Steve Hamilton - The hunting wind

When I got through to the first number, I went into my spiel. “Hey, have you seen Leopold over there?” Thank God for strange names. If his name were Al, I’d have no chance.

“Leopold?” the man said. “Don’t know no Leopold, sir.”

“Ah, okay, wrong place. Sorry to bother you.”

I did ten of the numbers.

I did twenty.

And then on number twenty-one…

“Leopold?” the man said. “Not today. He was here on Monday, I think.”

I froze. My God, I’ve got a bite.

“Hello? Sir?”

I was about to play it straight, tell him who I was and why I was looking for Leopold. But then I thought about Leopold, and what Randy had told me about him. How much he hated Randy. Almost killing him on the street in 1971.1 had two seconds to decide how to play it. I went for theater.

“Oh, uh, sorry,” I said. “Hey, I’ll be perfectly honest with you.” Honest, my ass. “I’ve got one of Leopold’s thirty-foot ladders here, and if I don’t get it back to him today, he’s gonna have my head on a platter. You know how he is.”

“Oh man,” he said. “Do I ever. I can’t believe he even let you borrow it.”

“Hey, I know he’s been working on that job over there. Where was that again? Maybe I can just run it over to him.”

“No, he didn’t say.”

Damn! Think, think.

“Oh man, I’m dead,” I said. Okay, let’s go for the home run here. “Hey, I know. Maybe if I just run it over to his house, you know? Leave it there. Hell, maybe he’ll even forget he loaned it to me. You think that would work?”

“I still can’t believe he loaned it to you.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. I must have caught him on a hell of a good day. I was over at his house one time. God, where was it? It was over on…”

I let it hang. I was sweating. Come on, take the lead here.

“On Romney Street,” he said.

“Yeah, that’s right! On Romney Street. I’ll just go over there right now and put that ladder in his garage.”

The guy started laughing. “That’ll never work, my friend.”

“You’re right,” I said. “But at least this way, I’ll have a running start.”

“Good luck to you,” he said.

“Hey, um, just one more thing. I appreciate you helping me out here. I’m just trying to remember which house it was on Romney. It was like a sort of white kind of-”

“Hell if I know,” the man said. “I sure as hell never been to the man’s house. I just know it from the address on the bills.”

“Oh yeah, of course. Ah, well, never mind. I’ll find it.”

“Here, let me see,” the man said. God bless this man. “Seventeen forty Romney Street.”

“That sounds familiar,” I said. “Man, you’re really helping me out here. I appreciate it.”

“Hey, no problem. Just don’t tell him I helped you do the drop and run.”

“Ha! You got it! Thanks a lot.”

I hung up and let out a big breath.

By the time Randy came back with the McDonald’s bags, I had already looked up the street in the index and found it on the map. It was in Farmington Hills, an upper-middle-class suburb to the northwest. “Looks like Leopold moved up in the world,” I said.

“What are you talking about?”

I held up the piece of paper where I had written his address. “Let’s go,” I said. “I’ll show you.”

I remembered Farmington Hills as one of the nicer suburbs of Detroit. It was what they called “semi-rural,” with four-bedroom houses on half-acre lots. A good old-fashioned mailbox on the street, with the little flag you raised when you had a letter to be picked up. I couldn’t believe how much had changed.

“I remember this corner,” I said as we drove past a strip mall. All the usual suspects were there now: Blockbuster Video, Subway, TCBY. “I swear to God, there was nothing here but one gas station.”

“Yeah, the owner used to come out, pump the gas himself, wash your window, and then turn the crank on the front of your car for you.”

“Randy, I’m talking about fifteen years ago. It’s like an entirely different place now.”

“Progress,” he said. “That’s what I’m supposed to say, right?”

There was a lot of traffic on Halstead Road now. It used to be a lazy little two-lane road through nothing but weeds and dirt. We found the new subdivision we were looking for, right next to about five other new subdivisions, and turned in. We drove past a few dozen houses that looked like they had all been built that morning. We passed Corriedale Street and then we found Romney Street.

“Sheep,” he said.

“What?”

“Corriedale and Romney. They’re types of sheep. They must be running out of names.”

We followed the numbers on the mailboxes until we came to 1740. The house was a split-level ranch, set back about a hundred feet off the road.

“Nice lawn,” Randy said.

“I don’t see a name on the mailbox,” I said.

“So what do we do?”

“We’ll just go knock on the door and ask,” I said. “No big deal.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” he said. “No big deal.”

We drove down the driveway. It was asphalt, with what looked like a new coat of sealer on it. I stopped my truck behind a little red compact.

We got out. We walked to the door, passing a row of rhododendrons that had a long way to come back from a hard winter. We rang the doorbell.

A young girl answered. She was sixteen or seventeen years old, dressed in a softball uniform. There was an F on her jersey. Farmington High School. She smiled at me. She looked at Randy and her smile got a little bigger.

“Hi there,” I said. “Is this the Valenescu residence?”

Her smile faded. “No, I’m sorry,” she said. “There’s nobody here by that name.”

“There’s nobody in your family who used to have that name even?” I was really reaching now. “Somebody named Maria? Used to live in Detroit? Her parents were Gregor and Arabella?”

“No,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

I looked up at the sky. “Okay,” I said. I suddenly felt very tired. “We’re sorry to bother you. You play softball, eh?”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m a pitcher.”

“Hey,” I said, hitting Randy in the chest. “Another pitcher. Just what the world needs.”

The look on his face stopped me.

“Randy?”

He was staring at the girl.

I looked at her, and then back at him. “Randy,” I said. “What is it?”

He didn’t take his eyes off her. “What’s your name?” he finally said.

She swallowed. “Delilah.”

“That’s a beautiful name,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said. She sneaked a look at the doorknob.

“Delilah,” Randy said. “Can I ask you something?”

“I need to get to practice,” she said. “I came home to get my uniform.”

“You’re Maria’s daughter, aren’t you,” he said.

She shook her head. “I told you, there’s nobody here by that name.”

“You’re Leopold’s daughter, then,” he said. “That could be. You’re Maria’s niece.”

“No,” she said. “No, I told you. My name is Delilah Muller and I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She started to look a little scared.

“I’m sorry,” I said, stepping in front of him. “I’m sorry, please excuse my friend.” I turned to face him. “What the hell are you doing?”

“This girl,” he said, and then he looked at her again over my shoulder. “This beautiful angel…”

“Is not who you’re thinking,” I said. “You heard her. What are you trying to do?”

“Alex, I know she is.”

“Come on,” I said, grabbing his arm. I pulled him back to the truck. As I turned to apologize again, the door was already shut.