The alarm buzzed, ripping into Sharron's dream. Groggy, she groped for the clock, knocking it over. The buzzing stopped. Then started again. Damn. Not the alarm. Telephone. She glanced at the clock as she fumbled the receiver out of its cradle. After midnight? What the hell? Who'd call at this hour?
“H'lo?” She coughed. “Hello?”
“Sharron? Is that you?”
“Who is this?”
“It's me, babe, your long-lost love. Remember me? Remember my voice?”
“Look, I don't know what—” but then she did know. A dream. That's all it was. One sleeping pill too many. She relaxed, closing her eyes. “Sure, I remember you. So, how are things over there?”
“Where?”
“You know, on the other side. Is it all angels and harps?”
“You're not making sense, Shar. You sound stoned. Are you okay?”
“A little buzzed, maybe. I took a pill at ten. Or maybe a couple, I don't remember. I've been having trouble sleeping.”
“Sorry to call so late, I thought you'd still be up. You always were a night owl. We both were. Morning starts at noon. Remember?”
Sharron remembered. Hadn't thought of it in years. Long, lazy mornings in bed with Bobby. Bobby? But this couldn't be Bobby. Blinking, she started to come out of the haze.
“Babe, I have to go, they're calling my flight. You take care, kiss our little girl for me. I'll call again later.”
“Wait—” But he was already gone. Dial tone. Fully awake now, shaken, she stared at the receiver a moment, then carefully replaced it in the cradle. What a crazy dream. She'd definitely have to cut back on the Quaaludes or she'd be seeing yellow submarines next. Maybe wind up in a rubber room again.
But ... God. It seemed so real. The voice and all. Bobby J. How did the old saying go? Dream of the dead, hear from the living? Or was it hear from the dead, dream of ... No, that didn't make sense. She shook her head, trying to clear it. Then got up.
Pulling on her bathrobe, she tiptoed to the bedroom door, eased it open. Arnold was asleep, breathing quietly, his oxygen cannula in place on his upper lip. She watched him awhile, his face ashen in the pale glow of the night light. Remembering how strong he'd seemed a year ago. Even six months ago. Like a rock. Almost indestructible. And now...? Every labored breath was a struggle.
Easing the door closed, Sharron padded back to bed, still trying to shake off the spell of her dream. A magical midnight phone call. From Bobby Jacks. Her long-lost and very dead love.
Too weird. What on earth brought that on? Probably the pills. She'd been taking too many of them lately. Couldn't get to sleep without them anymore. Knew she was on a downhill slide, heading for deep trouble. But sometimes it seemed like pills were the only friends she had left.
As she reached up to turn off the light, Sharron noticed the telephone number winking in the Caller-ID window. Long distance. Didn't recognize the area code. Heaven? Knowing Bobby, purgatory would be a lot more likely. Or hell.
Curious now, she tapped the Identify tab. “Unavailable.” What the heck did that mean? What kind of phone number was unavailable?
She knew only one way to find out. Didn't care for it much, but ... Shaking her head at her own foolishness, Sharron tapped Last Number Redial. It rang once, twice, three times. No answer. But as she started to hang up, she heard someone pick up at the other end.
"Hola? Hello? Iss anybody there?” A man's voice, but definitely not Bobby. Foreign accent. Hispanic, maybe? “Hello?”
“Look, um...” Sharron coughed, unable to speak. “What number have I reached, please?”
“Number?” The foreign voice read it back.
“And ... where is that?”
“What you mean?”
“The telephone, where is it? Exactly.”
“I'm at pay phone. At airport.”
Sharron blinked. “In what city?”
“Miami.”
* * *
Papa Doc's Cajun Bar-B-Q, best baby back ribs in the city of Detroit. Which is saying a lot. Stepping in out of the gusty October afternoon, Sharron paused in the doorway, scanning the diner. Pearl-gray Formica counter with a dozen backless chrome stools, booths along the wall, windows facing 8 Mile, a revolving rack of ribs ‘n’ chicken sizzling over a glowing bed of coals, scenting the air with a faint haze of hickory smoke, an aroma just south of heaven.
R.B. Axton was sitting in a rear booth, listening to a cell phone. Easy to spot. Ax was the only white face in the place. Hadn't changed much, either. Still dressed like a biker: leather coat, T-shirt, jeans. Half his face marked by road-rash scars. Frankenstein Junior. He glanced up as she approached. A tall blonde, thirtyish, wearing a blazer and designer jeans. A good-looking woman. Fading fast. She slid into the booth, facing him.
“Hi, Ax. Remember me?”
“Later.” He closed the cell phone. “Yeah, sure. You're, um ... Sharron, right? Breckenridge? You were a beer-tender at the Roostertail Club back when I bounced there.”
“It's Sharron Wilhite now. I'm married.”
“Good for you. I hope.”
“I called your office, they said you'd be here. Is it okay for me to...?”
“No problem, I do half my business here. Want something to eat? Food's on the Southern side, great grits, barbecue to die for.”
“Another time. I know you used to locate people in the old days, to collect money or ... whatever. Do you still do that kind of thing?”
“Sometimes. The music biz hasn't changed much. People move around, sometimes they forget who they owe. I look ‘em up, remind ‘em. Politely, for the most part. Why? Does somebody owe you?”
“It's a little more complicated than that. How hard is it to find out whether somebody's actually dead?”
“You can try checking their pulse, but it doesn't always work. If they start getting cold, that's usually a bad sign. Or so I'm told.”
“I'm not joking.”
“Yeah, I can see that. So what's up, Sharron? Who's dead?”
“I had a boyfriend, six or seven years ago. A soldier. Bobby Jacks. We were pretty serious at the time, even talked about getting married.”
“That does sound serious.”
“I thought so, too. Until I got pregnant and Bobby shipped out toPanama. A few hot letters, some promises. Then nothing. Not another freaking word. Which was no big surprise. Guys are like that.”
“Some guys.”
"Most guys. Anyway, I figured good riddance. Decided to have the baby without him and get on with my life. But...” She swallowed. “My daughter was born with cerebral palsy.”
“Wow. I'm sorry. That's a tough break. How's she doing?”
“She's a dream, a great kid. But her medical bills are a killer. I needed help. So I wrote to Bobby again. Even sent him her picture. When he didn't answer, I contacted his outfit. They sent a chaplain around to see me. He told me Bobby was dead. Killed in a training accident inPanamafour months earlier. His G.I. life insurance had already been paid to his mother. Nothing the army could do for me. Sorry about that. End of story. Or at least I thought it was. Until Bobby called me last night.”
“He called you? The dead guy?”
“Maybe. I'm not sure. It sounded like Bobby, but I'd taken a sleeping pill and I was pretty groggy. It's possible I dreamed the whole thing. Except that there was a number on my Caller ID. When I checked, it turned out to be Miami Airport.”
“So somebody called you?”
“Apparently. Maybe it was a wrong number. Or I just heard the phone ring and got it mixed up with a dream somehow.”
“But you don't think so?”
“I don't know, Ax, and that's a problem. My husband is dying of emphysema, my daughter needs constant care, my stepson hates me so much he's already talking lawsuit over the estate, and now I'm getting phone calls from a damn ghost!” She broke off, glancing around. The strain in her voice had drawn a few stares from the counter but they were quickly withdrawn. In Motown, inside 8 Mile, you'd best mind your own business.
“The thing is...” She looked away a moment, gathering herself through sheer force of will. “A few years ago I ... developed a serious drug problem. Pills. Wound up in rehab and almost lost my daughter. I'm already popping downers to sleep. If things get any crazier in my life ... Look, I need you to settle this for me, Ax. One way or the other. I need to know.”
“Okay.” He nodded. “I can look into it. Do you have any paperwork on the boyfriend?”
“Only what the army sent me.” Fishing an envelope out of her blazer, she passed it to him as she rose to go. “My private number's in there along with two grand. Will that be enough?”
“With any luck it should be way too much. Are you sure you won't have some lunch? The food's terrific here and you look like you could use a square meal. And maybe a friendly ear?”
“Some other time, Ax, I have to get back. Call me as soon as you know anything, okay?”
“Sure. And Sharron? Try to lighten up a little. I know you're going through a real rough patch, but things usually work out.”
“Not this time,” she said.
(to be continued)
