Rain Check

 

I ate trail mix and yogurt at my desk and spent the rest of the afternoon with a telephone growing out of my ear.

There was the matter of security arrangements, for starters.

“So you think maybe we ought to show up at this Peter Gerard lecture because somebody might be trying to kill him, huh?” Oscar Hummel said. “Now, why the hell didn’t I think of that? I’m too damned stupid maybe?”

“Spare me the sarcasm, Oscar. I didn’t call you to -”

“The forces of law and order are deeply grateful to you for helping us poor, dumb cops, Jeff,” he droned one. “The dark forces of evil, on the other hand -”

I hung up, feeling reasonably satisfied. Oscar would get over his peevishness, eventually, and I had done my duty. But I was more circumspect when I called Lieutenant Ed Decker at Campus Security.

“Do you have enough people to handle the ghouls and thrill-seekers that are going to show up for Peter Gerard tonight?” I asked. “And whatever else might come up?” Like maybe the Grim Reaper.

“We’re covered, Cody. Chief Hummel and I worked it out: Our people will handle traffic and crowd control while the Erin force guards Gerard.”

“I knew you’d be on top of it, Ed. I just wanted you to know that I’m sure you don’t have to worry about busting your budget if you have to hire some extra help - not that I assumed you need it, you understand.”

“It’s okay. I can see the lay of the land here and I appreciate the pickle you’re in. But be careful about what you say to Chief Hummel. I get the idea some of the national media hit him pretty hard with the ‘How are you going to protect Peter Gerard’ question and he’s kind of touchy about it.”

“Thanks for the warning. See you tonight.”

I scowled at my messy desk. Yellow slips of paper, each announcing an urgent phone message, seemed to be spread all over it. They were from Oscar’s friends in the big city media - not a single one of which I’d called back. I hadn’t been stonewalling, only preoccupied, but just try to tell that to a reporter who’s missed a deadline. And putting it off would only make it worse later. So I hunkered down to do my call-backs.

The New York Times reporter was the worst.

“What kind of game are you playing?” she demanded. “I’ve been calling you all day.”

“So have five other newspapers, one cable network, one syndicated television news program, one radio station, and a website. I just got to your place in line.”

“Nobody’s in line ahead of The New York Times!”

“In Erin, Ohio, they are. Now, how can I help you?”

There wasn’t really much help I could give any of the reporters - except, of course, my eyewitness account of events surrounding the party. But my job was to stay on message about how our security arrangements were going to keep Peter Gerard’s head on his shoulders (long enough, at least, for him to give his lecture and praise the St. Benignus popular culture program).

Ten times around the track with that routine, plus explaining why most of the questions asked weren’t even on my turf, ate up more than three hours. By the time I’d fooled around for another half-hour with the latest version of our online campus resource list - which listed Sebastian McCabe as an expert in five subjects - I was ready to head home.

Popcorn was already gone and I was just hitting the light switch when the office phone rang.

The hell with it. I don’t mind stretching my work day beyond eight hours; I do it more often than not. But I was exhausted from the stress of the day and I had to pick up Quandra in an hour and a half, which was also college business. Okay, I was expecting it to be enjoyable business, but I still considered it to be on the clock.

Whoever was calling was certainly persistent. It’s probably Sylvester Link again, I thought. I hate phones that ring and ring. I glared at it, but that didn’t make it stop. How many times did our phones ring before they dumped the call into voicemail? The phone number showing on the Caller ID display seemed somehow familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Finally I gave up and yanked the receiver off the hook. “Cody here.”

“Officer Cody? This is Lem Carpenter. You know, from Double Takes?”

So the man with the raspy voice had assumed I was a cop because I’d said I was calling from the Erin police. Hey, it wasn’t my duty to correct him.

“Oh, yes. Thanks for calling back.”

“Listen, if this is about that parking ticket -”

“It’s a little more serious than that, I’m afraid. Could I stop by your business a little later?” Getting to dinner on time with an attractive young woman, even if it was college business, suddenly seemed less important.

“My home is my business. I’ll be here all night.”

He gave me the address. It was in a more rural part of the county, but still no more than fifteen minutes from where I live in Mac’s carriage house. I decided I could pedal home to shower and shave, swing by Lem Carpenter’s place for a half-hour interview, and still make it to the Winfield by six-thirty.

I was in the showering part of the program when my land line rang. Why does it always ring when I’m in the bathroom, no matter what I’m doing in there? I wrapped a towel around me, ran into the bedroom, dripping soap and water all the way, and ripped the receiver out of its cradle.

“Yes!”

“Well, I knew I’d eventually track you down.”

Oh, crap! Normally I’d be thrilled to hear that throaty voice, but not when I’d forgotten to call her back.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I said, “but I don’t respond to telephone solicitations.”

“If I were soliciting you, I wouldn’t be doing it on the phone. You’re sounding very evasive, Jeff.” You journalists are such a suspicious lot. “Why didn’t you call me back? You’re not trying to hide something from me, are you?”

I looked down at myself. “Believe me, in my current attire, I couldn’t be hiding anything. What did you have in mind?” I waited for the risqué comment that didn’t come.

“I don’t know. You didn’t, for instance, find another body, did you?”

“Hey, I didn’t find the last one. But I did manage to tip you to it. I wasn’t hiding anything there, was I?” Gotcha!

“No, I scooped the world on quite a story, thanks to you. I am grateful, Jeff. That’s why I left you the message. I’ve been trying to follow up in person. I tried your office phone several times, as well as the cell, but it was always busy.”

“I was dealing with your competitors trying to catch up to what you already had in The Observer. I also returned a call from your ace crime reporter and brought him up to date as far as I could. I’m really sorry I didn’t call you back but I’ve been running all day.”

“Okay, sure, I get it. Well, how about tonight?”

“What about tonight?”

“Didn’t you even find time to listen to my message?” She sounded hurt. “I wanted to make you dinner tonight.”

This was not going at all well. I took a deep breath.

“I’d love that, Lyn, I really would, it sounds great, thanks, but I’m afraid I’m tied up on business tonight.” I knew I was babbling but I couldn’t stop myself.

“Monkey business, no doubt.” She was keeping it light, but I could tell that she felt about as unhappy as I did.

“You didn’t ask,” I said, “but I agreed to show Peter Gerard’s executive assistant around Erin. Then I have to go to the lecture, of course.”

“Of course. This assistant, is she’s pretty?”

“You’re assuming facts not in evidence.” I read that in a book somewhere, maybe a John Grisham novel. “I never said anything about gender.”

“You didn’t need to. Your voice gave you away. You always sound more southern when you’re uncomfortable. Elementary, my dear Watson.” Oh, no - not you, too! “So back to my original question: Is she pretty?”

“Well, you know, that’s a very subjective question.”

“So what do you think?”

When all else fails, tell the truth. “Yeah, I think she’s pretty.”

“Well, try to have fun.”

It was hard to put a feeling to the timbre in her voice. Was she disappointed? Hurt again? Or maybe she was just at sea because for years I’d been there for her whenever she expected me. You’re the one who broke it off seven months ago. Lynda. Things haven’t been the same between us since, even though I’ve tried to change. Still, I wished I could be there for her now. Why had I agreed to squire Quandra Hall around anyway? Oh, yeah: Because if anybody would know who would have a reason to kill her boss, it would be her.

I wanted to tell Lynda that I’d rather be with her, and that I’d think of her the whole time I was with Quandra. And that was totally true. But I knew it would just sound like talk, and I do too much of that. I settled for,

“Could I have a rain check on that dinner?”

“We’ll see.” I always hated it when my parents said that.

After an uneasy farewell, I hung up the telephone, dried myself off, and picked up the cell phone to listen to the voicemail message Lynda had left me:

 

“Hi, Jeff. Sorry I missed you. I wanted to tell you how much I appreciated what you did last night, making that call. It meant a lot to me. I mean, not just because I got the story, but because I know you did it for me. It can’t have been easy for you, putting me above your job. I bet you’re having a tough day today, too, with all the media calls you must be getting. I thought maybe you’d like to have a relaxing dinner at my place tonight, say about six o’clock. I’ll cook. We haven’t done that in a long time. Just let me know. Um, I love you. Bye.”

 

After listening to the message four more times, I finally got dressed. I managed not to cry, but that didn’t mean my heart wasn’t breaking.