could read and make change, and it seemed to suit him to stand around outdoors, greet people and chatter and be important.

Jane stepped to the stacks of newspapers and picked up The Buffalo News, The New York Times, the Chicago Tribune, and the Los Angeles Times. She gave Raymond the coins, and he happily slipped them into the coin changer that hung from his belt. 'Take care, Raymond,' she said.

She walked back into the supermarket parking lot, got into her car, and tossed the papers on the seat beside her. As she started the engine, she glanced around to see if the aisle was clear, and her eye passed across the top newspaper on the pile, the Los Angeles Times: MYSTERY MAN SLAIN IN SANTA BARBARA. She picked up the newspaper.

SANTA BARBARA—A man found murdered in his apartment on a quiet street in this quiet seaside community has been identified as Harry Kemple ...

Jane closed her eyes and sat clenching the wheel with one hand and holding the newspaper in the other. She opened her eyes after a few seconds and forced herself to find the name again.

... Harry Kemple, a gambler who was wanted by the Chicago police for questioning in the death of a Mafia chieftain in a card game five years ago. Police sources say Kemple had been living under the assumed name Harry Shaw, but when police took the deceased’s fingerprints, a routine procedure in cases of violent death, they were surprised to discover his true identity. A spokesman for the Justice Department denied that Kemple had been in any witness relocation program ...

Heat seemed to travel in a wave up Jane’s spine to her neck and temples. Her breaths sounded strange to her, coming in little gasps, and then she realized she was crying. Harry was dead. Somebody had made a mistake. Harry had stayed under for too long to get caught any other way.

Jane tried to collect her thoughts. She had to call Lew Feng. She turned the engine off and realized her hands were shaking. She took the keys and hurried to the line of pay telephones on the wall of the supermarket.

She put a quarter into the slot and dialed the number of Westminster Stationers in Vancouver. The operator said, 'Please deposit two dollars and fifty cents.' Jane fished quarters out of her purse and pushed them into the slot. Finally, there was a ring. There were two clicks, and then the machine. 'Due to the recent death of the proprietor, Westminster Stationers will be closed until further notice.' It was the voice of Charlie Feng, Lew’s son. The machine disconnected, and Jane began to feel dizzy. They had killed Lew Feng.

She looked into her purse. There wasn’t enough change left. She couldn’t charge this to her home number. She half walked and half ran to Raymond’s stand. 'Raymond,' she said. 'Can you give me change for a ten?'

'Sure,' he answered, and started to count out bills.

'No,' Jane said. 'Real change. Quarters.'

He started pumping quarters out of the coin changer and whispering to himself, but he only got as far as five dollars before the coins stopped coming. 'I guess I don’t have it,' he said. 'Maybe the supermarket—'

'Give me what you have,' she interrupted, handed him the ten-dollar bill, and then ran back to the telephone.

This time she dialed the other number. It was the one in Feng’s back room, the one he gave clients in the name trade. This one rang four times before the machine kicked in. This was Charlie Feng’s voice too. 'Due to a recent death in the family, we will be closing our mail-order business. Please do not send us your change-of-address forms because we are discontinuing our mailing list.' It was a warning. Somebody had the list of new names. Charlie’s voice changed pitch and said something long in Chinese and then the recording ended.

Jane had not memorized the telephone number in Medford, Oregon, because having it in her mind would be an irritant, a constant, inescapable reminder that all she had to do was pick up a telephone. She looked in front of the phone book for the area code, then dialed information.

'What city, please?' said a young man’s voice.

'Medford.'

'Go ahead.'

'Do you have a listing for John D. Young? It’s a new number.'

She heard keys clicking. 'I’m sorry. We don’t have a John D. Young.'

Jane closed her eyes and tried to keep calm. 'I know the phone was ordered, and there was a number. He just got there a couple of days ago. Four at the outside.'

'I’m sorry,' he said. 'Maybe he hasn’t activated his account yet.'

'Is there a way to find out?'

'Not really. The business office puts the information in after the phone is in service.'

'Look,' she said. 'This is really important. He lives at 4350 Islington, Apartment B. Can you ring Apartment A or Apartment C and let me talk to them? They can find out what’s wrong.'

'I’m sorry. I can’t do that.'

'I know you have these things on your computer. Can’t you just call up an address?'

'I’m not allowed to do that unless the police or fire department asks me to. Is there any other number, I can get for you?'

Jane thought for a second. 'Yes. Western Union.'

The operator went away, and the universal recording of a woman’s voice said, 'The ... number ... is 555- 6297. Once again ... 555-6297.'

Jane dialed and a man answered, 'Western Union.'

Jane said, 'Never mind.' She controlled her frustration. 'Thanks anyway.' She hung up. Telegrams always had the name and address of the sender printed across the top automatically. If it didn’t get handed right to him, it would tell somebody the only place he had left to run to.

She leaned on the wall and thought. It had to be something that was open nights. She dialed the information number again. This time it was a woman’s voice. 'What city, please?'

'Medford.'

'Go ahead.'

'I need the number of a message service. One that delivers messages in person.'

'Any particular one?'

'No. If you know Medford, please pick one that’s close to Islington Street.'

The operator went off, and the female computer came on and gave Jane another number. She dialed.

A woman answered. 'Valentine Party Girls.'

'Excuse me?' said Jane.

'Valentine Girls.'

Jane’s head was pounding. 'Can I order a message delivered and pay over the phone with a credit card?'

'Sure. Tell me what day you’d like it delivered.'

'Today. As soon as I hang up.'

'Tonight? That could be tough. We have to arrange for the right person, and ...'

'No you don’t,' said Jane. 'I don’t care who it is, just so it’s right away. It’s not a fun thing. It’s urgent.'

'All right. Give me your credit card number.'

Jane pulled out her Visa and read off the number.

'What’s the address for the message?'