Fast Lane by Dave Zeltserman Read Free Book Online Page A

of my clothes and crawl into bed and hide. “I must’ve started thinking about our age difference and how it was sort of the same with that girl and her father.”
    “ It’s nothing at all like that. First of all I was a willing participant, at least sort of.”
    When she said “sort of” it made me cringe. It brought a sickish feeling back to my stomach. She seemed to sense it, and struggled to show me her smile again.
    “ I’m not sure what happened,” she said.
    “ Why don’t we discuss it when I get back from Oklahoma? I’m going to have a hard day tomorrow searching for your birth parents.”
    She nodded. “We’ll wait ‘til then.” She stood up and frowned as she looked at me. “Are you okay? You look really sick.”
    “ I’ll be fine. I just need some rest.”
    “ You’ll call me as soon as you find something?”
    I nodded.
    “ Promise?”
    “ I promise.”
    I watched as she left and then sat back and wondered why I’d had that reaction. Why had I got sicker than any dog? I couldn’t figure it out.
     
     
    Chapter 5
     
    First thing next morning I spoke with Jimmy Tobbler. He was disappointed to hear that his job was cut short. We argued back and forth about whether he should be paid for the previous day. Even though I’d called early in the morning he didn’t get the message until after he’d put in a hard day’s work interviewing the girls at Tiny’s peep show. He also didn’t want to have to eat the expense money he laid out that day in tips. We worked out a compromise; I’d pay him for the day, but the tips would come out of his own pocket. He agreed to send back what was left of the retainer.
    Arthur Minnefield wasn’t listed with information. I made a call to the Oklahoma Bar, found out that Minnefield had died fifteen years earlier and was given the number of his widow. When I explained to her who I was and what I wanted, she told me she still had all her husband’s files and agreed to let me look through them.
    I took a nine-thirty train to Oklahoma City. It was an eight-hour ride, during which I tried to think things over. I decided nothing made any sense. That’s pretty much the only way to explain what had happened with Craig Singer and later with Mary.
    I guess with Singer I must’ve cracked. Even though I’ve made a success of myself there’s still a lot of crap I got to take. Anyone in my situation has to. All the winks and nods. Shoveling up your client’s messes. Making sure to look the other way when it’s in their interest. It’s all part of the job and it builds up inside you. When a piece of scum like Singer comes around, you just let it out.
    And once the genie is out of the bottle . . . .
    It had to be something like that. Because what happened with Mary made no sense whatsoever. I’d been with quite a few gals in my life—as my faithful readers can attest to—and while it hadn’t always gone smoothly, it never ended up before with me on my knees retching my guts out.
    It just made no sense.
    * * * * *
    The train didn’t pull into Oklahoma City until six, and by the time I rented a car and checked into a hotel it was past seven. I called Arthur Minnefield’s widow and told her I’d be over in the morning.
    Irene Minnefield had to be close to eighty, a shriveled gray-haired little thing peering up at me through thick glasses. We were sitting in her living room and she was holding a plate of oatmeal cookies with both her hands. She pushed the plate towards me.
    “ I got up early to bake them,” she told me, letting me in on her little secret. To oblige her I took one and chewed on it. It tasted a bit like sawdust.
    “ You’re the first person who’s needed to see Mr. Minnefield’s files,” she said, disappointed, no doubt, that she hadn’t had more opportunities to bake oatmeal cookies in all these years.
    I showed her Mary’s picture. I told her how her husband had arranged for Mary’s adoption and how I was hoping his files would list her