Prophet Margin - Part 1

As I mentioned last time it's been a while since I buried Dodge. This first taste of his tales was in fact the last written. I've reworked the ending a couple of times, and by the time I post the conclusion it may have a brand new solution.
Her now is the first installment of "Prophet Margin"

The courthouse’s computer-regulated bells reverberated twelve times as I neared my office. Their cacophonous backbeat to the relentless throbbing in my head made me feel as if I were standing inside one of those giant metal monsters instead of four blocks away. I’m not usually sensitive to sound, but the night before I’d fallen off the wagon. It had been a particularly huge wagon, and I’d fallen a long way, evidently landing on my face.
As I crossed the Sinclair Building lobby to the elevator, I ran into Raul Ramirez, closing up his barbershop for lunch. Always gracious, Raul took the time to confirm that I looked as bad as I felt.
“My goodness,” He cringed as if looking at me was painful. “Are you sure you want to meet your famous client like that?”
“Thanks a heap.” I stopped short of pointing out he was physically on the low and wide side when I realized what he’d said. “What client? Famous? How famous?”


“I tell you what. I don’t have to go to lunch right now. If you like, I can give you a nice shave, and a quick trim. You’re a good customer, and how you look reflects on me.”
“Raul, what client?”
“You know, I have been trying to remember his name.” As Raul unlocked his shop door, he scrunched up his pie-pan face as if straining stimulated his memory. “But for my life, I cannot put my finger on it.”
“But, you know he’s famous?”
“Well sort of. I think I have seen him on TV, but I cannot quite place where.” He took down the Out-to-Lunch sign.
“So, what made you think he was my client?” I asked, because I couldn’t remember any celebrities making an appointment.
“He asked where your office was, of course.” Raul picked up the neatly folded clipping catch-cloth from the barber chair. “You should talk to someone about putting your name back up on the directory.”
I didn’t feel up to explaining how I’d been the one who had pulled my name off the directory in a futile attempt to avoid certain bill collectors. I focused my energy on the possibility of current capital.
“But, he didn’t give his name?”
Raul shrugged, shook the cut-cape out, and twirled the chair around to further extend the invitation. “I hated to ask. I felt like I should know. I didn’t want to insult him.”
“How long ago did he go up?”
“Ten, maybe fifteen minutes ago.”
“Maybe, I should pass on the trim. I still don’t have a secretary, and I’d hate for a potential client to get away.”
“What if you miss him on the way up, while he’s on the way down? Even if you pass him on the way to your office, maybe you will recognize him, maybe not. Relax. I’ll clean you up, and if he leaves your office, at least I’ll be able to point him out to you.”
Raul made sense. A good first impression couldn’t hurt, and the odds were with the potential client exiting through the lobby from the building’s only two elevator cars. The rear exit down the stairwell wasn’t well marked, and any customer adept at finding it was likely to try and stiff me on the bill anyway.
So, I collapsed back into the barber’s chair. Within a minute or so under a hot facial towel I drifted towards unconsciousness and back into the reasons I’d told myself it was okay to get totally in the bag the night before. Last night would have been Marsha’s birthday.

The sound of razor slapping leather stopped, and Raul lifted the hot towel from my face. The steam had softened more than my beard. The soapy scent of shaving cream and the alcohol-laced perfume of hair tonic penetrated sinuses shut down by whiskey overdose.
Raul turned the chair around to face the mirror over the sink as he brushed the shaving cream onto my face. I suppose he knew that I’d be watching the reflection for strangers exiting the elevator so as to quiz him for an ID. That way he wouldn’t slit my throat while splitting his attention between the lobby and his razor. At that moment I didn’t really care.
Part of me would have taken having my carotid cut over dealing with the memories that last night’s swizzle sticks had only swirled into a blur. Now, they were again as crystal clear as the throbbing in my head and a hundred times more painful.
This is ridiculous, I told myself. You dealt with this six months ago when she died. Still, something about her birthday ripped open that place I thought I’d sealed off, and the realization hit me again like a runaway train. I was never going to see Marsha again, hear her voice, or hold her in my arms. To make matters worse, my eyes watered with tears in response to that thought.
Luckily, Raul had stopped scraping my face to turn and rinse out his razor towel. So, I was able to wipe my eyes before he noticed. As he turned back from the sink to complete my shave, he looked up at a gray shape I saw pass by in the mirror.
“Sir, excuse me. Sir!” Raul gave me a confirming nod as he moved around the chair towards the door of the shop.
I leaned forward, checking Raul’s handiwork in the mirror. The only part left undone was my chin and moustache. I’d considered growing a goatee once for about a microsecond, so I rinsed off the rest of the shaving cream and then struggled to find the snap that fastened the big barber bib around my neck.
“I’m not finished Mr. Dodge.” Raul objected. “Your client would have waited.”
I panned from Raul’s dejected look to the expression on the somewhat familiar face of the silver-haired man in the expensive looking gray suit. The expression was one of anxiety heading rapidly toward frustration. That was enough for me.
“It’ll be fine for now, Raul. In fact, I hear it’s all the rage.” I pulled a ten out of my wallet and pressed it into his hand.
Raul shrugged as he pocketed the bill, and then shook his head. “That look is so over.”
I turned to apologize to the man in gray only to find he’d moved across the lobby and pressed the elevator’s call button. It seemed this vaguely familiar celebrity was in a hurry to talk to me in private. Great! I could almost feel my wallet swelling as the aspects of urgency and notoriety combined in my fee calculations.
Catching up with him just as the elevator opened, I offered my apology. “Sorry about that. My barber tends toward mother hen sometimes.”
The perturbed expression faded into a broad smile. It was a good smile. For a man in his late 50’s or early 60’s, he had what some would term boyish good looks, which juxtaposed the thick mane of wavy, silver hair. Like myself, his jaw was square, and though freshly shaved was already hinting at shadow. The silver-blue eyes flashed a suggestion of charm I doubted few ladies could ignore. But, it was that smile that completed the impression of his being a celebrity of some sort. It was the gleaming, genuinely warm smile of a politician or a new car dealer. Maybe that’s where I’d seen him, hawking cars during midnight movie commercial breaks.
He sported that radiant smile into the elevator as he responded to my excuse.
“That’s quite alright, Brother Dodge. ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness.’ Although, the WORD doesn’t say it exactly like that.”
That’s when I finally recognized him, and lost all hope for a nice fat fee. My visitor was none other than the Reverend Bobby Lee Lipton, television-evangelist and purveyor of the “Prophecy Hotline”. By some accounts his hotline had all but eliminated “Psychic Pals” and “Sister Rio” as competition for the millions that the feeble-minded masses spent trying to catch a glimpse of the future.
I had no doubt the preacher had ample cash, but I also had no doubt he would try to barter guarantees of entrance to heaven in return for my assistance. For some odd reason, I get that a lot in my business, although versions of heaven vary dramatically from person to person.
When the elevator opened on the fifth floor, I led the way to the door with Dodge Investigations stenciled in bold black letters on the frosted glass panel, and slipped my key into its lock.
Once I’d opened that outer door to my office, walked across the waiting room, and unlocked my inner office door, we were effectively in the private zone. It says so on my inner office door in similar bold black letters, PRIVATE.
“So, how can I be of service, Mr. Lipton?”

I purposely avoided the use of the term reverend. I had a gut-knot telling me this snake-oil salesman was probably on the wrong side of some sort of blackmail scam, and needed someone to pull his fat out of the fire. I saw nothing worthy of reverence in that.
“So, you do know who I am,” Lipton’s smile went from high beam to solar powered. “I wasn’t sure you were a believer. I was told you were a good man, but that’s not enough. Right, Brother?”
There were plenty of both pros and cons for tearing into this Bible-thumper’s assumptions. The top two on the negative side were losing a customer and the fact that I felt like rotten refried beans. The main positive was avoiding any confusion about who I was and what I was capable of doing. I opted for discretion and answered with a question of my own.
“Coffee?” I needed a cup, so the offer came more out of habit than courtesy.
“Don’t go to any trouble.”
“The only trouble would be if there was no coffee.” I grinned at my own joke and proceeded to dig out the supplies to brew a pot of that life giving elixir.
“So who told you I was a good man?”
“Father Timmons referred me to you. I met him at a citywide Bible conference last month. We both share a passion for fly-fishing, and really hit it off. When I decided to take someone into my confidence, he seemed the natural choice.”
“So, you understand that I’m Catholic?” I threw the question over my shoulder as I walked into my office’s small washroom to rinse out the coffeepot.
“We’re all children of God, “he offered.
I filled the pot, walked slowly back to empty the water into my Mr. Coffee, took a seat in my high-back executive chair, and looked Lipton squarely between the eyes.
“Yeah, but according to you, some children aren’t good enough. There are things about God and His church I believe. There are some things, like making a business out of prayer that I have trouble with. But, I rarely let it get in my way. “

His smile was replaced with a somber expression that made me think I’d successfully chased off another client. Then his eyes rolled back right before he closed them, and he lifted his right hand into the air. What followed sounded like the coded lingo between a waitress and a short-order cook in some diner.
The best I could make out, Lipton said something like, “Omaha shaky pie. Inca ala mode tea tool a day deck on tea bye-bye she high.”
“Say what?”
He put his hands in his lap, and then opened his eyes. “Matthew 21:12, and Luke 19:45 - It is written ‘My house will be called a house of prayer, but you have made it into a den of thieves’. The fact that you have those feelings about selling prayers is confirmation that I’m in the right place, Mr. Dodge. Or, may I call you Denton?”
That’s my name, but I felt an aversion to having someone that had just channeled, or whatever he’d done, get that familiar with me.
“Just call me Dodge,” I offered.
“Okay, Dodge. In answer to your question, you can help me get my affairs in order. About a week ago I received a word from God.”
“A word from God? When that happened did a duck drop down with fifty bucks?”
Amazingly, Lipton chuckled at that one. “Not quite. What I mean by “a word” is I received a prophecy. He told me to put my house right, and get ready to meet Him.”
I wasn’t exactly sure how to take that. If I hadn’t been thrown off balance by his odd revelation, I might have asked where, when and how public this meet was supposed to be. But, I hadn’t expected what he’d said. He looked healthy enough, but then again I don’t have x-ray vision. So, I sat there, a little short on words to say. Luckily the coffee maker finished dripping about that time.

“So, you’re dying?” I got up and turned to pour us both a cup.
“At this moment I’m in good health, if that’s what you’re asking. Cream and sugar if you have it.”
I shook my head, handed him his cup, and sat down with mine. “I don’t stock the stuff. So, are you just going to drop dead or get hit by a bus?”
“Elijah was carried off in a fiery chariot. Of course these days, we could be an instant away from the Second Coming of our Lord Jesus. The rapture could take place anytime.”
It took a great force of will not to snigger or roll my eyes at the suggestion. “Well with that in mind, what does it really matter what your house looks like?”
“I’m just trying to be obedient.”
“Fine. I still need to know what you expect me to do.”
“I need you to help me find someone. Actually I need to find three people.”
“Long lost relatives?” “Well,” the smile reappeared. “They are lost, though they may not know it. And, they are part of my family, as they are children of God. But, no, they aren’t related to me.”
“Then why do you need to find them?”
“God said He had a word for them.”
“So, why doesn’t God help you? Did He lose their addresses?”
“Be careful, Dodge. You can have fun at my expense, but it wouldn’t be wise to mock the good Lord.”
“Sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“I don’t know why He sent me here, other than I was to employ a guide to help me find them. Like I said before, I’m just trying to be obedient to the will of God.”
“May I ask what exactly the word or prophecy you have for these lucky three will be?” The smile turned into a strangely sly, yet sheepish grin as he shrugged his shoulders. “I guess He’ll tell me when I meet them. All I know is that I am to seek them out with the help of a guide. I’m just…”
“Yeah, I know. Trying to be obedient.”

I sat there mulling it over in silence as I slowly sipped my coffee. Lipton was enough of a salesman to let me think about it without the additional pressure of a continued pitch. There was something fishy, or maybe “loaves and fishy”, about not knowing exactly why he wanted to find his three targets. I wasn’t crazy about not knowing, but it wasn’t a deal breaker. Frankly, I didn’t like Lipton, but his money would spend like anybody’s. Still, I wanted more input to make my decision.
“Okay, I still have to know who we’re looking for. What information can you give me on these three? Names? Last known address?”
“I’m afraid that all I have is their names.” Lipton reached into his breast pocket, retrieved a folded piece of stationery, and handed it to me. “But, I feel in my spirit that they are all three somewhere here in the Dallas / Fort Worth area.”
I read the three names handwritten on the Lipton Ministries letterhead, refolded the sheet, and nodded my head.
“I handle missing persons cases for a minimum of five thousand dollars. This isn’t exactly missing persons, but since there are three subjects I’ll cut you a deal. We’ll make it an even ten grand. Beyond that, I get five hundred a day plus expenses. I’d like to get the first two days up front as a retainer.”
“That’s not a problem, but I have a request.” Lipton reached in his other breast pocket for his checkbook and started writing. “I’ll be going with you as you seek these poor souls out, and I’d like to start today if possible.”
“Sorry,” I said, shaking my head again. “I have to make arrangements to clear my schedule, and notify my operatives. Just so you know, tagging along will cost you an extra grand. I don’t’ give PI lessons for free. We’ll meet back here tomorrow morning. Say ten o’clock?”
“If that’s how you think we should proceed, I’ll see you here then.” He tore off the check, passed it across the desk, and reached to pick up the handwritten list.
I stopped him by holding the folded list down with both hands. “I’d like to hang onto this if you don’t mind?”
Lipton shrugged and rose to leave. “Until tomorrow, Mr. Dodge. God bless.”
“Right back at you.”
I watched him exit, and then opened the list again. I couldn’t get over the fact that I knew two of the three people on the list, and I’d heard more than I wanted to know about the third. I had a little less than 24 hours until Lipton would return. I hoped that would be enough time to find out what he wanted with a drunk, a hooker, and a hit man.