Randall got a call from the private detective. During the several weekly unfruitful calls, Randall was finally comfortable calling him Dick, rather than “sir.” Dick said, “none of that sir bullshit,” and had taken to calling him “son.”
Dick was an old movie buff. His chosen genre was about old, beaten down private eyes, who lived in dank, one-room flats; sat in bars, drinking beer and dreaming of the “big case” that would send their name into infinity.
He played those roles perfectly when necessary, but he had a reputation for getting the job done. His personalities ranged from portraying a forgetful, podunk hillbilly, to a man with a license, a gun and justifiable homicide in his eyes.
“Well, son,” he said. “I have news, but not much. Apparently, she’s going by the name Martine Monroe,” but he didn’t reveal how he acquired the information.
Randall chuckled as he echoed, “Martine Monroe? That’s interesting. Do you have an address?”
Dick said, “working on it, but nothing so far.”
Randall was tentative about asking Dick to try to locate a few of the local drug dealers, because that could potentially put him in harms’ way, but Dick was slick. Randall believed that he was the kind of man who could actually sell drugs to a drug dealer, so he asked.
“Already on it,” Dick said. “I’ve got some feelers out. Money talks, as you well know, and some people will sell their mama’s soul for a little cash.”
Without explanation, Dick hesitated and said, “son, I don’t get into people’s business. I just do my job and cash their checks, but sometimes I tell a client that they have to ask themselves if the person and the expense is worth it, and this is getting pretty expensive.”
Randall said, “I believe she’s worth it. I may be wrong, but let’s just say…I’m hoping she’s worth it.”
Dick said, “you also have to understand that some people just don’t want to be found. Furthermore, you have to understand that what you find out may not be what you want to find out. Just keep that in mind.”
“I will,” said Randall. After the call, Randall started thinking about what Dick said. He questioned himself again as to his motives. Yes, he wanted to save her, but did she want to be saved? He didn’t believe he needed saving when he was flying high, and he didn’t want to be saved. He thought he was living. He thought everyone else had a problem. “I’ll give it two more weeks,” he thought to himself. “Then, I’ll let it go.”
He was aware of the monsters that sometimes reappear when dealing with an addict. You can be drawn back into their world. You can be pulled under. You can actually believe that it can be only once, “for old time’s sake.”
He only confessed to himself that not a day went by when he wasn’t lusting after a fix, even though he knew that fix could potentially lead to a wooden crucifix being placed on a mound of dirt.
Exactly two weeks later, the phone rang.
“Are you ready for what you’re going to hear?” asked Dick.
To be continued_________