Percival Everett - Assumption

Ogden stopped at a diner on his way north. He found the phone book at a pay phone. He didn’t find a listing for Joel Brockway or Joe Brockway or J. Brockway. He called Jenny Bickers.

“What did you find out?” she asked.

“Nothing.” Ogden leaned his head against the wall. “Listen, Jenny, do you have a friend you can stay with tonight?”

“What’s going on?”

“Probably nothing. I’ve got a bad feeling, that’s all. Can you stay with a friend?”

“Sure.”

“Good.”

“But why?”

“It’s probably nothing, but do it.” Ogden hung up. He was scared and he didn’t know why and that made him more scared.

It was three in the morning when Ogden got back to his trailer. He showered, had tea, worried for a while, and then drove to work.

“Bucky’s already here,” Felton said.

Ogden walked into Paz’s office.

“So?”

“Nothing. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Wouldn’t know it if it bit me.”

“I called Tempe like you asked, but I haven’t heard back. I really don’t think the FBI will give us anything.”

“Maybe I should go look for him,” Ogden said.

“I think you’re probably wasting your time, but I won’t tell you not to go.”

“Thanks, Bucky.”

“I wouldn’t worry about the FBI.”

“Oh, but I do.”

“They have no evidence. No motive.”

“They have opportunity, Bucky. That’s enough for me.”

Ogden was sick of driving, but he didn’t have the spare cash for a plane ticket. There was a knock while he packed. It was Clement and Howell.

“Going someplace?” Clement asked.

“Trip.”

“Where to?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Don’t be cute,” Howell said.

Ogden smiled at him. “Arrest me.”

The agents said nothing.

“Okay, you can leave now.”

Howell looked down at Ogden’s tying table. “I always wanted to try this.” He picked up a duck feather and let it drop.

“Probably too boring for you,” Ogden said.

“I like boring,” Howell said. “Fishing help you relax?”

“Listen, you two girls are more than welcome to stick around if you like. Get comfy.” Ogden picked up his bag. “Like I said, I never lock my door.”

“You didn’t tell us where you’re headed,” Clement said.

“You’re right.”

“We could follow you,” Clement said.

“You could try.” Ogden walked away to his truck. He heard his door slam behind him. “Come on, follow me.” He fell in behind the wheel and gave the men a final look, started his engine, and kicked up gravel as he left.

Ogden followed Interstate 25 to 40 to 17 and ended up in Tempe, he believed, without an FBI escort. The drive took him about ten hours. He took a nap along the way, at a rest area WITHOUT FACILITIES as the sign said. He took a room in a cheap motel outside town with the thought of getting some rest. In the telephone directory he found two columns of Robbins, see also Robins, but no Lester G., no Lester, no L.G. The one L. belonged to Linda Robbins and she liked the sound of Ogden’s voice, wanted to talk a little more.

The next morning Ogden drove to the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office and introduced himself, showed his badge to the grumpy officer at the desk, who was duly unimpressed. He told the man he was looking for someone and needed to see the phone company cross-directory. The desk officer gave Ogden the book, dropped it on the table, and went about his business. Ogden looked up the number he’d found in Emma Bickers’s things. He jotted down an address.

Ogden thanked the man.

“What was your name again?” the desk officer said, pulling a pad in front of him.

“Ogden Walker. I’m a deputy of the Plata County Sheriff’s Department.”

The man at the desk gave him another look.

Ogden showed him the address. “How do I get there?”

“German Town,” the officer said. “I don’t think you want to go there.”

“Oh, but I do,” Ogden said.

The man shook his head. “No, you don’t.” He scratched his head and looked at Ogden. “I’ll draw you a map, but remember I told you.”

Ogden nodded. “Do me a favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Will you run a name and tell me if there are any outstanding warrants?”

“What’s the name?”

“Lester G. Robbins. Lester Robbins.”

He typed the name into the computer and waited. “Nothing.”

“Can you run it through DMV and give me the address.”

“You’re a pushy little son of a bitch.” The desk officer groaned and did it. “Nothing.”

Ogden thanked him.

“What you want this guy for?”

“He’s the relative of a murdered old lady.”

“You should be careful over in that part of town. It’s kind of rough. Especially for someone like you. Being from out of town and,” he paused, “black like that.”

“Got you.”

Ogden found the address in a section of town that his mother would have called seedy. The city seemed to stop and start again with shotgun shacks and shotgun racks and, he assumed, shotguns. There were abandoned refrigerators at the side of houses, cars on blocks, and a sight that Ogden thought he might never shake, a three- or four-year-old boy alone in a front yard bouncing on a trampoline. The boy stared at him as he drove by. A woman in another yard gave him a hard look as he turned a corner. Confederate flags were on the back windows and bumpers of pickups. Ogden stopped in front of the house and got out of his truck. His nerves were charged. He was both happy and dismayed that he was not wearing his sidearm. He knocked.

A short, round man opened the door. He wore a flannel shirt with breast pockets ripped off, jeans. He looked Ogden up and down.

“Mr. Robbins?” Ogden said.

“No.”

“Do you know Lester Robbins?”

“I ain’t never heard of him.” The man tried to push the door shut, but Ogden stopped it with his hand. The fat man smiled. It was a scary smile. “What?”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Who the fuck wants to know? You a cop?”

Ogden stared at the man’s milky eyes. “No, I’m from a bank in New Mexico. I have some business with Mr. Robbins.”

“You don’t look like you’re from no bank.”

Ogden nodded. This was true. “I can’t help that.” He glanced up and down the street. A few people had stepped out of their squat houses and were looking his way. “He’s got some money coming to him.”

“Good for him,” the fat man said.

“Okay, thanks for your time,” Ogden said.

“How much money?”

Ogden smiled at the man. “You have a good day.”

Ogden found his way out of German Town as quickly as he could without attracting even more attention.

He found a diner and sat with a cup of coffee and a doughnut, felt like a cliché. Perhaps old Lester’s phone number had been put back into the system. He would go to the library and look through old telephone directories. He would find Lester G. Robbins and the man would shoot Ogden in the chest. Mystery solved.

Ogden found the books. He started ten years back and worked forward. Six years earlier there was a listing for a Lester G. Robbins. Same phone number. He jotted down the address.

It was about noon. The sun was high, almost hot. Ogden rolled up his sleeves. The neighborhood was a far cry from the squalor of German Town. It had a kind of eerie, suburban safeness. He sat in his truck for a couple of minutes, watched the house. He wanted to have his routine down a little better than last time. He walked to the door.

A woman answered. “Yes?”

“Excuse me, ma’am, I’m trying to locate a Lester G. Robbins.”