5

“Get your skinny butt outta my room.” The command was almost a shriek. Serious enough to stop Jim in his tracks.

He looked to the open door at his back. Nothing but empty hall. Who was she talking to? He was just shy of 230 pounds these days. No one would call him skinny.

The woman faced away from him, silver hair shining in the late-afternoon sun. The glow was the only thing in the room that looked warm. Beige walls would have made it a bit warmer, but almost every inch below about the five and a half foot mark was haphazardly covered in newspaper articles.

Momma Hodge’s retirement suite was little more than a hospital room. A beige couch that might seat two people was jammed into the space between the window and a cinderblock wall. No other seating but the rolling chair Mrs. Hodge currently occupied as she faced the open window. He doubted she could see out from her low angle, but a collection of scuffs on the floor indicated her attraction to the location.

A hospital-gray bed frame with a knot of tangled white sheets was the only other furniture. A small stand held a lamp, a glass of water, and a mirror. Beside the bed at Jim’s feet was a two-foot-tall stack of newspapers. Jim glanced at the front page of the one on top. Older than a week.

“I said … ” She spun the swivel chair and rolled it several feet until directly in front of Jim. She nudged her glasses closer to her eyes. “You’re not Stephen.” She chuckled. Shook her head, apparently amused. “But I suppose you knew that, didn’t ya?”

“I believe so. Last I checked I was Jim Bean.” She was a feisty one to be talking to the staff like that.

“Beam? Like the whiskey? Could sure use a snort of that at the moment. You bring me any?” Her face was painted with hopeful anticipation.

Jim smiled. There it was. Several times a week he answered this question. Used to piss him off. Not so much anymore. He was the one who changed his name. He should have given it much more consideration at the time. He thought it was kind of cool when he did it. He’d been holding an expensive cup of joe from a fancy place down the block from the courthouse. A bean was roughly painted on the cardboard sleeve. Behind him a loud talker was jabbering away on the phone. He was in coveralls, like the mechanics wear. James was scrolled across a patch on his chest. James Bean. Good enough. He’d shortened it to Jim as he filled out the paperwork for the change. And Jim Bean was born.

These days he used the question: “Jim Beam? Like the whiskey?” as a way to judge character. The more uptight or nervous a person was, the less likely they were to bluntly ask him.

He shook his head. She was pretty out there. “No, ma’am. Like green. Green bean, Jim Bean.”

She didn’t crack the slightest hint of a smile. “Don’t know no Bean either.” That hope turned to a suspicious glare and a raised lip. “You’re not dressed like one of the morons who works here.” She was not holding back, more wary.

“Nope. And I suggest you be a little nicer to the people who bring your food.” Jim smiled. He didn’t want to say the word investigator unless he had to. Might upset her. He wasn’t sure if Cynthia told her mother she’d hired a PI.

“Ha. I can make my own way to the food lines, mister. Don’t you worry.”

He scanned the articles on the wall. Lots and lots of them. Nothing seemed to connect at first glance. Entertainment, sports, political. More obituaries in one place then he’d ever seen. Few had pictures. Most were bold headlines and story copy. They gave him an idea. “I was wanting to do a story on the residents here. One of the morons said you were a firecracker. Told me you’d be a good interview.”

“Me? In the paper?” She used the heels of her scuffed black shoes to scoot the chair a bit closer.

He hated to lie to the old girl, but he didn’t want to upset her. Given most his life was lived in a lie these days, what the hell? Nothing like the fluidity of ethics. “Mind if I sit?”

“Heck no.”

She seemed bright and alert. Cynthia had given him the impression the old woman would be out of it. This exercise may garner him better intel than he’d hoped. He started with how long she’d lived in the facility.

“I’ve been here almost seven years, best of my recollection. Since right after Kennedy died.”

Jim nodded. “Kennedy, huh?” His hopes of accurate information faltered almost as fast as her smile.

“Sad day.”

“It was.” He’d best get to the point then. She wasn’t going to give him Danny’s last address. “Heard you have a son, Mrs. Hodge. Daniel?”

“I do.” Her face was unreadable. No longer smiling, but not exactly unhappy. “He’s a cowboy.”

“I heard that too.” Jim leaned in, glancing behind again. Never liked his back to the door. But in this case it was to make her feel like he was secretive, that she could trust him. “You know where he is?”

“Out riding horses, last word I got.”

“You’ve heard from him?”

“Not directly. Not in a while. Cindy says he’s busy.” Her face fell. “But he’s promised me cake for my birthday next week. Tuesday. And a clown face. He always wore the best clown faces.” She scrunched up her face and rolled her chair to the wall on her right. She plucked down an article. “Five hundred and seventy-five words.” She handed it to Jim and grabbed another. “Fourteen hundred and seventy-five words.” She pushed herself out of the chair, teetering on the brink of disaster. Jim braced to catch her. She swerved and twisted, grabbing one of the highest and longest sheets taped up. “Three thousand six hundred and seventy-five.”

He looked over the long wall coved with the newsprint. “They all end in seventy-five?”

“That they do, mister. You’d be wise to remember that.” She tapped her temple and winked.

He smiled down at her as she resettled in her rolling chair. “I’ll do that.” He sucked in a deep breath. “Anyone else come asking questions about Dan, Mrs. Hodge?”

“My name’s Lynette. And only girls come round. But you know how handsome my boy is. Just like his father.” She worried at a loose thread from her sweater, inspected it, and then let it fall to the linoleum floor. He’d give her a moment. See where her thoughts went.

She refocused on the paper in her hand. “My Andrew’s last article was two hundred and seventy-five.”

Jim remembered the name listed on the database. Andrew Hodge. Daniel’s father.

She closed her eyes. “Obits ought to be short.”