Dating : MAX ORDOS DOES NOT EXIST: CHAPTER FOUR

Previously, in Chapter Three: Pearl has more visions of the woman in the letterman jacket while visiting a farmer’s market, watching a clown get maced by police, and taking a campus tour of the University of Kadath.

A cigarette doesn’t clear away Pearl’s headache, so he abandons the tour and returns to his car. A parking citation is tucked under his windshield wipers. He rips it up and drives away. A passing cop car reminds him that he should talk to the squatter who was living in Ken Carlisle’s farmhouse.

When he stops to get gas, it dawns on him that he doesn’t know where the police station is. He shakes his head at himself as he walks away from the gas pumps to light a cigarette. Who let him become a private investigator, anyway?

A wholesome-looking kid with an insurance salesman’s smile walks out of the cashier’s kiosk and asks to bum a cigarette from him. Pearl obliges.

“Thanks, brother,” the kid says. “I’ve been here since 5am and I was about ready to burn down an orphanage for one of these.”

“Sure,” Pearl says, smiling. The kid can’t be more than 21. “Know where the police station is?”

The kid tells him that it’s a right off the traffic circle in town, then a left at the Lutheran church. “Wanna check your tire pressure before you go?” he asks.

“Why? Do I look low?”

“Nah, we’ve got free air around back for the rest of the day. Just thought I’d ask.”

“I’m good,” Pearl says. “Thanks, though.”

“If you were a girl, I’d offer to do it for ya,” the kid says. “Guys are on their own.” He inhales deeply and lets smoke creep out of his mouth. “Yep, I’m a sexist.”

Pearl laughs at that all the way back to his car, and is still chuckling as he parks in front of the Kadath Municipal Building and puts quarters in the meter. The Municipal Building is a tall white building with red shutters that looks more residential than municipal. It could have been some robber baron’s city residence, or one of those veteran’s homes for Civil War soldiers who went broke shooting morphine. Pearl casts that morbid thought aside as he asks the cop at the reception desk where the holding cells are.

“Are you a lawyer?” the cop asks.

“No,” Pearl says. “Private investigator. You’re holding a guy who was squatting on Ken Carlisle’s property.”

“Okay,” the cop says. “So?”

“So I need to talk to him,” Pearl says. “A big developer in Baltimore is about to buy that place and I need to know why he refused to leave.”

“Baltimore?” the cop asked.

“Yeah,” Pearl says, “I don’t get it either. I do need to talk to this guy, though. He may know something about this place that I don’t.”

“No can do,” the cop says. “Not unless you’re a lawyer.”

Pearl sighs. “I talked to Sheriff West yesterday, and he’s taking a special interest in this case,” he says. “Said he’d help me if I needed it.”

“Did you now?” the cop asks, raising an eyebrow. “Okay, then. Cells are two floors down, in the basement. Elevator’s broken, so take the stairs.” The cop points to a door labeled Stairwell A, and Pearl follows his directions. The stairs end in a room with barred cells on either side and a desk at one end. The air is humid with urine and stale beer. Pearl explains his business to the guard on duty, who grunts approval as he fills out paperwork.

Only three of the cells are occupied. The first prisoner is passed out on the floor, likely drunk. The second is that clown from the night before, his facepaint smeared. The third one is an older man, unshaven, wearing a knit hat and a heavy brown jacket. He walks up to the bars when he sees Pearl coming.

“You Dale?” Pearl asks.

“You my lawyer?”

“No,” Pearl says. “I’m here about your cousin Ken’s place.”

Dale kicks the bars and sits back down on the metal bench in his cell. “I don’t have to tell you shit,” he says.

“No, but you should.” Pearl takes out his notebook and pen. “Big developer from Baltimore’s about to buy that place. If you fuck that up somehow, they’ll come after you with both barrels.”

“Fuck Baltimore,” Dale says. “Place is a shithole.”

“So is Ken’s house after what you did to it,” Pearl says. “Why’d you want to burn it down?”

“Kiss my ass.”

“Okay,” Pearl says, pocketing his notebook and pen. “I’ll get your contact information from the cop upstairs and pass that along to the developer. Have fun with that.” He gets halfway to the stairs before Dale calls him back.

“That house killed Kenny,” Dale says. “Almost killed me, too. There’s something evil in it.”

Oh good, Pearl thinks, he’s one of those. Every real estate dispute has someone involved who thinks ghosts are influencing one end of it. Often it’s more than one someone. All they do is slow the process down and make everyone’s lives that much more difficult. “I’ll have the developers call a ghost hunter,” he says. “Recommend anyone?”

Dale kicks off one of his dirty sneakers and rolls his sock down halfway, staring death into Pearl’s eyes the whole time. He pulls a small key from his sock and hands it to Pearl, who pockets it quickly.

“Take a look for yourself,” he says.

“What door does this go to?” Pearl asks, but Dale returns to his bench and doesn’t answer. “Okay then. Thanks for your time.” A thought rushes into his mind. “Do you know a guy named Max Ordos?”

Dale looks up. “Max Ordos doesn’t exist,” he says, repeating it as Pearl heads back upstairs, where Sheriff West is waiting for him. His arms are folded across his chest.

“Heard you dropped my name to talk to that asshole downstairs,” he says. Behind him, the cop working reception grins.

“Seemed like the right thing to do when I did it,” Pearl says. “Didn’t get much out of him.”

“Yeah, I bet,” West says. “Next time you have any burning questions, call my office.” He looks upset. Not hurt, and he’s not even milking his authority all that much. Something else is up, but Pearl can’t figure out what it is.

“Do you know a guy named Max Ordos?” he asks.

West glares at him. “No,” he says. “I’ll walk you to your car.” Pearl takes the hint and leaves, with West right behind him. The sheriff watches from the curb as Pearl backs out of his parking spot and returns to the hotel. On the way, Pearl passes by that art gallery he’d seen the previous day, and sees that it’s open. He parks crooked on the street and runs in. The rail-skinny older man working that day doesn’t have time to greet him before he asks about the portrait.

“What’s that now?” the older man asks. “A portrait?”

“Yeah,” Pearl says. “Young woman, blonde hair, wearing a letterman jacket. It’s in your window. She looks familiar, I was wondering if you knew more about it.”

“There’s nothing like that in our window,” the older man says, and Pearl’s chest cinches. He hadn’t checked in the window before he burst in. Maybe someone bought it.

“It was there yesterday,” he says. “I saw it. Did someone buy it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the older man says. “We haven’t changed our window display all week, and we’ve never had a portrait like that. Or any at all.” He clears his throat. “Don’t much care for portraits, personally. Too vain.”

That Pearl agrees with him provides no comfort. He leaves the gallery and looks in the window. All the paintings are scenes of the Historic Kadath Cemetery, and where he saw the portrait the other day is a rendering of Gen. Kadath’s grave monument. Confused and tired, he gets a to-go coffee from next door. While he waits, the jazz playing in the shop zones him out until he’s interrupted by a scream from the bathroom. A college girl runs out and slams her hand down on the customer service bell.

“I don’t know who that woman in the bathroom is, or what she’s talking about,” the girl tells the barista, “but you need to call the cops.”

“What happened?” the barista asks. “What lady in the bathroom?”

“I don’t know, I was in there and I thought I was alone and she snuck into my stall,” the girl says. “She was watching me pee! And saying all this creepy stuff.” She holds back tears, then converts them into anger as the other patrons — mostly other college kids — stare at her.

“Call the cops!” she yells. The barista nods and grabs the phone, at which point Pearl’s order is announced. The jazz medley ends and a promo for the college radio station leads into the next song. Pearl drinks his coffee as he drives back to the hotel, only spilling a little bit of it on himself. At the last intersection before the highway, a homeless woman limps between cars, holding a cardboard sign at collarbone-height. It says Homeless Hungry Please Help God Bless. Then it says Max Ordos Does Not Exist. Then cars behind Pearl are honking at him and he jackrabbits through a left turn that almost skids him into the shoulder.

When he parks, he stays in his car for a moment, feeling very much at odds with himself. Who is Max Ordos? How can he not exist? He has a name. That alone is an existence.

Pearl lights a cigarette and reclines the back of his seat, watching color drain from the sky. If Max Ordos really doesn’t exist, who cares? Why is it important to know that someone doesn’t exist? Does that girl exist, the blonde one he keeps seeing, that other people have seen? All of this started when he took the gig investigating this farmhouse — were they related? How? He lets these questions tumble around in his brain for the length of a cigarette, but no answers tumble out.