The Muse (11 page)

            Mrs. Baxter studied him carefully, like a scientist studying a microbe underneath the microscope.  “You want to help this girl but you don't even know her phone number or her last name?  Doesn't sound like the two of you were very close.  Even if I had any of that information why would I give any of that to you?  I don’t really even know you all that well.”

            Gibson thought about it for a moment.  Remembering the note in his pocket, he pulled it out and handed it to her.  Mrs. Baxter studied it for a moment.  Her eyebrows arched the more she read, and she pushed her tortoiseshell glasses down on the end of her nose and stared over the top of them at Gibson.  “I can assume one of two things here,” she said.  “I can assume that you're telling the truth.  Or I can assume you're lying to me and trying to track her down for some nefarious reason.  Now, I've never had any trouble out of you in all the time you've been a tenant.  So that's on your side.  No complaints from your neighbors.  You've always paid the rent on time.  You seem like a nice guy.  Then again, so did Ted Bundy.  On the other hand, it's a little strange that this girl seems so important to you and yet you know so little about her.  I'd hate to give you any information that might lead you right to her and then find out that you lied to me about your reasons.”

            “I think I love her,” Gibson said, blurting it out before he realized it.  “Or at least I think that I could.”

            Mrs. Baxter took a long drag on her cigarette before replying.  “Love, huh?  So I take it that you two just met?”

            “No, we've met before.  But we just recently started getting to know each other.”

            “So what happened to your hands?” the landlady asked, gesturing at his bruised knuckles.

            “She went on a date, and the guy she was with hit her.  We ran into him later, and I made him pay for what he did to her.”

            “Interesting,” Mrs. Baxter said with a wry smile.  “Maybe chivalry isn't dead after all.”

            “Please, Mrs. Baxter.  I need some help here.”

            “Here's the thing.  If she wanted you to find her, she would have left you instructions on how to contact her.  But she didn't.  Which means she doesn't want you to find her.”

            “Only because she's afraid of what will happen to me.”

            “Regardless, I don't know if I should tell you anything.  I have ethics, you know?”

            Gibson sighed, running out of options.  “How about this?  I won't ask you for her cell phone number, her forwarding address, or anything like that.  Maybe you could give me the name of her father's company instead, and I could go from there.  Something like that is public knowledge.  Lots of people know that.”

            “Lots of people except you,” Mrs. Baxter reminded him.

            “All I'm asking for is something to go on, a lead.  Just throw me a bone here.  Please.  That’s all I’m asking.”

            Mrs. Baxter chewed on this for a moment.  “I'm sorry, Mr. Gibson.  I'm afraid I can't help you.  I have to go and call Donald Norman, my financial advisor.”

            Gibson's face fell like a poorly baked cake.  “I'm sorry that your money issues are more important than my problems.  Thanks for your time.”

            “If you ever need help setting up your retirement, investing your money, or just getting some sound financial advice on the stock market, Donald Watson is the guy I'd try.  He's a whiz at that stuff.”

            “Donald Watson, eh?”

            “I’ve been told he’s the best,” Mrs. Baxter said.  “He’s a very rich man for good reason.  He seems to know his business.”

            Gibson froze, listening to what she'd just said.  He looked at her, and she responded with a wink.  Gibson smiled. 

            He had his first lead.

            It didn't take him very long to find Donald Watson's contact information and the building he owned downtown.  To judge by the size and opulence of the offices, Mr. Watson was obviously very good at what he did.  Gibson only hoped that he was as kind and generous as he was talented. 

            The office was all clean angles, modern furniture, and had an antiseptic atmosphere about it that made him feel like he was in a hospital and not in the building of a hedge fund manager.  The secretary sitting behind her desk looked like she had been trained to attack on command.  She wore a scowl that was probably meant to scare off intruders.  Gibson approached her, ready to flee if necessary.

            “Excuse me,” he said.  “I'm here to see Donald Watson about his daughter.  It's urgent.”

            The woman turned her head to look at him, and he was sure when her eyes met his that laser beams might shoot out of them and kill him where he stood.  “Do you have an appointment?”

            “It's about his daughter.  Do I need an appointment for that?”

            “What's his daughter's name?”

            “Faith.”

            “May I ask what this is regarding?”

            “She’s been in some trouble lately.  I’m concerned about her.”

            The secretary studied him carefully like a predator eyeballing its prey.  Gibson tried not to squirm.  After a couple of seconds of intense scrutiny, the old lady picked up her phone and dialed her boss' extension.  “Mr. Watson, there is a gentleman out here to see you.  He says it's about your daughter.”

            The secretary listened for several seconds then hung up the phone with a scowl.  “Mr. Watson will see you now.”

            For the first time since arriving here, Gibson considered his appearance.  He wore tattered jeans, a white Ramones T-shirt, a blue vest, and a fedora with a feather in the band.  He had always heard to dress for the job you want not the job you have, but he had opted to dress as a street artist.  In other words, he hadn't given any thought to how he looked before rushing over here.  He had acted impulsively.  Now, he regretted it.   

            He needed to find Faith and see what kind of hand Fate would deal him.  If...and this was a big if...he was able to do that and start a relationship with Faith, maybe even build a future with her, Donald Watson was going to be a very influential figure in his life.  He knew he wasn't going to make much of a first impression with the man.  This was not how he hoped to meet Faith's father.

            As he walked down the hall to Mr. Watson’s office, Gibson felt like he understood what all those Death Row inmates felt as they walked their last mile.  His feelings of dread, as it turned out, were completely warranted.  

            Donald Watson was an imposing man.  Beefy, broad-shouldered, salt-and-pepper hair, eyes as shrewd as a hawk's, dressed to the nines.  His office was an object lesson in opulence.  The desk alone must have cost several thousand dollars.  Certificates and awards of all sorts were framed on the walls, next to shelves of expensive looking books.  The chairs were leather, the carpet was plush, and the air smelled like money.  Gibson was a little intimidated by it all, but he forced himself to approach Mr. Watson. 

            “Thank you for seeing me, sir,” Gibson said, extending his hand.  “I'm Gibson Moore.  I'm a friend of Faith's.  We lived in the same building.”

            “Mr. Moore, nice to meet you,” Watson said, returning the gesture with a handshake.  “What brings you down to my office?”

            “I was worried about Faith.  She moved out unexpectedly, and I just wanted to make sure she was ok.”

            “She's fine,” Mr. Watson said.  “There's nothing to worry about.”

            “I was hoping to talk to her.  I was hoping maybe you could tell me where to find her.”

            Donald Watson's eyes narrowed.  “Why don't you just call her yourself and ask her?”

            “It was programmed into my phone, but I lost it,” Gibson lied.  “And you know, nowadays people don't remember phone numbers.  Phones do all of that for you.”

            Mr. Watson made a grunting sound of disapproval.  “You say you lived in the same building as Faith.”

            “Yes sir, on the floor above hers.  She and I talked sometimes.  More lately.”

            “What kind of work do you do, Mr. Moore?”

            “I'm an artist,” Gibson said.  He saw the look of disapproval on Watson's face immediately.

            “Does that line of employment pay well?” Watson asked.

            “Not as well as I would like,” Gibson said with a smile, hoping to break the ice.  But Watson wasn't budging.  He crossed his arms and stared at Gibson.

            “Were you and my daughter dating?” Watson asked.  “Because I couldn't help noticing a large bruise on her cheek when I saw her.  Consider your answer to this very carefully.  Remember, I have a lot of friends in this city, and I keep my ear to the ground.  I have friends in the police station who keep me well apprised of anything that might be of interest to me.”

            Gibson froze.  He knew immediately what Donald Watson was getting at.  Donald Watson knew he had been in jail within the past twenty-four hours. 

            “Mr. Watson, I didn't know your daughter very well at all until the past couple of days.  But she and I have been getting closer to each other, and she is someone I have grown fond of in a very short amount of time.  If you're asking me if I hit her, the answer is no.  I would never do something like that.”

            “And yet you were hauled down to the police station on suspicion of battery.  The officer had reason to believe you hit her.”

            “She went on a date with someone named Calvin.  He hit her.”

            Donald Watson's entire demeanor changed at the mention of the name.  He went from irritated and bothered to confused and surprised.  “Calvin?”

            “Faith said he was using her to get to you.  When she called him out on it, he got mad and hit her.”

            “Calvin is a fine young man,” Donald Watson protested.  “I find it hard to believe that he would do anything like that.  It’s unthinkable.”

            “And yet he did,” Gibson added.

            “And yet you were the one charged with the crime,” Watson said.

            Gibson nodded.  “It's obvious that you've already got your opinion of me formed without even getting to know me.  Just consider this.  Your daughter is the one who bailed me out.  Surely, you can call any of your 'friends' at the police station and verify this.  If I hit her, do you really think she would do such a thing?”

            “My daughter has a tender heart, Mr. Moore.  If you've grown to know her as well as you say, you would know that.”

            “I was just hoping to speak with her.  I was hoping maybe you could tell me where to find her.  That's all I'm asking.”  

            “Mr. Moore, I appreciate you coming all the way down here to express concern for my daughter.  Believe me, no one worries about her well being more than me.  However, as any loving parent would, I want better for my daughter.  Living in that building of yours was her way of giving me the finger, and I couldn't stand it.  She could have lived anywhere in the city she wanted, but she chose to live there to prove a lesson to me.  She's independent, and I can't boss her around anymore.  So I had to live with her decision to stay there.  Today, however, something changed.  She called me and told me she wanted to move out.  Imagine my surprise.  Imagine my joy.  I hired three moving companies within the hour to transport all of her things before she could change her mind.  Also, imagine my surprise when she announced that she had booked a train ticket to move out of the city.  She said she's going to find a job in New York and make something of her life there.  It's out of your hands...and it's out of mine.  Now, if you will excuse me, I have some work to do.”