Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 40, No. 6, June, 1995

I opened my eyes wide and stared at the person in front of me. Carl? It couldn’t be. Carl Reubens was the goofiest kid in my high school class — Most Likely to Slip on a Banana Peel, or something like that — and for a short while, one of my closest friends. But that had been twenty-five years and a thousand miles ago. I stared at his long face; the heavy black eyebrows; the matching mustache...

“You’re Carlos Rubio!” I gasped.

He made a face and shrugged. “It’s just a stage name. My friends still call me Carl.”

Good grief! Here I’d been listening to this guy’s show every day for a month, and I’d had no idea who he was. I patted the bench next to me.

“Have a seat, Carl. My God, how did you recognize me?”

He grinned. “You haven’t changed that much. Besides, I remembered what you look like when you’re sleeping.”

“Oh.”

“So,” he said, looking almost as awkward as I felt. “What have you been doing with yourself?”

“What? You want a quick synopsis of the last twenty years?”

He laughed. “Still as funny as ever, I see.”

“How about you? What brought you up here?”

“The job, mostly.”

The way he said it, I got the feeling there was a lot to that “mostly,” but I figured I’d let it slide.

“So you’re a DJ.”

“Yeah.” He rolled his eyes. “How about you? What do you do with your time? When you’re not sleeping in shopping malls, that is.”

“I’m a private investigator.”

“No!”

“ ’Fraid so. In fact,” I added, “I’m here on a job.”

Carl crossed his arms and leaned back, obviously pleased. “I can’t believe it. You. A private eye.”

“Believe it.” I glanced back at the Cut ’n’ Curl. No one was coming, but I didn’t want to be stuck here when Lucille and Suzannah made their exit.

As if sensing my restlessness, Carl stood up and pulled out his wallet. “Listen, here’s my number. Give me a call; maybe we can get together for lunch or something.”

I looked at the card. “Sure, Carl. I’d like that.”

As he walked away, I had a sudden memory of his lips touching mine; long before he’d grown that hideous mustache, of course. What if I called and it turned out he was seeing someone? What if I called and he wasn’t? I needed another complication in my personal life like I needed a hole in my head. Maybe I’d just lose his number and never have to make the call. I took a deep breath and turned my attention back to the task at hand.

When they’d finished at the hair salon, Lucille and Suzannah headed back to the car and drove to the Food King, three blocks away. I got myself a cart and threw things in at odd intervals while I followed the two women down the aisles. Quickly and quietly they collected cigarettes, milk, doughnuts, luncheon meat, Wonder bread, ice cream, and beer. I frowned. That was odd. Lucille never hesitated to talk to anyone else, but when it was just the two of them, she didn’t say a word. And that made me suspicious.

If Suzannah had truly been unable to speak, wouldn’t her mother have spoken to her, out of habit if nothing else? And if Lucille was anxious to elicit a response from her daughter, wouldn’t she have been bombarding her with words instead of shutting her away in silence? Instead, it seemed that Lucille was staying silent as a reminder for Suzannah to do the same. I was beginning to think Gordon Lively’s suspicions were correct, but I still had no way of proving it.

The two women hauled their selections to the express checkout line, where they carefully separated the items according to those they could and could not pay for with food stamps. I had a pang, thinking of Gordon Lively and his gold-plated bathroom fixtures, but this was business. Nobody said the distribution of wealth was fair. I abandoned my own half-filled cart in the second aisle and followed them out to the parking lot.

Next stop was the gas station, and that’s where I got my second break. Lucille was being rushed by the guy in line behind her and drove off without her gas cap. I scampered over and grabbed it — telling the man I’d deliver it to Lucille when I saw her next — and hopped into my car, my feverish little brain already formulating a plan.

Things had settled into their old routine back at Ray’s Motel. The radio was blasting, and the Pinto was in its parking place, sans cap. I hefted the smelly thing in my hand as I walked up to the front door and knocked.

Lucille answered the door, a cigarette in one hand and a can of Lucky Lager in the other.

“Who’re you?” she demanded, eyeing me warily.

I smiled my most winning smile and held the gas cap at arm’s length. “Is this yours?”

She shoved the cigarette into her mouth and took the cap out of my hand, squinting at it through a curl of smoke.

“It sure is.” She looked up. “Where’d you get it?”

“You left it back at the gas station. I tried to get your attention, but you drove off in a hurry.” I stuck out my hand. “My name’s Cath.”

“Cath, huh? Yeah, that idiot behind me was chompin’ at the bit to get somewhere.” She paused. “Do I know you?”

I frowned, nodding slowly, as if I too were just recognizing a familiar face.