Flood

15

THE PLYMOUTH PURRED its own way back to the warehouse, oblivious to my depression. This case was certainly going to do wonders for my reputation-a bit more of my skillful detective work and I’d be known as Burke the Jerk. Fuck it, I thought (my theme song), no point crying over spilt milk. I had seen babies in Biafra too weak to cry, and mothers with no milk left to nurse them. I had gotten out of that-I could get out of this.

When I let myself into the warehouse Michelle was sitting by the phone box with her legs crossed, reading her book next to an ashtray stuffed with about two packs’ worth of butts. Her eyes flashed a question and my face gave her the answer.

“Thank God you’re back, anyway,” she said. “This place was beginning to smell and I didn’t want to leave the phones.” She picked up the ashtray and headed for the bathroom in the back. I heard the toilet flush, then a rush of air as she opened the ventilation shaft for a minute to clear out the room.

When she came back, patting her face with one of those premoistened towelettes every working girl carries, she asked me, “So?”

“He was there-and now he’s not. Gone. I have to start over.”

“Too bad, baby.”

“Yeah. Well, it wasn’t a total loss. I found another kid for McGowan.”

“McGowan’s a doll. If I was a runaway I’d turn myself in to him in a flash.”

“You were never a runaway?” I asked, surprised.

“Honey, my biological parents packed my bags and bought me the bus ticket.”

There was nothing to say to that-I knew what Michelle meant by biological parents. Once I had a teenage girl come to my office and offer to pay me some money to find her “real” parents. She said she was adopted. It made me sick-these folks adopted her, paid the bills, took the weight, carried the load for her all her life, and now she wanted to find her “real” parents-the ones who dumped her into a social services agency that sold her to the highest bidder. Real parents. A dog can have puppies-that doesn’t make it a mother. I took her twenty-five hundred and told her to come back in a month, when I gave her the birth certificate of a woman who had died from an overdose of heroin two years after the girl had been born. The phony birth certificate said “Unknown” next to the space for “Father”. I told her that her father had been a trick, a john. Someone who paid her mother ten bucks so he could get off for a few minutes. She started to cry and I told her to go talk it over with her mother. She wailed, “My mother’s dead!” and I told her that her mother was home, waiting for her. The woman who had died had just been a horse who dropped a foal, that’s all. She left hating me, I guess.

Mama still hadn’t called, which meant Max wasn’t at the restaurant. I told Michelle I’d drop her wherever she wanted, and we packed up the stuff together.

When I pulled the Plymouth up in front of her hotel Michelle leaned over and kissed me quickly on the cheek. “Get a haircut, honey. That shaggy look went out ages ago.”

“You always told me my hair was too short.”

“Styles change, Burke. Although God knows, you never do.”

“Neither do you,” I told her.

“But I’m going to, honey… I’m going to,” she said, and bounced out of the car toward the steps.

Michelle had a place to live, and so did I. But we had the same home. I drove past mine to the place where I live.