It was three in the morning with the moon not shining when I stepped out of the City of Anoka Public Safety Center. I might as well have stepped into my own backyard for all the light and noise I found. The redbrick building, which housed both the police and fire departments, had been built in a residential section of the city well off the main drag and was as quiet as any of the old Victorians and English Colonials surrounding it. The only sound I heard was the scraping of my shoes on the concrete sidewalk as I skipped around a bronze statue of a child holding the hand of a benevolent police officer. I considered it yet another example of deceptive advertising.
I was just as lost as I had been the previous morning. Still, there were lights in the distance, and I followed them to East Main Street, which, surprisingly enough, actually was Anoka’s main street. Unfortunately, nothing was open. No bars, restaurants, gas stations—ah, but a couple of blocks east I found the Anoka County Correctional Facility, which should not be confused with the City of Anoka Police Department. The Anoka County Correctional Facility—or jail, to use the politically incorrect term—is housed in the same building as the Anoka County Sheriff’s Department and the Anoka County Court, the operative word being “County.” It was located in the “City” of Anoka just to confuse outsiders. Like me.
The guard at the gate was stunned to see me at that hour. He took one look at my two-day beard and rumpled clothes and probably thought I was looking to break out one of the inmates. I asked him where the county would have towed my vehicle. He gave me directions to a lot off Highway 169. I asked him what the chances were of getting a cab. He thought I was kidding him. He laughed even harder when I assured him that I wasn’t.
It was nearly 5:00 A.M. by the time I hoofed it to the lot. Naturally, it was closed. I waited. Rush hour traffic heading into the Cities was at its height when they finally got around to releasing my Audi—for about the price of a monthly payment—so you can imagine my frame of mind when I finally arrived home at eight forty-five.
Two editions of the St. Paul Pioneer Press were waiting on my porch along with a pile of day-old mail. I glanced through it while I listened to the eight messages left on my voice mail. The first was from Meyer, who wanted to know where in hell I was and did I still want the dining room set.
“You sorry bastard,” I yelled at the recording. “If you could get your directions straight. . .”
The next message cheered me somewhat. Bobby Dunston’s daughters wanted to come over and feed the ducks. For the past several years I’ve had a family of ducks living in the pond in my backyard. They arrive in the spring, leave in the fall, and return the following year, probably because my neighbor Margot and I feed them. Originally there were seven, then nine, then five. This year there were eleven. I used to name them but stopped because I lost track of who was who. Except for Maureen. Maureen was named after my mother, and I always recognized her. The girls seemed to be able to tell them apart, though, and they were always welcome.
The next four messages were left by Nina Truhler.
“Hey, McKenzie. Are you taking me to dinner before we go to the ball? You know a girl can’t subsist solely on hors d’oeuvres and vodka martinis. If I can’t get you on your cell, call me.”
“McKenzie, you didn’t forget we had a date, did you?”
“Dammit, McKenzie, where are you? If you stand me up—these tickets cost five hundred dollars a pop, and I bought a new dress.”
“Forget it. You’re not the only guy I know who owns a tuxedo, and you’re sure as hell not the only guy who finds me attractive.”
The Second Harvest Charity Ball. It had a James Bond theme that year. Nina bought the tickets. I had promised to take her. Only I had been unavoidably detained. Emphasis on “unavoidably.”
She won’t be angry once I explain, I told myself. Nina and I had been involved for nearly two years now. We’ve even discussed the M word on occasion. She was a reasonable woman. I reached for the receiver, hesitated. Nina owned and operated a jazz joint in St. Paul called Rickie’s—named after her daughter, Erica. The hours she kept were more nocturnal than those the rest of us lived by. No way she’d be up yet. Besides, it’d be better if you go to the club and see her in person, my inner voice told me.
Except she didn’t agree.
The phone rang while I was still standing there.
“Where have you been, McKenzie?”
“Nina? I was just thinking of calling you.”
“Sure you were.”
“No lie. I wanted to explain about the other night.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m—”
“Were you in an accident or something?”
“Accident? No, nothing like that.”
“Did anyone shoot you?”
“No. What happened was—”
“Where were you? Did you forget about me?”