ESP.LITERATURE

A DoubleNickel Detective Story

Portland Case #27

FOUR

The world is full of people suffering from the effects of their own unlived life … All of them suffer because, deep down, they know the life they mock is the life they were meant to live. —Carl Jung

The folks at the bakery knew the boy. A backdoor regular, they said. Came for the day old stuff. Didn’t see much of the mother. Occasionally found him rummaging in the dumpster out back.

Just to be thorough, I went up stairs, knocked on the door. If he was there, he was ghosting me. I knocked again, tried the handle. The door opened and in I went, slow and wary.

“Buddy?” I called. But I already knew the place was empty. Just had that feel. A chill in the air. Dust motes.

The apartment was just three rooms and a bath, small but neatly kept, clean. No dishes in the sink. No clothes laying around. No cup circles on the end table. To the right a door opened into a small bedroom with a single bed and a battered, but polished chest of drawers. Just a change of clothes in the drawers, socks, underwear, and scarves. Red scarves.

“I’ll be damned,” I said. “A clue.”

The other room was a small 5’x8’ space that had just a cot, neatly made, and a small table and chair. The boy’s room, his clothes folded and stacked in an old milk carton. On the wall above the table someone had pinned a map of Iraq torn from a magazine.

The bathroom was like the kitchen, neat and clean. No pills, not even an aspirin tablet.

Living large, these two.

I went back to the folks in the bakery. Poor as church mice, the short stout aproned woman said. Don’t know what she did, if anything. Maybe nothing much. I think Rania was her name. Don’t know their last name. Every now and then we’d see her coming back just after we opened. Four thirty that is. 

Food for thought. I bought a scone, coffee to go. I was standing in a patch of sunlight, when the slim young woman came out with a bag of garbage, opened the dumpster, tossed her bag in, and let the lid fall with a clang. Gave me a look.

She said, “Just between you and me and the deep blue sea, Buddy’s liable to show up most mornings about six. He was here this morning looking freshly scrubbed. Sometimes he looks like he’d been crawling sewers all night. Just saying.” A quick smile, then she  turned and went.

I had gotten the location of some mosques from Lucy. Just to be thorough. There were  ten or twelve in the city, most on the east side. Nothing walking close. Couldn’t get Nappy, so borrowed Leo’s old Volvo.  Spent the afternoon visiting with an Iman and with a member of the congregation at a couple of mosques in Laurelhurst. Both men thought it preposterous that Islamic muslims would be abducting people in Portland. Friendly, helpful, but quick to defend the good hearts of their people.

I ordered some lo mein from a Chinese place on 5th, then went back to the boat to dine. Called KT. Thought she might be coming up for the weekend. Kinda up in the air. The new principal was kinda cute, she said.

I said, Balls.

She laughed, He might have a pair. A little on the namby-pamby side though.

You? Judgmental? My my.

You find your judge?

Old news. Where you been? Three days dead, he was. Someone dolled him up, the message was the medium.

I don’t really need to know, she said.

Nope, you don’t.

See you Saturday.

I’ll be here.

Next morning, 0 dark 30, I was up and dressed and on my way to the bakery. If Buddy was coming for scones, I didn’t want to miss him. Parked myself in an alleyway just up Columbia. Watched the sun come up, watched the city come alive, waited. He came a little after six. Knocked politely on the back door of the bakery. The tall one opened and invited him in. Wasn’t there long. Came out with a bag in hand, munching a donut.

He walked slowly up Columbia. I followed.

Three blocks up, Buddy did a quick look fore and aft, then went hurriedly through a narrow door with a bright red No Trespassing sign newly posted. I gave it a ten count, followed him through the door. Walked into a dim dusty hallway. Walked into too much quiet. Stood listening. My little automatic was heavy in my coat pocket. Reassuring, that was. Went on down the hall. Two doors opposite each other were about halfway down what now looked to be an otherwise blind alley. Put my ear to the door on my left. While I was listening to nothing, the door behind me opened and a swarthy man smacked me on the head with a baseball bat.

Came to on the floor trussed like a Christmas goose. Two men, one my assailant, sat at a folding table looking glum. Arabic, unless I miss my guess. Buddy sat on a couch, leaning over me, concern pinching his face. Beside him sat Rania. Had to be. I’d found Mom.

Some discussion ensued. Finally, Buddy pulled out his jack knife and cut me loose.

“I am very sorry about this,” Rania said.

“You okay,” came from Buddy.

I rubbed the back of my head.

A question came softly from the fellow who smacked me. Rania answered. Then to me she said, “But how did you find us?”

“Cherchez la scone,” I said. Wit never fails me.

“I don’t understand.”

“This supposed to be some kinda safe house?”

The other man, portlier, older, had his say. Again, Rania seemed to answer.

“We thought we were safe here, yes,” she said to me.

I looked at Buddy. “What gives, kid?”

TO BE CONTINUED