The Midnight Plan of the Repo Man (11 page)

I mulled it over. “I can't believe I'm going to do this,” I finally muttered.

“Great!”

“But not right now.” I shut the truck off, and it rattled into silence. “Right now, I'm on what we professional repo men call a stakeout.”

“That's what cops call it.”

“Right, they stole it from us.”

It was cold when I lurched awake at dawn. Shivering, I started the tow truck and let the wipers and defroster work on the layer of ice on the windshield. Alan was quiet and I could feel that he was asleep, now that I understood what it meant when I experienced the peculiar sensation of him not being there.

About half an hour later, just as I was talking myself into abandoning my post for the time it took to get a cup of coffee, Einstein Croft wheeled down his driveway and gunned his truck, his back end sliding as he headed off for work. I gave him a half mile and then unhurriedly crawled off after him; I knew where he was going—PlasMerc, home of the surly gate guard.

I was close enough behind him on the highway to see him speed up and slow down twice, his tailpipe blowing clouds of black smoke as he tried to clear his engine by stomping on his accelerator. Satisfied that his erratic progress was a sign that the water in his fuel line was doing its job, I pulled a U-turn and sped off in the opposite direction.

Half an hour later I cruised back down the road and there was his pickup, all by itself, emergency flashers blinking away. Einstein must have thumbed a ride to work. I eased up to his truck and hooked it with the hoist, drawing nothing but a curious glance from the few vehicles that drove by. Car breaks down, car gets towed, God bless America.

You might think you're a genius, Einstein, but you cannot outsmart the repo man.

I called Milton from the junkyard we used as a storage lot in East Jordan, and he grunted in satisfaction. “The cosigner's a real nice guy, too. Makes you wonder, since his kid is such a jerk.”

“His kid's a walking jerk,” I corrected, somewhat gleefully. Repo humor never gets old for me.

I hung up, feeling like the greasy phone had probably left a black mark on my cheek. Everything in the junkyard was coated with motor oil, even the people.

“This place is disgusting,”
Alan muttered. One of the mechanics was standing at the other end of the counter, so I didn't reply. I fished out the card I'd gotten from the woman at the bank in Traverse City, and dialed her number to see how things were progressing in the mystery of Jimmy's checks, leaving a thumbprint on the paper in the process.

“Yes, Mr. McCann, I remember,” Maureen the banker told me when I introduced myself.

“I'm wondering if you were able to—”

“I'm sorry, but I won't be able to help you in this matter,” she interrupted.

I blinked. This did not sound like the motherly person I remembered. “But I thought you said…” I started slowly.

“I have no information for you.”

“Maureen, are you saying you can't help me, or won't help me?” I persisted. “I'm confused.”

There was a noise, as if her kind nature was being strangled, but she replied firmly. “I can't help you, Mr. McCann. Please don't call here anymore.”

I listened to the
click
in disbelief. What could have happened to make her so uncooperative?

The good feeling from reintroducing Einstein to the concept of nonvehicular travel had evaporated. I felt tired and old as I fired up the tow truck.

“There's something strange going on,”
Alan observed.

“Right … this coming from a man who claims to be a ghost stuck in my brain.”

“No, I mean, the change in her demeanor was striking.”

“Yeah, all of a sudden she's mean.”

“No, not mean. More like scared,”
Alan observed after a moment.

I cocked my head, considering. “You're right. She was frightened.”

Since I had nothing else to do and we were already in East Jordan, I agreed to drive Alan around to check out his past. He directed me with barely restrained excitement up North Street, past homes that would probably cost a million dollars if they weren't located in what the locals awkwardly called “northern lower Michigan.” Here, a nice four-bedroom house could be had for what would be a down payment anywhere else. Made you wonder why the people living in Phoenix didn't move here en masse. I flipped on my heater to dry up the puddle of melted snow at my feet.

East Jordan sits at the south end of Lake Charlevoix, which is a beautiful, deep blue body of water that joins Lake Michigan via a river. Tourists mostly ignore East Jordan—to its benefit, I believe. In the winter a few small factories plus a big one, the East Jordan Iron Works, keep the economic blood flowing, and a small flock of summer people come in for July and August to hang out in little cottages mostly built in the twenties. It's a poor cousin to Charlevoix, the town on the north end of the lake, where all the yachts bob up and down in the summer. I like the people in East Jordan the way I like the citizens of Kalkaska and the way I probably would dislike the yacht people in Charlevoix if they ever invited me aboard their boats.

Alan urged me to slow down as we approached his house, as if to savor the anticipation, and then went quiet. I eased over to the curb and looked at a vacant lot at the address he'd given me, the snow smoothly untracked and an old Plymouth up on blocks, both engine and hood missing. “Where's the house, Alan?” I asked softly. I moved my eyes slowly, carefully, like a searchlight probing for escaping convicts. I wanted him to take it all in. “Is that your car, maybe?”

“This is impossible. It has to be here!”

“Let's go check out the office,” I suggested.

According to Alan, his real estate office was right on Second Street, a block from Main. We pulled up in front of what was obviously an ice-cream shop and nothing else.

“This wasn't here! It was an old two-story building with a bay window on top. Next to it was a shoe store; they're both gone.”

“These stores have been here as long as I can remember, Alan,” I said gently. I couldn't really recall what had been here when I was in high school, but since I started working for Milt a couple of years ago, the shops had been open for business.

“It's like … it's like someone is following around after me, erasing my past,”
he whispered.

I didn't advise him that it sounded like my split personality was developing paranoia. Instead I sat there, letting his mind work on it. (Or was it
my
mind?) He recovered pretty quickly.
“Okay let's … let's go to the school, see if Kathy is there. I know she'll be there! And Marget wouldn't leave town, her parents are dead but all of her friends are here. I know! Let's go talk to the guy who runs the iron works, Mr. Malpass. I sold him a house on Highway 66, I'll show it to you.”

“Alan.” I sighed. “Listen to me.”

“I know what you're going to say, but dammit, Ruddy I can prove to you I exist!”

“Don't you think it's likely that the reason your house wasn't there, and your office wasn't there, is because I made them up, and I made you up, too?”

“For God's sake, Ruddy!”
Alan replied, anguished.

I pulled the tow truck away from the curb. “I have to face the fact that I've been talking to myself, which isn't exactly a sign of good mental health.”

“No, you're not! I'm a real person!”

“You need to face the fact, too,” I told him, as if that made any sense.

I spent the afternoon picking up a voluntary repo way north in a tiny spit of a place called Cross Village. The man who owned the Ford Explorer had left his keys in it when he took his family and moved back to Detroit and, as a further assistance to the repo man, had taken an ax and whacked the living crap out of the thing. I knew it was an ax because the head of it was buried in the windshield, the handle snapped off and pointing skyward like the business end of a sundial.

The whole time I was occupied with hauling in the Ford, my voice was blabbering away, reciting from the
Book of Alan
. I learned his Social Security number and that his father's nickname was “Boots.” He told me his first real girlfriend wouldn't kiss him unless he gave her chocolate. He recited the names of at least fifty people he claimed could verify that he'd once lived.

I snorted in derision. “I can see me calling them up. ‘Hello, have you heard of Alan Lottner? Did you kiss him for chocolate? Because I've got him in my head.'”

It was dark and cold by the time I got back to Kalkaska, and my body ached from camping out in the tow truck, which I exchanged for my pickup at Milt's lot. Tonight, I decided, the Black Bear could do without a bouncer. I eyed the bear head on the seat next to me, wondering what people thought of Bob the Headless Bear.

Jake's groan of a greeting as I limped in the door matched my sentiment exactly: time for bed. But everything changed when I saw the note posted to my refrigerator. Becky's handwriting.
Ruddy, need you to get down to the Black Bear
now.
Hurry!

 

 

8

The Soul of Lisa Marie

 

My heart lurching around in my chest, I sprinted down the street, my legs acting like they had never been asked to run before. A couple of blocks and I was drained of oxygen—how had I gotten so out of shape?

The bar was completely dark, which was all wrong. I fumbled with the keys, finally managing to fling the door open. When my hand found the light switch the room roared with noise. “Surprise!”

I staggered back. More than a dozen people stood there in party hats, grinning at me wildly. “Happy birthday, Ruddy!” Becky called.

“Holy smokes,” I panted. I stumbled in and accepted a beer. “What are you doing? My birthday's not for a week.”

“Yes, that's the nature of a surprise; it is unexpected,” Becky explained calmly, putting a cone-shaped hat on my head and kissing my cheek. “Happy three-oh, old man.”

My friends crowded around, including my boss and his wife. I felt strangely awkward at the center of attention, hoping they weren't expecting a speech. “Hey there, Milt. Hi, Ruby.”

“Trisha!”
Alan hissed.

“I mean Trisha!”

“Happy birthday to you,” Kermit enthused.

“Kermit,” I greeted a bit darkly.

“Be nice,”
Alan warned.

My cake was decorated with a tow truck hauling away what looked like a Ferrari, something that had never happened in real life. I blew out the candles and the smoke misted my gaze a little. There'd been a time when all of my cakes were decorated with footballs and goalposts.

“Hey, you okay, Ruddy?”
Alan asked. I felt myself resenting his concern, a little.

I sat down at the table with a groan. “You do sound old,” Becky teased.

“I am old,” I told her with feeling. “My body's aching from spending the night in Milt's truck. My back muscles are all tense.”

“You need a misogynist,” Kermit advised me.

I looked at him. “A misogynist,” I repeated woodenly.

“He's right, a massage would do you good, Ruddy,” Claude told me, while Alan snickered in my ear.

“That's not what a misogynist does,” I responded a bit too crisply. Everyone frowned.

“Well, what do you think they do?” Milt asked.

“A misogynist is someone who hates women,” I explained.

They glanced at each other. Claude cleared his throat. “Uh, but Ruddy, how could you make a living doing that?”

“Forget it.”

There was a small pile of gifts. Becky gave me a sweater. Claude presented me with a beer cooler. Milt gave me what looked like an alarm clock without the clock part. “It makes noise to help you sleep,” he explained.

I looked at him blankly.

“See, it has a river flowing, and wind and rain, and birds. I figured for at night when the voices start talking.”

“Thanks, Milt,” I responded, trying to sound sincere.

Jimmy Growe gave me a book.
Son of Sam,
I pronounced, reading the title.

“Yeah, I told the lady at the bookstore that you liked to read and that, like, I wanted a true story about a guy with madness, hears voices.”

“Jimmy, this is about David Berkowitz.” Becky was suffocating a giggle.

“Who?” Jimmy was leaning toward me, staring into my eyes as if trying to spot a piece of soot lodged there.

“Jimmy, please tell me you are not trying to see the person inside my head,” I said pleasantly.

Kermit coughed. “Hey, Jimmy, maybe I could go in with you on that. I mean, I didn't know about the party in time to appropriate a gift.”

Becky beamed at Kermit over his munificence. Oh, this was not good—what was going on between the two of them?

“You haven't even thanked Jimmy,”
Alan chided. I put a crooked smile on my face and told Jimmy the book was a perfect gift. Becky left me to tend bar, Kermit following her like a duck that's been imprinted on its mother.

Claude nodded after them. “Who's the guy?”

“Absolutely nobody,” I growled. For some reason I twisted to look at Bob the Bear, reacting in shock to his decapitation. How could no one else have noticed?

“Listen, I … I won't be needing your room, after all,” Claude told me, bursting to tell a secret.

“Oh? You and Wilma afflicted with a sudden rush of sanity?”

“No.” His mouth curled into a sly grin. “I've got somewhere else to stay tonight.”

I raised my head and saw Janelle watching us from across the room, her expression dark. “No,” I said flatly.

Claude blinked. “Huh?”