FLIPKA

Chapter Fourteen, Part Two

One eyebrow arched; a hand rose and shook menacingly, and then he grumbled, “What is this shit?” to no one in particular. “Wasn’t I just here the other day, questioning that woman?”

His posse nodded in vehement agreement. Meanwhile just outside my door the third-floor nursing staff stood whispering: was that really The Doug Hyman in my room? 

“Would someone please bring this man a valium?” I shouted to the nurses, “before he blows an aorta!”

“I don’t need a friggin’ valium, Butters.  I told you about my daughter’s disappearance, and in return you told me some bullshit about a mineshaft and, I don’t know, some other romantic shit.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t remember—I have short-term amnesia. If you came to see me yesterday, I’m sorry, but I have no memory of the visit at all.”

“What kind of excuse is that?”

“Ask one of the nurses, if they haven’t all fled the building.”

“Go grab a nurse, and see if her story pans out,” he ordered one of his men. 

“Oh Lord,” I recanted, “instead of terrorizing the nursing staff, why don’t you just tell me what happened—I’ve got at least part of my brain back now.”

“The mine shaft collapsed years ago, Butters. It’s impassable. You lied to me!”

“Who says?”

“The White Pine County Sheriff, that’s who.”

“Then how does he explain her disappearance?”

“I told you already—he thinks you have something to do with it.”

“Me?” 

Now Hyman wasn’t a stupid man. Impatient, yes. Self-centered, yes. A bully used to getting his way, definitely. But stupid, no. I caught his eye and smirked. “Really? Does that make any logical sense?”

He turned to glare at the setting sun, causing every other living creature in the vicinity to freeze. How odd to have so much power that your quiet inspires fear in others, I thought, as I studied his Caesarian profile: hawkish nose and sunken eyes, skin reflecting the copper sunlight like an ancient Roman coin. Power and its ability to corrupt were popular debates in grad school. On one side were those who believed power was a virus so lethal that it could wipe out a person’s immunity to corruption despite psychological soundness and strong moral convictions. On the other were those who believed power was only attainable through acts of corruption, some far less obvious than others. Thus, there were no so-called towers of virtue in the boardrooms or in congressional halls, only clever con men. 

Of course this debate led to a research project. All debates in the psych department lead to a research project. Droning on for months as we scrambled to define our scope. (Half the battle of a research project is figuring out what you’re actually researching.) Eventually it led to a very interesting conclusion having to do less with corruptibility and more with narcissism. People in positions of power fall into two categories: those with a sense of entitlement and those without. Those who felt they deserved power also felt they had papal dispensation to do whatever necessary to maintain power. On the other hand, those who felt they had been thrust into positions of power that they did not really deserve tended to be less corruptible. This is not to say they were incorruptible but they were more honestly contrite when caught with their hands in the cookie jar. I was quite sure Hyman fell into the first category. I considered asking him, if he was so worried about his daughter, why wasn’t he up there himself instead of pulling everyone else around by the strings as if we were all a bunch of marionettes, but before I could muster the courage, he turned to me with a sneer.

“Butters, stop analyzing me! I feel like I’m in a damned X-ray machine.” 

“It is possible that not everyone is always thinking about you, you know. Maybe you’re not the center of the universe. Tell me, when did Meredith disappear?” 

“Yes, but you were thinking about me. I could feel it. How do you think I got to where I am?” he snarled, as one of his men desperately tried to whisper in his ear. “I got that ESP shit.” Then he snarled at the man trying to get his attention, “Yes. I know what bloody time it is!” 

“Did I happen to mention the idiots working down in the caves?” 

“Listen, I’m not sending you up there alone this time, if that’s what you mean.”

Send me back there? Surely he had to be joking. “Mr. Hyman, I can’t even remember what I had for breakfast, and you’re sending me up to find your daughter?” 

“Are you listening to me, Butters? I never repeat myself. Besides Creamo here,” he said, indicating a blockish fellow with sandy-grey hair and silver mustache, “will have your back. He’s a real detective—you just talk to the psycho, and you know, do your voodoo-shrink stuff. Get ready to go—you have five minutes and two days to find my daughter.”

The psycho? What the hell was he talking about? 

Arguing was useless. I tried and the doctor tried but to no avail. I was bundled up and hustled out of that hospital faster than a healthy newborn and shoved into a waiting block-long limo. At least the limo was equipped with a fully stocked minibar, posh seats, a pillow, a blanket, and several copies of Fly Casting Magazine, small things to be thankful for, as swearing under my breath, I contemplated my options. I could quit. Sure I could quit my job, and then he’d have no power over me, but dammit, I liked my job. Dammit, why is it that every time things seem to be going smoothly, when you finally achieve a balance and things are hunky-dory, the roof caves in? Is it the weight of some past Karma? Some reminder that you were not scheduled for the stress-free life this time? I sure as heck don’t know. 

“Why are we towing a Jeep?” I asked Creamo as we departed Vegas in one of those blazing pink sunsets the city is famous for. 

“Mrs. Hyman needs it.”

I started to chuckle, “Let me guess. Sabrina Hyman filled up the Jag with lawn mower gas and fried the engine.” 

He didn’t respond. Creamo was a retired cop who worked for Hyman on and off—generally driving dignitaries to various casino events. He diplomatically refused comment on his employer’s ex-wife. In fact, he diplomatically refused comment on any of a number of topics I tried to bring up. Finally as we headed north into the dark desert, I closed the window separating the driver’s compartment so that he could smoke his Marlboros and listen to country-and-western music in peace. Poor fellow, it was a long drive. At least he was getting paid. Well, I was too, but only if you count getting to keep my job.

I figured I had three choices: I could worry all night. I could get good and pissed at Hyman. Or I could take the sleeping pill Dennis the Menace’s father gave me and save my energy for whatever lay ahead. I chose the third.