For Whom the Minivan Rolls by JEFFREY COHEN

That is, unless you’re selling to the New York independent
film crowd, who love unhappy endings, but then everybody in the
movie would have to wear black and live in converted warehouse
space, and at least one of the main characters would have to be a
heroin addict. I wasn’t sure I could write that.
    Anyway, I began as I always do, by re-reading what
I’d written the day before, and had fingers poised over my keyboard
when Milt Ladowski called. He was in his high-priced office, you
could tell, since a secretary came on first, asking me to hold for
Mr. Ladowski. Mr. Ladowski, after all, couldn’t be bothered taking
sixteen seconds out of his life to talk to an answering machine,
had I not been in.
    “How’s the Beckwirth investigation going,
Aaron?”
    “I’m sorry,” I said, “Mr. Tucker’s in the john right
now. If you’ll hang on a moment. . .” I took the cordless
phone into the bathroom and flushed.
    “Very amusing, Aaron.”
    “Amusing, hell. I had shredded wheat for
breakfast.”
    Milt allowed a long silent period to destroy our
fastpaced and sparkling repartée. No doubt he was trying to figure
out how to bill Beckwirth for the conversation.
    “Beckwirth, Aaron. What’s going on with
Beckwirth?”
    “Milt, your client and close friend is tying my
hands. He wants me to perform the ceremonial wife dance and have
her fall into his arms from the sky. He won’t let me talk to his
son, he won’t give me his phone records or his credit card bills,
and he won’t tell me anything about his marriage, other than it is
blissful as all get-out. Now you tell me, how do you think the
Beckwirth investigation is going?” I put my feet up on the desk and
waited. It was fun letting somebody else worry about this thing for
a while.
    “This isn’t good, Aaron. Gary’s expecting me to call
him with progress.” I could picture Ladowski’s pinched face
frowning behind his $6,000 desk. Luckily, I could focus my mind’s
eye on the desk.
    “What do you want me to do, Milt? Everything I’ve
turned up so far has been a dead end. But Barry Dutton
is. . .”
    “I’ll get you in to see Joel,” said Milt.
    “What?”
    “I said, I’ll make sure Gary lets you talk to Joel.
Give me an hour.”
    I gave him maybe ten minutes before he called back.
I was right. “It’s all set. But Gary has to be in the room with
him, and you only get fifteen minutes.”
    “For crying out loud, Milt, I’m not asking for an
audience with the pope!”
    He ignored me as only a man with a manicure can.
“You can do it today at three.”
    “No, I can’t,” I said. “I have an 11-year-old coming
home after detention and a seven-year-old getting off the bus. If
Beckwirth wants, I’ll come over after dinner, when Abby’s
home.”
    Ladowski grumbled a bit, but saw the logic in my
reasoning. Either that, or my voice told him that I wouldn’t budge.
Ladowski is an experienced mediator. “I’ll clear it with Gary,” he
said. “Be there at seven-thirty.”
    “Okay,” I sighed. “And Milt?”
    “Yeah?”
    “Does Joel like barbecue sauce?”

Chapter 19
    There were pictures of professional wrestlers on
Joel Beckwirth’s walls, and that surprised me. In a house that had
no visible TV set (and no Nintendo or Playstation in Joel’s room),
I didn’t expect pictures of “The Rock” or “Stone Cold” Steve
Austin. I expected pin-up posters of Mozart or Pierre Cardin.
    The room, except for the posters, was just like the
rest of the house—impeccable. No socks on the floor—no potato chip
crumbs, either. The bed was tightly made. The large boy sitting on
it was tightly wrapped.
    Joel Beckwirth had inherited from his handsome
father only his blue-green eyes. In fact, judging from the picture
of Madlyn now prominently displayed on the piano downstairs, Joel
didn’t much resemble either of his parents. His face was mostly
chin, some forehead, and not much in the middle. He looked like
Humpty Dumpty in an Eminem T-shirt.
    Gary