ficlet: the last man standing
So a hundred years ago I offered timestamp ficlets, set before or after my stories, and here's the first. wearemany requested five years after The Last Place, so here's 2,000+ words of Justin, five years after:
The phone was ringing as Justin let himself into the office. He didn't bother to pick it up, but let it go on ringing as he made his way through his usual routine, raising the blinds halfway, just the way he liked them, hanging his hat on the back of the door, flipping through the notes he'd left on his desk the night before and then filing them away carefully in a drawer. The phone stopped ringing, but Justin didn't mind. They'd call back, and even if they didn't, business was good enough that he didn't have to worry about what he'd missed.
Business was good enough that he could have hired someone to answer his phones and make sure he didn't miss anything at all, but Justin liked working on his own. He didn't want someone hanging off him all the time, chattering and asking questions. These days he'd found he liked the quiet. Besides, his work required a certain discretion, a delicate touch. The last thing he needed was someone looking over his shoulder and rolling his eyes as he smiled reassuringly at the latest rich lady who'd come looking for what Justin knew how to find.
It was a niche business, the one Justin was in, and he knew other men who'd turn up their noses at it. They wouldn't turn up their noses at the money, Justin knew, and besides, he'd figured out that the men who had the most contempt for his line of work were the ones with the least talent for it. It took a certain talent, Justin's work, and a certain knowledge of people and what they wanted that the most jaded gumshoes of his acquaintance often had little stomach for. The sleuthing itself was the least part of it, child's play, really, once you got the hang of it. What made Justin successful wasn't that he was so good at finding what was lost. His talent was for finding what the people who came to him were looking for.
The women who found their way to his door - and they were almost all women, leavened every so often by the occasional older gentlemen - were reassured by Justin's good looks, his charming manner, his respectful smile. He cultivated all of those things for just that reason. But what they were really looking for, what brought them to his tastefully decorated office in this respectable part of town, was the certainty Justin offered them. He tilted his head carefully as they told him a sad story. Though the words might be different it was always the same sad story, a lapdog lost, and sometimes Justin amused himself as he looked on sympathetically by trying to decide before he was told if it would be a husband who'd gone looking for a prettier model, a lover who'd gone looking for a richer one, or a pampered pooch, more honest than any of them, who'd gone openly looking for a bitch. The ladies cried the most tears over their dogs, Justin had found.
When the story finished Justin would put his hand over the client's and look right into her eyes. "Don't worry," he'd say, his voice certain sure. "I'll find him. Everything will work out for the best."
"I'll do anything," he'd be assured, and a few careful questions would tell him just exactly how much money that anything would amount to, and then Justin would smile again.
"Trust me," he'd say, smiling, and the client would smile back at him through the tears that never quite disturbed her makeup.
"Trust me," he'd say, and then he'd go roust the straying husband out of his love nest with a few carefully snapped pictures, or the drunken lover out of the gutter with a carefully worded offer of cash, or the rutting pup out of the alleyway that for all its mud was cleaner than anywhere else Justin spent his workday.
He never mentioned where he'd found the strays, not even to his clients. After all, finding them wasn't what he was paid so well for. Justin brought them back to his office, all shined up in their Sunday morning clothes, and smiled as he listened to them tell their stories of misunderstandings, misapprehensions, all the innocent twists and turns of love lost and found again. Sometimes he stepped in with a carefully placed word if the story threatened to get a little less pretty than what the client was paying for. Then he'd be thanked profusely, and usually there'd be more tears, and he'd smile and shrug humbly.
"I told you," he'd say quietly, certainly, and then he'd be paid for the pretty story he'd sold them, and recommended to all their friends, and usually invited to dinner as well. He always went. It was good for business, and after all, he was a professional.
The phone rang again, and this time Justin picked it up. "Timberlake," he said, and a woman's voice said,
"I'd like to make an appointment with you."
"Momma," Justin said with exasperation. She did this every time she thought he'd left it too long without calling her, telephoning and claiming she needed a detective because her son had gone missing. "I'm sorry, you're right, it's just been so busy. I'll come over this weekend, no excuses -"
"No," his momma said, and there was a wariness in her voice that brought Justin up short. He'd heard it in her voice before, but never with him. "I need to - this is business, Justin."
"Is everything all right? Where are you?"
"Can you see me now?"
"Of course, you know you can always - do you want me to come get you? Are you in trouble?"
"I'm at the lunch counter across the street. I'll be right up," and she hung up before Justin could ask anything else. He put the phone down and stood up. The office was immaculate but he moved a magazine or two around on the table, picked up a paperweight and put it back down again. His momma didn't come to the office very often.
After much longer than Justin would have thought it would take to walk across the street, his mother eased the door open. "Momma," he said, and put his arms around her. He held her close to him and then stepped back, looking at her.
"I'm fine," she said, and stepped back herself, away from him. She smoothed her skirt and straightened her shoulders. She looked around her and said, "The place looks lovely."
"Thank you," he said. He moved toward the private office in the back. "Do you want to -"
"It'd look lovelier, of course, with someone pretty sitting out here behind the desk." She picked up one of the magazines and leafed through it, then let it fall back onto the table. Before Justin could reach out she bent down and straightened it so it was even with the others. "I don't know why you won't hire someone. You shouldn't have to answer your own phones, not as successful as you are."
"I like it," Justin said. "I don't want to work with a stranger."
"You wouldn't have to. I don't know why you won't - Britney can't be happy where she's working."
"Momma," Justin said, then stopped. Britney was happy where she was, and Justin was happy with her there, not that he could ever explain it to his mother. His mouth twisted a little. Once upon a time, when he was a little boy - and a not so little boy, too, if he were honest - he would have sworn he'd always tell everything to his mother, and that she'd always understand everything, too. But Justin wasn't a little boy any more, and he'd never been able to make his mother understand that Britney liked her work at the Bluebird Club. Singing, was what they both called it, even though Brit didn't do as much singing as she did dancing and drinking and talking with men who might be able to help her with her career. Working behind a desk in Justin's office would never suit her, not that Justin had asked her. He didn't need to. She'd never meet anyone who could help her here.
"You can't be happy with it, either," his mother said, and Justin kept his mouth shut. She looked at him closely, curiously, and for one terrible moment Justin thought she might be about to break the news to him about what kind of place the Bluebird Club was. She wouldn't be the first; a certain type of man was always pleased to let it slip to Justin that he'd seen Britney working there. That type of man was always shocked when Justin smiled and said, "Kiss her for me, would you, and tell her I'll be late picking her up." That type of man would never realize that two people could be honest with each other the way Justin and Brit were. That type of man would never realize what a relief it could be to know ahead of time just how someone would betray you.
"I'm happy enough," Justin said, and his mother looked away. She smoothed her skirt down again. "Come on back, Momma, and tell me what's wrong. You're scaring me here."
"Like I could scare you," she said, but her voice was uncertain as Justin led her back. He settled her in the chair in front of his desk and smiled at her.
"What is it, Momma?" he said in his most reassuring voice.
"I - someone's missing," she said. "He's missing, and it's been - I'm starting to worry, and I think he might be in real trouble."
Justin tilted his head sympathetically, but for just a moment he closed his eyes. He hadn't known she'd had someone in her life. Of all the people in the world he'd never thought to hear this story from his mother.
"Don't worry," he said. "I'll find him."
Her lips twisted a little. "You sound very sure," she said. She opened her purse and took out a picture, then laid it face down on his desk. She ran her hand over the back of it, then pushed it across the desk to him.
Justin turned it over curiously, then let his hands lift from the desk. He shoved his chair back but didn't stand up. He knew his mother was watching him, but he couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes.
"I don't - baby, it's not that I keep in touch with him, not since … I wouldn't, I wouldn't do that to you, but I try to keep tabs on him, I hear things, from a few people I used to know, just to make sure he's okay, at least - Justin," she said, and Justin finally looked up at her. He felt very calm but his mother put her hand over her face and then took it away. "I made your father a promise," she said.
Justin looked down at the picture and his own face looked back at him, younger, stupider, his mouth wide open as he laughed like a fool. In the picture Chris wasn't looking at the camera but at him, the way he had sometimes when he thought Justin wasn't looking back, like he'd found something he'd never thought to lose. Justin had always thought that look was so sad. He didn't think so anymore.
He put his hand over the picture but kept his eyes down. "He's probably just on a bender. I hear things, too, and from what I hear that's where he's generally to be found."
"It's not - he's been gone longer, this time. Too long, and I heard he might be - mixed up in something he shouldn't be. I think he might have gotten in over his head -"
"That's the only thing he'd even let himself get in," Justin said, and he had to make his voice harsher than he liked, with his mother, to keep it from shaking.
"I'm sorry," his mother said. She put her hand out for the picture but Justin didn't lift his own from the desk. She pulled her hand back into her lap and clutched her purse tightly. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come to you. It was a mistake. I just - I was worried, and I didn't know who else to trust. But I shouldn't have - not to you, I shouldn't -"
"I'll take the case," Justin said, and he thought his voice sounded very calm this time, very professional.
"Baby," his mother said. "Baby, you don't have to -"
"Trust me," he said, and she looked up at him, her makeup streaking down her face. She studied him, then nodded once and stood up. She bent down and kissed him on the cheek. He let her. At the door she paused as if to say something, then just nodded again and left.
When she was gone Justin looked back down at the desk. He slid his hand over so that it only covered one half of the picture, and the laughing fool disappeared. In the picture Chris was still looking at him, with that look Justin had never understood when he'd caught it on Chris' face. Justin thought he understood it now.
He opened his desk drawer carefully and put the picture inside. Then he stood up and put on his coat and hat.
He had a job to do.
The phone was ringing as Justin let himself into the office. He didn't bother to pick it up, but let it go on ringing as he made his way through his usual routine, raising the blinds halfway, just the way he liked them, hanging his hat on the back of the door, flipping through the notes he'd left on his desk the night before and then filing them away carefully in a drawer. The phone stopped ringing, but Justin didn't mind. They'd call back, and even if they didn't, business was good enough that he didn't have to worry about what he'd missed.
Business was good enough that he could have hired someone to answer his phones and make sure he didn't miss anything at all, but Justin liked working on his own. He didn't want someone hanging off him all the time, chattering and asking questions. These days he'd found he liked the quiet. Besides, his work required a certain discretion, a delicate touch. The last thing he needed was someone looking over his shoulder and rolling his eyes as he smiled reassuringly at the latest rich lady who'd come looking for what Justin knew how to find.
It was a niche business, the one Justin was in, and he knew other men who'd turn up their noses at it. They wouldn't turn up their noses at the money, Justin knew, and besides, he'd figured out that the men who had the most contempt for his line of work were the ones with the least talent for it. It took a certain talent, Justin's work, and a certain knowledge of people and what they wanted that the most jaded gumshoes of his acquaintance often had little stomach for. The sleuthing itself was the least part of it, child's play, really, once you got the hang of it. What made Justin successful wasn't that he was so good at finding what was lost. His talent was for finding what the people who came to him were looking for.
The women who found their way to his door - and they were almost all women, leavened every so often by the occasional older gentlemen - were reassured by Justin's good looks, his charming manner, his respectful smile. He cultivated all of those things for just that reason. But what they were really looking for, what brought them to his tastefully decorated office in this respectable part of town, was the certainty Justin offered them. He tilted his head carefully as they told him a sad story. Though the words might be different it was always the same sad story, a lapdog lost, and sometimes Justin amused himself as he looked on sympathetically by trying to decide before he was told if it would be a husband who'd gone looking for a prettier model, a lover who'd gone looking for a richer one, or a pampered pooch, more honest than any of them, who'd gone openly looking for a bitch. The ladies cried the most tears over their dogs, Justin had found.
When the story finished Justin would put his hand over the client's and look right into her eyes. "Don't worry," he'd say, his voice certain sure. "I'll find him. Everything will work out for the best."
"I'll do anything," he'd be assured, and a few careful questions would tell him just exactly how much money that anything would amount to, and then Justin would smile again.
"Trust me," he'd say, smiling, and the client would smile back at him through the tears that never quite disturbed her makeup.
"Trust me," he'd say, and then he'd go roust the straying husband out of his love nest with a few carefully snapped pictures, or the drunken lover out of the gutter with a carefully worded offer of cash, or the rutting pup out of the alleyway that for all its mud was cleaner than anywhere else Justin spent his workday.
He never mentioned where he'd found the strays, not even to his clients. After all, finding them wasn't what he was paid so well for. Justin brought them back to his office, all shined up in their Sunday morning clothes, and smiled as he listened to them tell their stories of misunderstandings, misapprehensions, all the innocent twists and turns of love lost and found again. Sometimes he stepped in with a carefully placed word if the story threatened to get a little less pretty than what the client was paying for. Then he'd be thanked profusely, and usually there'd be more tears, and he'd smile and shrug humbly.
"I told you," he'd say quietly, certainly, and then he'd be paid for the pretty story he'd sold them, and recommended to all their friends, and usually invited to dinner as well. He always went. It was good for business, and after all, he was a professional.
The phone rang again, and this time Justin picked it up. "Timberlake," he said, and a woman's voice said,
"I'd like to make an appointment with you."
"Momma," Justin said with exasperation. She did this every time she thought he'd left it too long without calling her, telephoning and claiming she needed a detective because her son had gone missing. "I'm sorry, you're right, it's just been so busy. I'll come over this weekend, no excuses -"
"No," his momma said, and there was a wariness in her voice that brought Justin up short. He'd heard it in her voice before, but never with him. "I need to - this is business, Justin."
"Is everything all right? Where are you?"
"Can you see me now?"
"Of course, you know you can always - do you want me to come get you? Are you in trouble?"
"I'm at the lunch counter across the street. I'll be right up," and she hung up before Justin could ask anything else. He put the phone down and stood up. The office was immaculate but he moved a magazine or two around on the table, picked up a paperweight and put it back down again. His momma didn't come to the office very often.
After much longer than Justin would have thought it would take to walk across the street, his mother eased the door open. "Momma," he said, and put his arms around her. He held her close to him and then stepped back, looking at her.
"I'm fine," she said, and stepped back herself, away from him. She smoothed her skirt and straightened her shoulders. She looked around her and said, "The place looks lovely."
"Thank you," he said. He moved toward the private office in the back. "Do you want to -"
"It'd look lovelier, of course, with someone pretty sitting out here behind the desk." She picked up one of the magazines and leafed through it, then let it fall back onto the table. Before Justin could reach out she bent down and straightened it so it was even with the others. "I don't know why you won't hire someone. You shouldn't have to answer your own phones, not as successful as you are."
"I like it," Justin said. "I don't want to work with a stranger."
"You wouldn't have to. I don't know why you won't - Britney can't be happy where she's working."
"Momma," Justin said, then stopped. Britney was happy where she was, and Justin was happy with her there, not that he could ever explain it to his mother. His mouth twisted a little. Once upon a time, when he was a little boy - and a not so little boy, too, if he were honest - he would have sworn he'd always tell everything to his mother, and that she'd always understand everything, too. But Justin wasn't a little boy any more, and he'd never been able to make his mother understand that Britney liked her work at the Bluebird Club. Singing, was what they both called it, even though Brit didn't do as much singing as she did dancing and drinking and talking with men who might be able to help her with her career. Working behind a desk in Justin's office would never suit her, not that Justin had asked her. He didn't need to. She'd never meet anyone who could help her here.
"You can't be happy with it, either," his mother said, and Justin kept his mouth shut. She looked at him closely, curiously, and for one terrible moment Justin thought she might be about to break the news to him about what kind of place the Bluebird Club was. She wouldn't be the first; a certain type of man was always pleased to let it slip to Justin that he'd seen Britney working there. That type of man was always shocked when Justin smiled and said, "Kiss her for me, would you, and tell her I'll be late picking her up." That type of man would never realize that two people could be honest with each other the way Justin and Brit were. That type of man would never realize what a relief it could be to know ahead of time just how someone would betray you.
"I'm happy enough," Justin said, and his mother looked away. She smoothed her skirt down again. "Come on back, Momma, and tell me what's wrong. You're scaring me here."
"Like I could scare you," she said, but her voice was uncertain as Justin led her back. He settled her in the chair in front of his desk and smiled at her.
"What is it, Momma?" he said in his most reassuring voice.
"I - someone's missing," she said. "He's missing, and it's been - I'm starting to worry, and I think he might be in real trouble."
Justin tilted his head sympathetically, but for just a moment he closed his eyes. He hadn't known she'd had someone in her life. Of all the people in the world he'd never thought to hear this story from his mother.
"Don't worry," he said. "I'll find him."
Her lips twisted a little. "You sound very sure," she said. She opened her purse and took out a picture, then laid it face down on his desk. She ran her hand over the back of it, then pushed it across the desk to him.
Justin turned it over curiously, then let his hands lift from the desk. He shoved his chair back but didn't stand up. He knew his mother was watching him, but he couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes.
"I don't - baby, it's not that I keep in touch with him, not since … I wouldn't, I wouldn't do that to you, but I try to keep tabs on him, I hear things, from a few people I used to know, just to make sure he's okay, at least - Justin," she said, and Justin finally looked up at her. He felt very calm but his mother put her hand over her face and then took it away. "I made your father a promise," she said.
Justin looked down at the picture and his own face looked back at him, younger, stupider, his mouth wide open as he laughed like a fool. In the picture Chris wasn't looking at the camera but at him, the way he had sometimes when he thought Justin wasn't looking back, like he'd found something he'd never thought to lose. Justin had always thought that look was so sad. He didn't think so anymore.
He put his hand over the picture but kept his eyes down. "He's probably just on a bender. I hear things, too, and from what I hear that's where he's generally to be found."
"It's not - he's been gone longer, this time. Too long, and I heard he might be - mixed up in something he shouldn't be. I think he might have gotten in over his head -"
"That's the only thing he'd even let himself get in," Justin said, and he had to make his voice harsher than he liked, with his mother, to keep it from shaking.
"I'm sorry," his mother said. She put her hand out for the picture but Justin didn't lift his own from the desk. She pulled her hand back into her lap and clutched her purse tightly. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come to you. It was a mistake. I just - I was worried, and I didn't know who else to trust. But I shouldn't have - not to you, I shouldn't -"
"I'll take the case," Justin said, and he thought his voice sounded very calm this time, very professional.
"Baby," his mother said. "Baby, you don't have to -"
"Trust me," he said, and she looked up at him, her makeup streaking down her face. She studied him, then nodded once and stood up. She bent down and kissed him on the cheek. He let her. At the door she paused as if to say something, then just nodded again and left.
When she was gone Justin looked back down at the desk. He slid his hand over so that it only covered one half of the picture, and the laughing fool disappeared. In the picture Chris was still looking at him, with that look Justin had never understood when he'd caught it on Chris' face. Justin thought he understood it now.
He opened his desk drawer carefully and put the picture inside. Then he stood up and put on his coat and hat.
He had a job to do.