For Whom the Minivan Rolls by JEFFREY COHEN Page A

ushered me into the room, speaking in hushed
tones, as if we were about to enter the presence of the great Oz
and should speak only when spoken to. He had informed me, through
tight lips, that Milton Ladowski had “strongly recommended” he
allow me to speak to his son, but that Joel was still “extremely
upset” over his mother’s disappearance and should be handled with
great care. I believe “kid gloves” were mentioned once or
twice.
    I did my best to smile and fought a natural urge to
ask about Joel’s preference in fast-food toppings. “Hi, Joel,” I
said. Mr. Rogers couldn’t have been less threatening.
    “Uh.” The boy was clearly a witty
conversationalist.
    “You know why I’m here?”
    “Uh-huh.” My God, the lacerating brilliance of it
all! I considered asking Gary if the boy had been to Professor
Henry Higgins for diction lessons. Once again, though, I forced
myself to remember the task that had brought me to this
Ozzie-and-Harriet-Meet-Goldberg place.
    “You’re worried about your mom, huh?” Now he had me saying “huh.”
    “I guess.” Words! Who could possibly have hoped for
more?
    “Well, do you know why she might have gone
away?”
    The boy’s eyes narrowed, and Gary stepped in before
he could say anything. “Do you really think it’s necessary to be
asking. . .”
    Just what I’d been waiting for. “Gary, I’m here to
do a job. One which, as I recall, you were pretty set on me doing,
even when I told you I didn’t know how. Now, you’re either going to
let me do that job, or you can do it yourself. But if you leave it
to me, you must stand back and be quiet.” I glanced at Joel. Had
challenging his father’s authority at my very first opportunity
produced the desired effect? It had. Joel was grinning nastily.
    But Gary wasn’t done. “I don’t have to listen
to. . .”
    “That’s right, you don’t,” I said. “In fact, I’d
prefer it if you’d wait outside so I could talk to Joel
privately.”
    Beckwirth positively gasped at the very notion, and
his face took on color, making him look like a remarkably handsome
strawberry. “I absolutely forbid it!” he shouted, and Joel
snorted, trying to suppress a giggle.
    “Fine,” I said. “It’s been nice meeting you, Joel.
Good night, Gary.” And I headed for the exit. Beckwirth senior was
harrumphing even as I turned away from him. He came close to
actually choking on his own words when I placed my hand on the
bedroom doorknob and began to turn it.
    “Where are you. . . going?”
    “Home. I’d like to see my daughter before she goes
to bed, and there’s nothing here that’s holding me back.”
    Beckwirth’s eyes were the size of silver-dollar
pancakes. The irises looked like blueberries. A little maple syrup,
and I’d have had one super-delicious snack right here.
    “But, what about Madlyn?”
    “I don’t know. What about Madlyn?” Beckwirth started
to point a finger at me, but I cut him off. “If you’re really that concerned about her, and you really think
I’m the best man to find her, then Gary, get the hell out of this
room, and let me do my job.” I folded my arms and looked at
him.
    So did Joel. He was watching his father with a look
of rapt fascination. Clearly, he’d never heard anyone stand
up to Gary Beckwirth before, and he was enjoying it as much as a
body slam from Sable. Well, maybe not quite as much.
    Beckwirth spoke very softly and quickly. “I’ll be
just outside,” he managed, and walked out. I turned toward Joel
after the door had closed behind me. There was no keyhole for
Beckwirth to listen through—I had checked. And because the house
was old, there would be no listening through the door or the walls.
At that very moment, Gary Beckwirth was no doubt cursing his
homebuilder’s fine craftsmanship.
    “So,” I said to the boy on the bed, who was now
lying back on his pillows and grinning. “What do you want to talk
about?”
    “How did you do that?” His voice, now