Family Practice by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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CHAPTER 3
Mark sat in the car, not having any idea of what he was looking at. The traffic stopped and everyone was now inside the warehouse which displayed light in every shaded window, precluding outsiders from a viewing of the internal goings on.
He saw the two greeters still at the open gate, now sitting on chairs, smoking cigarettes and sharing a flask, not seeming to be interested in him, or at least not looking in his direction.
He started to lose concentration after half an hour of staring at zero motion, put his hand on his crotch, closed his eyes and dozed off, without the cognizance that he was an object of interest. Two sports coated men stood at the rear of the facility, having come outside to have a private discussion and smoke cigarettes. The rear, being devoid of light, enabled their eyes to adjust to the dark and they saw Mark’s car and that someone was in the driver’s seat. They broke away from their intended “business” talk when Jerry said; “What the hell is that car doing over there?”
Broadenly stared in Mark’s direction, blew out cigarette smoke, shook his head and said; “Beats me. Independent operator?”
Jerry did the same act and said; “I hope the hell not.
Maybe it’s just some guy getting a blow job.”
“Where’s the girl?”
“Maybe she’s on the floor of the car.”
Broadenly furrowed his brow and said; “There’s no room down there in a car like that.” He paused and corrected himself.
“Unless she’s about three years old.” He made a laugh which came out more of a snort.
“Who the fuck knows? It’s 1972, anything goes, right?”
“Obviously, but we better perform our due diligence here.
We can’t have anyone rocking the boat, even a two pound rat.”
“So, you want to check out Sleeping Beauty? It doesn’t even look like he’s awake.”
“We ought to do something, but shit, we don’t want to miss any more of the show.”
“Or the after-show.” They both nodded and smiled.
“Okay, tell you what. I’ll get some photos, including the plates. If he shows up again, we’ll come up with a plan at that point.” He took a small Japanese plastic camera from his pocket, pushed the night vision button and snapped away.
Private eye Cinchapport woke as the sun attempted to fry the low dark rain clouds, which had dropped a half inch of moisture in the area overnight and were now struggling to maintain their supremacy by doing their best imitation of a lion roaring. Mark’s opportunity for surveillance was over, as he
had slept through the departure of all cars, except three still parked near the entrance. He started his car up and drove to the now closed gate. He considered going in, but it would merely be an exercise in futility as the 1972 Cadillac was not one of the lingering three. He went to his Headwaters Road apartment and hoped that he didn’t have any guests.
He had to park a few hundred feet away, as people were just starting to leave for work, not yet vacating their spaces. He had to dance around a few groups of Orientals and Spanish people, who seemed to not notice him, as they argued about something in their native languages. He got into the studio and after checking the bathroom, decided that he had the place to himself for a while, so he made coffee and heated up a ham and eggs TV dinner. While he waited he turned on the television just in time to have the male model mannequin newscaster give him the day’s body count scorecard. “42,367 Viet Cong dead, 78
Americans and no French or English troops killed in skirmishes centering around the Ho Chi Minh trail.” He said this with a straight serious expression, as if he believed it or was just reading pre-printed words, not bothering to attempt taking any meaning from them. The US flags disappeared from the screen as the next newsworthy story was recounted. It seems that recently Charlie Manson had carved an “x” or a cross into his forehead.
It depends on your angle, Mark supposed. Charlie had shaved off
his long hair, though the stock background stills showed him with all his locks, without any forehead ornamentation, unless it was covered by his unruly bangs.
He brought over the breakfast and coffee, instinctively changing the channel. He found a station playing a subtitled foreign movie and rested there content that if he ignored the words, he wouldn’t have to ingest any stupidity. He was rewarded in black and white by a scene depicting a forty-ish, heavyset, long haired, garishly made up woman exiting her solitary shack on the beach. Ten little boys were waiting for her and ran after her trying to touch various body parts. She danced away laughing hysterically, her wild wide eyes advertising excitement, insanity or both. When she tired the boys surrounded her, putting their hands where they wished, as she raised her arms and head to the clouded sky and laughed.
Mark shut the television, showered and changed into a white dress shirt, light brown corduroy pants, a blue blazer and no kerchief. He walked to his office hoping that someone was there; someone with money.
At 8AM Shari’s tired eyes got their first glimpse of a new day, insofar as the drawn blinds and the gray sky allowed. She stayed in bed, naked under her summer blanket of pink sheets.
As she lazily gazed around the room, she caressed her body,
primarily trying to determine if she needed a shower, as she didn’t feel like taking one.
She did like the feel of the overly grand room she was assigned to and knew very well. The art nouveau motif made maximum use of walls and ceilings; the former made up of wood paneling, which covered the original plaster, faux antique stained a light red, the seams hidden by thin strips stained a much deeper shade. The extremely high ceiling dictated a variation at the last three feet of wall, which was accomplished by repainting the original plaster a dull white, but covering it with gold leafed designs of either crabs or Christmas trees with a halo around their neck. The light yellow ceiling was broken into sections by thin overlapping pieces of wood stained dark brown, forming countless separate squares.
The room had no feeling for eclecticism, as all the furniture matched perfectly. The curving walnut borders of everything was stained darkly and covered again by a very shiny lacquer, which seemed to magnify the detailed carvings. They ran the gamut from simple deviated lines to detailed depictions of symmetrically shaped roses. The couch, loveseat and two chairs were upholstered with an embroidered eggshell background, which hosted a band of small multi-colored flowers all identically shaped and separated into rows by golden lines.
Zealously manicured nature might be the title of this still life.
Two small tables near the center and two cheval mirrors in corners were of the same ilk. The recessed grand double entry doors with wide heavily carved sides and rounded top was the dominant focal feature of the room. The designs carved into all available space were somewhat highlighted by the shining dark stain and the flowered draperies which covered the two windows, hanging from the top. The door’s size and well thought design enabled it to be alone enough, to induce many to classify the room as well-provided and lavish. The floor was entirely covered by a thin light blue rug with a simple white border design, custom made for the room, but also easily removable. A simple black iron piece surrounded the fireplace, capable of amplifying the heat.
Shari was still tired, though pleased with herself and her surroundings. She closed her eyes to spend some more time in dreamland, thinking about the type of paintings she might like on her currently empty walls, keeping in mind the room’s pronounced predilection for even numbers.
Candice had already been up for two hours, had showered and ate breakfast in her bedroom. She wanted to have some kind of talk with her mother and was trying to determine a good time and
precisely what to say. She fidgeted in the triple topped Windsor chair occupying one corner as she looked for inspiration in her room of choice, which, a good case could be made, was the polar opposite of her sister’s. Candy’s walls remained the original plaster, somewhat freshly painted white, with plain unstained wooden cornices and similar support poles at each corner. Spaced beams emanating from the cornice divided the white plaster ceiling into somewhat irregular strips.
The tightly packed furniture in the smaller of the sister’s room was considered “country” and the two chests were made of maple painted to simulate red mahogany with gold inlays. Their simple regular shapes didn’t suggest any one style, though the hardware on the larger suggested Heppelwhite, while its counterparts on the smaller was mass produced Victorian rococo.
The larger served as a perch to a maroon and white tin rooster and the smaller held a tin black jewelry box and two unpainted wooden ducks.
There were two other simple Windsor chairs, one a natural light wood and the larger painted black. The floors were tongue-in-groove strips of wood with slightly differing hues approximating tan with darker streaks. It was partially covered by two overlapping rugs; a very detailed Persian brown and reddish one was mostly covered by one bearing similarities to an American quilt; a white background, covered in bright red,
yellow and brown designs, home to green and orange bushes and many blue and red peacocks, each of a different size and position.
The simple queen sized bed was topped with a large unstained wooden headboard that contained shelving, currently home to many books, a hurricane lamp and small porcelain figures of animals, each with large liquid eyes.
She had two paintings squeezed into the crowded space; one a simple country scene with a large red barn sitting in fall’s light brown undergrowth, surrounded by red and yellow leafed trees, under a pale blue sky, only interrupted by one small white friendly cloud. The other painting seemed to be of the very room in which it was hung excepting an ill-defined blue background. The painting on the painting’s wall was too small to decipher well, but a quick look resulted in another mirror image.
Candy would often get as close to it as she could to try to see where and if the smaller mirror imaging ended, to always be quickly interrupted by something of more pressing need; like her sister not being able to find a certain dress, or her mother, anxiously needing to know if she received any phone calls when out. Candy decided that when she saw her mother today she would try to keep things as clear and simple as possible.
Candice knocked on the ornate dark brown door of her mother and Warren’s bedroom. Without waiting to hear any “come in,”
she turned the gold plated latch, went in and saw the couple still under the covers, just rousing now because of her entrance. The dark, heavy, maple, square canopied bed seemed appropriate to her, as all it needed was a few poles on each side to complete the cage effect. She didn’t care much for either of them and missed her biological father, immensely. She remembered how she cried for days when his job required him to transfer to California and her mother refused to go, this event becoming the final curtain on an already horrible show. Candy wanted to be part of the new land and disdained her mother for wanting to wallow in the old dirt. Connie sat up, not making any effort to hide her toplessness, while Candy eyed a painting on another side of the room titled “The Slaughter of the Innocents,” which showed seven voluptuous nude women laying on the ground, dying from wounds inflicted by swords of the three dark bearded men standing above them, attired in the flamboyant battle gear of the sixteenth century. Not relishing either view, she looked at the ceiling and said; “Mom, I just want to remind you that I’ll be out late tonight.”
Connie said; “Is he that good?” and smiled.
Candy dismissed any vague notions she had of serious conversation, looked at the soft, dirty, yellow, thickly
carpeted floor, put her hands in the pocket of her light blue jeans and frustratedly said; “I just wanted to tell you that I’m going out with some friends and we’re driving to Seaside, to enjoy some ocean breezes.”
Connie said; “Okay, okay. I was just trying to make a joke. Forgive me for a poor one. I just woke up.”
Candy shook her head and left the room. Connie was amused at the back of her daughter’s pink t-shirt, which in black letters said; “PEACE NOW.”
Warren got his head out from under the covers and said;
“What was that?”
Connie snickered and said; “Oh, she really thinks that I give a shit that she’s fucking Callie Majors.” She continued laughing, shaking her head side to side and added; “She doesn’t think that I know.” She looked at Warren’s tousled hair and doe-like eyes, put her left hand on top of his head and pushed it back down under the covers saying; “A tangy breakfast is served.”
Mark didn’t get his biggest wish, not finding anyone with money when he entered his office, but was happy with a close second when he saw Vicky sitting back on her chair with her voluptuous black legs, protruding from a short white skirt, ignoring the piles of unfiled papers sitting calmly on the desk.
She had a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye. He said;
“C’mon Vicky, that’s no way for me to start a work day.”
“Well, somethin’s got to wake you up, white boy. You think I’m gonna get paid this week?”
As he walked by he grabbed her bare foot with his left hand saying; “One way or another, black girl.” He continued into his office, closing the door behind him. He sat behind his desk, opened the middle drawer and saw the handgun that he always forgot to bring with him. “Just as well,” he thought, “I never get any jobs where it would be necessary anyway.” He spun through the cards in his Rolodex, hoping to remember someone who might be a source of repeat business, but no ideas came to mind.
“Dammit, wasn’t there anyone in this town doing something nefarious that someone wanted to know about?” Sonny’s commentary came to mind. Maybe everybody is doing everything and no one gave a shit any more. He didn’t feel comfortable with the next logical thought that maybe he was attempting to be an operative of the old time moralists, who have now changed their postures and was desired as much as a priest in Gomorrah.
He didn’t want to put a crimp in anyone’s fun; he just wanted to get paid in the coin of the realm, whatever that was today. He stared at the peeling wall, noticing new strips of bare dirty white undercoating, which seemed to be trying to form a pattern of a face. He lit a joint and dreamed about how pleasant it
would be to spend the day playing with Vicky, oblivious to all the “important” concerns, but decided that if he did that, tomorrow would soon come and he’d be back to thinking about money; or more precisely the lack thereof. He changed from his spiffy outfit to a funky one: Blue jeans torn at the knees; a black Rolling Stones T-shirt with gold lettering and a red tongue; slip on sneakers; topped by a deep purple kerchief he tied around his growing, messy, curly black locks.
As he passed Vicky in the vestibule, she was sitting in her chair, bending forward to pick up some papers on the floor, the top half of her full soft headlights peeking out from her low cut, frilly, pink blouse. Mark said; “Doesn’t your husband ever want to spend the day with you?”
Her eyes looked up; her head retained its weird position and replied; “That old man ain’t good for nothing anymore. He can’t even walk the dog. I like ‘em young.” She brushed her tongue slowly against her full red lips and Mark said; “I’m going to do some useless surveillance, at least I can charge for it.” Vicky put the papers on her desk and adjusted her skirt and blouse saying; “You gotta quit being a wallflower and participate.” Mark kept moving, entered his black Mercury and drove to liberty Lane.
The street’s mid-morning quiet was overwhelming; everyone at work, still recovering from last night, or watching TV talk
shows discuss their outrage at Marjorie’s being written out of
“The Guiding Light.” He took his now practiced spot in front of the old garage, set his side mirror to monitor number 694 and looked at the sky. A mass of light gray clouds had surreptitiously congregated, victorious in their battle with the struggling sun and were so densely packed, that it appeared as if the heavens were covered in one wide brush stroke devoid of any individuality, increasing the discomfort of the humid air.
His expectation of a quiet, paying, morning sky gazing was rudely challenged by Candy’s emergence. She hurriedly walked to the composite Victorian, non-descript and contemporary white house two doors away, where another young girl was waiting at the door. At a distance they appeared to be similar, excepting that where candy’s pink T-shirt said “PEACE NOW,” her friend’s said; “War is good business. Invest your son.”
Mark thought that they were too engrossed in their conversation to notice him, so he followed on foot, fifty feet behind, able to hear most of what was said.
Candy said; “And I’m seeing him again tonight.”
“This is getting to be a regular thing.”
“He loves me...... And I love him.”
“He’s married!”
“He’s going to divorce her soon. He can’t stand her.
They’re so different.”
“You know how many times guys have said that?”
Candy really didn’t have any idea, so rather than making a direct reply she said; “He’s gonna take me to California. I’ll be three thousand miles away from the “Constance Warren Perv Show” and I’ll be near my real father.
“Then you can put on your own perv show, I suppose.”
Candy playfully pushed her friend and seriously said; “It’s different with us.” As they jostled around, Candy noticed the kerchief man behind them, but pretended not to and kept walking toward Eastside Avenue.
Candy’s companion said; “So, I’m going to be stuck in this decaying old shit, without my best friend.”
“After we get settled in we can send for you.”
“Oh sure, he’s gonna want to do that.”
“He’ll do anything I ask. I move him.”
Her friend looked at her, drew a deep breath, but said nothing.
Candy said; “Oh, come on. We can be at the beach in the sun every day.”
Her friend looked at her, put her hand behind Candy’s neck, looked into her eyes and said; “You’re the biggest dreamer I know ...... And also the sweetest one.”
As they approached the pizza parlor, Candy again noticed Mr. Purple Kerchief’s reflection in the store’s angled front
window. She said; “C’mon let’s have a slice,” and led her friend inside.
Mark kept walking to the next corner where he stopped in front of a dry cleaning store, pondering his next move.
Inside the pizza place, Candy went to the pay phone and dialed 911. She was afraid that she had either attracted a nut or that her mother had a tail on her. In five minutes a police car parked at the corner. Its occupant got out and said; “Well, well. Mark Cinchapport. Aren’t you getting a little old to be hanging out with the teenagers?”
Mark immediately recognized an old nemesis from his teenage years, simultaneously realizing that there was some parts of his youth he wasn’t interested in re-living and here it was. He said; “Hi, Hennesy, still chasing kids?”
“No, I've been promoted. Now I chase assholes who still think they’re kids. What the hell are you doing here, Cinch?”
“I’m on a job; confidential; you know.”
“Your conspicuous presence is upsetting some locals.”
“Trite, but this is a free country, they tell me.”
“Statutory rape negates the privilege for ten years or so?”
“Whoa, whoa, Ace, I didn’t think the mind police took over yet. And if they did, you’re doing an understandably lousy job at it. You know I like experience.”
Hennesy put his arm around Mark’s shoulder and said; “Let’s take a walk,” leading him back toward Liberty Lane. “Why the hell aren’t you in Viet Nam, or something?”
“Flat feet. I guess I don’t march very well.”
“Well, we’re marching back to your heap and you’re getting the hell out of here pronto.” As they passed the pizza parlor Candy and Mark got a good look at each other, neither having any particular thoughts about the matter and Candy was relieved at the quick police service. As they reached the corner, Hennesy said; “I’m gonna trust that you’ll continue on to your car and leave. If I have to come back again we’re going to be talking about ‘Failure to give a good account of yourself,’ ‘Loitering,’
‘No visible means of support,’ and a whole lot of other unpleasant things I can’t think of now. Let me give you a little bit of friendly advice. If you want to be a competent private eye, learn how to be less conspicuous.”
“Thanks, Hennesy. And let me return the favor. If you want to be a Captain, or a Chief, or something, don’t waste your time with the small crap. Find a big bullshit issue.”
As Mark continued on doing as he was told, he thought that he should make use of the advice he just dispensed freely. He drove back to the office through East Side Avenue, again making a small degree of eye contact with Candy, who was now in front
of the pizza parlor with her friend. As she watched the car pass she muttered; “Purple kerchief.”
Her friend said; “What?”
“Nothing, just talking to myself.”
Shari entered her parent’s bedroom without knocking to find Warren under the covers and Connie sitting up with her knees bent, her feet flat on the bed, the top half of her naked body in the soft light of the room.
Shari laughed and said; “Interrupting anything?”
Connie said; “Nothing that I wouldn’t mind starting over.
What can I help you with, baby?”
“Nothing really. I just came in to say ‘Hi.’ We’ve both been pretty busy lately, especially you.”
“You’ve got to get yourself one or two regulars. It makes life easier.”
I’ve been working at it, but lately I’ve been running into a load of one timers.”
“Bummer.”
“Yeah, really. I’ve been with one old fart a couple of times, but he’s got a wife, another girlfriend and a business to run.”
“Any good?”
“He has his hang ups.”
“Doesn’t sound like it’s worth the effort.”
“Well, until something better comes along.” Shari shrugged and smiled. “I’ve got an itch.”
Connie said; “I might have something for you,” thinking of Mark. “Give me a few days.”
“A diver?”
“What else would I want for my little girl?”
Shari said; “Cool,” and left, shutting the door behind her.
Warren didn’t come up for air, relishing the prolonged engagement.
Mark parked in front of the office lot and went back inside to find Vicky sitting behind her now clear desk, apparently having put all the papers in their appropriate places. Her bare black legs were splayed, visible through the desk’s front to back keyhole and she was scratching her armpit. “Bring back any money for me?”
Mark shook his head staring at the chair’s furry cushion.
She said; “Stupid question. I did a lot of work this morning and at the very least I’m entitled to some fringe benefits.” Mark saw her point.