Dark Places

sat down on. The fluorescent light was not flattering to his face, which was pocked with dark, dimpled pores.
    “I’m not a weirdo, by the way,” he said, flapping the
Cat Fancy
at me. “I just got a cat, never had one before. Don’t really like her much so far. She was supposed to be good for morale, but so far she just pisses in the beds.”
    “I have a cat,” I volunteered, surprising myself with my sudden, intense fondness for Buck. “If they go outside their litter box, it’s usually because they’re angry.”
    “That right?”
    “Yeah, otherwise, they’re pretty easy pets.”
    “Huh,” Bert Nolan said. “Huh. So you’re looking for your daddy? Yeah I remember, we spoke. Day. He’s like most men here— should be happy someone’s looking for them, after the crap they’ve pulled at home. Usually money stuff. Or lack-of-money stuff. No money, too much booze. Does not bring out the best. Runner. Huh.”
    “He wrote me a letter, said he was back here.”
    “You want to take him home, take care of him?” Bert said. His eyes were black and shiny, like he’d told himself a joke.
    “Well, I’m not sure about that. I just want to check in.”
    “Ha, good. That was a trick question—people who say they want to find one of my men to take care of them, never do.” Nolan smelled his fingertips. “I don’t smoke anymore, but sometimes my damn fingers still smell like tobacco.”
    “Is he here?”
    “He’s not. He’s gone again. I don’t allow drinkers here. He just had his third strike.”
    “He say where he went?”
    “Ah sweetheart, I just don’t give out addresses. Just don’t. Found that was the smartest way to handle all inquiries. But I’ll tell you what, because you seem like a nice lady …”
    “Berrrrrt!” came a howl from outside the building.
    “Ah, ignore that, just one of my men trying to get in early. That’s another thing you learn to never do: never let anyone in early, ever. And never let anyone in late.”
    He had lost his train of thought, he stared at me expectantly.
    “So you said you’d tell me what?” I prompted.
    “What?”
    “How you might help me find my dad?”
    “Oh, right. You can leave a letter here with me.”
    “Mr. Nolan, I’ve already done that. That’s why I’m here. I really, really need to find him.” I caught myself in the Runner stance, palms on the edge of the table, ready to vault myself up if I got mad.
    Nolan picked up a plaster figurine of an old, balding man throwing his arms out in some expression of exasperation, but I couldn’t read the words on the base. Bert seemed to find some consolation in the thing. He let out a sharp sigh between barely parted lips.
    “Well, sweetheart, I’ll tell you what, he may not be here, but I know he’s still in Lidgerwood. One of my men saw him just last night outside-a Cooney’s. He’s laying low somewhere, but he’s around. Just prepare yourself for some disappointment.”
    “Disappointment about what?”
    “Oh, you name it.”
    WHEN BERT NOLAN got up to lead me out of his office, he turned his back to me, and I immediately made a grab for his little figurine. But I made myself set it back down, and took his bag of CornNuts and a pencil instead. Progress. They sat in the car seat next to me as I drove to the nearest bar. Cooney’s.
    Cooney’s had not given in to the Old West theme. Cooney’s was proudly crappy in the present day. Three wrinkled faces glared at me as I opened the door. This included the bartender. I ordered a beer, the man snapping that he’d need to see my driver’s license, holding itup to the light and then down near his belly, giving a hmmph, when he couldn’t prove it was fake. I sipped and sat, letting them get used to me being there. Then I spoke. As soon as I hit the word Runner, the place lit up.
    “That jackass stole three cases of beer from me,” the bartender said. “Went around back in broad daylight and just took them off the truck. And I’d stood him for a lot of drinks, believe me.”
    The middle-aged man two stools down grabbed my arm too hard and said, “Your goddam daddy owes me two hundred bucks. And I want my lawn mower back. You tell him I’m looking for him.”
    “I know where you can find him,” said an old guy with a Hemingway beard and the build of a girl.
    “Where?” everyone else said at once.
    “Bet anything he’s living with the rest of them squatters, camped out over at the Superfund site. You should see it,” he