O Is for Outlaw

you're not selling policies. I'd hate to disappoint, but I'm insured to the hilt."
    "I'm not selling anything, but I could use some help." I hesitated. I had a story all ready. I intended to show him a homeowner's claim listing several items lost to flooding when some water pipes broke. Of course, this was all completely false, but I was hoping he'd react with sufficient moral indignation to set the record straight. What I wanted was the address and phone number Mickey'd used when he'd rented the space. I could then compare the information to facts already in my possession and thus (perhaps) figure out where the hell Mickey was. In my mind, on the way down, I'd spun the story out to a convincing degree, but now that I was here I couldn't bring myself to tell it. This is the truth about lying: You're putting one over on some poor gullible dunce, which makes him appear stupid for not spotting the deception. Lying contains the same hostile elements as a practical joke in that the "victim" ends up looking foolish in his own eyes and laughable in everyone else's. I'm willing to lie to pompous bureaucrats, when thwarted by knaves, or when all else falls, but I was having trouble lying to a man who wrote worm adventure stories for his great-grandson. George was patiently waiting for me to go on. I folded the bogus claim in half until the bottom of the page rested a couple of inches from the top and the only lines showing were those containing the name, address, and telephone number of "John Russell."
    "You want to know the truth?"
    "That'd be nice," he said blandly.
    "Ah. Well, the truth is I was fired by CFI about three years ago. I'm actually a private investigator, looking for a man I was once married to." I pointed to John Russell's name. "That's not his real name, but I suspect the address may be roughly correct. My ex scrambles numbers as a way of protecting himself."
    "Is this police business? Because my records are confidential, unless you have a court order. If you think this fellow was using his storage unit for illegal purposes, manufacturing drugs, for instance might talk me into it. Otherwise, no deal."
    I could almost have sworn George was inviting me to fib, given that he'd laid out the conditions under which he might be persuaded to open his files to me. However, having started with the truth, I thought I might as well stick to my guns. "You're making this tough. I wish I could tell you otherwise, but this isn't related to any criminal activity, at least, as far as I know. Uhm, wow, this is hard. I'm not used to this," I said. "He and I parted enemies and it's 'just come to my attention I misjudged him badly. I can't live with my conscience until I square things with him. I know it sounds corny, but it's true."
    "What'd you do?" George asked.
    "It's not what I did. It's what I didn't do," I said. "He was implicated in a murder, well, not a murder, really, manslaughter is more like it. The point is I didn't wait to hear his side of it. I just assumed he was guilty and walked out on him. I feel bad about that. I promised 'for better or for worse' and gave him 'worse.'"
    "So now what?"
    "So now I'm trying to track him down so I can apologize. Maybe I can make amends, if it's not too late."
    George's face was a study in caution. "I'm not entirely clear what you want from me."
    I passed him the form, tilting my head to read the header along with him. I pointed to the relevant lines. "I think this is partly right. I've got two versions of this address. If yours matches this one or if you have another variation yet, I can probably determine which is correct."
    He studied the name and address. "I remember this fellow. Went delinquent on his payments. We emptied his unit and auctioned everything off."
    "That's what worries me. I think he's in trouble. Do you think you can help?"
    I could see him vacillate. I left the clipboard up on the counter, angled in his direction. I could see his gaze retracing the lines of print. He moved to a file cabinet, scanned the labels on the drawer fronts, and opened the third one down. He pulled out a fat binder and laid it across the open drawer. He wet his thumb and began to leaf through. He found the relevant page, popped open the rings, removed a sheet of paper, and copied it, handing me the information without another word.

Chapter 8
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    I returned to the office, where I spent the rest of the day paying bills, returning phone calls, and taking care of correspondence. There was