Denis Johnson - The Resuscitation of a Hanged Man

“I called yesterday. I’ve got a production date tomorrow. Big bucks.” But he wasn’t thinking about his work at WPRD. He was thinking instead of Gerald Twinbrook, Jr., the missing person, and his detective’s vocation.

“I need to make a couple of calls right now, too,” he said. “Long distance.”

“Dial away,” she said, and left him with the phone.

For a minute he watched her at work out back, sweeping twigs from the iron lawn furniture.

It was spring, and he was making a fresh start. He got Mrs. Gerald Twinbrook, Sr., on the phone.

She’d forgotten who he was. Then, when he reminded her, she said, “We’ve got another agency on it, Mr. English.”

“He’s still missing, then.”

“It’s been four months. We’re resigned to the worst.”

He cleared his throat needlessly. “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I called almost every day for a week. I talked to … to Mrs. Sands several times, but she was very …”

“Right, right,” he said.

“Anyway, a lady from her church finally answered one day last month and explained to me that poor Mr. Sands had had a heart attack.”

“Yeah, it was — it was weird,” he said, thinking it was the wrong word.

“If only I’d heard from you a little sooner.”

“Yeah, yeah. So you took it to another outfit?”

“In Boston, yes. Carter Investigations.”

“I’m fired.”

“ Well , I don’t know if I would say fired . Perhaps you can work with the Carter people. I wouldn’t go so far as to speak for them, you understand, but I would certainly insist they consult with you to begin with. And that’s just what I’ve already told them. Any progress you’ve made, and so on.”

“I haven’t heard from anyone.”

“It’s not for lack of trying on their part, Mr. English. They’ve been phoning your office without any luck. They tell me—”

“I wasn’t around. This whole thing — I mean, Mr. Sands dying, that whole business — what a thing, really. I’ve been beside myself.”

“I understand, Mr. English, truly I understand, and believe me, I’d like to help in any way I can, but our concern, of course, is with—”

“Pay me if I find him.”

Mrs. Twinbrook emitted a number of syllables, I, uh, we, well—“Certainly, uh, Mr. English. Yes, you see, but we already have the Carter agency—”

“Only if I find him. Only if I get results. Is that fair? That’s fair, isn’t it? In fact, it’s totally unprofessional. I mean—”

“Well now, Mr. English, if you find my son, you will most certainly be paid.”

“I just want an excuse to find him.” An inexplicable rush of sentiment dizzied him and wet his eyes. “Don’t ask me why. This whole thing has got me — I have to do something.”

“You were Mr. Sands’s assistant. Are you actually a licensed detective yourself?”

“Of course I am,” he said. “Should I bring my license with me next time I see you?”

“Don’t you carry it with you anyway?”

“It’s kind of big. It hangs on the wall,” he guessed, never having seen one.

“All right. Please understand you are not working for us, Mr. English. It’s just that I don’t want to discourage you if — if you should be successful—”

“If I should be successful in the efforts I am not making for you.”

“I’d have to let that be the final word.”

“I’m fired but I’m not fired.”

“Now you’re speaking past the final word, aren’t you.”

“Okay. Okay. You’ll be hearing from me, Mrs. Twinbrook.”

“I’d rather you communicated with the Carter people. All right?”

“Because I’m not giving up. It’s that simple.”

“Goodbye.” She hung up. He didn’t know whether to characterize that as actually hanging up on him, in the rude sense, or what. He decided it was just a decisive end to an indecisive talk, and promised himself he’d be more decisive in the future. Which was now.

He dialed Jerry Twinbrook’s realtor in the hope of getting Twinbrook’s office address.

Before he could change his mind, someone answered. “Phil-Hack Realty: Bob Edwards.”

“Hi, listen, excuse me, my name’s Leonard English, from Provincetown.”

“Provincetown! How are things up that way? You getting some of this warm front across the Bay there?”

“Yeah. Yeah. We’ve hit a thaw. I’m convinced it’s spring.”

“Well,” Bob Edwards warned him, “wait till you hear it from the ducks. The ponds are still frozen down here.”

False laughter tore itself from English’s throat. He rubbed away his sweaty palm print from the desktop.

“So what can I do you for, Mr. English?”

“Well, Bob, I’m kind of interested in the Twinbrook property over there. Jerry Twinbrook? He says it’s right on the water and he wants to sell. Can I get a look at it maybe? Sometime soon?”

“Twinbrook.”

“Jerry Twinbrook. Gerald. Junior. I believe he’s a junior.”

“Hang on. Right with you.”

While English waited he pictured Bob Edwards, a youthful man with perhaps his tie loosened and his shirtsleeves rolled up, dialing the police on another line.

“Hi. Mr. English.”

“Lenny. Lenny.”

“Lenny, yeah, listen. I’m afraid he’s given you the wrong realtor. We rent him some office space, but we don’t handle any property for him. Gerald Twinbrook, Jr.? I get that right?”

“Right.” Speak. Tell me where it is. Tell me where the office is.

“Still with me?”

“Sure, but — you think he was pulling my leg? Office space.”

“No, no, no, of course not. He’s probably handling the sale through another realtor. Got us confused.”

“Yeah,” English said, his hands tingling. “That makes sense. Listen, can I get his office address from you? He doesn’t have a phone there. I’ll run down tomorrow and get it straightened out, and take a look at what he’s selling.”

“He doesn’t have a phone in his office?”

“Not — not under his name, anyway.”

“Gee,” Bob Edwards said. “That’s a long drive on a slim chance. What if he’s not around?”

Goddamn it. Goddamn it. “I’m going to Boston anyway,” English succeeded in telling him.

“Well then, stop off at the Thomas Building and see him. It’s a converted Victorian just off Route 3 on your way into Marshfield. Got a big sign out front, little parking lot. Can’t miss it.”

“Good deal. Listen, you’ve been a big help.”

“Sure I have. What a guy, huh? Give us a call if we can assist in any way. Will you do that?”

“Okay. Definitely. Yeah.”

“If you pass the Amoco station on the road into Marshfield, you went too far.”

“The Amoco. Thanks.” Too far? He’d be passing an Amoco on the way out of town. “Thanks a million.”

“Hey. What a guy.”

On the outer door of WPRD’s building someone had tacked a poster of a bound, silhouetted figure. Its caption read AS LONG AS AFRICA IS IN CHAINS YOU WILL NOT BE FREE.

As he read it, the probable truth of this idea lowered itself down immensely onto English’s heart.

Suddenly he changed his reason for coming. He’d set out with the idea of quitting his job, but now he thought he’d just beg off working this afternoon. This world was no place to be unemployed in.

Inside, he was greeted solemnly by the program manager, a man named Haney, a small New Yorker with very dark skin and large, sentimental eyes. Haney stirred a cup of tea while he stood in English’s way, and then he sucked loudly at the liquid’s surface. Lately Haney’s eyes had gotten tighter, and shiny. “I wanted to talk to you about that,” he said when English told him he’d have to miss that afternoon’s production date.