Missing Boy Read online

  MISSING BOY

  RICK POLAD

  Minneapolis

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Table of Content

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Poems

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Contact the Author

  Minneapolis

  FIRST EDITION AUGUST 2015

  MISSING BOY Copyright © 2015 by Rick Polad. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations used in critical articles and reviews. For information, write to Calumet Editions, 8422 Rosewood Drive, Chanhassen, MN 55317

  Cover and interior design: Gary Lindberg

  To my brother, Mike, who made the

  most mysterious and wonderful phone call

  I have ever received.

  Other Spencer Manning Mysteries

  Change of Address

  Dark Alleys

  Harbor Nights

  About Author

  Rick Polad teaches Earth Science, plays jazz trumpet, and volunteers with the Coast Guard on Lake Michigan. For over a decade, Rick has given editorial assistance to award-winning photographer Bruce Roberts and historian/author Cheryl Shelton-Roberts on several of their maritime-themed publications including North Carolina Lighthouses: Stories of History and Hope, and the third edition of American Lighthouses: A Comprehensive Guide to Exploring Our National Coastal Treasures. Rick also edited the English version of Living With Nuclei, the memoirs of Japanese physicist, Motoharu Kimura.

  Acknowledgments

  This book would not exist without the help and support of several special people. To my first readers and friends, Mike Polad, Carol Deleskiewicz, Gary Lindberg, Jonathan Roth, Ellen Tullar Purviance, and Helene Tipa Morrison. Thanks for your edits and input. Any remaining errors are the property of the author. And, as before, to all my friends and readers who have asked for more Spencer, my undying thanks.

  His skin had peeled

  And thus revealed

  A creature more beast than man.

  Rick Polad and Mark Zelman

  Breathes there a man with soul so dead,

  He never to himself has said,

  I’d like to kill that sonofabitch.

  Bruce Rubenstein

  Author of “The Family That Couldn’t Sleep at Night”

  Chapter 1

  Very few people knocked down all the bottles, even after three tries. Martin figured that had everything to do with how they were set up. When there were no players and Meatstick wasn’t looking, Martin held a ball up to the bottles. In order to hit the outside bottles, the ball had to hit perfectly in the middle of the bottom row.

  Martin Lisk had worked at the baseball-throw booth for two weeks. At sixteen years old he felt lucky to have a job. He spent eight hours a day setting up milk bottles when people knocked them down and thought working at the Freak Show across the Midway would be a lot more fun. His boss, whom he knew only as Meatstick, treated him like he was stupid, taking way too much time explaining that the bottom row of three milk bottles had to go exactly on the circles. Then he had to balance two bottles on top of those and one more on the very top, making a pyramid. For that he got paid five dollars an hour.

  On his second day at work, Martin had kept track of how many people played and won by making a tiny notch in the wooden counter with his fingernail. Sixty-three people played—only six won. The next day, he moved the outside bottom bottles off their circles, just a little closer to the center bottle. Of the first twenty people to play, five won—far better than the day before. When two in a row won an hour later, Meatstick came over with a scowl on his face. With big shoulders and biceps, arms covered with tattoos, and a big scar on his cheek, the scowl on his face only added to Meatstick’s tough look. He was someone Martin didn’t want to anger.

  “Hey, kid. Lemme see you set up the bottles. You puttin’ ‘em on the circles like I showed ya?”

  “Yes, I am, Mr. Meatstick. I’m very careful about that.”

  Meatstick watched and then shook his head. “Givin’ out too many prizes. Must be a lucky stretch.” He pointed his finger at Martin. “Make sure those bottles aren’t coverin’ up the lines.”

  After that, Martin set up the bottles inside the circles. But if there was a pretty girl next in line, he moved them in a little.

  Martin got a fifteen minute break every two hours and he used it to explore the park. Riverview Amusement Park was one of the most popular attractions in Chicago. With over thirty rides, including five roller coasters, every kid in town wanted to visit the park. But Martin’s family didn’t have much money and the park was on the north side. He lived on the south side, so he hadn’t been there until now. When one of the boys in his apartment building got a job at the park and told him how wonderful it was, Martin applied and got a job. It took him an hour to get there on the bus. His parents worried about him being out by himself late at night but had decided to let him do it. His mother always looked so relieved when he got home.

  ***

  The lights started to come on at dusk, Martin’s favorite time. The Midway lit up in a marvelous display of colors as thousands of light bulbs on the rides came alive. Laughs and screams from people on the rides filled the air. People came here to forget their cares and live out the motto of the park on the sign by the entrance: “Laugh Your Troubles Away”.

  Martin took his last break of the day at eight-fifteen and strolled up the Midway toward the river. Employees could ride for half price but Martin saved his money for Skee Ball. He was saving his winning tickets to get something nice for his mother. But once he got something, he wanted to ride the Fireball and see the Freak Show. Meatstick yelled at him sometimes because he was distracted by the display across the Midway as the barker for the Freak Show tried to lure people in with a tease of the Bearded Lady and the Snake Lady. Martin longingly watched the Fireball and then weaved through the crowd back to the booth.

  The park officially closed at ten, but sometimes earlier. Meatstick told Martin that the managers would ride the gondola and see how big the crowd was. If the crowd was small, they would close early. Martin’s last duties were to pack up the milk bottles and balls and help Meatstick close the booth. A little after nine, Meatstick told Martin to start cleaning up. A few minutes later he turned to ask Meatstick a
question, but Meatstick wasn’t there. When Martin turned back around, the barker from the Freak Show was leaning on the counter.

  “Hey, kid, come on over here.”

  Martin walked up to the counter and the man explained he was one of the managers.

  “Meatstick tells me you’re a real good worker. How would you like to work on one of the coasters, maybe the Bobs or the Fireball?”

  With wide eyes, Martin replied, “Sure! That’d be great!”

  The man nodded. “Okay. Come with me to the office and we’ll fill out the papers.”

  “Sure, but I have to close up the booth.”

  “That’s okay, kid. Meatstick will do it.”

  Martin vaulted the counter and joined the man, who bought him some cotton candy.

  With sticky mouth and fingers, Martin followed the man into the shack under the first drop of the Bobs. The room was dark and he could barely make out a woman sitting behind a rickety wooden desk. As Martin took a bite of candy, the man grabbed his collar and roughly led him to the desk where the woman sat with a notebook. A bracelet on her wrist sparkled as she wrote. With a bored look, she asked him what his name was.

  With a shaky voice, Martin said, “Martin Lisk. Is this where I get the job?”

  As she stared at him with a blank expression, the man reached around from behind Martin with a rag that smelled funny and clamped it over his face. Martin struggled for only a few seconds.

  The screech of the roller coaster got louder and louder until it was deafening. It roared past the shack and climbed the last hill, leaving behind the happy screams of the passengers.

  Chapter 2

  Her lips were moving so there must have been words coming out of her mouth. But all I could hear was the constant snapping of her gum. Each snap was a spike driven into my brain. When her lips stopped moving, I told her I would call her and thanked her for coming.

  The year 1984 had started out cold and snowy with me wondering if George Orwell was paying attention. As spring had started to raise its head, I had bought a building on Montrose to use as an office. It consisted of a storefront that used to be a music store with an apartment on the second floor that I’d rent out at some point. I had a large room divided into a reception area and a separate office for me. Next to the office was a hallway that led to the back door, passing the bathroom and a closet. The only thing hanging on the wall was a plaque that read: “I Don’t Believe in Coincidences”.

  I needed a secretary and had been interviewing candidates for the last week. The gum snapper was the latest reject. She was far from the best of the group, but amazingly she wasn’t the worst. I had two more appointments, the first in an hour—Miss George.

  The office was ten blocks from the police station, only a twenty minute drive from home, and even less to McGoon’s, my favorite Irish pub. A few pieces of furniture had been delivered yesterday morning, and a sign company had stenciled “Spencer Manning, Private Detective” on the window to the left of the door. There were two parking spaces on gravel behind the building off the alley.

  Fifty minutes later, a tall blond drifted through the door.

  “Miss George?”

  “Yes. Mr. Manning?”

  “I am.” I motioned to the chair. “Please have a seat.” She crossed some very nice legs and handed me a folder.

  “Here’s my resumé. My father and I just moved here from Georgia. I worked for a lawyer as his office manager. I had a pretty nice package. I assume you offer benefits?”

  I smiled and opened the folder. She seemed a bit pushy, but she was the best I had seen by far and I was tired of interviews. I assumed that if I hired her the legs would be a fringe benefit.

  “Do you have relatives here?”

  “No, we don’t know anyone.”

  “Then what brought you to Chicago?”

  As she started to talk, the door opened again and another woman walked in.

  “Oh, am I early?” She stuck out her chin and walked up to the desk. “I didn’t know there would be someone else.” She gave Miss George a dirty look.

  “Yes, you are early, Miss…?”

  “Perkins. I…”

  “Miss Perkins. I’m in the middle of an interview, so if you’d come back in, say, a half hour?”

  She gave me a look of dismay and ignored my request. “So, I assume you’re going to do some decorating because this place is pretty boring I’ve worked in boring before and I just wouldn’t last do you expect me to sit in that chair?”

  “Do you always talk in run-on sentences?” I asked. She had no idea what I meant.

  “How much vacation is there?”

  I waited but just heard silence. Evidently vacation was something that needed an answer. She was looking at me defiantly.

  “There is no vacation.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.” With hands on her hips, she looked like a petulant five-year-old.

  “No, not kidding.”

  She stuck out her chin again. “Well!”

  And she walked out in a huff. Problem solved.

  “Miss George, I’m so sorry.”

  She laughed and uncrossed her legs. “That’s okay. But I have a question.”

  “Sure. But if I may, I made up the part about no vacation.”

  “I thought you might have. Quick thinking.”

  She cocked her head and hesitated. “So, are there any benefits?”

  “Well, I really haven’t given it much thought. If you’re willing to work it out as we go, I think you’ll be okay.”

  She smiled and folded her hands in her lap. “You look trustworthy. Sounds good to me.”

  “Great! Would you wait here for a minute while I make a few calls?”

  “Of course.”

  I called her two references from my office. One was the lawyer, who spoke highly of her—efficient and pleasant. He was sorry to lose her. The other was a jewelry store owner who was just as positive. The hunt was over. We chatted about pay and benefits and she agreed to start in the morning.

  “Please pardon the office,” I said. “It’ll get better.”

  She smiled and waved a hand. “Not a problem. I’ll be glad to help.”

  I watched her walk out and let out a deep breath. Interviewing had been no fun.

  I had started unpacking another box when I noticed a woman looking in through the window. She made eye contact and then turned and started to walk away. I was thinking of going out when she stopped, straightened her shoulders, and walked with great determination back to the door. A few seconds later my first customer walked in. I had dreamed of a beautiful, sultry blond walking through my door ever since I had opened my first office across the yards from Beef’s diner.

  With brunette hair down to her shoulders and brown eyes, she didn’t match my dream, but she had her own brand of beautiful, the kind fifties singers found in the girl next door. She looked somewhat shy and nervous, but there was also that spark of determination that had made her open the door. I motioned to the wooden chair in front of the desk and invited her to sit down.

  “I’m Spencer Manning. Please pardon my clutter. I’m just getting settled.”

  She smiled tentatively and sat on the edge of the chair. “I know,” she said. “I live in an apartment across the street and I’ve been watching you move in.” She looked around. “I was wondering what business it would be.”

  I sat behind the desk. “Well, nice to meet you, Mrs....?”

  “Baker. Caroline, but I go by Carol. And I’m not married. My husband died a year ago. Just me and my son, Billy.”

  “Nice to meet you, Carol. Do you work in the neighborhood?”

  “No, I don’t work, Mr. Manning. I take care of my son.”

  Wondering how she survived, I gave her a friendly smile. “Please call me Spencer.”

  She nodded.

  I broke an awkward silence with, “Well, nice meeting you, Carol. Thanks for stopping in.”

  But instead of showing signs of leaving, she
said, “I’m not sure what detectives do.”

  A friendly chat would be nice at some point, but I had boxes to unpack and I hadn’t had any lunch.

  Looking off to the side, she made it a question.

  “Almost anything. But I’m trying to get unpacked. Maybe we could have lunch one day.”

  The mailman came in and welcomed me to the neighborhood. As he started telling me about my neighbors, I glanced back and saw Carol unpacking a box. She had made three neat stacks of files on the desk and separated the pens and pencils from the rest of the supplies.

  “That’s more work than I’ve done all day,” I said with a smile after the mailman left.

  “Oh, I hope you don’t mind. I get nervous when I don’t have anything to do.”

  “Not at all—thanks. Don’t go away… I’ll be right back.”

  From inside the bathroom I heard the phone ring and thought the hell with it, they’ll call back. But it only rang twice and then I heard: “Spencer Manning, Private Detective Agency, how can we help you?”

  Chapter 3

  By the time I got out Carol had hung up and was making notes on a yellow pad.

  “That was a man named Johnny. He wouldn’t give me his last name—said you’d know who it was. He’d like you to call back.”

  “Thanks, Carol. I’ll call in a bit.”

  She looked hesitant. “I don’t mean to tell you what to do, but he sounded anxious. I can wait.”

  “Okay, thanks.” While I was dialing, I wished I hadn’t hired Miss George. Carol was doing a great job.

  Johnny Ray was the bouncer at the Blue Note, the club where Dad had introduced me to jazz. Johnny answered on the second ring.

  “Hey, Johnny, people behaving themselves?”

  “Spencer. If they don’t, it never happens again. I heard you were gettin’ yourself a real place of business. Hadn’t heard about the secretary.”