The train ripped through the countryside as the dawn crawled its way into my room. The Doppler sounds of coming and going, ricocheting off the walls. I mulled-over my life while my stomach burned from acids of discontent. My regret, halted, by the pounding on the door.
“It’s the police.”
Through the chained door I said,
“What’d ya want, it’s 6:00 am for Christ’s sake?”
“We want to talk to you about one of your employees. ”
I unlocked the door.

That’s how the day opened it’s arms. Bear hugging me into a stranglehold of impossible choices. Two uniforms were standing there, one sipping steaming coffee, the other with a notebook. The guy with the coffee looked surly and reeked of a foul mood. The other looked dry cleaned and pressed. Slick. A catalogue shot for crispy cop uniforms.
“ Steven, Steven Miller, you’re the owner of Mr. Taco, correct,” the crispy cop said.
“ Yeah, why?”
“ One of your employees is missing Mr. Miller…reported three days ago.”
“ Well I don’t keep tabs on them when they leave the place–it’s one of those privacy things, people’s rights and all that stuff.”
“ Someone from your restaurant said you gave her a ride on the day she was last seen. Is that correct, Mr. Miller?”
“ Yeah, I dropped her off downtown”
“ You can see why we’re interested Steve,” the surly cop said.
“ Can you tell us exactly where you went after you dropped her off?” the crispy cop said.
“ ‘I was here…like every night.”
“ Can someone account for your whereabouts?”

I opened the door just wide enough to let them in. I wanted them to suck-in their donut filled bellies. I led them to a back bedroom. The stench of urine and that old people smell hung in the air. The crispy cop gagged. I stopped at the foot of the bed; two sunken eyes stared back from nowhere, a skull encased in rice paper skin, translucent and gray.
“ This is my father–been this way for two years. Ya see the drip bags hanging there? Do ya see the diapers…excuse me–Depends? The dried baby food on his chin? Did I mention he can’t remember what a cat is? Well officers, this is my job. My night shift. Night, after miserable night.

I ripped back the sheet like a trickster pulls-out a tablecloth from under a table full of dishes. A double-amputee trying to heal isn’t pretty. Diabetes. Humor wasn’t the mood, but I chuckled in my mind. Here I was, standing with the ruins of what once was my father, and these two Jack Lord’s couldn’t grasp the last few minutes.

Clearing his throat the surly cop said,
“ Uh, can he vouch for you?”
My eyes rolled back and hit the ceiling.
“Dad? These two gentlemen–want ta know, if I was here last night?”
I thought of Jack Nicholson.

Up on their toes and craning their necks, they waited. They really expected an answer, a low guttural moan of a word, a crude carved-in-stone response that would get them away from this god-awful hellhole. Nothing.
“ Um…well Mr. Miller, if any information turns up on your missing employee… (the cop bowed his head to refer to his notes) Amanda–Amanda Dearfox…a Native American woman–something turns-up, we’ll let you know. In the mean time, stay in town, Steve!”

I walked them to the door without a word. The fisheye lens of the peephole turned the cop’s car into a cartoon limping into the street. I went to the kitchen to make coffee and toast.
I thought about last night. In my bedroom closet Amanda Dearfox waited. A rope bound her neck to her ankles. A Jolie sized-tongue, swollen between her parted lips. Her face, purplish the last time I checked. I knew she wouldn’t be able to have breakfast with me.