Twillbear (Part 5)

Stealth came easy for Twillbear Hopkins despite his biker persona. Both attire and apparent resistance to change a single aspect of his life enforced the image he’d worked hard to create. Twillbear figured that society was pretty much split right down the middle in judgment of biker-types, half retreating from any contact and the other more accepting half simply ascribing to the concept of live and let live. Either way, no one got too close. In the recent past, since the biker chic penetrated yuppiedom and every doctor and lawyer in Los Angeles or Denver owned a Harley and wore leathers, it had been more difficult to keep a low profile. But here in Dogpatch, anyone who wanted to know him already did and the novelty had worn off… people simply didn’t give a rat's ass. Apathy and complacence offered the perfect conditions for him to travel in any circle necessary to accomplish his goals.

An intensive Google-search of ‘Harper LaGrange’ yielded little in terms of whole-name recognition and a search of state warrants yielded nothing. Despite his FBI ruse, Twillbear had no contacts within the law enforcement community at any level or, for that matter, no buddies in organized crime other than the odd reefer entrepreneur who occasionally approached him at one of the town’s watering holes. Twillbear made a mental note to throw Harper LaGrange’s name out if he had an opportunity, but he couldn’t rely on chance meetings at this point. If he was to help his daughter, he had to act fast, so he decided to contact the one person he felt might be able to enlighten him without raising red flags all over town—he needed to see Shirley. He’d recently added her name and phone numbers to his tiny black address book; not because he was interested in any sort of relationship with the woman, but because she was the mother of his only child. Twillbear decided to call her at work, where he had a better chance of not talking to an answering machine. During his morning break, he sat down at a secluded table and punched the phone number into his cell. After the third ring, a recognizable voice answered.

“Thank you for calling Plains Distributors. This is Shirley, may I help you?”

“Shirley… Twillbear… can you talk?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Sherman isn’t in, may I take a message?”

“Okay, call me when you can. My cell number is 877-3234.”

“I’m expecting him to return around 1:30, why don’t you try again then.”

Her voice, although not overly warm or friendly, sounded strangely accommodating to Twillbear, as if she were glad he’d called. Now, all he could do was wait… and think. Twillbear Hopkins walked out of the break room and donned his hardhat and safety glasses. Loading a few trucks would make the time pass quickly.

***

Rain, rain, the biker’s bane,
Get thee from the area
And don’t show up again.

The ditty gained prominence in his psyche as Twillbear Hopkins stared out the window, craning his neck so that he could better see the sky, or rather the sinister gathering of thick, black clouds that promised a soaker. Times like this made life uneasy for those poor bastards forced by circumstance or preference to rely upon two wheels for transportation rather than four. In twenty minutes, whether it was raining or not, he’d be back on his bike headed towards the Benson County Grange. His foul-weather gear would keep the rain off his body, but since no one had yet invented windshield wipers for sunglasses, the water falling on the wrap-around shades would modify his vision to a dim blur of semi-recognizable shapes. As he drove, the rule did not change— watch for red lights and avoid contact with anything solid. The rest was feel and rote memorization, right down to his butt-weld in the leather seat. The chugging sound of the pistons provided all the reliability Twillbear needed.

Only one car sat in the parking lot, an older Ford Tempo, the trademark second-car of Middle America; the iconoclastic tribute to lower middle class existence, where reliability and economy trump drama and/or one-ups-man-ship. Neither shiny nor overtly clean, it screamed ‘Shirley’. Still, Twillbear respected her choice; like most things in her life, it too would just have to do until something better came along. He turned the knob on the front double-door and looked into the very large, very empty enclosure. The sound of the automatic closer reverberated throughout the gymnasium/auditorium as Twillbear stepped onto the mat and wiped his feet.

“I’m in the kitchen, Twillbear. Come to the doors next to the Exit sign.”

Twillbear walked around the edge of the parquet simulated-wood basketball floor, having been taught from an early age never to step onto a gym floor with anything except gym shoes. Sure, he knew it was merely superstition with the modern surface technology, but somehow it seemed less than respectful to violate the premise. Each step gave rise to the click of his boot heels echoing throughout the enclosure, reminding Twillbear never to try to sneak in here at night, at least not without wearing a pair of Nikes.

A quick peek through the window in the swinging kitchen door showed Shirley sitting in a chair behind a small table, quietly smoking a cigarette as though she hadn’t a care in the world. Stepping through, he pointed at the cigarette, “I thought you were going to give those up.”

The words lingered as though spoken in a vacuum, bouncing off pots and pans hung from the hooks in a line strung across the open stove and oven area. Gina Lolabrigida’s classic steely stare emerged from Shirley’s eyes as she took another deep drag from the cigarette and flicked her ashes in a coffee cup. “And I thought you were going to tell our daughter of your relationship with her. FBI, Twillbear? Is that the best you could do?”

“Is she using, Shirley?”

The question stopped Shirley’s assault dead in its tracks. Shirley picked up the coffee cup and after a few seconds spent extinguishing the cigarette’s flame against the side of the cup, offered, “I don’t know for sure…” Scratching her head and looking away, she added, “but something is sure as hell wrong, and she won’t talk about it. She goes to work every day, so if she’s jonesing, you wouldn’t know it.”

“Have there been any changes to her normal routine that you’ve noticed?”

“Not really, but you have to understand, Twillbear, she’s always kept to herself. The thing is, when she’s worried, she normally comes to me. Now, it’s like she’s avoiding me, or at least she’s more distant.”

“Shirley, is there anything in her past that I should know about? I mean, any history of problems with drugs… or men?”

The woman sitting across from Twillbear Hopkins sat upright and folded her hands on the table, as though she were about to respond to a question from an attorney in a cross-examination. “No drugs, or at least no habits… but her choices in men tend to mirror her mother’s, I’m sad to say.”

“Well, I guess I had that coming.” Twillbear’s tone softened, his own remorse slipping into the conversation.

“Oh, Twillbear, I wasn’t referring to you. I never blamed you for my choices, please understand that.” Shirley’s hand touched Twillbear’s arm, and he felt the same tingle he remembered from many years ago.

“Who is Harper LaGrange?” Twillbear asked, refusing to submit to emotions.

“What?” asked Shirley, her eyes suddenly larger than life. “Did I hear you correctly? Did you really say ‘Harper Fucking LaGrange?”

It took both arms and a now-standing Twillbear Hopkins to restrain Shirley. A thunderclap emanated as she stood, in counterpoint to her rage, and curse words fell like the rain currently hitting the sides of the metal building.

“Shhhhhh…” Twillbear whispered, holding Shirley in a bear hug and rubbing her back with the palm of his hand. “This isn’t helping. Take a deep breath.”

Sitting her back down in her seat, Twillbear grabbed her pack of Winston Lite’s and shook one out for her. Grabbing her lighter from the table, he lit her cigarette and sat back down. For the better part of two minutes, neither spoke.

“Harper LaGrange is about the closest thing to a mobster that Benson claims. He’s a lowlife womanizer with no recognizable means of support and a reputation for cruelty. The law has tried many times to put him away, always unsuccessfully. Twillbear, if she’s involved with him, it may already be too late to help her.”

Twillbear looked down at his boots briefly before training his gaze upon Shirley’s eyes with a renewed intensity. Slowly reaching out with both arms, he grasped her shoulders softly but urgently, waiting for response. When his stare reflected off years of fear and consternation sitting behind her eyes, Twillbear shook his head negatively.

“Shirley, it’s never too late to do the right thing.”