Emerson Ward Mysteries

It was one of those days that started badly and ended badly, and was made worse by the fact that I was damn near strung out from lack of sleep, too much booze, and a massive case of insecurity and self-doubt. I know, that's a little like being damn near pregnant -- either you are or you aren't. But I lie to myself a lot less now than I did then.
The first call came a few minutes after 8:00 on that August Saturday morning. The strident, chastising ring of the phone brought me out of an uneasy sleep. We had been in bed barely an hour. There had been a faint pallor on the horizon -- a band of dark purple against the black night sky -- when our plane had taxied to the gate at O'Hare, a pallor that had grown perceptibly lighter during the drive to Chicago's near north side. And the sky had been filled with bright diffused light when we had tumbled yawning into bed. Now, outside the window, the sun burned fiercely through what was left of the morning haze, its brute weight threatening to beat a tattoo on the roof and bubble the asphalt of the streets later in the day. The day would be a hot one, made less bearable by the cloying humidity of mid-August, unless a breeze kicked up off Lake Michigan.
The phone rang again, sounding strangely insistent. I rolled over to pick up the receiver.
"Emerson?" said a female voice. "Emerson, this is George."
I came fully awake; the voice of Georgia Grant sounded much more urgent than had the ringing of the phone. The lanky body of the girl in bed next to me stirred gently, then settled in sleep.
"Good morning, I think," I rasped, clearing my throat. "What's up?"
"Have you seen or heard from Morgan?" Her voice held worry along with the urgency, for which I was almost glad. My friends know better than to attempt a conversation with me before 10:00 on Saturday mornings.
"I saw him just yesterday," I said, frowning. "What's wrong?" I swung my long legs over the side of the bed and reached for a cigarette on the nightstand.
"Did he say anything or act funny in any way?" she asked, ignoring my question.
"He seemed fine to me. What in hell is going on?"
"He's gone. I got home at six last night, and he wasn't home. He didn't come home at all last night. Where did you see him?"
"At your house. Yesterday afternoon about three." I lit the cigarette that dangled from the corner of my mouth and took a drag -- it tasted terrible. "He seemed perfectly normal," I said, squelching an impulse to cough. "At least he didn't drop a hint that anything was wrong. Did you two have a fight?"
"No, nothing like that." Her voice quavered a bit. "Help me find him, please. I need your help."
I was annoyed -- annoyed that she had wakened me, annoyed that I felt so lousy, and annoyed that the worry in her voice did not cause me more concern.
"Look, he probably went out drinking with the boys and ended up spending the night with a friend."
"I don't think so. I've made a few calls already. No one has seen him. Please help me look for him. I think he may be in trouble."
"Okay, okay, George. Calm down. I'm sure he's all right." Of course I would help, but exhaustion rolled over me in waves. I stifled a yawn. "Can I call you back in an hour or so? We just got back in from Reno a little while ago, and haven't had any sleep all night. Let me catch a little nap. When I wake up I'll give it some thought and buzz you back, okay?"
"Oh, thank you," she said, her voice husky. She sounded near tears. "I'm worried to death."
"It'll be all right," I said soothingly. "I'll get back to you later this morning. Until then, stay calm and don't worry about it. We'll find him."
"Okay."
I cradled the phone gently, rolled over and brooded before falling into the same uneasy sleep. Morgan was a good friend, and while nothing had seemed amiss when I'd seen him the day before, I suspected that perhaps he had an even bigger problem than the one I was just beginning to admit I had.
The second call came just an hour later, a few minutes after 9:00. It was Brandt.
"Sorry to wake you," he said gruffly when I answered the phone. Brandt Williams was one of those who knew not to wake me on Saturday mornings; not only am I bearish, I'm usually incoherent.
"Apology accepted." I was surprised to hear his voice. My oldest and best friend Brandt was angry with me, and had been for some time. Teddybear Brandt, with his kind eyes and broad smile, who puts up with just about anything, especially from me, was mad at me for some reason, and had been stubbornly silent about it for weeks. In fact, he had avoided me.
"I've been trying to get hold of you since last night," he said. "Tom Blanchard was mugged. He's been asking for you. You weren't home, so the hospital called me at his insistence."
"What the hell went on in town last night?" I exploded. The sleeping girl next to me stirred again, but didn't wake. Silence, then a confused stammer came over the line. "Never mind," I sighed. "It just seems to be a day for bad news." I briefly explained the phone call from Georgia Grant.
"That doesn't sound like the old Morgan," Brant said when I was done. "But neither one of you has been predictable lately."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I felt suddenly defensive.
"Just what it sounds like."
I was silent for a moment, then decided not to pursue it. "Tell me what happened to Tom. How badly was he hurt?"
"Pretty bad. Apparently, he was getting his car out of his garage when somebody jumped him. He was badly beaten. The doctors say he has a severe concussion, and they're afraid of hemorrhaging."
"What hospital is he in?"
"Highland Park. A neighbor stopped by and found him, and took him straight there."
"Thanks. I'll get up to see him as soon as I can."
"Emerson? Room two-forty-seven."
"Thanks. Talk to you later."
I yawned, then got up and stretched to my full six-foot-four. Sleeping in late on this Saturday morning, it appeared, was out of the question. I walked naked into the bathroom and relieved myself, then stepped in front of the mirror to confront a haggard visage, replete with tousled brown hair flecked with gray, washed-out red-rimmed, pale blue eyes the color of a hazy summer sky, long face with a nose that was just a tad too big, and a mustache that helped hide the fact. The face in the mirror looked disgusted with me, and I turned away quickly before I saw what lay behind those eyes.
I found the jacket and slacks I'd worn the night before draped over a chair in the living room downstairs. The left pants pocket yielded up a crumpled wad of bills, some change, and a five-dollar blackjack chip from the MGM Grand in Reno - a souvenir of a crazy impulse to fly to Nevada and gamble for an evening and fly back on a red-eye. I pulled car keys out of the right-hand pocket. I patted down the jacket and felt my wallet, sunglasses, and the envelope for the airplane tickets. The little pewter hip flask was in a side pocket. I pulled it out and washed down two No-Doz tablets with a swig of single malt Scotch. Might as well be a wide awake drunk, and one with style at that, I thought cynically.
As the alcohol slid warmly down my gullet, I felt marginally better. But the ringing in my ears and the metallic taste in my mouth told of the exhaustion that would not be overcome by the stimulant, no matter how many tablets I swallowed or how much coffee I drank. One of these nights, I would have to get some sleep. One of these days, I would have to quit drinking -- if it wasn't too late. Despite its familiarity, this depression, this self-pity didn't suit me.
There was movement at the edge of my vision, and I looked up to see the lady who had warmed my bed standing in the doorway from the hall. She was naked, and she stood in a relaxed pose, weight on one leg, the other crossed in front. There was a sharp delineation between the smooth dark tan of her legs and stomach and the white triangle that framed the smaller dark pubic vee. The white skin narrowed to a half-inch band at the top of the long thighs. Her arms were crossed over the small breasts, each slender hand loosely grasping the opposite shoulder, out of some lingering sense of modesty because it definitely wasn't cold. The air conditioning, turned on low, already was having a hard time beating the day's heat.