Seeing Red(4)

“Just plain Trapper is fine, but it doesn’t matter what you call me because we don’t have anything else to say to each other.” He stood up and headed for the door.

“You haven’t even heard me out.”

“Yeah. I have. Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta take a piss and then I’ve got a hangover to sleep off. Close the door on your way out. This neighborhood, I hope your car’s still there when you get back to it.”

He stalked out in bare feet and went down the drab hallway to the men’s room. He used the urinal then went over to the sink and looked at himself in the cloudy, cracked mirror above it. A pile of dog shit had nothing on him.

He bent down and scooped tap water into his mouth until his thirst was no longer raging, then ducked his head under the faucet. He shook water from his hair and dried his face with paper towels. With one more nod toward respectability, he buttoned his shirt as he was walking back to his office.

She was still there. Which didn’t come as that much of a surprise. She looked the type that didn’t give up easily.

Before he could order her out, she said, “Why would you object to The Major giving an interview?”

“It’s no skin off my nose, but he won’t do it, and I think you already know that or you wouldn’t have come to me, because I’m the last person on the planet who could convince him to do anything.”

“Why is that?”

He recognized that cleverly laid trap for what it was and didn’t step into it. “Let me guess. I’m your last resort?” Her expression was as good as an admission. “Before coming to me, how many times did you ask The Major yourself?”

“I’ve called him thirteen times.”

“How many times did he hang up on you?”

“Thirteen.”

“Rude bastard.”

Under her breath, she said, “It must be a family trait.”

Trapper only smiled. “It’s the only one he and I have in common.” He studied her for a moment. “You get points for tenacity. Most give up long before thirteen attempts. Who do you work for?”

“A network O and O—owned and operated—in Dallas.”

“You’re on TV? In Dallas?”

“I do feature stories. Human interest, things like that. Occasionally one makes it to the network’s Sunday evening news show.”

Trapper was familiar with the program, but he didn’t remember ever having watched it.

He knew for certain that he’d never seen her, not even on the local station, or he would’ve remembered. She had straight, sleek light brown hair with blonder streaks close to her face. Brown eyes as large as a doe’s. One inch below the outside corner of the left one was a beauty mark the same dark chocolate color as her irises. Her complexion was creamy, her lips plump and pink, and he was reluctant to pull his gaze away from them.

But he did. “Sorry, but you drove over here for nothing.”

“Mr. Trapper—”

“You’re wasting your time. The Major retired from public life years ago.”

“Three to be exact. And he didn’t merely retire. He went into seclusion. Why do you think he did that?”

“My guess is that he got sick of talking about it.”

“What about you?”

“I was sick of it long before that.”

“How old were you?”

“At the time of the bombing? Eleven. Fifth grade.”

“Your father’s sudden celebrity must have affected you.”

“Not really.”

She watched him for a moment, then said softly, “That’s impossible. It had to have impacted your life as dramatically as it did his.”

He squinted one eye. “You know what this sounds like? Leading questions, like you’re trying to interview me. In which case, you’re SOL because I’m not going to talk about The Major, or me, or my life. Ever. Not to anybody.”

She reached into the oversize bag and took out an eight-by-ten reproduction of a photograph, laid it on the desk, and pushed it toward him.

Without even glancing down at it, he pushed it back. “I’ve seen it.” For the second time, he stood up, went to the door and opened it, stood there with hands on hips, waiting.

She hesitated, then sighed with resignation, hiked the strap of her bag onto her shoulder, and joined him at the door. “I caught you at a bad time.”

“No, this is about as good as I get.”

“Would you consider meeting me later, after you’ve had time to …” She made a gesture that encompassed his sorry state.“To feel better. I could outline what I want to do. We could talk about it over dinner.”

“Nothing to talk about.”

“I’m paying.”

He shook his head. “Thanks anyway.”

She gnawed the inside of her cheek as though trying to determine which tactic to use to try to persuade him. He could offer some salacious suggestions, but she probably wouldn’t go that far, and even if she did, afterward he’d still say no to her request.

She took a look around the office before coming back to him. With the tip of her index finger, she underlined the words stenciled on the frosted glass of the door. “Private Investigator.”

“So it says.”