Missing (Part I)

Part of a horror short. Magicians are good at disappearing acts, but addicts are even better.

As much as I hate it some days, the windy city is an old pal of mine. Horns honk. People shout. Bus brakes squeal. Most Chicagoans rush around with people to see and lives to live. But me? I'm just trying not to spill the pair of coffees I picked up from Amy's Cafe.

The front door of Heston's Books gives a pleasant ding-a-ling as I shoulder my way inside, and the stagnant, musty smell of old novels hits like a wave. To the left is a maze of wooden shelving units—aisles and aisles of used books with spines that rarely get touched anymore. And straight ahead, shrouded in the dim lighting of this literary tome, is Sam Heston himself, the king of recycled literature. He's seated on a stool behind the counter: gray-haired and balding, with spectacles and an odd attachment to ugly sweaters. Sam wets his finger and turns the page of the book he's reading, pretending he doesn’t notice me. It's probably because he knows it's just me.

It's always just me.

“Studying up on the Kama Sutra again, old man?” I ask, setting his coffee down for him.

Sam smirks from behind his copy of East of Eden. "A person’s never too old to learn. Any exciting new cases today, Charles?"

"Glad you asked. Yes, actually…"

Sam perks up. "Oh?"

"Tricky little who-dun-it about who's buying lunch today…" I lift a pensive brow while eyeing him, heading toward the stairwell. "But I've got a hunch who it is."

"Cheap bastard."

I smile, ascending the creaky stairs to my second-story office above the bookshop. The letters stenciled on my office door don't do much to bolster my confidence on days like this.

Charlie Schafer
Private Eye 4 Hire

I guess it serves me right for hiring cheap help through Craigslist to handle my door decal, but the smooth-brained charm of it is growing on me. After draping my coat on the rack, I head to my desk for a seat.

The pills come first. Always do. I crank the lid off my pill bottle, shake two painkillers free, then toss them in my mouth like mints. A sip of coffee helps wash them down. For me, sobriety is a hometown I don’t visit anymore. Too many bad memories. I tug open my desk drawer and rifle through file folders and crumpled Marlboro packs. How depressing—a PI who can't even find my own smokes.

"Detective Schafer?" A voice cuts through the room.

When I look up, there’s a woman in the doorway. It's a rare enough sight that I almost ask her what she wants before I catch myself. "The one and only."

She gives my office a quick inspection. "Are you open for business?"

"Twenty-four-seven." I smile. "Unless I'm sleeping. But I woke up a few hours ago, so please, take a seat."

I gesture.

She hesitates.

I don't blame her. The setting doesn't exactly elicit confidence. But most clients don’t settle for making the walk up my creaky staircase unless they’re low on options.

She approaches and sits down on the chair in front of my desk. The woman looks close to how I feel right now. Her eyes are baggy, her dark hair is a disheveled mess, and her Florida State sweatshirt is a few sizes too large. She must be in her late twenties or early thirties, but it's hard to tell with women. Most women seem ageless until they aren't. She sets her handbag in her lap and clutches it like a security blanket.

"My husband's been missing for two days," she says. "His name's David Flynn. He's a manager at the PNC bank on East Pratt and—"

"You mean the one next to the Italian Village restaurant?"

"Um, yes. That's the one."

"They have great pasta there."

"... Okay," she says. "Anyways, I last saw him Monday morning, right before he left our apartment for work. It's really, really unlike him to not text or call if he doesn't plan on coming home. He's always been good about that. Going a whole day without hearing from him is strange enough, but it's been two full days now. And I know something is wrong. I just—" She sighs. "I can feel it."

I tug my notepad closer and uncap my lucky pen to take notes. "Was anything unusual going on that last morning you saw him? Or maybe over the prior few weeks?"

"No, no… not at all." She shakes her head. "I've been racking my brain trying to think of anything I might have missed, but everything seemed totally normal."

"And have things been going well relationship-wise?" I know it's a question she probably won't like, but the response is always telling. "Any trouble in paradise?"

"I wouldn't be here if I thought my husband took off and ghosted me, okay? We've always been there for each other. Always. David would never let me worry like this if he could help it. None of his friends have heard from him either, and his phone's been going straight to voicemail."

"I meant no offense, Mrs. Flynn." I did, but I apologize anyway. "Asking uncomfortable questions is just part of the job."

"It's Shannon."

"Well, my apologies, Shannon."

"It's alright, detective. It's just been a long two days."

"Please, call me Charlie."

"I filed a Missing Person's Report with the police yesterday, but it's been pulling teeth getting answers from them." She tugs a manila folder from her bag, then stands to place it on my desk. "I was hoping this might help. It's everything I could think of—some recent pictures of David, some of his closest friends and contacts, things like that."

I take the folder and peel it open to sift through the contents. It's a shame all my clients don't come this prepared. "Is David's family up to speed on things?"

"His mother passed away a few years back, and he…" She tries to find the words. "Well, he doesn't have the best relationship with his father, and his sister lives in England. So, it's just me, really."

"Does his father live in the city?"

"No. He's about two hours away, in Woodstock."

It gets added to my notes. "Is this your way of telling me I'm hired?"

"Well, yes, if you're willing. I'm not sure what else to do at this point."

"My going rate is $150 an hour, but I'll knock it down to $120 for you since you already did some of the legwork." I'm lying. My going rate is $100, but times are hard. Money's tight, and my addiction never sleeps.

"Alright. And what if you don't find anything? Do I get my money back? Just curious. I've never done this before."

"Sadly not. It's a no-reimbursements kind of gig. But I only bill for the time I spend actively working. You can review the timesheet before payment. I'm happy to throw in a free book if you wanna go downstairs and pick one out? Trashy romance novels make for great escapism." I’ve got no say in Sam's business affairs, but I know the old man would be thrilled to prescribe her an appropriate dose of literary medicine.

"No thank you. Are we all set, then? I should get going."

I jerk open my desk cabinet, retrieve a stapled-together stack of papers, and slide it across the desk toward her. "Once you sign the contract, we're officially in business. Feel free to look it over first and let me know if you have any ques—"

Shannon flips to the last page and is already scribbling her signature on the dotted line with a pen from her handbag. "There," she says, capping her pen. "Anything else?"

I rise from my chair. Not sure why. It's chivalrous to stand when a woman excuses herself. Manners aren't my forte, and yet? Here I stand. "No, that's it. I'll start right away." I take a business card from the stack on my desk and hold it out. "I'll be in touch. But contact me anytime."

Shannon's stashing the card in her bag when her phone rings. She answers it on her way to the door and tells someone named Claire that she plans to swing by the police station again later today, but the sound of her conversation grows distant as she descends the stairs. Like clockwork, Sam's voice is audible through the floorboards, wishing her a nice day and welcoming her back anytime. Always the salesman, that Sam. But I can't blame Shannon for not being in a literary mood.

Once I find my cigarettes, I stick a Marlboro in my mouth and stare out my office window, appraising the brick-and-mortar vista of my hometown from two stories up. Shannon navigates across the busy street below, still in the throes of her phone conversation. She looks ambitious, the way she moves. No hesitation. I can’t help but think she’d be better at this whole PI gig than I am if she ever had the urge to pursue it.

I raise my lighter and swipe my thumb on the spark-wheel; once, twice, and when it catches fire, I tilt my face down and roast the end of my cigarette in the flame till it glows. My jobs typically delve into the realm of small claims guerrilla warfare—messy affairs, stolen pets, health insurance fraud—instances where justice often leans toward whichever side is paying better. But this is different.

I take a drag from my cigarette and then take a seat, prying open my laptop. It's time for some modern-day snooping through the grimy back alleys of social media to see what information I can drum up about David Flynn.

And as the soft pitter-patter of keyboard keys and mouse clicks fills the office, Charlie Schafer is oblivious to the scene playing out behind him through his office window.

In the background, high above the Chicago skyline, thousands of little black birds fly across the sky in unison. They race through the rising smog in scattered groupings—a mass migration of mad-flapping, flocking paranoia that defies the comprehension of mortal minds.