Ryan Jahn - The Dispatcher

‘Ever seen this girl before?’

The cobbler shakes his head without so much as a glance at the picture. His eyes remain dull and unfixed, looking toward some nothing in the middle of the room.

‘No,’ he says. ‘Ain’t seen nothing.’

‘You didn’t even hear nothing?’ Chief Davis asks again. The cobbler shakes his head, then taps the hearing aid hooked around the back of his ear. ‘Maybe the battery’s dying.’

‘Could be.’

‘You don’t seem to be having much trouble hearing us,’ Ian says.

‘Well.’

‘Look at the goddamn picture.’

‘I already told you I didn’t-’

Ian hits the counter with the flat of his palm, creating a loud clap, and the cobbler recoils like he’s been hit.

‘You haven’t even bothered to fucking look yet.’

‘Hey,’ Chief Davis says, putting a hand on Ian’s shoulder, ‘man’s got no reason to lie.’

Ian ignores this. He leans on the counter and glares at the cobbler, forcing him to meet his eye. The cobbler looks uncomfortable, but he stares back for a couple seconds before his gaze drops to Ian’s chest.

‘This is my daughter. She’s been missing for more than seven years. The picture was taken before she went missing, so she’d look different now. She’s fourteen, fifteen in September. She made a call from the pay phone out front not twenty minutes ago. Now look at the goddamn picture and tell me did you see her.’

The cobbler looks down at the photograph. After a moment of silence he reaches out and touches it with a black-stained fingertip. He touches it gently. Ian has to fight the urge to snatch it away from the man. Instead he puts his hands behind his back. The cobbler’s face softens and his eyes find focus as he looks at the picture. He scratches his cheek.

Without looking up he says, ‘I didn’t get a good look at the girl but this might’ve been her.’

‘Did you see the man she was with?’

‘The one who took her?’

‘The one who took her.’

The cobbler nods. ‘I don’t know him. But I only been in town four years and don’t meet nobody unless they come in the shop.’

‘You didn’t recognize him?’

‘Not to name,’ the cobbler says, ‘but I think I seen him at Albertsons a few times.’

‘So you’d recognize a picture?’

The cobbler nods. ‘Think so.’

‘In his sixties, gray hair, bald on top, busted capillaries in his nose, and about my size?’

‘He’s fatter’n you, but about the same height, I reckon.’ He holds his hand up to measure. ‘You know who done it?’

Ian shakes his head. ‘She told me what he looked like.’

‘Was he on foot?’ Chief Davis asks.

The cobbler pauses a moment, then says, ‘No. I heard a engine running, but I didn’t see it. Must’ve parked to one side or the other.’

‘Car or truck?’ Ian says.

‘He said he didn’t see it. He couldn’t tell you just by-’

‘Truck,’ the cobbler says, then nods to himself as if getting internal confirmation. ‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘definitely a truck.’

‘Thank you,’ Ian says. ‘You’ve been a big help. Someone will probably come down with a book of arrest photos for you to look through, and maybe even ask you to Mencken to help reconstruct a picture if you don’t recognize him in the book.’

He reaches across the counter and picks up Maggie’s photograph. He slips it into his wallet, folds his wallet, and slips it back into his hip pocket.

‘And if you see him again,’ Ian says, ‘I want you to call nine-one-one.’

‘Okay,’ the man says.

When they get outside Chief Davis says, ‘Goddamn, Ian, if you ever get tired of being a dispatcher, I tell you what, I’ll give you a job down at the dealership in a second. You can just bully folks into buying cars. I’ll sell out in a week.’

‘Thanks, Chief.’

Cora Hanscomb at the dry-cleaning place next door claims to have neither seen nor heard anything. She says this without looking away from the TV upon which her gaze is fixed. She sits in a metal fold-out chair behind the counter and moves popcorn from a bag in her lap to her mouth. The backs of her fingers are glazed yellow with imitation butter and several pieces of popcorn lie on the floor around her chair and in her lap.

‘Nothing?’ Ian says again.

‘Huh-uh.’

‘Too busy watching the tube to pay attention to a kidnapping?’

‘I guess.’

‘Can’t bother even to look at the people talking to you?’

‘Huh-uh.’

‘Right,’ Ian says. ‘Thanks a fucking lot.’

‘Watch your mouth.’ She says even this without looking away from the TV, her voice a droning monotone.

‘Get fucked,’ Ian says, and pushes his way out the door.

They walk into Bill’s Liquor. Ian glances left to Donald Dean. He’s standing behind an orange Formica counter looking bored. A scruffy guy, maybe forty-five, maybe fifty, with oily brown hair and a patchy beard that makes his face look like it was mauled by a large cat. Above the beard, high on his cheeks, acne scars. He’s thin as a stick and pale, and his smile, when he smiles, looks like a grimace. Teeth crammed together like he’s got a few too many. He nods at Ian and reaches over to a tub of red vines, which is sitting between a tub of pickled pigs’ feet and a tub of beef jerky, pulls one out, and chews on it awhile.

Chief Davis walks over to him.

Ian turns right. He walks to the refrigerator at the back, scans the shelves, opens a glass door, which immediately fogs up, and pulls out a six pack of Guinness. The door swings shut behind him as he turns around and walks to where Donald and Chief Davis are standing at the counter.

‘-at all?’ Davis is saying.

‘Huh-uh.’

Davis turns to Ian and says, ‘He didn’t hear nothing either.’ ‘Maybe the battery in his hearing aid is dying too.’

‘What? I don’t-’

‘Nothing.’

Ian sets the beer on the counter.

Donald rings it up and says, ‘That all?’

Ian scans the shelves behind him, looking just below the rows of hard liquor, to several boxes of cigars and cigarettes.

After a moment he says, ‘Gimme a couple of them Camachos.’

Donald turns around and looks for them.

‘Diploma?’

‘Maduro. Bottom shelf, to your right.’

He grabs them and rings them up. Then he grabs a black plastic bag and loads Ian’s purchases into it. Ian knows the cigars will be dry and probably taste like smoking dog turds. The middle of summer and they’ve been sitting out since the spring. He doesn’t care. He’s used to smoking cigars past their prime.

While Donald loads the bag Ian pulls out his wallet and removes Maggie’s photo from it. He holds it up in front of Donald.

‘You remember my daughter?’

Donald nods. ‘’Course.’

‘You didn’t see anyone resembling her today?’

‘Huh-uh,’ he says with his mouth hanging open. Ian can see bits of red vine ground into his molars like wax fillings.

‘And you didn’t hear anything?’

He shakes his head. ‘Like I told Chief Davis.’

‘What about a guy in his sixties? Tall, gray hair, balding on top, busted capillaries in his nose. Heavy.’

Donald lets out a strange giggle and grins with his too-many teeth, but when Ian gives him a dead pan the smile vanishes, and he stares down at the counter nervously and scratches at something sticking to it, part of a price sticker looks like, with a dirty fingernail.

‘What’s funny?’

Donald shakes his head. ‘Nothing, it’s just, you know, you described damn near half the fat old alcoholics in town.’ He looks from Chief Davis to Ian and a smile grows once more on his face. ‘Hell,’ he says, ‘you just described my brother Henry.’