Liz. Where are you now, Alex? We need to talk.
I don’t want to talk to any of them. I tell myself I’ll return the calls tomorrow. I head out for a jog. Stepping out the door from the air-conditioned lobby into the humid air, I’m surprised there isn’t a thunderstorm in the doorway. The air feels so dense it’s almost like running through water. I head out along the waterfront until I get to a dock area and a security fence stops me. On the way back, I pick it up as I cruise around the perimeter of Lafayette Park. A crowd sways and claps to the music from the bandstand, a free concert, some kind of funky salsa blues. I’m dripping wet by the time I get back to the Omni, and I fog up the mirror in the elevator.
After a shower, I pop a beer and sit back down in front of the computer. It’s only been an hour or so, but already I have eight responses to my e-mail plea. Most of them suggest links I might check, but one of them (folderman@netzero.com) recognizes the rabbit as the winner of a competition at the Prospect Hill branch of the Philadelphia Public Library.
The Prospect Hill Origami Society sponsors an annual competition, posing a different figure challenge each year. This year, it’s the shark; 1995 was the year of the rabbit. It isn’t one of the big folding competitions, but the entrance fee is trivial, so you get a lot of students and the like. The rabbit in the photo you’re circulating was the grand champion in 1995, and we were all irritated when the creator was identified only by his first name or something. No address. Clearly the guy was a spectacular talent and some of us wanted to communicate with him, but there was no information about how to do so. Get in touch with George Esterhazy – he’s the president emeritus of the group. He’s retired now but still very engaged with folding. Cheers, I hope this helps.
Folderman appends Esterhazy’s phone number and e-mail address. I shoot him a fervent thank-you, then send my original e-mail to Esterhazy along with a copy of Folderman’s message.
A few minutes later, I call Esterhazy. He might be one of those guys who checks his e-mail once a week. At least I ought to bring it to his attention.
“Esterhazy,” the reedy voice says.
“Mr. Esterhazy, my name is Alex Callahan. I don’t know if you’ve had a chance-”
“Yesss. I got your e-mail. And of course I remember that brilliant little rabbit. Byron B. Very frustrating.”
“Byron B.? What do you mean?”
“That was his name – all the name we ever got. As I was saying, it was very frustrating. Some on the committee wanted to strip the championship from him, but I was against it. Wouldn’t have been right. It was a blind competition, you know, and his rabbit was head and shoulders above the other submissions.”
“Excuse me, but how was the rabbit submitted, if you didn’t know the identity of the person who made it?”
“Turned out the fellow who sent the piece was an occupational therapist at the… wait, I’ll remember.”
“Port Sulfur Forensic Facility in Louisiana?”
“Yes! A madhouse! Not unknown, of course. Jules Kravik – a famous folder – he was deeply disturbed and lived most of his life in a mental institution.”
“Hunh.”
“With this Byron B. fellow, we might have been permitted to communicate except that by the time the competition was judged and we were ready to inform the winners and announce results, he’d been released. And our attempts to persuade the institution to pass on the news of victory and the small cash award were very firmly rebuffed.” A sigh. “So that was it. I was a bit surprised that he didn’t resurface in the origami world – clearly a talent, very innovative use of the stretched bird base. But that was it.”
I’m so excited I barely have the manners to thank the man before I hang up.
Byron B. might not be much, but it’s something. It’s not like the facility in Port Sulfur is a detox center or a rehab facility with patients checking in and out at will. It’s an institution for the criminally insane. Which is to say that, whoever Byron B. is, he fucked up badly and in a very public way – otherwise he wouldn’t have been in that particular bin for so many years.
And he hadn’t checked in of his own volition. Which meant that somewhere in Louisiana, there was a court-order committing a man named Byron, last name initial B., to the Port Sulfur Forensic Facility. Depending upon what the guy had done, there might even be a news story. Thanks to Anderton, I know the year: 1983.
Ordinarily, I might not select a private investigator on the advice of a thirteen-year-old girl, but nothing about my life is ordinary anymore. Jezebel Henton is happy to give me Pinky Streiber’s name, which she spells for me, and his number, which she apparently knows by heart.
“Thanks, Jez.”
“One thing about Pink maybe you should know?” She hesitates.
“What’s that?”
“Just ’cause it kinda startles people. See, Pinky – the reason that’s his nickname? He’s an albino.”
I meet Pinky Streiber at his office in the French Quarter. A hard-looking blonde in a red linen sheath sits at the reception desk. She tells me to take a seat in what has to be one of the hippest offices I’ve ever been in. Jazz on the sound system. Paintings and antique furniture and a scatter of big plants. Tall ceilings and rotating fans. Huge windows with white shutters. Pinky Streiber is doing all right.
Five minutes later, he’s shaking my hand and leading me to his dimly lit and sparsely furnished inner sanctum. He sits behind a slab of polished wood, which has nothing on it but a red telephone. I sit on a red leather Barcelona chair. Streiber wears sunglasses and his skin is dead white. There’s a familiar smell in the air, but I can’t quite identify it.
“Sunscreen,” Streiber says, as if he’s read my mind. “I’m drenched in it. That’s what you smell. Coppertone Sport 48. And I apologize for the sunglasses, but I only take ’em off at night.”
After he understands the task, Pinky says, “Well, it’s labor-intensive, but even so, it’s just legwork. If we can get a million hamsters hopping on keyboards long enough, we’ll eventually get a copy of ‘Gunga Din,’ n’est-ce pas? The question is: How big is your budget?”
I shrug. “Don’t hold back. Whatever it takes.” For the time being, I’m just going to keep writing myself more of those checks the credit card companies send in the mail. Eventually, I’ll hit up my dad. And then…
“I’ll give you a break, seeing as how this ain’t exactly a run-o’-the-mill divorce case, but I’ll still need a retainer, let’s say five hundred dollars. And just so you know, I don’t do courthouse searches myself. I’ve built up a kind of motley crew of paralegals, retired folks, teenagers, and the chronically underemployed. You say go, I’ll turn ’em loose on this and they will hit every single courthouse in Louisiana until they find that commitment order.”
“Great.”
“I pay my subs twenty bucks an hour. Now, this could take a lot of hours. Or a few. You never know.”
“Right. I understand.”
“Ohhhhh-kay. So it’s Byron B. Commitment order to the Port Sulfur Forensic Facility. Entered the system in 1983.” He writes this down. “That’s it, right? That’s all you got. You know when he got out?”
“Ninety-six.”
“Okay, then, that’s all I need.”