T Is For Trespass

I got out, moved to the front of the car, and lifted the hood. I made a serious display of tinkering with the engine, then put my hands on my hips and shook my head. Gosh, a girl sure is baffled by a big old dirty engine like this. I waited a decent interval and then lowered the hood with a bang. I crossed the street and moved up his walk to the front porch. I knocked on his door.

Nothing.

I knocked again. “Hello? Sorry to bother you, but I wondered if I could use your phone. I think my battery’s dead.”

I could have sworn he was on the other side of the door, listening to me as I tried listening to him.

No response.

I knocked one more time, and after a minute I went back to my car. I sat and stared at the house. To my surprise, Vest opened the front door and peered out at me. I reached over and busied myself in the glove compartment as though searching for the service manual. Would a seventeen-year-old Mustang even have a service manual? When I looked back again, he had come down the porch steps and was heading in my direction. Oh shit.

Forties, gray at the temples, blue eyes. His face was marked by a series of tight lines-a grimace of perpetual discontent. He didn’t seem to be armed, which I found encouraging. Once he was in range, I lowered the window and said, “Hi. How’re you?”

“Was that you knocking on my door?”

“Uh-hun. I was hoping to use the phone.”

“What’s the problem?”

“I can’t get the engine to turn over.”

“Want me to give it a try?”

“Sure.”

I saw his gaze shift to the summons on the front seat beside me, but he must not have registered the reference to Superior Court and all the talk of Plaintive versus the Defendant because he didn’t gasp or recoil in dismay. I folded the document and shoved it in my shoulder bag as I emerged from the car.

He took my place in the driver’s seat, but instead of turning the key, he put his hands on the steering wheel and shook his head with admiration. “I used to own one of these babies. Jesus, the Boss 429, king of all muscle cars and I sold mine. Sold, hell. I as good as gave it away. I’m still kicking myself. I don’t even remember what I needed the money for-probably something dumb. Where’d you find it?”

“In a used-car lot on lower Chapel. I bought it on a whim. The dealer hadn’t had it half a day. He told me there weren’t many made.”

“Four hundred ninety-nine total in 1970,” he said. “Ford developed the 429 engine in 1968 after Petty started eating up NASCAR wins with his 426 Hemi Belvedere. Remember Bunkie Knudsen?”

“Not really.”

“Yeah, well right around that same time, he left GM and took over as the new boss at Ford. He’s the one talked ’em into using the 429 engine in the Mustang and Cougar lines. Sucker’s so big the suspension had to be relocated and they had to stick the battery in the trunk. Turned out to be money losers, but the Boss 302 and the 429 are still the hottest cars ever made. What’d you pay for it?”

“Five grand.”

I thought he’d bang his head on the steering wheel, but he shook it instead, one of those slow wags denoting copious regret. “I never should have asked.” With that, he turned the key in the ignition and the engine fired right up. “You must have flooded the engine.”

“Silly me. I appreciate the help.”

“No biggie,” he said. “You ever want to sell the car, you know where I am.” He got out and stood aside to let me into the car.

I pulled the papers from my bag. “You’re not Bob Vest by any chance?”

“I am. Have we met?”

I held out the summons, which he took automatically when I tapped him on the arm. “Nope. Sorry to have to say this, but you’re served,” I said, as I slid under the steering wheel.

“I’m what?” He looked down at the papers and when he saw what he had, he said, “Well, shit.”

“And by the way. You ought to take better care of your cat.”

When I got back to the office, I put in a second call to Gus’s niece. With the three-hour time difference, I was hoping she’d be home from work. The phone rang so long that I was startled when she finally picked up. I repeated my original report in an abbreviated form. She seemed to draw a blank, like she didn’t have any idea what I was talking about. I went through my spiel again in a more elaborate rendition, telling her who I was, what had happened to Gus, his move to the nursing home, and the need for someone, namely her, to come to his aid.

She said, “You’re kidding.”

“That’s not quite the response I was hoping for,” I said.

“I’m three thousand miles away. You think it’s really that big of an emergency?”

“Well, he’s not bleeding out or anything like that, but he does need your help. Someone has to get the situation under control. He’s in no position to take care of himself.”

Her silence suggested she wasn’t receptive to the idea, in whole or in part. What was wrong with this chick?

“What sort of work do you do?” I asked as a prompt.

“I’m an executive VP in an ad agency.”

“Do you think you could talk to your boss?”

“And say what?”

“Tell him-”

“It’s a her…”

“Great. I’m sure she’ll understand the kind of crisis we’ve got on our hands. Gus is eighty-nine years old and you’re his only living relative.”

Her tone shifted from resistance to mere reluctance. “I do have business contacts in L.A. I don’t know how quickly I could set it up, but I suppose I could fly out at the end of the week and maybe see him Saturday or Sunday. How would that be?”

“One day in town won’t do him any good unless you mean to leave him where he is.”

“In the nursing home? That’s not such a bad idea.”

“Yes, it is. He’s miserable.”

“Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“Let’s put it this way. I don’t know you at all, but I’m reasonably certain you wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like that. It’s clean and the care is excellent, but your uncle wants to be in his own home.”

“Well, that won’t work. You said he’s not able to care for himself with his shoulder like it is.”

“That’s my point. You’ll have to hire someone to look after him.”

“Couldn’t you do that? You’d have a better idea how to go about it. I’m out of state.”

“Melanie, it’s your job, not mine. I barely know the man.”

“Maybe you could pitch in for a couple of days. Until I find someone else.”

“Me?” I held the phone away from me and stared at the mouthpiece. Surely she didn’t think she could drag me into it. I’m the least nursey person I know and I have people who’d back me up on the claim. On the rare occasions when I’ve been pressed into service, I’ve bumbled my way through, but I never liked it much. My aunt Gin took a dim view of pain and suffering, which she felt were trumped up purely to get attention. She couldn’t tolerate medical complaints and she thought all so-called serious illnesses were bogus, right up to the moment she was diagnosed with the very cancer she died of. I’m not quite as coldhearted but I’m not far behind. I had a sudden vision of hypodermic syringes and I thought I was on the verge of blacking out, when I realized Melanie was still wheedling.

“What about the neighbor who found him and called 9-1-1?”

“That was me.”

“Oh. I thought there was an old guy who lived next door.”

“You’re talking about Henry Pitts. He’s my landlord.”

“That’s right. I remember now. He’s retired. My uncle’s mentioned him before. Wouldn’t he have time to look in on Gus?”

“I don’t think you get it. He doesn’t need someone ‘looking in on him.’ I’m talking about professional nursing care.”

“Why don’t you contact social services? There has to be an agency to handle things like this.”

“You’re his niece.”

“His great-niece. Maybe even great-great,” she said.

“Uh-hun.”

I let a silence fall into which she did not leap with joy, offering to fly out.