“Michael, we have to talk about your mother,” I said.
“Okay,” Michael said.
“Tell me about your mother’s friends,” I said.
Michael grimaced. “She didn’t have any,” he said. “She was a bar floozy.”
I grimaced, and Michael looked to Doc for confirmation. Doc nodded grimly.
“Who told you that, Michael?” I asked.
“Nobody. I’m no dummy, I knew that Uncle Jim and Uncle George and Uncle Bob and Uncle What’s-his-face were just pickups.”
“What about women friends?”
“She didn’t have any.”
“Ever heard of a woman named Alma Jacobsen?”
“No.”
“Was your mother friendly with the parents of any of your friends?”
Michael hesitated. “I don’t have any friends.”
“None at all?”
Michael shrugged. “The books I read are my friends. Minna is my friend.” He pointed to the puppy, tethered to a phone pole outside the plate glass window.
I kicked this sad information around in my head. Michael leaned his shoulder against me and ‘gazed longingly at my half-finished root beer float.
“Kill it,” I said.
He did, in one gulp.
I opened up another line of questioning: “Michael, you were with your dad when your mother was killed, right?”
“Right. We were playing duckball.”
“What’s duekball?”
“It’s catch. If you miss the ball, you have to get down on your knees and quack like a duck.”
I laughed. “Sounds like fun. How did you feel about your mother, Michael? Did you love her?”
Michael went red all over. His long skinny arms went red, his neck went red, and his face went red all the way up to his soft brown crew cut. He started to tremble, then swept an arm across the tabletop and knocked all the glassware and utensils onto the floor. He pushed his way across me and ran outside in the direction of his beagle pup.
Doc stared at me, letting an alarmed waitress pick up the detritus of our root beer floats.
“Does that happen often?” I asked.
Doc nodded. “My son is a volatile boy.”
“He takes after his dad.” It was both a challenge and a compliment. Doc understood that.
“In some ways,” he said.
“I think he’s a wonderful boy,” I added.
Doc smiled. “So do I.”
I laid a five-dollar bill on the table. Doc and I got up and walked outside. Michael was playing tug-of-war with his dog. The dog held the leather leash in her jaws and strained happily against the pull of Michael’s skinny arms.
“Come on, Colonel,” Doc called. “Time to go home.”
Michael and the dog ran ahead of us across Western Avenue and they remained a good forty yards in front as we walked west in the hot afternoon sun. Doc and I didn’t talk. I thought about the boy and wondered what Doc was thinking. When we got to the apartment building on Beverly and Irving, I stuck out my hand.
“Thanks for your cooperation, Doc,” I said.
“It was a pleasure, Fred.”
“I think you’ve been a big help. I think you’ve proven conclusively that this Jacobsen woman’s claim is a phony.”
“I didn’t know Marcella had a policy with Prudential. I’m surprised she didn’t tell me about it.”
“People do surprising things.”
“What year did she take out the policy?”
“In ’51.”
“We were divorced in ’50.”
I shrugged. “Stranger things have happened.”
Doc shrugged too. “How true,” he said. He reached inside his pants pocket and pulled out the business card I had given him earlier. He handed it to me. The ink on it was smudged. Doc shook his head. “A smart young insurance bulldog like you should get his cards printed at a better place.”
We shook hands again. I felt myself start to go red. “So long, Doc,” I said.
“You take care, Fred,” Doc returned.
I walked to my ear. I had the key in the door when suddenly Michael ran to me and grabbed me in a fierce hug. Before I could respond, he shoved a wadded-up piece of paper into my hand and ran away. I opened up the paper. “You are my friend” was all it said.
I drove home, moved by the boy and puzzled by the man. I had a strange sensation that Doc Harris knew who I was and somehow welcomed my intrusion. I had another feeling, equally strange, that there was a bond building between Michael and me.