DESPITE THE TIME I was losing, I had at least one more call to make to ease my conscience, based on what SouthSideMama99 told me. Still standing in the parking lot of Somers Restaurant, I called Otto Mulligan. He answered on the third ring.
“Woody?” he said.
“You have a second?”
“Not really. I’m in the middle of something.”
“You available later? I might have a job for you.”
“Where?”
“In Columbus.”
“Sorry, Woody. I’m out of town.”
Mulligan was on a short—a very short—list of people I permitted use of my old nickname. The one I received in high school that stuck seemingly forever. Andy “Woody” Hayes. The nickname two ex-wives and an ex-fiancée once knew me by, and yes, with the curtains drawn and our clothes off, they all made the same off-color joke. The nickname most people believed paid homage to legendary Ohio State coach Woody Hayes. Which it did in a way, but not how people imagined. Hayes was fired in 1978 for punching a Clemson player near the end of the Gator Bowl. I took his nickname a decade or so later when I punched an opposing player in a state semifinal game after the guy made one too many racial slurs about a black teammate of mine. And so legends are created, and misconstrued.
I said, “Where are you?”
“Ashland.”
“Ashland?” The small Ohio city where I stopped for gas earlier that day. “What are you doing there?”
“Got a bead on a domestic violence perp I’ve been looking for. I’m told he slunk up here to hide out at Grandma’s. I’m over the river, and I’m going through the woods now.”
“I thought Ashland was the world capital of nice people.”
“All except this guy, Woody.”
Mulligan was a bail bondsman with an office across from the courthouse. He was also my go-to muscleman, partly because he was damn good at his job and partly because he can carry a weapon and I can’t, thanks to my conviction.
“So what’s going on?” he said.
“I need a wellness check. On the son of a client.”
“Big Dog’s up here with me. But Buck might be available.”
“I’ll get back to you on that, thanks.” Mulligan’s hired help, though competent, could be a little scary, and I didn’t want to add stress to Laura’s son at this point.
“I hear you. Buck’s not always ready for prime time. How about Theresa?”
“Theresa?”
“Why not? She’s at least as tough as me, and a hell of a lot prettier. And we’re talking checkup, right, not a firefight?”
“As far as I know. Actually, that’s a pretty good idea.”
“On the house, Woody. Listen, gotta run. I’ll let you know when I’m back in town. We’ll get together and lift a few.”
“I thought you didn’t drink.”
“Lift weights, Woody. Get your head on straight.”
“That may take some doing,” I said, and disconnected. I thought about his suggestion, looked at it a couple different ways, and failed to find any holes in it. I punched in the number. Theresa Sullivan also answered on the third ring.
“I’ve got a little job for you, if you’re—”
“I’m glad you called. I’ve got a good one for you. There’s this—”
“I don’t really have time, Theresa. If you could just—”
“Where’s the fire, QB? Anyway, there’s this football player, and he goes to the library, and he tells the librarian he has to read a play by Shakespeare.”
“Theresa—”
“Librarian says to him, ‘Which one?’ Want to know what he says?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“The player shrugs and says, ‘William, I guess.’ Get it?”
“I get it.”
Theresa Sullivan loved nothing more than peppering me with dumb football player jokes. She did it to get under my skin, but also to remind me she knew a few players herself in the day, and how smart could a jock be anyway if he was looking for action on the streets of Columbus with a prostitute instead of trolling the campus bars? But sure enough it happened, and she had the calluses on her knees to prove it. That was long ago now, in the days before she left the streets and became an outreach worker to trafficked women trying to escape the same life.
Before she had time to conjure up another joke, I explained why I was calling.
“Just check on the guy?”
“Just see if he’s all right. Explain you’re a friend of mine, and that I’m a friend of his mother’s. Work it however you want. I just want—”
“Want what?”
“I just want to be sure he’s OK. It’ll make what I’m doing up here easier.”
“Which is what?”
“It would take a while to explain. But you’re doing me a big favor. No, more than a favor—it’s a paying gig.”
I thought for a second. “Hundred bucks.”
“That could buy a lot of shampoo.”
Theresa worked for an Episcopal church in the poor neighborhood west of downtown dubbed the Bottoms. One of the church’s outreach efforts included expeditions where she and several volunteers handed out toiletries to girls and women on the street, to help them out but also to provide an entrée to get them to talk to Theresa about trying to leave the life.
“That it could. Or you could also spend it on yourself.”
“I may just split the difference, QB. I got my eye on a new bracelet at Red Giraffe. All right. I’ll do it. Just send me the details.”
“Thanks.”
“Hundred bucks—don’t forget.”
I told her I wouldn’t, disconnected, pocketed my phone, and climbed into my van. She’d be fine, I told myself. For my part I needed to be moving. I needed to focus on the task at hand. It was time to return to Cleveland—and track down Randall P. Schiff.