The Pendleton Omens - 14. Chapter 14

Sunday, I slept later than planned, but I was still up by eight AM. That would have been eleven in Massachusetts, giving me thirteen hours of sleep in two days if you included my two hour nap. Slightly above average.

The first thing I did was check Scoot’s answering machine, though I couldn’t imagine not hearing the phone if it rang. There were only the three saved messages. I listened to them one more time, got nothing new, then erased them. Next, I checked his computer. A lot more messages had come in, but none really useful.

“I hope you find him soon.”

“Don’t worry. He’s always been like that.”

“Please tell him to call.”

I made some coffee, scrambled three eggs, and looked for a toaster. Not even a toaster oven. And you can’t do much with a microwave.

I turned on the TV.

Whew. Big picture. I wasn’t used to that. But nothing was happening that I needed to know about, so I turned it back off.

It was mostly going to be a day of phone calls, and I wondered how early I could start. The numbers were mainly from Scoot’s computer, and they overlapped his e-mail addresses. But not every address had a phone, and I didn’t want to call people who’d already written me.

There were also business cards all over his desk. And a mess more in a coffee mug on one of the worktables. I knew his cell phone plugged into his computer, and I’d bet he kept a lot more information there. But the phone was probably with him, along with his car registration.

This big thing I wanted to do on Monday was call his cell phone company. If his phone was on, they could probably tell me where he was. Unless he was out of the country and out of range, which was a good possibility. In that case, I’d check with his credit card companies. I planned to do that anyway, but if he wasn’t using his phone, he might be using his credit cards to make calls. Or to buy any number of other things

While I was stalling till nine, I looked in Scoot’s closets to see if I could spot clumps of empty hangers. Both bedrooms had room-length closets, but both were fairly empty. Scoot never owned a lot of clothes and seemed to live jeans and T-shirts. When he came east, he brought a small duffle bag.

“I can always buy stuff, Dad.”

Maybe he bought more than he washed, because there was a pile of T-shirts, socks, and underwear on the floor of his bedroom closet. And a couple pair of running shoes. And the good leather loafers he used for interviews.

Right at nine, I started phoning, and it was slow going. First, I had to check to see if I’d e-mailed someone. Then if the message had bounced back. Next, if they’d answered me. Finally, if I had a phone number. For those I didn’t have but had a street address, I did a web search. And every time I got through to someone, I first had to assure them I wasn’t a salesman.

I quickly learned to start with “Hi, this is Scoot’s dad, Don Burris.”

“Oh, hey, Don, how you doing?”

Or, “You have a pig for a son.”

Or, “That motherfucker.”

I laughed but guessed I wouldn’t tell Sharon about those calls. Still, most of the answers were friendly. And the same.

“Nope, haven’t heard from him.”

“No, I don’t know where he is.”

“Nah, don’t know his plans.”

“Sorry.”

I tried to get at least one new phone number from everyone I spoke with and added these to Scoot’s computer list. But a lot of the new numbers and people overlapped. Just before noon, Amy called. I’d been using Scoot’s home line to leave my cell phone free so she could get through.

“Morning,” she said.

“Probably earlier for you.”

It was. She’d just gotten out of bed. “I needed the sleep,” she confessed.

“Still interested in eating?” I asked.

“Sure thing. You?”

“I could use the break.”

“What’ve you been doing?”

“I’ll tell you when I see you.”

“Great. And since you don’t know where you are, I’ll come to you. About forty minutes?”

“Can you make it that soon?”

“On Sunday, sure.”

I mentioned Solly’s.

“Nah. I know a better place.”

We ended up at a small restaurant called La Frite. Left on Van Nuys, under the freeway, right on Ventura. I was learning my way around by food.

“Is that South?” I’d asked as we drove. I was pointing down Van Nuys towards the freeway.

“Yes, the mountains are north and east. When you can see them.”

That was nice to know, though I usually told direction by the sun.

We ate outside again. It was as warm as the day before, though this street was noisier than the beach. But, hey, it wasn’t twenty below.

I told Amy what I’d been doing. She was impressed.

“That’s a lot of e-mail. A lot of calls.”

“It’s mainly routine,” I deflected. “And I’ve got to work fast. I only want to stay a couple of days.”

“I still can’t think where he’s gone.”

“I’m sure we’ll find out.”

Next, I filled her in about his mail.

“I didn’t want to open any of it,” she said again. “I thought he might get angry.”

“He won’t at me.”

“And I wouldn’t know what to do with his bills.”

“I’ll pay them. I know he’s good for it.”

She laughed. “He was never short of money.”

I kidded her about the refrigerator. This time she grinned.

“I knew about that,” she admitted. “I left it as a joke.”

“Oh. Sorry I ruined it.”

“That’s okay.”

She seemed quieter than the day before. And even prettier with her hair loose. But I knew people passing by would think she was my daughter.

“How are you doing?” I asked. “Honestly.”

Since she’d told me a lot when I was in Massachusetts, I didn’t think she’d hold back now. And she didn’t.

She was mainly all right. She missed Scoot, but she missed a lot of people. Friends she didn’t often see.

“I always think about calling them. Or writing. When I’m at the hospital, I start conversations in my head.. Or letters. These are close friends. Then I get pulled into work.”

She was still in the same ward.

“They tell me I’m good at it. But they know the burn-out rate. So their praise is a little selfish.”

“Do all the kids die?” I tried to ask gently.

“Not at first. And not always while they’re with us. But, yeah, most of them do. And they’re such great kids.”

“How’d you get into this?”

“It’s something I wanted to do.”

“Then why change?”

“That’s the problem. I don’t know.”

“From what I hear, it wouldn’t be hard. You can go anywhere in the world, with the shortage of nurses.”

“That’s what Scoot keeps telling me. And that’s why he likes his work.”

Which only reminded me that he could have run off any place. Though once I met Amy, I dropped the idea of him taking some girl to Mexico. She’d be the one to run with.

And yet.

She could go on about herself. And she could be a little depressing. And she never once asked about Sharon or me.

“Let me know when you want to eat again,” she said, leaving. She let me pay, though she left the tip. And tipped higher than I would have.

“I’ll call when I can,” I promised. “I’ve got a lot of work, and it’s all details.”

“Can I help?”

“Not really. But let me know if you hear anything.”

She offered to drive me to Scoot’s, but I wanted to walk. “Helps me figure out where I am.”

“Don’t get lost.”

As she got in her car, I remembered to ask if she knew where Scoot kept his registration.

“Mine’s in my wallet,” she volunteered.

“Mine, too. And I’ll bet Scoot’s is the same. But I always keep a back-up.”

She hadn’t thought about that.

In the apartment, I continued my calls. There were several new e-mails, but no new information. And the phone calls brought nothing.

“You’ve got the nicest son...”

“We’ve been trying to have lunch...”

“I’d been hoping he’d call...”

Scoot knew a lot of women.

Noah called in the middle of the afternoon.

“How far did you get?” he asked.

I told him, and he told me about his day. He’d been skating with his dog. Saint protectively circled him, and he tried not to fall over her. There was a pond in the park near his house, and it had been frozen for months. So he liked to use it.

“You’re skating, and I’m broiling,” I said. Focused on other things, I forgot to open Scoot’s windows.

“Turn on the A/C,” Noah suggested.

“I didn’t even think about it.” That made Noah laugh.

“Everything there’s air conditioned,” he advised.

Something else I didn’t think about, since I rarely used one.

“You gonna work all afternoon?” he went on.

“Till I fall asleep.”

“Then good luck.”

Around dinner, on another break, I called Sharon. She also admired my industry, if not my progress.

“Well, don’t give up,” she said. My cheering squad. “You just got started.”

“It shouldn’t take long,” I still insisted. “Scoot knows a lot of people. One of them has to know where he’s working.”

“You’re sure it’s that?”

I told her about his bank balance. “He’s doing fine for money. He must work all the time.”

“I always said he makes more than I do.”

“Probably us combined.”

When she hung up, I thought about eating. But I didn’t feel like it, so I stayed with the phone. But I never liked calling people after nine, so I went walking again. It was dark, but I was curious about the city. Besides the airport, and a little of the beach in Santa Monica, I’d mainly seen one square block.

I walked south this time. Down to Ventura. East to Hazeltine. North to Houston, then home. On my way, I picked up a sandwich.

And there was something else I was thinking about. Something besides Scoot. When I thought of LA, I thought of Hollywood and the movies. I’m sure everyone did. But even I knew about West Hollywood.

I stopped at Scoot’s car and dug out his book of maps. Snapped under a rubber band was his spare registration. We’d taught the boy well. Flipping through the pages – the book was an inch thick – I located where I was and looked for West Hollywood. It didn’t seem far, though I couldn’t get there by freeway. Not directly. But I doubted I’d get lost.

It was Sunday night, so things were probably slow, but I wasn’t looking for sex. I was again curious.

I didn’t get lost, and I laughed, parking, when I realized there was a big police station right across from the bars. I didn’t know where to go first. Both places seemed like home.

I hit the bars, and they were nothing like the one I used in Springfield. I’d been to others, in various places. But like California girls, California boys were different.

I got cruised. Fairly often. That was a surprise. I’d look up from my beer and see some guy studying me. Sometimes my age. Sometimes older. Sometimes a guy in his twenties. It depended on the bar.

I went to six or eight along the strip. Ordered my beer. Sipped some of it. Stayed at the bar. I heard younger guys talk about barebacking. Heard older guys chat about a place called Silver Lake. I heard about Palm Springs. I listened a lot, kind of invisible, ‘cause I was dressed like a tourist cop from Massachusetts. I should have grabbed a pair of Scoot’s jeans and one of his T-shirts. But I felt dumb without a crease in my slacks.

On my break from the bars, I fit right in at the police station. It was about ten times bigger than Waldron’s, but I showed my ID and could have asked for a job. I told them why I was there, and they offered to help. Funny thing is they thought I was looking for my gay son.

“Plenty of runaways,” they said. “We pick up more every day.”

“Drugs. Sex. You name it,” I was told.

“My son makes documentaries,” I said, almost defensively. “He has a BA in film.”

They laughed. But none of them pegged me for a cocksucker. Not that I cared if they did.

I also asked about Scoot’s car registration. I knew I was driving half-legally, with the photo copy, but figured I could get by with that and my badge. “Just don’t get stopped,” they advised, again laughing.

After the station, I finished at one of the bars. One guy really wanted to take me home. Probably my age. Better worked out. Nice clothes. Good height. And I could picture him naked. I could easily see us together. And the damndest thing was, I was interested. But I knew I wouldn’t do anything.