I do not have an epilogue for Fit for Freedom for you this week. If I’m going to tell that part of the story, I want to get it right, and the words just would not come. So rather than crank out something that neither I nor you, the readers, would find satisfying, I’m going to move on for now and give you something new and different.
I had the idea for this story a few years ago and “stuck it in a drawer” until recently. It’s inspired by one of my wife’s favorite movies, but I’m not sure she’d necessarily appreciate where I’ve taken some of her beloved characters! If you know which movie it is, please tell me in the comments.
Jack Wilcox fumbled ham-fistedly at the alarm clock before knocking it off the nightstand. He was hung over again, but did not realize it until he reached down to stop the incessant ringing of the alarm only to have the obnoxious sound replaced by an even less pleasant pounding in his head. He remembered leaving his office early the previous afternoon to head to Tony’s, the local dive bar where he was something of a regular. He dropped the alarm clock back on the nightstand with a clunk and pulled the covers over his head.
Lying there in the early morning sun, praying that the pounding would go away and that the nausea wouldn’t creep up in its place, he remembered what day it was: the rent was due on Monday. He was late last month and unless a client willing to pay a hefty fee up front—in cash, no less—waltzed into his office and hired him for an investigation over the next two days, he’d be late again this month.
His landlord was the least of his worries. If he didn’t have the money for rent, he certainly didn’t have the money for Christmas gifts, at least not good ones. That would put his ex-wife into a rage. Jack was devoted to their two children, Jack, Jr., seven, and Mary, five, but Meg went beyond devotion to indulgence. Anything less than a room full of presents on Christmas morning would lead to one of her patented tirades. Jack didn’t doubt that he could be something of a deadbeat from time to time, but he did his best. That was all Jack had ever learned to expect of any man; he couldn’t come up with any reason that he shouldn’t get the same benefit of the doubt.
The nausea had come despite his best efforts. Jack rolled out of bed and sped over to the bathroom just in time to empty his stomach of whatever greasy, warmed-over bar food he had managed to choke down last night before, somehow, making it back to his dump of an apartment. It was a dump, but it happened to be among the nicest dumps in this area, Jack reminded himself. It was no cabana on Miami Beach; he could only dream of a place like that when his work took him there (which was relatively rarely). But for this part of South Florida, on the outskirts of Miami, finding a place with a private bathroom at this price was a rare thing. Now he just had to try not to get evicted.
Business at the offices of Jack Wilcox, Private Investigator, had been slow for months now. He had burned through his meager savings on alimony, rent, and booze quickly when the clients stopped coming in. Maybe word had gotten around that he hadn’t been able to track down the stolen artwork that Mrs. Davenport—of the Boston Davenports, she had felt compelled to tell him seemingly every time they met—had hired him to find. Maybe all the small-time burglars and two-timing spouses had just decided to behave for a while. None of that mattered, really, when the wolf was at the door. In his line of work, there was only so much you could do to scare up business for yourself. People knew how to find him when they needed him.
He took a shower, brushed his teeth, and headed out for the ten minute walk to his office, planning to grab some breakfast and coffee at the diner on the way. With what little cash he happened to have in his pockets he paid for some eggs and drowned them with a single cup of the hot, brown liquid that posed as coffee at Cheryl’s Diner.
He unlocked the office door that displayed his name and peered across the front room to where his secretary used to sit. Carol had been an immense help, until he couldn’t afford to pay her any more. A stack of papers had been piling up on her desk for a month. Jack hadn’t found the motivation to file them yet. He doubted he ever would.
Entering the second room, where his own disheveled desk sat, he realized that he had forgotten to shut the window before leaving yesterday afternoon. South Florida, even in mid-December, never really got very cold, so that wasn’t his concern. He strode over to the desk and sat down behind it. All of his papers seemed to be right where he left them. Although, in reality, the desk was in such a state of array that even Jack himself might not have been able to tell the difference.
He slowly reached a hand under the desk and felt for something. To his relief the .38 revolver that he kept there was still safely secured right where it had always been. So far in his practice, Jack had never needed the gun in the office, but he knew that the work he did carried with it a certain amount of danger. Failing to account for his own safety would have been foolish and, whatever else he was, Jack Wilcox was no fool.
He leaned back in his chair, without so much as a squeak. The one thing he had managed to accomplish yesterday was oiling the chair which, up until that point, squealed like a child who’d skinned his knee and couldn’t find his mother to kiss his boo-boo. Now the chair worked almost like new. He leaned forward again and pulled a cigar from the bottom desk drawer. Smoking cigars was another vice that his ex-wife detested; her hatred of the things only seemed to add to Jack’s enjoyment.
His thoughts wandered and before long, Jack was dozing, lit cigar hanging precariously out of the corner of his mouth. He managed to escape burning himself and ruining his remaining shirt when he was awakened by a rapping on the frosted glass of the outer office door. He rose to cross the room and see who it was, a task that would have fallen to Carol only a few weeks ago. “Coming,” he coughed, startled into inhaling a bit of the cigar smoke by the unexpected arrival.
When he opened the door, the man who stood facing him immediately stepped into the room, not even waiting for an invitation.
“Can I help you, sir?” Jack managed to get out, before the man had seated himself in the single, remaining leather chair that Jack kept for waiting clients.
“Yes,” the man said, with an air of annoyance. “Two of my tenants—former tenants—damaged my property, stiffed me for the rent, and skipped town when I brought the sheriff to arrest them.”
“Okay,” Jack ventured, “What do you want me to do about it?”
“The sheriff says he won’t go after them, can’t go after them. It doesn’t matter. I need someone to track them down.”
Jack thought to himself that traipsing across the countryside for a little rent money seemed like overkill, but he couldn’t really afford to question the worthiness of a client’s goal if they were willing to pay.
“Look, Mister . . . I don’t think I caught your name?”
“It’s Pedrosian. I own the Sunset Apartments across the road from the Florida Inn. Perhaps you know it?”
Jack did know it. The Florida Inn had a decent floor show, not that he’d had the money to go see it recently, but work had taken him over that way a handful of times. He couldn’t remember the Sunset Apartments, however, most likely because there was probably nothing that memorable about them.
“I know the area a little. Now look, Mr. Pedrosian, if you want to hire me to go find your tenants, I’m sure I can find the guys—”
“Girls,” Pedrosian, interrupted him.
“Well, people who stick someone else with the bill like this and hightail it usually aren’t too careful about covering their tracks. I’m pretty sure I can track them down, if that’s what you want, but I’m just not sure you’re going to be happy with the results for such a small amount.”
Pedrosian screwed up his face into a scowl, “Small amount? Who said anything about a small amount? These girls didn’t just skip out on the rent and burn my rug. They took my nephew for ten thousand dollars!”
Now, Jack thought, things were getting a bit more interesting. Although why Pedrosian didn’t start with that tidbit was anyone’s guess.
“I’m willing to pay some of your fee up front, Mr. Wilcox. I hear you’re good at what you do.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Jack thought to himself.
“Will two hundred dollars be enough to cover your initial expenses?”
“Yes, that’ll do,” Jack replied, trying to convey indifference. He could make the rent and still have a little left over for the kids’ Christmas (not enough to satisfy Meg, of course, but she could go walk off a bridge for all he cared at this point). “I can start today, if that’s all right.”
“Yes, please,” Pedrosian said. He pulled a wad of bills from the breast pocket of his wrinkled jacket, peeled off two hundred dollar bills, and passed them over to Jack.
Jack motioned toward the back room and the pair moved out of the sloppy anteroom into the equally sloppy office. Jack gently closed the door and said “Okay, Mr. Pedrosian, tell me everything you know.”
Would you do me a favor before you go?
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Thanks!