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“I'm not out to get Uncle Mo. He needs to reschedule a court date. It's no big deal.”
“So why is everybody in such a snit?”
“You tell me.”
“I don't know,” Sue Ann said. “Not much to tell. Everybody likes him. He minds his own business. He's nice to the kids.”
“There must be something. Haven't you ever heard any rumors?”
“Do you care if they're true?”
“Not at all.”
“So, in other words, you're looking for unsubstantiated dirt.”
“Exactly.”
Silence.
“Well?” I asked.
“My niece says sometimes Mo's store smells like dookey.”
“Yuk.”
“That's about it,” Sue Ann said.
“That's not much.”
“He's a saint. What can I say?”
“Saints don't smell like dookey” I told her.
“Maybe old ones do.”
After I talked to Sue Ann I ate my sandwich and drank my cocoa and thought about Moses Bedemier. His apartment had been neat, and his furniture had been worn but comfortable. Sort of like mine. The television set was the focal point of the living room. The TV Guide on the coffee table had been a week old. The food in the fridge had been simple. Lunch meat, bread, juice, milk.
Mo had been living alone for a lot of years, and I suspected his life relied heavily on routine. No real surprises in his apartment. The one note of whimsy had been the movie magazines. A stack of them in the bedroom. Moses Bedemier must have read himself to sleep with soap opera gossip.
I put in a call to my cousin Bunnie at the credit bureau, and drew another blank. There'd been nothing derogatory or recent under either personal or business files.
I tipped back in my chair and stared aimlessly across the room. The window glass was black and reflective. Occasionally headlights flashed into the parking lot below. Car doors slammed. My neighbors were returning from a hard day at whatever.
Mo was missing, and I hadn't a clue and I didn't know how to go about getting one. I'd run all the usual drills. What was left was to wait. And waiting wasn't my strong suit.
I carted my dishes back to the kitchen and thought some more about Uncle Mo. The problem with finding a missing person is that they could be missing very far away. Here I am looking all around Trenton for Moses Bedemier, and he could be in Guadeloupe wearing thick glasses and a fake nose. Truth is, if he was in Guadeloupe I was out of luck, so best not to think about it. Better to assume Mo is close to home, and then I can feel hopeful.
Most of the time people stay close to home anyway.
They'd be much better off if they ran far away, but far away doesn't feel safe. Home feels safe. Sooner or later most FTAs touch base with their relatives, girlfriends, neighborhood cronies. And usually it's sooner rather than later.
I exchanged my flannel shirt for a Rangers jersey and zapped the television on. Probably I should make more phone calls, but the Rangers were playing and priorities were priorities.
My alarm rang at 7 A.M. I slammed my hand on the off button and peered at the clock, wondering why I had set the thing for such an ungodly hour. There was no sign of the sun anywhere, and rain pinged against my windowpane. Even at the best of times, morning is not my favorite part of day, and this wasn't nearly the best of times.
The next time I awoke it was eight-thirty. Rain still slashed at my window, but at least the sky had lightened from black to gray. I dragged myself out of bed and into the bathroom and stood under the shower for a while. I thought about Mel Gibson and Joe Morelli and tried to decide who had the best butt
. Then I thought about Mike Richter, the goalie for the Rangers, because he was no slouch either.
