MAX ORDOS DOES NOT EXIST

MAX ORDOS DOES NOT EXIST: CHAPTER FOUR

A cigarette doesn't clear away Pearl's headache, so he abandons the tour and returns to his car. A parking citation is tucked under his windshield wipers. He rips it up and drives away. A passing cop car reminds him that he should talk to the squatter who was living in Ken Carlisle's farmhouse.

When he stops to get gas, it dawns on him that he doesn't know where the police station is. He shakes his head at himself as he walks away from the gas pumps to light a cigarette. Who let him become a private investigator, anyway?

A wholesome-looking kid with an insurance salesman's smile walks out of the cashier's kiosk and asks to bum a cigarette from him. Pearl obliges.

"Thanks, brother," the kid says. "I've been here since 5am and I was about ready to burn down an orphanage for one of these."

"Sure," Pearl says, smiling. The kid can't be more than 21. "Know where the police station is?"

The kid tells him that it's a right off the traffic circle in town, then a left at the Lutheran church. "Wanna check your tire pressure before you go?" he asks.

"Why? Do I look low?"

"Nah, we've got free air around back for the rest of the day. Just thought I'd ask."

"I'm good," Pearl says. "Thanks, though."

"If you were a girl, I'd offer to do it for ya," the kid says. "Guys are on their own." He inhales deeply and lets smoke creep out of his mouth. "Yep, I'm a sexist."

Pearl laughs at that all the way back to his car, and is still chuckling as he parks in front of the Kadath Municipal Building and puts quarters in the meter. The Municipal Building is a tall white building with red shutters that looks more residential than municipal. It could have been some robber baron's city residence, or one of those veteran's homes for Civil War soldiers who went broke shooting morphine. Pearl casts that morbid thought aside as he asks the cop at the reception desk where the holding cells are.

"Are you a lawyer?" the cop asks.

"No," Pearl says. "Private investigator. You're holding a guy who was squatting on Ken Carlisle's property."

"Okay," the cop says. "So?"

"So I need to talk to him," Pearl says. "A big developer in Baltimore is about to buy that place and I need to know why he refused to leave."

"Baltimore?" the cop asked.

"Yeah," Pearl says, "I don't get it either. I do need to talk to this guy, though. He may know something about this place that I don't."

"No can do," the cop says. "Not unless you're a lawyer."

Pearl sighs. "I talked to Sheriff West yesterday, and he's taking a special interest in this case," he says. "Said he'd help me if I needed it."

"Did you now?" the cop asks, raising an eyebrow. "Okay, then. Cells are two floors down, in the basement. Elevator's broken, so take the stairs." The cop points to a door labeled Stairwell A, and Pearl follows his directions. The stairs end in a room with barred cells on either side and a desk at one end. The air is humid with urine and stale beer. Pearl explains his business to the guard on duty, who grunts approval as he fills out paperwork.

Only three of the cells are occupied. The first prisoner is passed out on the floor, likely drunk. The second is that clown from the night before, his facepaint smeared. The third one is an older man, unshaven, wearing a knit hat and a heavy brown jacket. He walks up to the bars when he sees Pearl coming.

"You Dale?" Pearl asks.

"You my lawyer?"

"No," Pearl says. "I'm here about your cousin Ken's place."