Every Second Counts

Chapter Seven

THE NEXT DAY WHEN I TIE FLOPPY to the nearest lamppost and walk into the Pound Something café, I see Carter Johnson sitting at a table waving to me to join him. 'Hey,' his face lights up when he calls out to me. Just for a second I feel anxious and I allow the ever familiar paranoia to set in remembering the expression he showed the last time we met. Guilt. Guilt about what? He did say he was the last person to be judgemental and now I'm pretty sure Carter Johnson is not who he says he is, which of course to me, is some random guy I met under random circumstances. I tuck this thought into the far recesses of my head, ready to grab it sometime in the future, if needed.

'Hey.' I sigh, knowing I hoped I'd find him here. Someone to talk to.

However, before I had even parked myself on a stool opposite him he starts on me. 'So, how are you feeling today?'

'You sound like a shrink,' I snap.

'Sorry. But, how are you feeling today?'

'Great,' I say, because just knowing I'm going to find out who Reuben is, makes me feel better about...everything in my fucked up life!

'How so? What has put the smile back in your life?'

YUK. However, I know he's right. I noticed a relaxed Red in the mirror this morning. I can't tell Carter anything I am doing, like tracking down a man I suspect is a murderer and if it wasn't for Floppy and his leaky bladder, I would be on google right now. But instead I'm here, with Mr. Gaylord! With Floppy tied to a lamp post outside the café and a plastic bag of dog doodies in my shoulder bag!

I hardly hear Mr. Gaylord as he dribbles on about his job. Accounting or something or other until he says, 'So, same time tomorrow morning?' Is he for real?

'Nah. Tomorrow is Floppy's treat. It's park time.'

'Floppy?' He's pulled his face sideways and I wonder momentarily if 'Floppy' is a term used in the gay community.

'My dog,' I say with a lilt in my voice which tells him...what else could I be meaning and I gesture through the window toward Floppy who is pulling on her lead and being stroked by a couple of teenagers.

'You have a dog.' Carter says the obvious. Dip shit!

I nod.

'So have I,' he says.

'Really?' Now that surprises me. Him with his pressed shirts and pressed trousers and sparkly black shoes. Like I really mean they look like they've been polished to an inch of their lives.

'Yes. Which park do you take your dog to?'

I tell him and he says what a coincident. That's where he takes his dog.

'And your dog has a name? And what's the breed?'

Carter smiles, but it's not at me, it's a faraway look. 'Shep, he's Shep.'

Not that I know very much about dogs and their breeds but a Shep sounds very much like a sheep dog. 'And breed?' I ask.

'You'll find out for yourself, if you're at the park between 11 and 12 tomorrow morning.'

By now we have finished our coffees and I'm ready to zing back to my apartment to find out who Reuben really is and I stand up. 'Probably won't be going at that time. See you around,' I farewell and make it sound like something you say and not an invitation.

Carter Johnson has completely disappeared from my head by the time Floppy and I get back to Red's apartment. Out comes my laptop and just to make sure Patrick was bluffing when he gave me the name of John Franks, under duress, I enter the name in google and hit the search button. There are over 100 hundred John Franks in and around the city. Most have Facebook accounts and none of them look anything like Reuben. Then, I repeat the task using the name in Patricks file, Reuben Aberdeen. I spend all day, going round and round in circles.

By nightfall all I'm left with is Reuben's ugly mugshot which I have now pinned to the top right hand corner of my screen. Who the hell is he? And how do I find him?

* * *

The Fixer sounds terse, again. I wish I had the good sense to contact The Hulk instead. But, when it flitted through my brain as to who I should contact I realised The Hulk really put the frighteners on me when he dropped off the videos and just at the moment I have him and The Fixer both in the same category of people I'd rather come across in my nightmares than in real life. I tell the Fixer, 'I have a photo of a man called Reuben and I'll email it to you. Could you, you know sniff around and see if anyone knows who he is?'

But his answer has a sinister tone, 'No. We don't do stuff like that. You want him? You find him.'

* * *