David's Case

By Jerry McIlroy

David, a young man heir to millions is missing. David has been confined in a mental institution since the age of ten, confined because he shot and killed his father, supposedly to protect his mother. Now he is missing and his mother has hired quirky detective, Francis Connor to find him. The trail takes Francis through some dark and violent events, but also some romance. It is a tale of greed, of guilt and redemption, and of self discovery. It is told at times with a sense of irony and even a little humor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jerry McIlroy
• Release date: Jul 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311278883

Jerry McIlroy

Jerry McIlroy is a former winner of the Canadian Authors Award. His other books are The Last Hustle, A Member of the Audience, and Collected Short Stories. A sometimes actor he divides his time between Canada and Thailand, where his present "work in progress" is set. Likes Miles and Matisse, Paris and Athens, Billie and Nina, beaches in the evening with a g and t.. He writes, he says, because he has to, and sometimes even likes it. He would like to hear from his readers, liked, did't like, what worked, what did not work. Drop him a line at [e-mail]

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Chapter 1

Death is, among other things, something to think about. That was what I was doing. Not thinking about it in the philosophical, to be or not to be sense, no, it was more personal than general, in fact not thinking about it so much as trying not to think about it. There are places where one should never contemplate such subjects as the pointlessness of life or the frailty of human existence, the former while standing atop some desolate cliff, the latter while flying in an airplane. I am nearly always able to avoid desolate cliffs but I do often fly in airplanes where I spend much of the flight trying not to think of the frailty of human existence. I try not to think that my existence is dependent upon a million variables; an untightened bolt, metal fatigue, a computer glitch, a pilot with an overwhelming death wish, any number of things. I try so hard that I think of them all the time. I am nervous about flying. (I don’t have a fear of flying, I have a fear of crashing, ha ha ha.)

From my aisle seat I took a quick glance out the window as the plane banked before the final descent. Far below the lights of the city sprawled innocently, shining rather cheerily into the night. For my part I stared, rather uncheerily, at the back of the seat ahead, hardly breathing, forgetting to chew my gum, no longer trying to look unconcerned. Landings are always the worst. Take-offs aren’t too great either, nor for that matter is the time in the air.

The final descent that always feels too sudden, too fast. It is too fast. They’ve miscalculated, of course they have. Then the slight bump and tremor as we touched down and the small inward sigh of relief as we taxied to the terminal. We had all cheated death one more time. On my feet too soon, like most of the others, bustling and bumping, shoulder bags and attache cases, an unlistened to speech from a flight attendant, then smiled good-byes as we hurried from the plane, freed from our unnatural airborne state.

Out side the air was chilly and invigorating, cold for the time of year. The sky was filled with stars. Thankfully the cab driver did not try to make conversation, he allowed himself only a few yawns and a badly hummed tune to intrude upon our silence while I stared out the window at the mostly gray and silent streets of the suburbs.

My apartment building, a squat, three storied nondescript building was depressingly unchanged—not that I expected or even hoped it would change in my month’s absence—but even the oily smear on the front door glass was still there. I still had to jiggle and push my key a certain way to get the front door to open. The caretaker has been promising to replace the lock and someday he might just do that and surprise his tenants.

My building, perhaps like me, is just this side of seediness, or perhaps the other side depending on your point of view. Half a block from my building, on the corner of Delaware, hookers ply their trade outside the all night restaurant. I often go to that restaurant late at night, for coffee and maybe to place a bet. Every once in a desperate while I think about taking one of those hookers home with me. I never do though. Maybe out of vanity, or maybe I know it would just make the emptiness more profound. I do like to talk to them though, although few of them are into conversations, chatting is not what they are selling, but there is the odd one with whom I can sometimes exchange world views.

I like the restaurant, in the early morning hours with the odd hooker or cab driver on coffee break, and the others, the other people that you find in all night restaurants after midnight. There are always a few horseplayers, quietly thoughtful, waiting for the bookmaker’s runner to make his regular call here at about two a.m. So we horseplayers, and I am one, we smoke our cigarettes, drink our coffee, and we study the form. We puzzle over it like pursed lipped alchemists intent upon creating gold from nothing, nothing but our own sense of logic. It is all there if we can but decipher it, find the proper logic in it so that A+B+C must equal D. It is all there; in the weight and the distance and the jockey and the last times out, it is all there and must be taken into account, all the pieces that must be factored into the equation. We all say the same things; its moving up in price, its dropping down in price, they put it in at seven furlongs, its dropping five pounds, they’ve got Gomez up he’s a hot jock, and so forth and so on. Its all there if can just interpret it correctly. Then about two in the morning Ewan, who looks and talks like a college boy which he well might be but who for certain works for a bookmaker named Len calls in to pick up our bets; our two, or five, or ten dollar pledges of faith. I think he regards us with contempt, not understanding what is really taking place here. It is the eternal Einstein like quest to impose logic and reason into an absurd world, not to put too high a note to it

The lobby of my apartment was, as always, neither clean nor dirty, just sadly dingy with a thin layer of dust on the plastic flowers and a crumbled envelope on the floor. Over the copper block of mailboxes there was a new notice from the rental agency regarding NSF checks. There was nothing of interest in my mailbox, three pieces of junk mail and a telephone bill, Ryan would have the rest.

At least no one had broken into my apartment. We must always be grateful for small mercies, and I was. The air was stale and thick, overly warm. I opened the windows, put on some music, made myself a drink and sat down. The cool air, the music, and the drink helped, but not enough. I was at loose ends, too wide awake, energy with no place to put it. I am too often at loose ends, most of my life, I sometimes think. I don’t know why that is. I made another drink. My month in Mexico, my temporary escape, the rightness of how I felt there; I knew it would all slowly slip away, it would disappear like a forgotten dream, no matter how hard I tried to hold onto it.

There I was, home again, not hungry, not sleepy, at loose ends. The little red light of the answering machine blinked impatiently; a lot of hang ups, a few people asking me to call, Ryan saying he had my mail plus, which I took to mean the five hundred he owed me. The last message was from Claire expressing the hope, in her usual cold and well modulated tones, that my holiday had been pleasant and there was a meeting scheduled for Monday at two-thirty.

The same walls, the same pictures, and me, sitting in the same chair listening to the same music. Monday I would be back at the agency seeing and doing the same bullshit things. Not a cheery prospect, not at all. What I needed was a little conversation, some drinks and some laughter. Friday night, there would be a poker game at Marv’s but I didn’t want that. Ryan almost surely would not be home but it would be worth a try.

The phone rang. I let the machine answer. Anne. Hi, its me. Are you home yet? I hope your holiday was great. Can you phone me in the morning, I’d like to get together. Thanks, bye. She sounded serious, as well she might, as well she always did. End of the affair, died of boredom, but it would be a long post postmortem.

Five minutes later the phone rang again. Ryan this time so I picked up. He was at Carmichaels, a bar we both like, and I said I’d be there in an hour.

Chapter 2

Carmichaels is what used to be called, and perhaps still is, a cocktail bar. It is located in the basement of a modest hotel; it has comfortable booths, a few tables, and a long bar. The decor is old English private club with lots of dark wood and leather, and there is a real functioning fireplace at one end of the room. The entertainment is provided by a pianist, the same one for at least the last ten years; she provides background music of easily recognizable standard tunes. It is a popular place for business men who want a quiet drink while they read their reports and plan their strategies. It is never crowded, never noisy, and both the service and the drinks are better than most.

And here he is. You look good, doesn’t he Gail? Ryan was sitting in a booth, Gail, a mutual friend was seated across from him. I slid in beside her. Gail is another long time friend, six or seven years, she works as a cocktail waitress and has a teenage daughter from an early went nowhere bad choice relationship. We’ve gone out together a few times; movies, theater, a concert, even dancing once, as friends. As friends, but every now and then there would be something in the air, something that made me feel it might just go past the friendship thing. I had certainly thought about it. This night she looked especially attractive; she was wearing a black silk blouse which was good with her blonde hair, the hair done a little differently, and a little blonder. Her eyes sparkled. She smiled and put her hand on mine. He does, he does, he certainly does. You were gone a long time, we missed you.

And I missed you, there weren’t that many things I did miss.

A waiter was at our table, we always get excellent service at Carmichaels, we tip well. Ryan asked. So then my friend, what will it be? What do they drink in Mexico?

Mostly beer, at least I did but I’ll have the usual, Cutty Sark on the rocks and a tonic water.

Ryan is a solid guy, the kind of friend you know will go to the wall for you. He is a handsome, composed man who moves through life with a good deal of grace, almost but not quite, thankfully, with elegance. We grew up together, Ryan and I, in the Docktown area, in the days when it was a tough neighborhood. We hustled pool, scuffled about, did the odd b and e, one thing and another, just a couple of fun loving kids from the corner. Then we drifted apart. I went on to work my through college, my first major waste of time, then joined the cops, my second major waste of time. Ryan went on to become, among other things, a competent and successful burglar, specializing in stamp and coin collections. When I was a uniform cop I’d sometimes wonder what if I came upon him at work. What would I do? I always knew the answer though. I’d look the other way. After I left the cops we hooked up again and he became, once more, my best friend. I guess he still is a burglar but maybe he’s moved on with the times and is into credit card scams or computers or some such. We never talk about his business in any kind of detail. Its one of those things.

After the waiter brought our drinks Ryan handed me a large manila envelope. This is your mail, and this is this. Thank you very much. He handed me a thin sheaf of crisp new bills folded in half. The five hundred. I slipped them into my shirt pocket and looked through my mail. Nothing much, a couple of bills, a business letter, a postcard.

A card from Sylvia, she’s still in France, still happy. I explained to Gail. Sylvia is an ex, an ex lover I guess, I guess you could say that, anyway she sends a card every month or so. We were together then she became a Buddhist and decided to travel the world. I don’t know what that says about our relationship.

One of two things; Ryan said. After you the only thing that could possibly be better would have to be God, or more likely, after you she just gave up on men completely."

Something like that I guess, probably the latter.

Gail was wearing long silver earrings that swung about whenever she moved her head, something that for some reason I have always found erotic, earrings like that, I don’t know, the way they move, the pierced lobes, whatever. That must have been pretty rough. She said. And did I sense her move just a millimeter or so closer, those soft thighs and shapely buttocks moving just a little on the leather bench?

I thought I told you about her, it was about a year ago, and (and I could smell her body beneath her perfume) we liked each other, we enjoyed each other, she’s a good person, but somehow we just didn’t seem to connect. Do you know what I mean? Her eyes were on me but I stared into my glass, took another drink and in so doing shifted my body that half a millimeter closer. Anyway it ended with regret but not too much agony.

About an hour later when she left she hugged me good-bye, as she did Ryan, as she always did. But this time was the hug a little tighter, did her left hand linger just that extra second on the small of my back, and her lips on my cheek was that more of kiss than a friendly brush across?

She likes you, you know. Ryan said. Especially since you became a hero, some women like that, I don’t know why, its not very practical. She’s a terrific lady. Anyway, do you ever think about it? I thought maybe you were coming on a bit there.

Sure, I think about it, lots of times, tonight for sure… but…

But?

You know, she’s a friend, a long time friend and a good person. I think she wants something serious, and she does have a kid, that’s a lot of… anyhow there’s Mexico. I always hate coming back. I have to try to figure out a way to move there which I guess means money and how do I get it.

Man, you really do like it that much don’t you?

I do, I really do. Fourth time there. Its so different, nice and easy. I feel at home there. Drifting from place to place, if I moved there I’d do the same, just stay longer in each place, finally I’d find the right place to settle in, a place with a beach. That’s the fantasy. So I guess I’ll have to save some money.

Yeah, well saving money is fine as long as it doesn’t become a habit. Listen I have something for you. I told Gail before you got here. The next thing to found money. A horse. No, really. You know me, I don’t even play horses, but in this case there are some important people involved one of whom owed me a favor. Anyway I went for the bankroll, mortgaged the farm as they say. The horse is Noah’s Dream, in the sixth tomorrow, should open nine, ten to one, it’ll get bet down at the track but will still be a good price. With that little half smile that meant he was deadly serious.

Noah’s Dream.

That’s it.

Okay, thanks. So how is Christopher? Ryan has a fifteen year old son that he gets to see from time to time, mostly on weekends.

He’s fine. We’re going to a basketball game on Sunday, bores the hell out of me but he likes it. He paused, as if listening to the background music, identifying the song before continuing. I took him out for dinner Tuesday night. Its hard to find things to talk to him about. You know he has no idea what I do, he thinks I work for an insurance company. So I always have to keep up this dumb charade and sometimes it pisses me off. I have some really great stories I could tell him.

He might not think they’re so great. Teen age kids are naturally hard to talk to but you guys seem to be doing okay. The thing is though you’re still in action, what if you do get nailed, wind up doing time, he finds out everything then. Does that worry you?

Not much, no really it doesn’t, if it happens he’ll just have to handle it, it might even be good for him. He paused, sitting back, eyes half closed, then he said. But I’ll tell you one thing, the older I get the more scared I am of doing time. He sighed, as if having made some terrible confession. True. I’m a very cautious guy. I turn down a lot of work.

So why not pack it in and get a job.

Be serious, what kind of job? I don’t even have a social security number. What could I do? Door to door salesman, bartender, cabdriver, all I know is what I do and besides which I couldn’t stand it.

I didn’t mean a real job, I meant maybe making book, running a game. You know a lot of people.

Yeah, right, and what would be the fun of that? I’d go nuts.

I don’t want to sound like I’m giving advice but you are forty-eight years old, maybe you should stop thinking about fun and settle down.

That’s really great coming from you, my friend. You too, are forty-eight and all you want to do with your life is backpack around Mexico like some seventeen year old kid who just read, On The Road.

Maybe, I guess we just never grew up.

No, we grew up all right, by the time we were fifteen. We’re just doing everything ass backwards. One more and then I have to go, busy day tomorrow. Two things; he held up two fingers and ticked off the first. Gail, why not go for it, she doesn’t expect any big commitment, just a reasonably nice guy in a reasonably warm body, and she does have this thing for heroes so you fill the bill. Two. He ticked off his other finger. Noah’s Dream.

That’s what you offer me tonight, Gail and Noah’s Dream?

Who could ask for anything more?

Chapter 3

The next morning there was a message from Anne on my answering machine, she had phoned at nine and I had slept through it. She was on her way out but would be back at two, would I phone her. Only Anne would phone someone at nine o’clock on a Saturday morning. Well, okay, I’d give her a chance for a farewell speech, let her mount the podium for the last time even though it would be at least a two hour analysis of me, of her, and of the relationship. I have never known anyone, man or woman, who could talk as endlessly as she could, and almost exclusively about Anne. In that field alone she was in a class by herself.

I phoned Brannigan’s and made an eight-thirty reservation for two then left a message on Anne’s machine asking her to meet me there.

Noah’s Dream. Had it been anyone other than Ryan I would have ignored it but in the last two years Ryan had given me three things and I’d made money on all three. The last had been a stock market tip and in four weeks I had made three thousand dollars. Like found money. I was so excited I bet eight hundred to win on a horse.

Noah’s Dream. I phoned a cop named Gelman and gave him the horse. Gelman is an old-timer cop that work in administration, he sometimes does me favors in the way of information and I sometimes send him money. That cements our relationship. Then I phoned Rick, a co-worker at the agency and gave him the horse. Thanks boss. He likes calling me boss, just as if I was Eddie G. Robinson and he was Marc Lawrence.

Noah’s Dream. Things had been good to me of late and I had a bankroll of forty-four hundred dollars. So then why not? Bet the four thousand. I had a job, there was always a pay check, I’d have food and shelter, so then why not? Because on the plane coming back I had made a vow. I f I wanted to retire to Mexico I needed a good bankroll, so I vowed I would save my money. I would stop what Anne called my self destructive lifestyle. No more horses and a lot fewer bar bills. I would save my money and I would invest it. I would put my money to work for me, send out those crisp little bills with their picks and shovels and with their baloney buckets tucked under their arms, make them work for me.

I could not decide what to do. I had made a vow and if I was going to do it I was going to do it and today is the first day in the rest of my so-called life and so forth and so on. With a deep sigh I phoned the bookmaker and made a fifty dollar bet. A token bet. Ryan might ask if I had made a bet, he would never ask how much. Then I tried to forget it.

I phoned Claire, my partner at the agency, just to touch base, as she would say. She sounded… different… relaxed, (it was a Saturday morning but…) she sounded… languid, if one can sound… languid, so unlike her usual self. There was an odd tone in her voice, and she chatted, Claire never chats, about the office, about my trip. Of course! She’s just had a night of great, or good, or even passable sex. That was how it sounded. Wait, even better, her partner was still with her in bed, we all know that scene; she is on the phone, mundane conversation, he (or she), playful, nuzzles her neck, touches a nipple, strokes a thigh, she, smiling, continues conversation, moves his (or her) hand away, or doesn’t move it away.

Now I listened closely for any background sounds, for her covering the phone, for any hint of hanky panky. The phone was pressed tightly to my ear. Please God make my day, have her let out just one little couldn’t-help-myself moan, one little moan, or a soft grunt or a giggle, but a moan preferably. Please God, do this for me and I will say forty-eight Hail Marys and light a candle every Tuesday for you. Then suddenly she said. Oh, there’s the doorbell, that will be Dad, he’s taking me to brunch. You should drop over and see him soon. See you Monday.

Yes, have a good brunch. She was gone before I could finish. Damn, damn, damn.

Claire’s sex life, if she has one, is a mystery and the cause of some speculation at the agency, probably because she is a beautiful (gorgeous) young woman and that naturally makes people curious about such things. There were times at the office when I would look at her and think that if there was just another person in that body I would crawl on my hands and knees through a mile of broken glass to etc. etc. However we do not like each other. She does not approve of me and I do not approve of her.

I was on time for my dinner with Anne and she, unusual for her, was already there, a good table on the deck, overlooking the river. People like Anne always get good tables, the smell of money clings to them. There was a glass of white wine in front of her and she was hunched slightly forward as