All the Old Bargains

Chapter 1

I enjoy the drive down the parkway, the cupola of trees overhead, the river running alongside, the crisp sails of the boats in the marina. I turned into Belle Haven and began to wind up the hill. The large houses were set back from the street and each other. I found the Bensons’ and turned into the driveway. It was a large square colonial, white, two stories. The pillared front porch was edged by the pink splash of flowers. Sometimes I think it’s against the law to build anything but a colonial in Virginia. But then again that was Virginia’s golden age.

I got out of my car, glanced around the side of the house and then down the street. I went up the steps and rang the door bell. There was, thank god, no black jockey by the door. The door was opened by a woman who seemed roughly my age. Her close-cropped hair, unmade face and simple black dress impressed me as self-denial, not stylish restraint. She looked at me through out-of-focus vacant eyes as if she had been withdrawn deep in thought and the door bell had just recalled her to the surface world. Yes? She winced and her eyes blinked rapidly as if she expected me to hit her.

I’m Leo Haggerty. Are you Mrs. Benson?

Yes. Please come in. She quickly stepped back to let me pass. Her eyes darted up and down the block to check if anyone else had seen me arrive. I thought about telling her I’d had all my shots, but a moment of maturity prevailed.

I followed her through a dark corridor into the living room. The back wall was glass, overlooking a pool. To the left was an ample wet bar. We sat on the sofa around a Noguchi coffee table. I looked over to her for a moment to see if she could start to tell me what the problem was but she looked at me dumbly. Her mind seemed frozen by confusion and embarrassment. I always bring out the best in people.

Mrs. Benson, what can I do for you?

Mrs. Benson looked everywhere but at me. The answer was not on the ceiling. It was not out in the pool. With a forlorn sigh she found it in her lap.

It’s my daughter Miranda. She’s run away. I want you to bring her back.

What makes you think she’s run away?

Finally she looked at me. Don’t they all these days? She thinks she’s all grown-up, let me tell you. She’s doing badly at school, doesn’t mind her father or me, comes in when she wants to, does what she wants to. Quite a mouth on her too. The things that come out of it. Her contempt for everything we’ve done and tried to give her.

How long has this been going on?

Since she entered junior high school. Before then she was an angel, daddy’s little girl and all that. It’s like she changed when she went there, like something poisoned her.

How long has she been gone?

Since yesterday. She didn’t come home from school. She didn’t call.

Have you called the police?

Called the police! I’m taking a chance talking to you.

How so?

My husband. He’s out looking for Miranda now. He was out last night and earlier this morning too. He’d have a stroke if he knew I told anyone about this.

Then why have you?

To find my daughter. He won’t.

She seemed to have struck a balance between fear of her husband’s rage and contempt for him. So she’d hire me but behind his back. How big a part of the decision was concern for her daughter I couldn’t tell.

Going back to her running away, why do you think she would do that?

Who knows. She doesn’t tell me anything. We’re the enemy. How we got that way I don’t know.

Do you have a picture of her? I’m going to need a current one, a list of her friends, and a letter from you authorizing me as your agent.

We don’t have a recent picture of her. She refused to have it taken at school, and who her friends are these days I don’t know.

Did she say why she didn’t want her picture taken?

Yes. It was something cute and witty and so grown-up, like ‘evil is in the eye of the beholder.’

A dark stream ran between mother and daughter. It was brackish with resentments that were too old or too deep to clean.

Let me have the latest photo of her and a list of her old friends.

She got up from the sofa and went down the hall. I watched her leave the room, moving in mechanical precision, as if she were trying to walk without moving anything except her legs. She stole a glance at me over her shoulder as she passed the mirror.

I was lost in my thoughts, following her down the dim corridor, when the front door slammed and jerked my head around. He steamed into the living room, head lowered like a rhinoceros. When he came to a halt he picked his head up and blinked, as if he only knew I was there by smell.

He squared up to me. Who are you? I got up from the sofa. He was a meaty man but running to fat. On his face was one of those waxed handlebar mustaches that look like a bat is sleeping under your nose.

My name is Leo Haggerty. I’m a private detective.

She hired you, huh? Well, I fired you. Get out. I can take care of things around here. I don’t need your help. Beat it. He gave me the heave-ho with his thumb as if I were attached to it by a line. Mrs. Benson’s fear seemed to be getting the best of her. She could not have missed her husband’s return. She’d left me here to fend for myself.

I looked down the hall, waiting for her to return. After all, she was my client. I was here at her request. When I’d given her a decent interval to appear and she didn’t, I decided to leave. She’d have to do better than this if I was going to put myself out for her.

If you and your wife get your signals straightened out and want my services, I’m in the phone book. I went past him. He was the picture of suburban success. There was some little animal insignia on everything he wore. I wondered if it was a rhinoceros. I hoped so. I let myself out.

I decided that the view down the hill from here was quite nice: the rolling lawns, old shade trees, the road winding down to the country club in the distance. The view behind the double doors was grim. I wondered if the kid had a good reason to be lost. I doubted I’d ever find out. Things were quiet in the house—no screams, no tinkling crashes, no whip-cracking slaps. I went down to my car.

Backing out of the driveway I found myself without a client and indifferent to that. The publicity generated by the Saunders case had provided me with a steady stream of clients. For the first time I could afford to turn down work. As the sole proprietor of a lovely afternoon, I decided to go to the racquet club, work up a sweat, have dinner out and maybe end up with a good book.

Chapter 2

The weight room was being used for a fashion spread in a local magazine. I went back to the front desk to see if any racquetball courts were available. One was, so I took it and headed for the locker room. I no longer play the game seriously or often. Chronic knee and ankle injuries have seen to that. My orthopedist says I will make him a rich man yet.

I changed into my gear and thought about something to work on; judgment, that was what I lacked. I was always trying to do too much with my forehand, always attacking. Like the poster says: Patience my ass, I’m gonna kill something. I made my way up to the courts. They were all lit. I stood in the lounge for a second, watching a pair of older guys move the ball around with finesse and control. I could probably learn more by watching them than by playing myself, but I needed to work out. The morning with the Bensons had left me tense. I wanted to burn that tension out of my system. On another court a husband and wife were playing pitty-pat. The third was empty.

I ducked into the court, dropped the ball and hit a ceiling ball to the front wall. I waited for it to bounce, rise, drop and then let it rip off the front wall to my backhand. I moved over early and set up, turning my shoulders, cocking the wrist, watching the ball, timing the explosion. I moved into the ball, hips sliding, shoulders turning and snapped my wrist, hitting a rocket along the wall; not quite a rollout but better than I had been hitting. I picked up the ball and chanted my mantra: set up early, swing through, snap the wrist. I hoped my motor pathways were listening, letting the soothing sound seep into them, forever changing their structure. I hit a forehand off the front wall toward the side wall. Moving crosscourt I was trying to read whether to pick it off in the air or to let it hit the third wall and try to kill it. I waited, coiling. It hit the back wall and fell toward the floor. I waited and then released. It was maybe two inches off the floor all the way to the wall and intimate with it all the way back. I stooped over to pick up the ball when I heard a tapping on the glass back wall. A woman was pointing toward the door to the court. I nodded and waved her in. She opened the door to the court, ducked and entered.

Listen, my partner is going to be late, and I saw you were alone. Would you be interested in playing a game? She cocked her head like a question mark.

She was of average height, and lots of that was leg. Everywhere she was firm and rounded. I thought of Roethke’s line: She had more sides than a seal. Her chestnut hair was in a braided pony tail. But it was her face that transfixed me. The big dark eyes and wide mouth contrasted with the sculpted hollows and planes of her cheeks. It was a face of excess and denial, a face that promised all things.

She cocked her head again. Well?

Uh, oh sure. I felt sixteen again. With women I think I always will. They’re still a mystery to me. Maybe I’ve just been a poor student.

Let’s play here. We’ll lob for serve, she said.

No, you take it. I saw her mouth harden as if I’d insulted her. It was probably foolish of me to play with her. I just needed to work up a sweat, nothing more. I’d take it easy. I set up behind her. She looked back at me to check if I was ready. I nodded. She served a lob into the corner that rattled off the walls like a quarter in a deep pocket. I flicked a backhand toward the ceiling but it was not deep enough. She set, coiled to swing. I moved back to center court next to her, waiting for her to decide where to put it. She chose a kill to my backhand. I dug hard for it but barely got my racket on it. Her point. She was good. Too good for me to beat at less than full speed, if then.

One serving zero, she said and eyed me for the okay to serve. I nodded. She went back to the backhand lob. I guessed she would and was early, chanting set up, set up. I picked it off the side wall and hit a deep ceiling ball. She retreated, and I entered center court, crouching like a giant toad waiting to gobble the ball as if it were a rubber fly. Her return was short to my forehand side. I sized her up, coming back from the far left corner and waited for the ball to drop, getting ever fatter. I then drilled it into the right corner. Rollout. My serve.

I went to the service court, zero serving one, and awaited her signal. I hit a drive serve low and to her backhand. She got to it and hit a weak lob to the front court. I waited for the kill and hit a pinch shot off the far wall. My point.

One serving one. We began again. I hit another drive serve to her backhand. She hit a passing shot down the line. I hit a crosscourt pass. She was there, but she lifted her return. Dinnertime for froggy! She came back to center court. I hit my pass behind her.

Damn, she said and grimaced. Nice shot.

We set up again, but as I looked back, I saw another woman knocking on the glass back wall.

Is that your partner? She looked up and nodded.

Well, I enjoyed it. Uh, by the way, I’m Leo Haggerty, and you’re—?

Samantha Clayton, and I enjoyed it too.

She turned and walked off the court. I watched her volleying hips as she left. I finished my workout and left the court. I showered and shaved and headed out to the lobby, wondering where to eat. As I walked across the lobby I saw her fishing in her purse for phone money. I crossed to her. I thought about my father’s putting motto: never up, never in. It always worked better with golf.

Uh, excuse me. Would you care to have dinner with me?

She looked at me with those big eyes and cocked her head to one side. A characteristic motion. I hoped she graded on a curve. She nodded and said okay.

I asked her if she liked seafood and she said yes. I asked her if she’d ever eaten at Crisfield’s. She said no.

Since a friend had dropped her at the club we got into my car and headed toward the beltway. She was watching me as I drove.

Do you play often? she asked.

No. I usually lift weights here, but today the weight room was occupied.

Oh, I work out here too. Usually in the afternoon. I’ve never seen you here.

When I come it’s usually first thing in the morning. But it’s erratic; my hours aren’t real regular.

What do you do in those irregular hours?

I’m a private investigator. And you? We were volleying, hitting ceiling balls. Keep it high. Wait for the other person to commit.

I’m a writer.

Oh, what kind of stuff?

You name it. Magazine pieces, interviews, literary journal essays, short stories. My first novel will be out soon.

What is it called?

"No Snake in the Garden."

When is it due out?

A month or two.

I’ll look for it.

She turned partway around on the seat. I don’t mean to pry, but being a private eye—what’s it really like? Why do you do it? I keep thinking of Bogart.

There were so many ways to answer her. The you-don’t-know-the-troubles-I’ve-seen-sister version: world-weary and wise. The hard case: cynical but with a soft spot. A two-legged Tootsie Roll pop. The last romantic: burnt out and needing the redemption of a good woman. The masked avenger: the .45 caliber messiah. I decided to play it straight—for her big eyes, her wide mouth and the empty place in my chest.

I’ve changed my answer to that a lot over the years. I once thought I did it just so I could help people. I don’t believe that anymore, or rather that’s only a part of it. I really don’t have a very clear answer these days. I only know I’m obsessed with loss. Maybe I’m trying to inoculate myself against it. You know, get cowpox to avoid smallpox. I don’t know. I flicked my eyes at her. She was looking at me intently. Maybe she cared about the answer.

Have you ever lost anything yourself?

Good question. I’m not sure I’ve ever lost anything important. I don’t know why it’s so damned important to me. Believe me, I’ve chased myself around on this one like a dog with mange. With about the same degree of success. How did you get into writing?" I tried not to sound too abrupt in moving away from myself as a topic.

"Bloodlines, partly. Habit. Not knowing or wanting to do anything else. All of the above. My father’s an English professor and an unpublished novelist. That’s part of it. I began to write stories when I was seven. I also used to tell stories to my little brother to help him get to sleep. Our mother died when I was twelve and he was six. He had nightmares a lot and trouble sleeping. Anyway, I had the usual tortured adolescent diary phase. I went off to college, majored in English and kept writing stories for my locked desk drawer. My best friend sent two of them to the school literary magazine. I could have killed her. They were accepted. I thought about graduate school, either a creative writing program or an advanced degree in English Lit. so I could teach. Anyway, to make a long story short, I did neither. I got a job waitressing and kept fiddling with writing