|
|||||||||
|
chess fiction Not Much of a Detective by Rick Kennedy
The sun rose higher. I lingered over lunch to kibitz a couple of chess games between the other painters. As I started to move on, the home owner put up his hand. “You’re bright,” he growled, nodding at the chess board. “You solve problems quickly.” I looked him in the eyes. “Find my daughter,” he said. “She seems to be gone.” He pulled a checkbook from his hip pocket, scribbled something, tore it off, and shoved it at me. I stood there as he turned on his heel and walked off. A slight movement behind a sky blue curtain caught my eye. I approached the porch of the house next door and knocked. At the count of seventy-three, a frail, silver-haired lady appeared. She invited me in. No, she didn’t know the neighbors. Not the mister, who worked at the ball bearing plant, and often came home late and loud and spoiling for a fight. Not the missus, who put up with all of it, and more, until she moved out a month ago and got an apartment on the Hilltop. Certainly not Missy, at twelve, who for no good reason was staying behind with her step-father. Mrs. Watson didn’t see how she could help at all. I nodded at an old photograph. My husband, she said, with her for 51 years, but now gone to the cancer. The kids were grown and gone to the coasts. Sometimes they called, but you know how kids are.
I saw another neighbor, kneeling and working a flower bed. He had been at it a while, and it showed. He rose deliberately as I approached, setting aside his trowel. I told him who I was trying to help, and why. The man glowered and then spit on me. “If you’re a friend of that worthless piece of garbage, someone should have scraped you off of the bottom of his shoe a long time ago.” With that, he turned back to his work. I stand a bit over six feet, with muscles built from daily physical labor. I relaxed them, slowly, deliberately, one-by-one, from my forehead on down to my feet. “Thank you,” I said, and moved on.
I had been sitting on the bench at the bus stop for about an hour, watching the sun slip away, when Missy stole out of her friends’ house, walked the block, and sat down next to me. I didn’t mention the bruises that I saw on her. She didn’t explain. I had enough change in my pocket for two fares out to the Hilltop, and one back. Just what we needed. On the return trip, I tore up the check into tiny little pieces. It probably would have bounced anyway. I wasn’t feeling like much of a detective.
|
Chessville
The
Advertise to Single insert:
|
||||||||
|
|||||||||
One morning I was up early and on my way,
walking in no particular direction at all, until I stopped. There was a
garage being prepped for painting, and I joined in, silently. Scraping and
sanding old wood is the hard part. Painting is almost a reward at the end.
After a half-hour, my host apologized for
neglecting to offer me tea. I went to the kitchen and brewed up some Earl
Gray. I brought it back and sat. She talked. I listened. When it was time to
go, I thanked her and excused myself.
Across the street, three girls were
jumping rope. They stopped as I drew near. With their words, they told me
they knew nothing that could help me find their friend. Their eyes told me
something else. I smiled and wandered off – but not before going a few
grueling rounds of Double Dutch. Tall is not so good. Flexible is better.
Experience still counts.
