Mary, Mary, Shut the Door Read online

  Mickey’s office was in one of the faux colonial buildings that ring the courthouse and public safety building. They took I-66 west from there to the parkway, then across the county over the Dulles Access road into Herndon. Matt drove and his brother navigated.

  “Right here, Matt, into this development. Take the first left and go straight to the end.”

  “Where do we stand, Sean?”

  “You’re up thirty-five. I figured to take two of the twenty-fives and the doctor. You take the other two and we’re even.”

  “Alright. This one’s yours.”

  They drove past a row of McMansions, five hundred thousand dollar pseudo-Georgians so close together you’d have to mow on alternate days, and looked for house numbers painted on the curb. Sean began to count by twos and started to shake his head. The houses came to a halt just short of the address for Mohammed Ben Zekri. They pulled up to the curb and looked at the hole in the ground, awaiting a foundation. Mr. Ben Zekri was gone along with ten thousand cubic feet of dirt.

  Matt got out of the car and walked over to the last house and headed up the stairs to the front door. Sean pulled out the cell phone, looked at the signature page on the notice, and called the attorney.

  “Klompus, Bogans, and Hess. How may I help you?”

  “Jack Klompus please.”

  “Who may I say is calling?”

  “Sean Ellis of AAA Process Service.”

  “This is Linda, Mr. Klompus’s secretary. How may I help you?”

  “I’m here at the address your office provided for Mohammed Ben Zekri and what it is is a hole in the ground.”

  Matt stood next to him and mouthed, “Empty for six months.”

  “In fact it’s been a hole in the ground for six months. We’d appreciate it if Mr. Klompus could check his file and see if he has a more current address for Mr. Ben Zekri.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Klompus is on vacation. I’ll leave a message for him. His assistant will call you back.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sean put the phone back in his pocket. “You know for three hundred dollars an hour, they could check their addresses every six months. That wouldn’t be too much to ask, would it?”

  They got back in the car and plotted a course to the next address, a red brick apartment box in Falls Church, on the edge of “Little Saigon.” There was no grass on the lawn, only dirt, rocks, and glass. The one tree was long dead. A number of windows had broken panes. The chain-link fence lacked only a razor wire frosting to complete the detention-center look of the place. The boys walked through the graffitied door and looked at the mailboxes. There wasn’t a name on a single one.

  “You take the top floor and work down. I’ll go up,” Matt said.

  They met on the second floor at the only door that was opened to them. Inside was an elderly Vietnamese woman, her streaked gray hair pulled into a tight bun. She had a young child on her hip and two others behind her. All three children were in diapers with fingers in their mouths.

  “Uh, ma’am, we’re looking for Mr. Vu Tran Nguyen. Can you tell us what apartment is his?” Sean asked.

  Her face was utterly impassive, an appropriate reaction when assailed by gibberish.

  Sean proceeded, “Do you speak English?”

  Nothing.

  “I thought so. So if I tell you I’m going to rip this child out of your arms and eat him, your eyes won’t widen and you won’t slam the door in my face, will you? Of course not, and so you haven’t. Have a nice day. Welcome to America.”

  They turned away and trotted down the stairs. “Didn’t I tell you to take Vietnamese as your foreign language elective, Matt? No, you had to take French. Have you noticed any place called ‘Little Paris’ around here?”

  “Let me think. No, I don’t think so.”

  “Me neither. Who’s next?”

  “Lorelei Petty over in McLean. Good bet she speaks English.”

  “Lucky you, Matt.”

  They drove slowly through Falls Church towards Tyson’s Corner and McLean. Tyson’s Corner was the largest commercial center in America not located in the heart of a city. Falls Church sat between Washington D.C. and Tyson’s, and its one main thoroughfare was always distended with traffic, a perpetual aneurysm.

  Forty-five minutes later they pulled up in front of Lorelei Petty’s townhouse on the Tyson’s-McLean frontier, where the proper zip code could mean a twenty thousand dollar difference from the other side of the street.

  Matt read the paper. “This is a notice of deposition, so the shit’s been hitting the fan for quite awhile. We don’t have the advantage of surprise here.”

  “So, call her. See if she’s here. Do we have a description?”

  “Yeah, five feet six inches, hundred forty-five pounds, light brown hair, wears glasses.”

  Matt dialed directory assistance, got the number for an L. Petty, and then dialed that.

  “Hello?”

  “Lorelei Petty?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hi, my name is Matt Ellis, I’m a process server. I have a subpoena for you in the Wings matter. I’m on my way over. I’ll be there in about twenty minutes, is that okay with you?”

  “Uh, sure, whatever.”

  Matt set the phone down. “What do you think, Sean?”

  “A guy, he’d be outta there three minutes tops. A woman, I’d say six.”

  They looked down at their watches. The adjacent town-house had a contractor’s sign hung from the front porch railing. It proclaimed: “Another fine project from the master craftsmen at DNT Contractors. Call Burle Hitchens at (703) 555-9400.”

  Five minutes later, Matt rolled up the paper, stuck it in his back pocket and got out of the car. He was going up the stairs when the front door opened. A woman stepped out, and turned back to lock the dead bolt. Matt closed ground.

  “Lorelei, is that you?” He asked, eagerly but uncertain.

  “Yes,” she said and turned to face her caller.

  Matt whipped out the papers and handed them to her.

  “You’ve been served, ma’am.”

  She backed away, waving her hands at the paper like it was an angry insect.

  “No, I haven’t. I haven’t taken these.”

  “That’s TV, ma’am. You answered to the name, you match the description, you live at the right address. You’ve been served.”

  Matt dropped them at her feet. “I’d advise you to read them and call a lawyer. Have a nice day.”

  “I hope your dick falls off, you miserable little bastard.”

  “Duly noted ma’am, and my affidavit of service will include your kind words.”

  Matt jumped into the car and it pulled away. “What next?” he asked.

  “Our Latino lady-killer, over in Arlington.”

  “Where are we serving him?”

  “Work. He’s a janitor at a motel in Arlington.”

  Their cell phone rang.

  “Hello?” Sean said.

  “Sean, is that you? It’s Chuck Pruitt. You and your brother want to do some surveillance?”

  “Hold on Chuck, I’ll ask him.”

  He covered the mouthpiece. “Matt, it’s Chuck Pruitt, he wants us to do surveillance, what do you say?”

  “I say no. He hasn’t paid us for our last two jobs. Working for him is working for free. It’s been over two months he’s owed us.”

  “You sure? It’s work.”

  “Work? It’s charity. Slow pay is no pay. You can do it. I’ll pass.”

  “Uh, Chuck, we’ll pass. You still owe us about two hundred and fifty bucks for work we did in May.”

  “Hey, guys, it’s not me. I bill the clients. I’ve gotta chase them to pay me so I can pay you. Every check I get that you’re owed a piece of, I pass it straight on.”

  “Chuck, I’m not saying you’re stiffing us. But none of this is gonna pay my tuition bill. Summer’s almost over. I need money now. The school could give a damn. It’s due when it’s due. Sorry.”

  �
�I hate being the asshole of the food chain. The pâté’s at the other end, down here it’s all bullshit,” Sean snapped.

  “Well, we’ve got two more chances for today. Let’s make ’em count.”

  Gustavo Martin was a janitor at the Arlington Inn, which operated on the same principles as its neighbor, the Pentagon: Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.

  “You take the front desk, Matt. I’ll find a maid, see if she knows where he is.”

  “Wait for me if you find him. He might think twice about going off.”

  “Sure.” They exited the car, Matt going to the office, Sean heading upstairs where he had seen a maid’s cart in the hallway. He went up the stairs three at a time, grabbed the rusting metal railing and swung up and around on to the second floor. The ice machine had its bin door open and a sign taped to the front that said, ‘Broken’. He walked down to the maid’s cart and looked into the room it was parked outside of.

  “Excuse me, can I talk to you?” he said into the darkened room.

  “¿Si, quien es?” A woman replied. She was bent over, making the bed.

  “Donde esta Gustavo Martin?”

  “No entiendes ni jota.”

  “I know he works here. Just tell me where he is?”

  “He’s around. I don’t know.”

  “Okay. What does he look like?”

  “He’s short, curly black hair, mustache …”

  As she spoke, her words coalesced in the space at the end of the hall. The man looked at Sean, saw him take a step towards him, turned, and started down the stairs. Sean leaned over the railing and saw his brother step out of the motel office.

  “That’s him, Matt.”

  Glancing over his shoulder at his second pursuer, the man ran across the parking lot towards the high grass along the railroad tracks. There were no trains in sight. He would have to run all the way to El Salvador. Matt took off after him. The guy was wind-milling his arms through the high grass, bobbing back and forth above his churning bowlegs. Matt had no speed to speak of, but he and his brother ran five miles a night through their neighborhood. The longer Gustavo ran, the better Matt’s chances of catching him. He heard the slap of footsteps behind him, each one louder than the last. He came out on the dusty path alongside the tracks.

  “Hold on, Matt. I’m coming.” Sean ate up ground, each stride longer and faster than those of either of the others.

  Committed to a sprint, Matt accelerated. Even if he didn’t catch Martin, he’d make him run flat-out to escape him, and then watch his brother run him down, even if it took ten miles.

  Matt figured Martin for a chain-smoking couch potato who’d smack Mirabella if she didn’t get him a Dos Equis with each trip to the kitchen. Four hundred yards in his boots with their two inch heels and he was doubled over, holding his side and gasping for breath.

  Matt and Sean slowed down and approached him.

  “Gustavo Martin?”

  “No. Yo soy Carlos Gonzalez.”

  “Bullshit. We’ve got something for you, Mr. Martin.” Matt reached for the papers in his pants pocket.

  “No, no.” Gonzalez spun towards them, his hand digging into his pocket.

  “Oh shit,” they both thought. It had to happen. Someday they’d serve someone with a gun. Sean leaped with both arms outstretched to pin the man’s hands in his pants. His brother stepped up behind him, planted his feet, and threw a right hand that hit Gonzalez flush on the chin. Helped by the weight of the other boy on his chest, he slammed backwards into the earth and lay still.

  Sean grabbed the man’s hand and pulled it out. He was clutching a wallet. While Sean squatted and flipped through it, Matt patted the man down. He had a six-inch switchblade in his right back pocket.

  Sean handed him the wallet. “Woops.”

  All the cards read “Carlos Gonzalez.” He too was short, mustachioed with curly black hair. They tucked the wallet back into his pants and pulled him away from the tracks.

  Gonzalez came around in a couple of minutes. Sean said, “We’re sorry Mr. Gonzalez. We were looking for Gustavo Martin.”

  “Yo soy Carlos Gonzalez.”

  “We believe you. Why’d you run?”

  No reply.

  “Le cremos. ¿Porque corrio?”

  He pointed at Matt’s shirt. “Policia.”

  “No. No policia.”

  “¿Sos de la Migra?”

  “No. No Immigration.”

  Gonzalez stood up, rubbing his jaw.

  “Sorry about that. I thought you were going for a gun. Uh, perdone me, pense que usted buscaba una pistola.”

  “No, si tuviera una pistola les hubiera pegado un balazo.” Gonzalez imitated shooting them both.

  “I’m sure you would have,” Sean replied. “No guns. No INS. Why don’t we call it a draw and all go away happy.”

  They walked away and left him there rubbing his jaw.

  “Why are we doing this, Matt? Run it by me one more time.”

  “Because the chicks love it. We’re dangerous men. We’re hard and shifty. Men to be reckoned with.”

  “Thanks. It’s all coming back now. I must have lost it when I was shitting myself back there, and by the way, don’t wear that shirt again. We’re not the Hardy boys. I don’t want to die in a hail of irony, gunned down by some ESL dropout.”

  “No problem. It’s history.”

  “And we still have to find Gustavo Martin.”

  “Not today. We’ll get his home address and try him there.”

  “This doctor, did you arrange to serve him?”

  “Called his office, set up an appointment for four o’clock. Should be a piece of cake.”

  “With a ground glass crust. Let’s do it.”

  Dr. Gorman’s office was in Tyson’s Corner, a three-story box of solo practitioners: doctors, dentists, accountants, architects, insurance salesman, and an individual who advertised himself as a Failure Analyst.

  “That’s the best job title I’ve ever seen. You make a living analyzing other people’s screw-ups. How do you train for that? What was his major?” Matt mused.

  “We can ask on the way out. You go on ahead. I’ve got to take a leak,” Sean said and ducked into the men’s room.

  When Sean entered Dr. Gorman’s office, there were four other people in the waiting room. It was a battleship gray, with tubular metal chairs arranged around the edges of a purple carpet flecked with white. A central coffee table had a green flowerless plant and a pile of worn magazines.

  “Dr. Gorman, please. I’ve got some papers for him,” Sean said.

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Gorman isn’t here,” the secretary said, closing her appointment book. She sat behind a sliding-glass panel in the wall, next to an unmarked door.

  “What about all these people?”

  “We have another doctor covering for him today.”

  “Really? I called to set up this appointment. I was told he’d be here.”

  “I’m sorry, who are you with?”

  “Short Fuse Process Service. How about I leave this with you Ms.…?”

  “Not a chance. I’m not authorized to accept service and I’m not taking it. You get out of here or I’ll call the police.” The last part she whispered fiercely.

  “Okay. I’ll go, but you tell Dr. Gorman I’m going to his house next. I know he’s got a teenage daughter. She should be home soon from school. I’ll serve her. She’ll love reading this stuff.”

  “Get out of here you despicable piece of …”

  “Don’t say it. You’ll piss me off. Right now this is just a job. Don’t make it personal.”

  He pulled the door closed behind him. As soon as it settled, the secretary pushed a button on her phone and whispered into the mouthpiece as she pulled the glass panel closed. A bald man with a precisely shaped beard and half-glasses near the end of his nose came up from the back office. They spoke briefly. He grimaced and shook his head at each thing she said. A patient, his hand to his jaw, approached the window and rapped on the gla
ss. The secretary slid it back.

  “Excuse me, Dr. Gorman, how long a wait do you think it’s gonna be. My tooth is killing me,” he mumbled.

  “I don’t know, I’m running a little behind today,” he snapped irritably.

  The patient smiled at this, reached through the opening with the hand he’d held to his face, and dropped a folded piece of paper on to the desk.

  “Dr. Gorman, you’ve been served.” The secretary opened her mouth. He pointed at her. “Don’t say a word. If you hadn’t lied to us, we wouldn’t have lied to you. Have a nice day.”

  Matt left the doctor’s office and headed to the elevator. He pushed the down button and the doors opened. Sean was leaning against the far wall. They both raised their arms and slapped palms. Sean started to sing, “Nowhere to run to, baby, nowhere to hide.”

  “Short Fuse Process Service. That was good. You make that up on the spot?”

  “Yeah, she was pissing me off. If she’d gotten the doctor or agreed to accept it, I’d just have asked you for the paper. Once she started that shit, I just ad-libbed it and hoped you’d find a place to step in. If not, I figured we’d stake out his house.”

  “Does he have a daughter?”

  “Hell if I know. I was on a roll.”

  “That got my attention. I wasn’t so sure I wanted to serve the daughter. This is ugly stuff. She didn’t do anything.”

  “Hey, whatever it takes, Matt. Nobody cares about stiffing us.”

  “What is that, our motto? Short Fuse Process Service: Whatever it takes.”

  “Sure, why not.”

  Matt shook his head. “Yeah, why not. We’re young. We’re hard core.”

  “Let’s go back to the office, file the paperwork and look at the ‘Icebox’. Have you figured out how much we’ve made? Tuition’s due at the end of August, we’ve only got a week left,” Sean said.

  “Yeah, I’ve checked. We’re short. We’ll need to take everything we can get. Night jobs, the weekend. If we don’t make it, we can see if they’ll put us on the monthly plan, that’ll give us some more time to come up with the balance.”