Roller Skate Roundup

The Holmes Files: Roller Skate Roundup

by Robert Lubrican

zbookstore Edition

Copyright 2010 Robert Lubrican

2^nd edition 2025

License Notes

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Table of contents

Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six

Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven

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Chapter One

I was sitting at my desk, wishing that the AC worked and that the wheezing fan that was feebly wafting air in my direction wasn't as old as I felt. It was hot, and it's always hotter when you don't have anything to do.

I'm Bob, I'm a private eye. I'm a good one, too, but that doesn't mean lots of people know it. The few who notice manage to pay the bills, but I'm not living the high life, if you get my drift. And, of course, I have this soft spot for good people in a bad fix. I usually didn't get any money from those jobs. I felt good ... but good feelings don't pay the rent, if you know what I mean.

The faded brown paper on the walls of my ratty office seemed to press in on me, like in that play, The Haunting of Hill House. It was kind of creepy and I'd just decided to take a little walk and see if there was some breeze out in the twilight when I saw a dark silhouette appear in the pebbled glass pane of the door.

I watched the latch turn and rested my hand on the .45 holstered on my right hip.

I've pissed off a lot of people in the past.

But it wasn't some husband I'd caught with his fingers in the wrong honey pot. Nor was it a businessman I'd caught fleecing his customers, and put out of business. Nor was it any number of people I'd arranged to get the goods on for a lawsuit of some kind.

It was a dame.

She was a strange one. I could tell that immediately. Her hairdo was the first obvious clue. Young, maybe in her mid twenties, she was a mixture of conflicting signals. Her hair was two shades of red. The majority of it was maybe an eighth of an inch long and almost black, but there were long bangs and what my sister used to call dog ears that were a deep red tint. The bangs were swept to one side and fell casually down across her right cheek. Her features were elfin. Her nose looked like it had been transplanted from an older woman onto the face of a teenager in a world where acne just didn't exist. The skin on her cheeks looked as soft and pale as a baby's butt and it was obvious she didn't spend a lot of time in the sun.

Her body was all woman, though. She didn't have so much up top, but it was all relative, since what she did have looked delicious in the thin tank top she was wearing. She wasn't wearing a bra and it was obvious, even in the heat. A tattoo made up of blues and greens in some intricate design—not the sissy kind of small tattoo a college girl gets, thinking she's being adventurous—covered most of one shoulder.

Jeans, below the tank top, encased hips a guy could grab onto if he was in the middle of a wild, passionate ride. Below the jeans I could see the tops of something that looked suspiciously like military style jump boots. It didn't look like they'd stomped anybody recently, but she gave the impression of being able to take care of herself. I just knew this woman owned a leather jacket. She looked like a biker babe, or maybe a bull dyke ... except that she didn't.

Lots of adjectives sprang to mind. Odd…strange ... even bizarre ... but overlaying them all was the noun those words were helping to describe. That noun was "stone fox," as crazy as that sounds, based on what I've described.

It was strange, and she was interesting before she ever said a word.

She came in and just stood there, looking at me. Those bangs had fallen forward to cover one eye and the other one looked a little wary, which made me want to laugh. I wasn't tempted in any way, shape or form to fuck with this little beauty. She had an air about her that said she should be wearing one of those t-shirts that says, "Here comes trouble."

"What can I do for you?" I asked, my voice neutral. For some reason I thought that coming on too strongly, or speaking too loudly, would make her leave.

"I'm not sure," she said.

Man ... what a voice. High ... youthful ... the kind of voice you want to have somebody read you something really long in. Maybe something like War and Peace.

"That could make things difficult," I tossed off. "Why don't you have a seat and we'll see if we can figure it out."

She looked around and her eye came back to me. She looked ... curious.

I'm not all that much to look at. Not like back in the good old days, when I was a stud. While in my mind I still feel young, the stud kind of wore off of the outside over the years. I have a little gut these days. All that working out I do regularly has kept my muscles firm, but didn't do much to prevent some weight falling out of the sky and landing on me. I grew a beard to cover up the double chin and kept it when people said it made me look dangerous.

"I have a problem," she said softly.

"I'm in the problem solving business," I said.

"You're not what I expected," she said, still not sitting down.

"You either need a problem solver, or you don't," I said. "Doesn't much matter what one looks like ... you know?"

Only the decrepit fan made any noise for a few seconds, and then she finally sat down.

"Tell me about your problem," I suggested.

"Somebody has something of mine and won't give it to me," she said.

"And you want me to go get it?"

"Do you do that kind of thing?"

"Depends," I said. I reached in the bottom drawer of my desk and pulled out a bottle of Scotch.

"I don't drink," she said.

Now that was an eye opener. She looked like she could drink just about any man under the table and then take on the women in the room.

"I don't believe I offered you a drink," I said, smiling.

"It would be rude for you to drink without offering me something too."

"You already said you don't drink."

"My father had ... problems ... with alcohol," she said.

That was something I would learn about her in the next days and weeks. She had this way of asserting her own moral code on others. It wasn't blatant and she wasn't judgmental about it. But even when you first met her you just wanted to make her happy. It was almost spooky, later on, but I had my first experience of it within five minutes of meeting her.

I put the bottle back in the bottom drawer and closed it. I looked up and saw something like satisfaction in her eye, though I don't think she was aware of it.

"What is this something someone has?" I asked.

She blushed then. It was quick and it was obvious. Her fair skin glowed like it was going to catch fire, but it didn't last long.

"It's a pair of roller skates," she said softly.

"Roller skates." I'm sure my voice sounded flat.

"Yes. They're special to me."

"You mean like clamped on?" I was remembering what roller skates were like when I was growing up in the fifties. They'd clamp on to a regular pair of shoes, and you tightened them with a roller skate key.

"No." She looked confused for a second. "They're white leather, with red wheels."

"Oh, okay," I said. "Like you'd rent at a roller rink."

"Uh huh, except I've never seen skates at the rink that had red wheels."

I thought about that for a short minute.

"So let me get this straight," I said. "You want me to get your roller skates back. Who has them?"

She blushed again. She was exceedingly cute when she blushed.

"My mother."

"Your mother." My voice was flat. I was beginning to think I was being made the butt of a practical joke.

"She's kind of a horrible woman," said my visitor.

"I can just imagine," I said, letting some sarcasm leach into my voice. "I mean what kind of woman holds her little girl's roller skates hostage? Maybe you should call her more often. I hear mothers like that, and get testy when their kids neglect them."

Her face got tight and that flawless skin got a bit pinker.

"If you won't help me, just say so!" she snapped. She had a temper, this one did.

"Five hundred a day, plus expenses," I said. I have to admit I said it somewhat smugly. That ought to get rid of my little practical joker.

She stared at me and that pretty little jaw dropped. She had good teeth. I wondered what that dainty tongue of hers would feel like dueling with mine. I'm a pervert. I admit it. She looked strange, but she was also cute in a pants-tightening kind of way.

"Five hundred dollars a day?" she squealed. "You're insane!"

"I'm not insane," I said calmly. "That's my price. I mean who knows how dangerous this could be. I have to go up against a truly monstrous woman here. That much is obvious. Your mother is most certainly a diabolical miscreant to withhold something so important as ... your freaking roller skates!"

Her jaw pulled back up, only to jut forward, and storm clouds gathered on her face. She didn't blush this time, but her cheeks suddenly looked like a little girl who had gotten into her mother's rouge.

"Norm said you'd help me," she snorted. "He said you were a good guy." She looked at me like I was some kind of bug. The effect of looking down her nose at me was marred by the fact that the nose was bent a little bit. "Obviously he was deluded."

"Norm?"

"Norman Bidwell," she said, finally starting to turn.

"How the hell do you know Norman Bidwell?" I asked. Norm was a professional photographer who had hired me to recover five thousand dollars worth of wedding photographs paid for with a check that bounced all the way to Milwaukee. The groom thought he was special because he was a lower level mobster type. He had no idea that I'd done some work for some of the heavyweights in his "company" and that I could arrange it for them to be embarrassed if the story got out to certain parties. Somewhat ironically, the mob has a very strict code of ethics. You can steal somebody blind but you never welsh on a deal. I hope he had a nice honeymoon, cause when he got back he owed his bosses five grand ... with interest. I figured Norm would rather have the money than a bunch of pictures.

I know what you're thinking. What kind of self-respecting gumshoe deals with the mob? The kind who has bills to pay, that's what kind. Get over it. They're out there and they have money. I don't do their dirty work. Even mobsters have legitimate needs sometimes and pursue them in legitimate ways. Call it networking. Besides, knowing the right people can get you a lot farther than standing on your principles or yelling about how holy thou art.

Anyway, Norm did mostly portrait work and this little slice of happiness wasn't really the sort who looked like she'd be comfortable in front of a camera.

She paused on her way to the door. "I did his website and when I told him about the problem with my mother he said he knew somebody who was good at that sort of thing. I'm sorry you wasted my time."

Man, that girl could pout. She could give lessons.

"Website," I said. I was no longer convinced this was one of Vinny's crazy schemes to give me a hard time.

"I'm a web designer," she said tightly. She blinked. "Do you have a website?" I could see the wheels and gears turning in her head.

"Me?" I laughed. "What the hell would I do with a website?"

"Generate business?" she asked sweetly. Too sweetly. "Oh ... I forgot ... you're not interested in business. You'd rather laugh at people with problems and commit highway robbery against them."

"Don't get your panties in a wad," I said. "I thought you were jerking my chain, that's all."

She looked down that nose at me again. "Your ... chain ... is all I'd think about jerking," she said archly.

"Toucheee," I said, grinning. "That's French, you know. They speak a lot of that in Paris."

Her smile was grim. "Not only are you lazy and insolent, you can't even pronounce touché. You're a sad excuse for a private detective, Mr. Holmes."

Yes, it's true, Holmes is my last name. Ironic, huh? Not that there were any Sherlocks in my family tree. It was just dumb luck. I figured "Holmes Private Investigation Agency" would look good on a door and generate some business. The irony of that was that most people didn't make the connection between the great detective and my name. She didn't make my last name sound ironic, though. She made it sound like it was a dirty word. It stung. I do have a reputation, and it's not all that bad.

"Look," I sighed. "Maybe we got off on the wrong foot. I've got this friend named Vinny and he likes to pull a fast one on me sometimes. I thought maybe that was what this was about. Apparently, I was in error. I wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea about me."

"You have a friend named Vinny?" she asked innocently. "And he likes to ... pull things ... on you? How cute." She had the beginnings of a smile on those lush lips. Not only could she pout, she was pretty good at innuendo, too, much to my distress.

"Jokes," I said quickly. "He likes to play pranks on me. I thought maybe he sent you in here as a joke."

"It's no joke," she said, her voice suddenly serious.

"Well, think about it," I suggested. "How often do you think I hear something like you told me? I mean most people could manage to get a childhood toy away from their aging parents. Cut me a little slack here, okay?"

"It's not like that," she said, pouting again. "This isn't a simple childhood toy. Those skates were a major part of my adolescence."

I found myself thinking about what I would have tried to make a major part of her adolescence if I'd been a boy her age when she was coming into the blush of womanhood. I would have loved to help her become a woman. As a matter of fact I was distinctly interested in reminding her she was a woman right now.

I pushed those thoughts aside. I operated—probably too often—on gut instinct and my gut instinct liked her. She had spunk. Not as much, though, as she'd have if I got my way with her ... Oops. There I went fantasizing again. I suddenly wished I'd poured some of that scotch, her sensibilities notwithstanding.

"Tell you what," I said. "Let's try this again. Hi, I'm Bob. What can I do for you Miss ... "

"Powers," she said softly. "Veronica Powers."

"Well, Ronnie," I said, gesturing at the chair. "How can I help you?"

"Nobody calls me Ronnie," she said.

Man, this woman was prickly. I didn't want her to think she could call all the shots though.

"I do," I said. "I'll give you a discount. How's that?"

"I can't afford what you charge," she said. "Even with a discount," she added.

"Let's worry about that after we've talked. Right now I'd like to hear about these roller skates that were the centerpiece of your teenage years and why your mother would want to keep you from having them."

"I don't know," she said hesitantly. I was pretty sure that wasn't a direct response to what I'd said. What she didn't know was whether she could put up with me or not.

I decided to throw out a line and see if she'd bite.

"I can get them for you," I said.

She wavered for another fifteen seconds, then she sat back down.

I should have known that the relief I felt when she decided to stay should have been a big, red flag in my mind.

I was too busy watching those luscious breasts of hers jiggle when her butt hit the chair, though.

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She reached in the back pocket of the jeans she was wearing. I suddenly noticed that she wasn't carrying a purse. That should have been the first thing I noticed about her. I was getting careless. She pulled out a piece of paper.

"I wrote something about the skates one time," she said.

Now that was interesting. Who writes about a pair of skates? This woman was getting more and more interesting all the time.

"A poem?" I suggested.

"I wouldn't call it a poem," she said. She unfolded the paper and stared at it.

"A story, then."

"I wouldn't call it a story either." She was just looking at the paper.

"Can I see it?"

She looked up at me. "I've never shown it to anybody."

"But you carry it around with you."

You've had those moments in life where suddenly something became starkly clear in your mind. You suddenly get it. There's a fancy word for it—epiphany—which most people don't use. But I had one just then. These roller skates, something so simple and childlike, were inordinately important to this woman. As odd as that seemed on the surface of things, it was crystal clear that this was serious, and nowhere near a joke.

"Sometimes," she said.

"I'd really like to see it," I said softly. "Anything that might help me sally forth into battle and find victory is something of unadulterated interest to me."

She tilted her head at me. "Nobody talks like that, Mr. Holmes."

I shrugged. "I do ... sometimes. I guess it just depends on how motivated I am. And I'd appreciate it if you called me Bob. Now, are you going to let me see that, or do I have to throw you out of here like the bum you think I am?"

She laughed! I felt a rush of irritation as she actually laughed at me.

But then she sat back down and, haltingly, she extended the paper. I leaned forward and plucked it from her fingers, before she decided to be coy again.

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It only covered a quarter of the page. It wasn't long, but it was magical, somehow. The first line was almost eerie, because it validated what I was feeling for this cutie pie. And from there it just grabbed the reader and transported him ... me ... to a place that was shining with golden light all around, but which also had shadows. Those shadows held menace, a clear and present danger to the happiness of the place I was in as I read what she'd written. Those shadows were like pebbles on the flat surface someone skates on, which can jam up a wheel and end you up with scraped up elbows and knees.

Hell, I'm rambling on about what I was reading. You'll understand much better if you just read it yourself. Here is what was on that paper:

White Leather Roller Skates With Red Wheels

I am the kind of woman people are drawn to. I have charm and charisma. I have grace and style. But if you ask me to tell you something important about myself, I will say—When I was twelve years old, I had a pair of white leather roller skates with red wheels. I used them to race, I used them to run. I used them to capture the imaginations of neighborhood boys. In black skinny leg jeans, before I got hips and I was afraid I would always be TOO skinny, and a green and white checkered shirt tied at the waist, I would skate for hours. Gliding over smooth blacktop, free from gravity and one with motion. And I would smile at the boys that passed by. Even in my freckle-faced, awkward, tomboy youth, when I seemed to spend more time in hospitals and doctor's offices than out, I had charm and charisma. I had grace and style.

I kept those skates glimmering white, the wheels forever ketchup red. The day I learned to skate backwards was a great personal victory. It was one of those moments when you wish someone was watching, that someone else had seen, documented, recorded, and would later verify that it had really happened. Too many of those moments go by un-witnessed. People watched me skate backwards hundreds of times after that, but I was alone in that first time, that really important time, that defining moment.

That was a bad year for me, along with a good handful of the ones that followed, but that pair of white leather roller skates with red wheels was a respite. They are what I choose to hold onto, a memory that I will mention at random moments in conversation to make sure I never forget. They are probably gathering dust in a garage somewhere alongside numerous other tokens of my past, remnants of those happy memories that sometimes seem scarce, but which I must fight tooth and nail to retain. Because life is a series of moments and we must always recognize that WE get to choose which of those moments define us. I refuse to be defined by sadness and hurt. I will always be white leather roller skates with red wheels.

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Now you get it. When I'd finished reading that I wanted those roller skates, too. They represented a way to flee from those menacing shadows in that place of golden light. I wanted two pairs of them. I wanted to present hers to her and then put on my own so we could skate together, whirling and dancing away from the shadows in life.

I looked up from the page and at its author. She had a look of nervous anticipation on her face. She had bared a portion of her soul to me ... had taken a risk. She was waiting to see if I laughed at her or not.

She was beautiful in a completely odd kind of way and she had the soul of an angel. She didn't just have spunk; she had vision. She was wise beyond her years and I suspected she had the key to happiness in another pocket of her jeans. All I could think about in those few seconds was how much I wished she'd share that key with me ... open a box of happiness I could dip into ... with her.

I shook my head to clear it. This woman was just flat dangerous.

"Interesting," I said.

Her shoulders slumped and the light went out of her eyes. I felt like I'd just kicked a puppy.

"Fascinating," I added.

She perked back up, but only a little.

"I can understand completely why these skates are so important to you now."

"They are," she said, anguish in her voice.

"I can get them for you," I said, feeling like Saint George, preparing to mount my charger and head off to find ... and behead ... the dragon.

"I can't afford you," she moaned.

"Yes you can," I said. I almost groaned. I hate it when I say that. I sighed instead. "Okay ... so tell me about your mother."

Veronica Powers—young, delicious, beautiful, elfin Ronnie—looked me dead in the eye and said…

"My mother is a buttface."

She went on to tell me more about the woman who had given her life. And, when she was finished, as odd as it might seem, I had to admit that the first thing she said was the also the nicest thing she said about that woman.

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There are a lot of word pictures in the previous paragraphs. The ones I would remember later were that place of shining golden light and Saint George and the dragon. That's because Veronica Powers, as her name alluded to, had the power to bring that place of golden light into the world, like Brigadoon emerging from the mists. That would happen later ... much later ... but I'd remember thinking about that as I read about the skates.

The part about Saint George and the dragon was something I'd think about on a number of occasions in the relatively near future. I didn't really believe in dragons ... or saints either, for that matter. Not then.

But that was before I met Ronnie Powers' mother. And let me get this out of the way right quick… She wasn't the saint part of that phrase.

 

Chapter Two

I figured this would be a cake walk. I mean, how hard could it be to talk an old woman out of a pair of roller skates that she didn't use, which were gathering dust in some closet somewhere, or maybe that garage Ronnie had talked about in her unspoken soliloquy. Mom had no use for them—her daughter wanted them. Parents want their kids to be happy, right? And, I’m an intimidating looking fellow, I’m told, so if just asking didn’t work I’d intimidate the old bat a bit. That's why I didn't plan on charging my latest customer anything more than the cost of the gas it would take me to drive over to Ohio, retrieve the skates, and come back.

During that drive I let my mind wander. I looked over at the passenger seat and imagined the skates, sitting there, minding their own business, waiting to be delivered to their owner. I imagined them to be excited, eager to go back on the feet that had ridden in them over those countless miles of smooth pavement while the little girl in them became a young woman.

Then I imagined the skates becoming Veronica Powers, sitting beside me, unimaginably thankful that I had recovered one of the totems of her journey to adulthood. Well ... not unimaginably thankful ... not exactly. I could think of a way she was welcome to thank me. It involved a lot of heavy breathing and her naked skin moving all over my naked skin while I showed her how lucky she was to be a woman, all grown up and fully involved with mature things.

I almost ran into the back of an eighteen wheeler carrying a load of cattle. I let off the accelerator just as a cow let loose out of one of the holes in the side of the trailer and a brown hazy cloud appeared, only to be whipped toward me in the wind. My windshield was suddenly opaque and I cursed, slowing more.

Let me tell you something. Windshield wipers aren't designed to deal with cow excrement, moistened with piss and atomized by a seventy mile an hour wind. Not even when you use the washers.

I didn't see that as an omen of how my trip to get Ronnie's skates was going to go.

But I should have.

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Ronnie had given me the rundown on her mother, one Madeline Wilkenson, formerly Madeline Powers. It hadn't been easy getting the information. You might get some idea of that from her initial response to: "So, tell me about your mother."

The level to which their relationship had sunk was revealed clearly. Her answer had been succinct, if not quite a term that would be approved by the literary guild.

"She's a giant buttface," she muttered.

She'd added an adjective, but I needed a little more than that and by continued probing I learned more. There had been a divorce when Ronnie was very young, a step-father after that, and a string of "uncles" after the second marriage ended in divorce as well. I knew the type. Some women can't figure out what they want, or how lucky they are to have a decent man in the first place. Such women think mostly of themselves and their own wants. Which, since they don't know what they want, makes for a pretty dismal kind of playing at being an adult.

That, combined with the fact that her mother and father were bona fide hippies and probably did way too many drugs during the "free love" years, made it almost a miracle that Ronnie seemed to have grown up with a relatively stable personality. Kids pick up a lot from their parents and I'm not talking about what the parents are trying to teach them. There are a lot of Gen-Xers out there who are messed up because their parents weren't very good role models.

I had pretty good data about when Maddie, as I now thought of her, had been a young mother. But Ronnie had left home at seventeen and there was a dearth of information about what I was heading into now. Ronnie tried very hard not to spend any time with her mother. The term "quality time" just wasn't in Ronnie's vocabulary, as it pertained to the woman who had given her life.

Then again, I didn't think I'd need to know all that much, really. I knew how to find her house, and that she worked as a teacher with learning disabled kids in Columbus, but that was about it. If a woman with a face like a derriere came to the door I might blow it by laughing but I didn't really think that was going to happen. I figured I was savvy enough to finesse just about any woman if I put my mind to it.

I had no trouble finding the house. I got there about seven in the evening, which was great, as far as I was concerned. It wasn't too late, but probably wouldn't allow for an invitation to sit and chat about how Ronnie was doing, once I got the skates. I planned a quick in and out visit, and with the help of some NoDoz I could be handing Ronnie her skates the next morning.

That's not to say I abandoned my usual vigilance. Being observant is a primary requirement of being in the business. So I noticed the big red and white sign on the gate that said "BEWARE OF DOG". I hadn't thought to ask Ronnie about dogs. I made some noise so the dog, if it was out, could rush out and do his duty. I actually hoped it would, in one sense, since that would make Maddie owe me when she came out to see what the barking was all about.

The only problem was that no dog came barking. That can mean two things, usually. One is that the dog is inside, which is fine. The other, though, is that the dog might be the sly type that lies quietly in wait for the borders of its kingdom to be breached, whereupon it rushes out and bites the shit out of the intruder.

I lifted the latch on the gate and stepped into the yard, holding the gate open so I could dart back out if anything rushed out of the shadows at me.

Nothing did.

I wasn't packing heat because I'm not licensed in Ohio. As I got to the halfway point between the gate and the porch I wished I'd thought to bring my telescoping baton, which would quickly deal with a tardy guard dog. When I made it to the porch I felt better, especially when my foot on a loose board brought barking from within the house. I rang the bell and the barking doubled.

"Shut the fuck up, Muttley!" came a dim voice from within.

The porch light came on, even though it wasn't dark out yet. There were curtains covering the window in the door and I saw them nudged aside as I was inspected. The door opened wide and I saw an Australian cattle dog dancing around, still barking. A foot wearing a house shoe snapped out and kicked the dog in the side. It yelped, whined and backed up. The unmistakable odor of marijuana came wafting out the door.

"You don't look like a solicitor," said an alto voice that wasn't all that unpleasant.

The woman attached to that voice was looking down her nose at me. I realized it was because she was wearing those glasses with more lines in them than an eye doctor's chart. I guess I was close enough that examining me required one of the lower sections of the glasses.

"I'm not," I said in my suave voice.

"That's good," she went on, "because if you were a solicitor, I'd have to let Muttley loose on you. He bites children, so he should flat out try to eat a solicitor."

"As I said, I'm not a solicitor," I said. "I'm a friend of Ronnie's."

"Ronnie? Who the hell is Ronnie?" she asked.

"Uh ... Veronica? Your daughter? I assume you're Madeline Wilkenson."

"She calls herself Ronnie now? Well isn't that about the blue-dyed shits!" exclaimed the woman. "I call her Ronnie one time in her whole life and she goes into the screaming jeebies, but now that she won't talk to me anymore it's just freaking fine!" She poked her head out the door. "Is she with you?"

"No," I said. "I just stopped by to ... "

She slammed the door in my face. Just like that!

I rang the bell again and Muttley started barking again. I stood there long enough that I was beginning to think she was just going to ignore me, when the door opened.

"Are you still here?"

"Yes," I said. "But I won't take long. I just need to pick up something of Veronica's and I'll be on my way."

"She doesn't have anything here," said Madeline, looking down her nose at me again.

"It's just a pair of roller skates," I said. "I just need to pick them up and I'll be out of your hair."

She snorted. "That again? I told her she couldn't have them. Go away."

"What do you mean she can't have them? They're her skates!" My control had slipped a little and I raised my voice at the end.

"No they're not," she said calmly. "I paid for them. That makes them mine."

"Come on," I moaned. "You're never going to use them."

"True," she said, smiling widely. "But they're still mine."

She slammed the door in my face again.

I stood there for another minute, trying to figure out what had gone wrong. She must have been peeking out at me, because the door suddenly opened and she yelled, "Muttley, sic 'em!"

I heard excited barking. I cleared the gate like I might have in my track and field days, only to turn and find that Muttley hadn't left the porch yet. He was barking to beat the band, but he hadn't chased me. He looked around at the door, which was closed again, then looked back at me and barked while he wagged his freaking tail.

I walked back to my car. I couldn't help but think: St. George—zip; dragon—one.

* *

I had been caught unprepared and it smarted. My pride was hurt. Had I known what had happened would happen I would have come prepared to deploy plan B. But I didn't have plan B with me, so there was really nothing to do but drive back to Chicago. I drove through the night, then crashed and slept until three in the afternoon. That's definitely one of the perks of being self-employed.

I stopped by the office, where I had a supply of plan B. The answering machine on my desk was blinking. There was only one message. It was from Ronnie, asking me to call her as soon as I got back. I didn't have anything positive to report and I wasn't about to let her know about my first abortive attempt, so I ignored the machine, got plan B all ready to go, and got in my car to make the trip to Ohio again.

* *

For plan B, I wanted to approach the house during the daytime, and I wanted to catch her off guard. When I got there the red Tracker that had been in the driveway the day before wasn't there, which confirmed that Madeline was still at work. So I went a few blocks to get a cup of joe and a donut, then returned to wait for her to get home.

When I saw the Tracker pull into the driveway, I got out and went to the rear of her car. I got there just as she was getting out. She had some bags in her hands. I was glad, because that kept her hands busy. I adopted my no nonsense business voice.

"Mrs. Wilkenson," I said formally. "You may remember me from yesterday. I never got a chance to introduce myself. I'm Bob Holmes, a private investigator, and I have a warrant here to search your house and recover property belonging to my client. I tried to do this the easy way yesterday, but you decided to be uncooperative."

I waved plan B in her face. It had her name and address on it, and looked very official. It should have. It was based on a real search warrant, right down to the signature of the judge on it. Of course that judge had no idea I was doing this, but that was just a technicality in my mind.

She squinted at it and I held it still.

"I can't read that out here," she complained. "You might as well come in."

Flushed with impending victory, I offered to help her carry things. Since she was capitulating so nicely, I figured it wouldn't hurt to be magnanimous. She handed me some bags and got more out of the back of the Tracker and I followed her into the breezeway between the house and garage. Muttley was there and dancing around with happiness. Apparently if I came in with the mistress it didn't call for barking, her earlier command to sic me notwithstanding.

She dumped her bags on the kitchen table and turned to snatch the warrant from my hand. I wasn't worried. I had a good graphics program and the warrant looked perfectly legitimate. She looked down her nose at it and glanced at me.

"You're supposed to have the sheriff with you when you serve a warrant."

I was ready for her.

"Considering the fact that you were smoking weed when I was here last night I thought I'd do you the favor of skipping the cops. I'm not holding a grudge here. I just want to do what my client hired me to do, then I'll be out of your life. Just give me the skates and you'll never see me again."

"Sit tight," she said and turned around to walk away.

She didn't go very far, stopping at a wall mounted phone. She picked it up and punched only three numbers.

"Hello? Yeah, there's a guy here impersonating a police officer and he's threatening me. I need you to send a cop over here like immediately, cause this guy may kill me or something. Oh shit! He's coming in the house now. I have to go!"

She slammed the phone back into the cradle and turned around to look at me.

"You're one stupid fuck to think I'd fall for that shit. That warrant was issued in Kingston County and as any idiot would know this is Randall County. Leave it to my loser daughter to hire a fucking ignoramus to try to steal my property!"

"Shit, lady!" I yelled. "It's only a pair of fucking roller skates!!"

"My fucking roller skates!" she screamed back at me. She suddenly calmed. "Now, I bet if I smack my face into the wall a few times, when the cops get here I can get you arrested for assault ... " She smiled, and I jumped as she suddenly screamed, "And watch you rot in fucking prison!"

I had enough presence of mind to move toward her. She flinched, which gave me the only little thrill I got that day, because she obviously thought that if I was going to get blamed for beating her up, I might as well do it. But all I was interested in was plan B, which I did not want falling into the hands of the police. I snatched it from her hand and started beating a hasty retreat. She lost her fear as quickly as it had appeared.

"And if you think any cop will find dope in my house after this, you stupid fuck, you're even more ignorant than you look!"

Muttley figured out that it was time to bark, but I made it out the back door before he could do anything more than that.

Saint George—still zip.

Chapter Three

I have to admit I was a little embarrassed, even though there was really nobody around to see it. This woman, who I'd thought would be such an easy touch, was turning out to have more on the ball than I had expected. That she'd just call the cops like that, even though I knew she had dope in the house, suggested she was either crazy or had an in with the department somehow. I'd seen stuff like that before. More than one bad cop has stolen "product" during a bust and then turned around and sold it or used it, himself.

But besides being embarrassed — or maybe because of it — I was pissed off too. I wasn't about to go back to that sweet, dangerous-looking woman in Chicago with the half crew cut and half dog ears hairdo, and tell her that her mother was smarter than I was. I was beginning to get a glimmer of why Ronnie had that dangerous, smart aura about her. She might not like her mother, but she was a product of the woman's genes.

So I opted for plan C.

I was tempted to give it a day or two. I mean she had called the cops and all, and sometimes they had this bad habit of actually keeping an eye on someone who made a complaint like she had made. I had no idea what cockamamie story she'd cooked up to tell them when they answered the 911 call, but I didn't need any extra vigilance on their part when I executed plan C.

On the other hand, she might actually have given them a description of me. I'm burly, and that face full of hair isn't the cutesy little goatee that most men who sport facial hair have these days. I’m more the Grizzly Adams type and fairly recognizable, even sitting in a car. The last thing I needed was a run-in with the law where I didn't have any friends.

I could just see it in my mind:

"Hello officer. I'm confused about why you stopped me. I know I wasn't speeding."

"Driver's license and registration, please."

"Do you mind if I ask why you stopped me?"

"You match the description of a man alleged to be impersonating a police officer and threatening people."

"Hahaha. That's a rich one. Here you go, officer. I'm just Joe Average. I'm not a threat to anybody."

"I see, Mr. Holmes, that you're from Chicago. You mind me asking what you're doing in Dayton?"

I couldn't lie to him. They have ways of checking these things. I thought about saying I was a consultant in the information sector. That's a little like calling a janitor an Environmental Sanitary Engineer, but sometimes it makes people nod, like they know what that means, ‘cause they don't want to look stupid. I didn't think that would work with a cop who was already suspicious.

"Well, I'm a private investigator, and I'm on a case," I'd have to admit.

"What kind of case, Mr. Holmes?"

"I'm trying to recover some very valuable property for a client."

"What kind of property, Mr. Holmes?"

"Uhhh ... actually ... it's a pair of roller skates."

"Step out of the car, Mr. Holmes. Keep your hands where I can see them!"

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

I was pretty sure it would go something like that so, instead of hanging around Dayton, waiting for said scenario to play out, I went shopping for what I'd need for plan C.

I waited until an hour after I saw the last lights go off in the house and then eased out of the car, not closing the door completely. I'd already taken the bulb out of the dome light. The breezeway that separated the garage from the house was enclosed. There was a storm door that led into it and, once you were through that, you could turn left to go into the house, or right to go into the garage.

I wasn't surprised to hear Muttley stirring around in the breezeway when I approached. Some people leave a dog in all night. For those people the dog is just part of the family. But I suspected any woman who'd kick her own dog just for doing his job wasn't going to be that type and would put the animal out so it couldn't bother her during the night. I was prepared for that eventuality, though, as long as I could keep the dog from barking too much initially.

Muttley had given out two nervous barks before I opened the storm door and tossed in $21.56 worth of beef chuck blade roast which, besides having nice red meat on it, had a bone, to keep Rover happy after his snack. The light from the street lamps was good enough that I could see Muttley happily go for it. I slipped in and went for the garage door immediately, while he was celebrating his good fortune.

I didn't want to draw any attention from the neighbors by turning on the lights, so I used my flashlight to begin my search. I understood immediately why the car was parked outside.

If you've lived in your house for four or five years, take a look around. See all that junk you've accumulated? Now, multiply it by four. This woman had lived here for twenty years or more and the place was crammed with lawnmowers, a garden tiller, and ... of course ... stacks and stacks of overflowing boxes. Still, I didn't have to worry about making a mess. Who'd notice in this clutter? I just had to make that mess quietly.

I dumped one box and started transferring stuff from a second into the empty one. I was on my fourth box when Muttley started barking. I hurried to the door and opened it just enough to speak to the dog in a whisper.

"What's wrong, boy?" I said in my best pet-friendly voice.

He was standing over that bone, which had been cleaned up nicely and fairly shone, white in the dim light. He looked at the bone and then back up at me, and barked some more.

"Eat the bone, you stupid dog!" I urged him in baby talk.

The furry fucker actually dipped his head and moved the bone with his nose before looking back up at me and barking some more. Apparently Muttley wasn't interested in bones. He wanted more meat. He barked some more. It was dog language for, "You didn't think you could buy me off with that paltry offering did you?"

A light went on in the kitchen and I ducked back, closing the door. Muttley started barking up a storm now, so that his mistress would have no doubt whatsoever that he was doing his duty, despite the fact that there was a nice fresh bone on the floor that she hadn't given him and must have come from someplace else.

"Shut up, you fucking mutt!" She was so loud I could understand her clearly, through two doors and twelve feet of air.

Muttley came to the garage door and barked even more furiously. It was dog language for "You don't understand, Mama, there's an intruder here! I'm doing my job!"

She yelled again and was loud enough now that I knew she was doing that yelling from an open door. I heard Muttley scratch at the door to the garage and bark, if it was possible, even more furiously. I went to the sectional garage door and attempted to lift it. It was stuck fast. My flashlight showed there was an electric garage door opener that was keeping it that way and, of course, the emergency release rope was missing from the damn thing. I was on my way back to where I hoped the button was when dear sweet Maddie came storming through the door with a baseball bat clutched firmly in both hands. She was choking up way too much, but I wasn't in the mood to give her a lesson on how to properly hold a bat. So I did the best thing I could think of. I tried to blind her with the beam of my flashlight and slide by her so I could seek the only egress easily available to me.

She was quick for an old broad, let me tell you. She blinked myopic eyes and swung that bat like Barry Bonds on a whole shitload of steroids. She punctuated her swing with a grunted "Bastard!" I leaned back and heard the swish of air as the bat went within an inch of my nose and slammed into a vacuum cleaner that was sitting atop a stack of boxes. Plastic parts flew every which way.

I ducked away from the vacuum cleaner and tried to push past her, but she must’ve watched Conan, The Barbarian too many times or something, because she used the bounce from the vacuum cleaner to swing back the other way. I went to all fours, doing something like a bear walk and heard the bat slam into the wall. I realized that now the flashlight was telling her where I was. She was standing over me, and I hoped like hell that the bat had gone through the sheet rock and stuck, because if she brought it down now she'd break my spine clean in two.

"Bastard!" she screamed. Muttley barked right in my face.

I have to admit I panicked ... just a little ... and my instinct was to roll against her legs and knock her down. The only problem was that her instinct was to kick the shit out of the intruder at her feet. So when I tried to roll, all I did was move my ribs right into the path of her foot. I thanked my lucky stars that she was barefoot, but it still hurt, and elicited an "oof" from me. Meanwhile I grabbed for Muttley's collar and pulled hard, jerking him past me and crawling for the open door. He yelped, more from surprise than pain, in my opinion.

"Muttley!!" screamed Madeline.

Great. Leave it to now for her to give birth to concern for her canine companion.

I had both feet under me and was in the act of jumping through the door when that fucking bat connected solidly with my left side. Pain shot through me like fire and every bit of air left my lungs. I saw stars and it was only by adrenaline rush that I kept going. I lurched to my right, propelled by the force of that strike, and bounced off the wall. That was fortunate, because it bounced me toward the storm door. I put a shoulder into that and fumbled for the handle. My weight was too much for the latch, though, and the door sprang open.

From there, at least from the neighbors’ viewpoint, I must have looked like Igor ... you know, Dr. Frankenstein’s hunchback assistant ... shambling down the walk toward the street. I was reduced to that bent-over one-legged loping kind of gait that Igor would use when he was trying to hurry to do his master's bidding. The pain in my ribs was overflowing down my left leg, making it impossible to actually run.

She didn't chase me, but Muttley did. I heard her scream, "SIC 'EM!" as loud as was humanly possible. The saving grace was that Muttley, bless his black little soul, just wasn't an attack dog at heart. He was a good guard dog, but as he scampered around me in circles, barking like crazy, his tail was wagging. It was like he was saying, "This is fun! I like you! You brought me a treat and now you're playing this neat running game with me!"

Thank God I'd left the key in the ignition. I slid through the door. My left arm wasn't working too good either and when I tried to pull the door closed it was like a one year old was doing it. The latch caught, but the door didn't close all the way. I twisted the key frantically, gunned the engine to life, and would have left ten feet of rubber except that my '95 Contour just didn't have the guts to spin the tires. It was good on fuel economy, but not so much on power.