I’d expected. After scribbling it down and hanging up, I descended the stairs to exit my walkout into the parking courtyard, telling Mickey to call with anything new. He mumbled affirmation, eyes on his main monitor.
As morning rush hour traffic across the Golden Gate was largely southbound, Molly carried me steadily north toward Bill’s place. I’d just started to relax when I felt Dad’s presence beside me.
“I don’t like it when you lie,” he said.
“We’re rehashing an old argument, dad,” I replied. “There’s no eleventh commandment of ‘Thou Shalt Not Lie.’”
“Satan is the father of lies.”
I guess he – or my subconscious – wasn’t going to be so easily dissuaded. “God told the prostitute Rahab to lie about the Hebrew spies in Jericho so they could get away.”
“One exception doesn’t make it right.”
“It means there are exceptions, and I’ll lie like a dog if it gets a little girl home safe.” The only way to prevail in an argument with Dad was by using his own belief system. I’d gotten good at it. He always told me debate improved the mind. “As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another,” he used to quote.
When I looked over, he was gone. I guess I’d won that round.
My satisfaction mixed with sadness that he didn’t stay longer. Sometimes I told myself I wanted him gone for good. Other times I begged him to appear to me, but the phenomenon wasn’t something I could call up on demand.
I tried Bill’s phone again, but got no answer. The intercom at his gated condo community didn’t reach him either, so I punched in common access codes, starting with 1111, until I hit something. In this case, 1234 opened the rolling barrier just fine. I choked a chuckle at the “security” provided as I drove in and parked in a visitor spot near 65, Bill’s unit.
A beat-up Ford pickup was parked in the numbered slot. It fit Bill somehow and seemed to indicate he was home, unless the man had more than one vehicle. From his state last night I imagined he’d overdone it, maybe turned off his ringers despite Sal’s assurances of his boss’s work ethic. After all, it was only about seven thirty a.m.
I hammered on unit 65’s third-floor door with the meaty part of my fist and yelled intermittently for a good two minutes until neighbors started to poke their heads out and stare. Walking over to the nearest, an older woman in a housedress, I asked, “Where’s the manager?”
With a silent scowl the biddy pointed the way. I returned a deliberately false smile to follow her finger and a couple of neat signs until I found the office.
“Ms. Geiner,” I said to the young, overdressed woman there after reading the nameplate on her desk, “I work with Bill Clawson in 65. He hasn’t shown up for his shift and isn’t answering the phones. He has a heart condition and I’m concerned that he might need help. Could you get a key and escort me to check on him?” I said all this in my cop voice, the one that brooked no argument and usually got unthinking cooperation from the average citizen.
“Should we call an ambulance?” she said, clearly worried.
“Let’s take a look first. We’d both feel silly if he’s not there. Besides, I don’t want to get charged for an unnecessary response. Do you?”
“No, of course not. I’ll…” She rummaged in a metal box mounted on the wall behind her desk, coming up with a key on a plastic ring. “Here we go.” Placing a placard on her desk with Back In 15 Minutes on it, she led me in her uncomfortable-looking heels down the landscaped pathway and up the stairs to 65.
After a few seconds of pointless knocking of her own, Ms. Geiner unlocked the door with her key and stepped in hesitantly. “Mister Clawson?”
“I already called to him before. He’s either not here or something’s wrong,” I said as I pushed past her. Flipping on the light, I saw an open plan with kitchen, dining and living rooms sharing the same space,
As morning rush hour traffic across the Golden Gate was largely southbound, Molly carried me steadily north toward Bill’s place. I’d just started to relax when I felt Dad’s presence beside me.
“I don’t like it when you lie,” he said.
“We’re rehashing an old argument, dad,” I replied. “There’s no eleventh commandment of ‘Thou Shalt Not Lie.’”
“Satan is the father of lies.”
I guess he – or my subconscious – wasn’t going to be so easily dissuaded. “God told the prostitute Rahab to lie about the Hebrew spies in Jericho so they could get away.”
“One exception doesn’t make it right.”
“It means there are exceptions, and I’ll lie like a dog if it gets a little girl home safe.” The only way to prevail in an argument with Dad was by using his own belief system. I’d gotten good at it. He always told me debate improved the mind. “As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another,” he used to quote.
When I looked over, he was gone. I guess I’d won that round.
My satisfaction mixed with sadness that he didn’t stay longer. Sometimes I told myself I wanted him gone for good. Other times I begged him to appear to me, but the phenomenon wasn’t something I could call up on demand.
I tried Bill’s phone again, but got no answer. The intercom at his gated condo community didn’t reach him either, so I punched in common access codes, starting with 1111, until I hit something. In this case, 1234 opened the rolling barrier just fine. I choked a chuckle at the “security” provided as I drove in and parked in a visitor spot near 65, Bill’s unit.
A beat-up Ford pickup was parked in the numbered slot. It fit Bill somehow and seemed to indicate he was home, unless the man had more than one vehicle. From his state last night I imagined he’d overdone it, maybe turned off his ringers despite Sal’s assurances of his boss’s work ethic. After all, it was only about seven thirty a.m.
I hammered on unit 65’s third-floor door with the meaty part of my fist and yelled intermittently for a good two minutes until neighbors started to poke their heads out and stare. Walking over to the nearest, an older woman in a housedress, I asked, “Where’s the manager?”
With a silent scowl the biddy pointed the way. I returned a deliberately false smile to follow her finger and a couple of neat signs until I found the office.
“Ms. Geiner,” I said to the young, overdressed woman there after reading the nameplate on her desk, “I work with Bill Clawson in 65. He hasn’t shown up for his shift and isn’t answering the phones. He has a heart condition and I’m concerned that he might need help. Could you get a key and escort me to check on him?” I said all this in my cop voice, the one that brooked no argument and usually got unthinking cooperation from the average citizen.
“Should we call an ambulance?” she said, clearly worried.
“Let’s take a look first. We’d both feel silly if he’s not there. Besides, I don’t want to get charged for an unnecessary response. Do you?”
“No, of course not. I’ll…” She rummaged in a metal box mounted on the wall behind her desk, coming up with a key on a plastic ring. “Here we go.” Placing a placard on her desk with Back In 15 Minutes on it, she led me in her uncomfortable-looking heels down the landscaped pathway and up the stairs to 65.
After a few seconds of pointless knocking of her own, Ms. Geiner unlocked the door with her key and stepped in hesitantly. “Mister Clawson?”
“I already called to him before. He’s either not here or something’s wrong,” I said as I pushed past her. Flipping on the light, I saw an open plan with kitchen, dining and living rooms sharing the same space,
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