Dave Zeltserman: Fast Lane

“What do you think?” she asked in a tiny whisper. And then she told me.

I had half suspected it when her daddy hired me. I guess I tried convincing myself it was the way he had explained it. I wanted to believe it was that way, that Debra was a troubled kid who had gotten into drugs and other bad stuff, but if I could bring her back, him and his wife would do whatever it took to straighten her out. If only I’d find her and bring her back . . . .

If only it could’ve been that way. With all the lowlife cases I’d been handling recently, I needed it to be that way. I needed a chance to do some good for a change. Rescue the lost, wayward daughter. Bring her back to her heartsick parents. Instead I was right back in the gutter, scraping my nose against it.

Debra was describing the abuse, about how it began when she was seven and how it had gradually progressed. As she talked, her small face tightened, her words coming out in an angry rush. Inside I was reeling.

Tears had started to well up. One of them broke free and rolled down her cheek. It took a while before I could find my voice and ask whether her mother knew.

“She couldn’t care less,” she said. Her bottom lip looked like it was about to give way.

“Now, honey, that couldn’t be true-”

“I said, she couldn’t care less!” she screamed. “She couldn’t care less! How many more times you want me to say it?”

She pushed her burger away and dropped her arms and head to the table, sobbing. “You should’ve left me alone,” she forced out, her words choked and anguished. “I had a glass wall separating me from them. No one was going to touch me there.”

I told her I’d help. That I’d work things out. My words sounded silly but there wasn’t much else I could say. Carol came over and asked if everything was okay. I didn’t answer her. She sat next to Debra, and Debra turned and fell against her and started sobbing harder than before.

I sat and watched for a while, the sickish feeling in my stomach knotting my insides. Then I got up and called Craig Singer. I told him I’d found his daughter, but there were some problems and I needed to talk with him. He asked whether he should have his wife join us, and I told him it would probably be better if she didn’t. A hesitancy crept into his voice as he asked how Debra was. I told him we’d better talk about it in person and we agreed to meet at his home in a half hour.

I walked back to the table. Debra had stopped crying, but it looked like she could start up again any moment. The short order cook yelled out to Carol that food was stacking up. I asked her if she could keep an eye on Debra.

“It could be a while before I come back, but it’s important.”

Carol looked uncomfortable. “I’ll try, Johnny. I have to get back to work, though.”

I gave Debra a weak smile. “Stay put,” I told her. “Everything will be just fine. I promise you that.” She looked away.

* * * * *

Craig singer lived in Arvada, a suburb on the western edge of Denver. As I drove, I found myself daydreaming, thinking about things I hadn’t thought of in years. It kind of shook me up, because they were things I really had no right thinking about. Things that wouldn’t do me any good at all. It shook me up bad enough that I had to pull over on the highway to collect my thoughts.

As I sat there trying to clear my head, a state trooper pulled up behind me. He walked over to my car, bent his head towards the window and sniffed, trying to detect alcohol.

“Everything okay in there?”

“Everything’s fine. I was just feeling a little woozy.”

“You haven’t been drinking, have you?”

I laughed. “Not yet, officer. But I could sure use one.”

“Why don’t you show me some identification?”

I handed him my driver’s license. He studied it slowly and handed it back to me. “I enjoy reading your column, Mr. Lane,” he said. “You okay now?”

“I think so, officer.” I had a sick feeling in my gut that told me I wasn’t.

I ended up being late for my meeting with Craig Singer. Almost an hour and a half after I called him, I pulled up to his house. It was a nice house, a brick English Tudor. Thick grass covered the extensive front yard. It takes money to keep grass that green in Colorado.

I rang the bell and waited.

When Singer opened the door, he offered me a moist hand and looked past me. “Where’s Debra?”

“I thought it would be better if we talked first. I’ll bring her over later.”

“Is that usual?” he asked, trying his damnedest to smile pleasantly.

“Sometimes.”

Singer was a tall skinny man with a head too large for his body. It looked almost like he had a tough time keeping from tipping over. Like his daughter, he could’ve used more flesh on his face, especially around the eyes and nose. He also could’ve used some better coloring. His skin was way too white and I couldn’t help thinking there was a pint more blood in those lips than there had any right to be. He stepped aside, apologizing, and let me through.

He led me into the den and asked if I wanted a drink. I told him that bourbon right now would do me a world of good. He pulled open a portable bar and asked if scotch was alright. I told him it was.

“I’ve been so worried about Debra.” He handed me the drink and sat across from me. “I haven’t been able to work,” he said. “I can’t believe how quickly you found her.”

I took a long sip of the scotch and leaned back in my chair.

“To be honest,” he went on, his smile beginning to show some strain. “You’re making me nervous with the way you’re acting. How bad is it with Debra?”

“Why don’t you pay me the three-thousand-dollar bonus you promised? Then I’ll tell you all about it.”

He sat for a moment, blinking a few times. “I thought I’d pay you once you’d brought her home,” he said.

“I think it would be better if we did it this way.”

“I-I guess it doesn’t matter. You’ll bring her home later today?”

“That’s right.”

“And I could always stop payment on the check if you don’t.”

“Of course you could.”

He pushed himself up. “Why don’t I go write the check?” While I waited for him I finished the rest of my scotch.

When he came back, I noticed some moisture had formed over his upper lip. He handed me a check for three thousand dollars. I put it in my wallet and told him where I had found Debra and what she had been doing.

As I talked he kept muttering about his poor little girl, but for a second, I guess before he had any control over it, a look of excitement flushed over his face. He must’ve realized, because he quickly buried his face in his hands. When he pulled them away he was the picture of the tortured dad. He had even squeezed out a couple of tears.

“Oh dear God,” he cried softly. “My poor little girl. Thank you so much for finding her.”

I stood up and turned away, but I couldn’t get that picture of him out of my mind, of him getting excited hearing what his daughter was doing for a buck in a peep show.

“Oh God,” he was going on, hamming it up. “I’ll make sure she gets professional help. I’ll make sure-”

I spun on my heels and swung at him, catching him hard on his mouth and bursting his lip wide open. He went down like he’d been shot. I only half saw him as he curled into a fetal position, spitting out blood and a couple of teeth.

He lay on the ground blubbering. I stood over him, trembling, trying not to look at him, trying not to think about him, trying not to do what I wanted to do. I went to the bar and poured myself another drink. I downed it quickly and refilled the glass.