The Space He Filled

By Tom Szollosi

Mike Cotter's son, Keith, hasn't just moved out -- he's vanished. Fatherly concern quickly becomes genuine alarm: this isn't like the Keith Mike knows and loves. He could never be so cruel. Soon Mike looks up an old friend, former cop Stan Backus, to help him in his desperate search to find his boy and hold on to his family. Stan, a wise and seasoned pro, has a gut feeling that Keith just wants peace of mind and independence, like most kids who disconnect in such a radical way. Stan's search leads him into the shadowy, gritty realm of Hollywood, a new noir reality where tweakers, grifters, and sidewalk denizens scheme to cash in or simply survive. But the truth is that there's a deeper, darker pain Stan isn't being told about and cannot see. It's the pain living at the heart of the man who sought his help; the kind of pain that rips holes in otherwise normal, happy families. That creates a space perhaps impossible to fill.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Szollosi
• Release date: Jul 5, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452451169

Tom Szollosi

Tom Szollosi has been involved in the writing profession for as long as he can remember. He has many credits in television, five produced motion pictures, two novels, and put in a six-year stint teaching screen writing at UCLA's Extension Program. He is a native of Los Angeles, where he lives with his family.

Book preview

The Space He Filled

By Tom Szollosi

Copyright 2011 Thomas Szollosi

Smashwords Edition.

For Jack Szollosi

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

The door opened to reveal a pale, slight girl in a green shirt and Levi shorts that were frayed at the legs. Normally Mike Cotter would’ve considered the legs, but he was too preoccupied. Can I help you? she asked, flat-voiced.

Vegan Girl, he thought, just the way she'd been described. I’m Keith’s dad. I don’t think we…

Keith? She looked puzzled.

The guy renting the room…

Oh. Keith never actually moved in, she said. There it was, the little bit that took his stomach, and threatened to pull it right out his ass.

Excuse me? All the worst fears, the crazy fantasies of ghastly developments were coming true in a single phrase. He was gonna, but then all of a sudden he changed his mind and took all his stuff.

When?

First day. She shrugged.

Wait a minute… so you’re saying he never lived here at all?

She looked mildly impatient. Like her white limas were going to boil too long if she didn’t get back to them. If you wanna ask Lenny, he gets home at seven.

I don’t need to ask Lenny. I haven’t heard from my son in more than two weeks. That is not the kind of thing he would just… do.

You want Lenny to call you? She was bored, looking past him at a car going by on the street. He looked, too, gripped by the thought that it could be Keith. He turned back to her and saw her alarm at his jumpy reaction.

I’m sure he’s okay, she said. I mean he didn’t act weird or anything.

Well it is weird. He’s a responsible kid, and we haven’t heard a thing from him.

Maybe he just wanted to blow you off, she shrugged.

She was so matter-of-fact, so truly uncaring that he wanted for a fleeting moment to grab her by the throat, push her inside, and beat the living shit out of her. At the same time, he knew he was a victim of his own careening emotions. He’d just found out his boy, his Keith, had for all intents and purposes vanished. Given him -- him -- the slip. This was worse than he’d allowed his worst fears to be. Until this moment it had been beyond question that Keith was the Keith he knew and loved. Now, suddenly, in the space of that goddamn sentence -- Keith never actually moved in -- it went from fearing for his safety to fearing that he’d been a liar.

But what for? What would he have to run from? Mike knew he must have looked crazed, because the girl started closing the door ever so slightly, ever so slowly, as if she’d read his mind about strangling and beating the shit out her. His hand shot out, stopping the door from closing. He knew what he wanted to say next without thinking about it.

Can I see the room? He asked. He didn’t really know why. What the hell was he going to find?

I am not letting you in right now, she was definite and tried closing the door with more force, but he held it open.

What the fuck are you doing, man? The fear that slipped into her voice alarmed him. He hadn’t meant to scare her.

I’m trying to find Keith, he told her. Don’t you get it? My son was supposed to be here.

Maybe your son is sick of you being an asshole. Did you ever think of that? She was shouting, loud enough that he finally let the door go, and she slammed it in his face.

He heard the lock quickly turned. A bolt slid home. Mike stood on the porch not knowing what to do, where to go, what to think. One of the pillars of his life had been pulled out from under him.

Where had Keith gone? And what was that crap he’d given her about how this wasn’t like him? He sagged at the realization: it could be exactly like him.

Mike hadn’t expected this when his son left home. Keith had always been his bud. They’d shared cars, burgers, ballgames, and everything else treasured by fathers and sons. So Mike believed it when Keith, twenty-four when he‘d left home two weeks earlier, said he’d be in touch. Said he’d call and come do his laundry at home and all the usual stuff.

Only he hadn’t. Instead, nothing. Zero. No calls, no texts answered, no response. A few days before it all went silent, Mike had helped haul a few things to the new place where Keith had rented a room. He’d taken one look around and gotten the idea: larger than normal crash pad.

Keith said he’d become friends with the guy who lived in the house (with vegan girlfriend) through online gaming. This was a phenomenon Mike didn’t even attempt to understand. He’d come to think of it as the line of demarcation between his generation and that of his son. The guy in the house -- it only later struck Mike as odd that Keith had never actually mentioned his name -- worked as a video editor in Glendale. He’d taken over the house when his wealthy parents left it in his care and moved to something no doubt nicer in Malibu. The furniture was old and lumpy, the beds unmade, and stuff was lying around haphazardly.

It was only logical that Keith would love it. At that age, Mike would’ve loved it, too. But Mike would’ve called his parents. Still, he didn’t want to make a fool of himself, so he hadn’t driven over to check on him. Keith would find that embarrassing. Mr. Independent gets checked on by Dad? Gotta be kidding. But that phone. It was so quiet. For so long.

All of this had been swirling in Mike’s head as he'd finally walked up the narrow concrete path to the front door of the house. Yeah, he’d given in to his worry.

The yard was overgrown with low water consumption plants and aggressive weeds. The place needed paint, needed sweeping, and needed the guy’s mom and dad to come over the hill from Malibu to see it once in a while.

Even in the earliest years, when Keith had been little and learned to ride a two-wheeler, it wasn’t the usual dad-runs-alongside-and-keeps-him-from-falling-over bit. Not at all. One morning, when Mike dropped Keith off at the Little Flowers Pre-School, Keith piped up in his scratchy voice: Watch this, Dad! Then he hopped on one of the little two-wheelers the school kept in the play-yard and took off like a shot. Mike stood watching, stunned, feeling like he’d just been robbed of a classic father and son moment, yet delighted at how amazingly capable the little guy was. He’d just figured it out himself and zoomed all over the place.

That was how he did everything. And now he’d done it with leaving home, too. Watch this, Dad.

Hesitating a moment more, Mike finally turned and stepped off the porch, back through the unkempt front yard, to his car. When he took out his keys, about to unlock the driver’s door, he looked back up to the house. None of the windows offered a glimpse of anything inside. They could’ve hidden terrible things. Atrocities. But his gut told him it wasn’t like that. It was just as the girl had told him. His son had gone through all the motions of moving in, then went somewhere else. Mike shook his head and got in the car.

Behind the wheel he closed his eyes and put the A/C on MAX, to cool his fevered brain. Amid a raging torrent of thoughts, he escaped for a moment as he’d often done during the past few days: thinking of Keith as a little boy. He looked to his right, at the passenger seat, remembering an earlier time. Keith had been seven. They’d gone to the mountains to try a little skiing. A first for both of them, and as expected, a disaster for Mike. But Keith had taken off with the pretty blonde instructor and darted all over half the mountain, amazing the young woman. When they got back, she’d raved. He was a natural.

Mike had been proud, wiping out his own feelings of inadequacy: he’d managed to avoid getting hurt when he did a Sonny Bono into a tree, but his ego had taken a pretty good hit.

Late that afternoon Mike drove back downhill from the slopes. Snowy ground gave way to normal San Bernardino Mountain terrain; semi-brown pine forest with two-lanes running through it. He looked over at the passenger seat, and saw that Keith had fallen asleep. Innocent sleep. His little guy. Conked out and angelic in ski jacket and pants. Chubby kid cheeks, not quite outgrown. For Mike, emotion welled, and he quietly cried as he drove. It was the same face he’d checked on in sleep for seven years as it grew. Now here that face was, exhausted from a day of conquering a mountain. A mountain. He’d never forgotten it, because the day had shown him just how deeply he loved his boy. He wanted only good things for him in a world otherwise so full of bad news and disappointment. He had hoped Keith could somehow negotiate the trip-wires.

Mike drove the familiar streets of Woodland Hills aimlessly. Maybe Keith hadn’t thought about the fact that it’d be extra hard on his Dad because Mom was off visiting her family and Dad was just sitting around alone, thinking about it. Conscious of how empty that room down the hall was. How it still looked just like Keith would come bounding in any minute, because most of his stuff was still where he’d left it.

Meantime Mom, Carol, was in Utah, extending her trip longer and longer, re-connecting with her cousins. She hadn’t seen them since childhood, and when she found out they were all singers like her, it was a delightful surprise. To her. To Mike, against the backdrop of no Keith, no calls, no contact, the whole thing was slightly grating. He thought about calling her, but dismissed it. He’d only worry her. No need to be premature. There was probably an explanation. Even as he thought it, he didn’t believe it. Something, he knew, was very wrong. Did Keith just not get it? Was he that self-centered? Where was the close father and son relationship Mike had been so proud of? He thought of all the times he’d bragged about it, and felt like an idiot.

****

GARY’S GRINDER WAS THE SANDWICH PLACE where Keith worked. As Mike walked in, the sinking feeling took over again. His eyes swept the people behind the counter. Keith was not among them. I’m Mike Cotter. Their expressions were blank. Keith’s dad.

At these words, a man in his forties came from around a corner behind the counter. He looked almost accusing.

Where is he? The man demanded.

I wish I knew, said Mike. I was hoping I’d find him here.

Not half as much as I was. This is supposed to be my day off, and he’s the only one I trust to close for me.

Mike was downcast. So you don’t have any idea… I haven’t seen him for days. What the hell’s wrong with him?

Mike shook his head. I can’t find him. I don’t know what he’s doing.

The middle aged man looked down, wiping his hands on the apron he wore. Look, he said, I’m sure there’s some good reason for all this. Maybe he met some girl. Maybe he’s having the weekend of his life -- only it’s taking like, two weeks…

Mike wasn’t heartened. The guy seemed to understand, nodding with a resigned smile. Well if you do see him, tell him he’s still got his job, okay?

Mike nodded. I don’t have anybody else who knows how this place works. Your son’s got a good head on his shoulders, and I feel like I can trust him.

The irony of this didn’t hit anyone but Mike. He managed a weak smile and muttered: Glad somebody can.

Mike thought maybe it was harder for him to disengage than most dads because he was home a lot. He worked out of the house, or at least he had when he was working. As a television writer over forty, it had been hard enough dealing with the fact that his career had left home. When his son left too, maybe it was harder for him than most guys. Going to an office every day might’ve been a whole lot easier. But no such office existed outside the house, and the one in the house had slowly transitioned from Working Writer’s Lair to Procrastination And Idle Time Central. There were projects he labored over, trying to make the move from hour-drama to prose fiction. But as the self-doubts raged the keys went silent. Mike had rarely if ever suffered from writer’s block in The Good Years, as he’d caught himself calling them more than once. But as grey hairs crept in and took over, his uncertainty grew. Agents at The Big Agency took longer to return his calls, then dropped away altogether. The small agency types promised they’d resurrect him. It’d all be fine, he thought, as long as he could get meetings. Then he’d get some purchase, some traction, some fucking work. But even the reality of those meetings wasn’t the same. His prospects had gone dryer than an old wife in a bad mood. Calls unreturned by the dozens. Pitch meetings that got lost in the frantic schedule of everybody he wanted to see, leaving him in a room with some young girl six months out of an Ivy League school, tasked with listening to The Older Writer. If he’d managed to create a series in his Good Years, he’d have become part of the inner circle. Everything would have been easier, his credentials better, and that girl just out of college would wish she could get a meeting with him. In the meantime, he was home a lot. He drove Keith to-and-from, doing errands and filling more and more time with anything and everything but what he was supposed to be doing. Still, he felt that special relationship, that bond they had, was strong. Mike even told people that in a way he was glad there hadn’t been quite as much work, because if there had been, how could he have been with his kid so often? It was irreplaceable time. Quality time. Then, boom, it was gone. No, he thought, not just gone. He’d been dumped. Unloaded and left by the side of the road.

****

STAN BACKUS HAD BEEN A COP FOR YEARS, graduating to detective and distinguishing himself on difficult cases. After retiring he’d consulted on television shows -- a nice perk in L.A., when you could get it -- and made more than he’d ever earned as a badge. Mike Cotter met him on L.A. Files. Mike was then a producer-writer then, which meant he’d been given a title as a reward for having survived on staff for a year. He’d always thought it was stupid to make writers into producers so quickly, because they really didn’t do much producing. But Mike loved the particulars of what police really did, and he got to be friends with Stan Backus. He hadn’t spoken to Stan in years, but who could possibly know more about how to help him find Keith than Stan? The phone call was awkward in its first few moments, but Mike gave in and just admitted he needed help and hadn’t known who else to call.

Stan let him off the hook. Why don’t we grab a cup of coffee. Mike felt some of the tension drain out of him, That’d be great. He knew if he could get Stan to help, in all likelihood, he’d find Keith. I don’t know about that, Stan cautioned. You don’t look like you’re having much fun to me.

I’ll be okay, Mike assured him, aware that the listening on the other end was automatically analytical. The old cop was going right back into gear, Mike thought. You’ll probably think of something that’s been right under my nose all along, he said.

****

STAN HAD LONG AGO mastered the art of giving nothing away as he listened. Mike took him through the sequence of events he’d endured over the past few weeks. It sounded pretty cut and dried.

I think you’ve got a son who’s sick of hearing you tell him what to do, Stan said. Now you sound like the girl at the house.

My voice is probably lower.

Mike managed a smile. But why the head-fake? Why act like he’s moving into one place and then splitting? Did he think I was gonna come over and bug him?

Isn’t that what you did?

No, it’s not what I did. I waited a helluva long time before I went over.

Your long time, his split second. We used to hear shit like this constantly. Kid wanted to be alone for a while, parents were convinced he’d joined a cult or something and gone off to God knows where.

Keith wouldn’t do that. Mike took a breath, trying to home in on what he really wanted to know from all this. I’d just like to be sure he’s okay -- that something else didn’t happen, you know?

Like, hauled off by Ninja Scientologists to their secret compound for brainwashing?

Now you’re making fun of me. Mike felt the irritation rising. Maybe calling Stan hadn’t been such a brilliant idea.

I’m trying to show you, there could be any number of reasons a kid does this. And most of ‘em aren’t nearly as bad as you expect. Look. Do you have any faith in parental instinct?

Sure. It’s right up there with tea leaves and Ouija Boards. Stan smiled. But I know what you’re saying.

Then could you humor me? Could you at least give me some ideas about where to look?

I’ll do better. I’ll snoop around myself. For old time’s sake, and because I really do understand you’re scared.

Scared shitless, to be exact. He hasn‘t shown up for work, either.

Where’s that?

Sub sandwich place called Gary’s Grinder. Stan was pulling out his little pad, which Mike remembered.

The note pad. That brings it back.

Yeah? Stan shrugged. Been a habit of mine a long time. He clicked the pen. Jotted a note about Gary’s Grinder. You need to tell me any other hangouts you know of, people he considers close friends. And the address of this place he was supposedly moving to, and the names of anybody there. Oh, yeah. And a picture.

Mike nodded, reaching into his pocket for a photo of Keith. I don’t know their names, though, he said.

This got an interested look.

He never said?

Mike shook his head. Stan processed it, took the picture and glanced at it, then started jotting again. Mike watched him. See? That’s unusual, don’t you think?

Some people are secretive. Stan didn’t look up.

Even with their parents? Mike watched Stan’s stubby fingers grip the pen. Especially with their parents. Mike told Stan that Keith drove a red Toyota, and recited the license plate numbers, which Stan found impressive. Was it yours before, and that’s how you knew it?

Mike shook his head. I just remember that kind of thing. Make up words or sayings out of the letters to amuse myself. Stan gave him a quick look. You need a job, brother, he said. Fills the idle mind. Maybe then you wouldn’t work so hard trying to turn your kid into a drama.

You know writers, Mike said. Always jumping to Act Three. I guess. He leveled his gaze at Mike. So here comes the ‘whyd’ya’ part.

Mike frowned. What’s that?

It’s where you look at me, like, why’dya have to ask a stupid thing like that?

At this point, I don’t think I’ve got that look for anybody but my kid.

Okay. Do you think he’s on drugs?

He smokes pot sometimes. I wasn’t exactly in a position to bore him a new one, considering my own past exploits.

You lacked plausible deniability.

Mike nodded. I never hid what I used to do from him ‘cause I wanted him to trust me. There was that word again. Out of his own mouth. Almost too ironic to bear.

So no big-boy drugs, and I presume -- no alcohol?

Never. I mean, he tried it, but he got terrible headaches. Said he didn’t know why anybody would ever do that to themselves.

You’re lucky on that one. My brother’s son drank his way out of college and straight onto fucking skid row before he was twenty. Stan shook his head at the memory, flipping his pad shut, clicking his pen closed. Okay, this is how it’ll go. Whether I find anything or not, you’ll hear it straight, much as I know. I don’t like to suppose or prognosticate.

Course not, Mike was nodding like a bobblehead.

And you will want me to prognosticate, but that gets you nothing in a situation like this. You deal in fact, you deal in real, you find out what the truth is and do with it what you want. Fair?

More than I could’ve hoped for. Mike couldn’t repress his grin. He felt excited-embarrassed-grateful emotions getting the better of him. Now I can go home and wait for an expert opinion. You have no idea how much that’s going to help.

Stan was watching him, gaze unwavering. I hope it does, Mike. I really hope it does.

As they left the coffee shop and parted ways, Stan took a last look back at Mike walking quickly toward his car, hands jammed into pockets, head down in thought. Tightly wound as ever, Stan thought. Always seemed like a nerve-cluster ready to rupture, and this kind of stress was pushing him pretty close. Stan felt sympathy for another reason, too. His wife had taken off on him ten years earlier, and bothered to send him exactly one letter in which she said she didn’t want to hurt him, but she didn’t believe in turning husbands into friends. He’d reminded her far too much of her father, bless his emotionally stingy and withholding little soul, so she was correcting her course. She hadn’t wanted to live the same existence twice. Translation: she was bored.

So Stan knew what rejection at the hands of someone deeply loved felt like. It had to be different when it was a son, but it left a nasty void. To him, Mike Cotter was one more potentially tragic little guy, depressed and scared, just like he’d seen again and again when he was a police detective. The family left behind, the victim, the unwitting bystander-slash-collateral damage statistic. Maybe this would be better than Stan had been conditioned by personal and professional experience to believe. Maybe Keith Cotter wasn’t punishing his family for