Scam Likely

The big box warehouse across the street was experimenting with drone deliveries. I thought the damn thing had got off course when a box in plain brown wrapping was plopped in front of my front door. I pulled myself out of my desk chair; it was time to open anyway. I unlocked the door and scooped up the package without looking for a sender or recipient. I figured I’d take it back across the street—if I remembered. I had a lot on my mind.

My mother, Marjorie Likely gave birth to me on April 1, 1993. When she contacted my father, he agreed to pay child support, but only if he could name me. She agreed and that is how I got my name Scam—Scam Likely.

I only met my father, a member of a KISS tribute band, once, when I was six years old. He was in town to sign a contract with a club for a New Year’s Eve gig, the New Year’s Eve of Y2K. Soon after that, the group received a cease and desist letter from Gene Simmons’s attorney along with an invoice for several thousands of dollars in royalty fees plus interest. Of course he ignored it, but when he showed up to play the big show, constables had been sent to seize their equipment, and on top of the growing debt to KISS Enterprises, the club sued his group for failure to honor their contract. The child support checks stopped coming after that.

My mother died in 2018 of cervical Cancer at the age of forty-five. I had pretty much been a slacker ever since junior high school, which were the perfect qualifications for my current profession—private investigator. I had an office in a small strip shopping center south of downtown. The other tenants included a Mexican Restaurant, a tattoo parlor, and a thrift store. I got most of my business from a couple of bails bondsmen to track down clients who were no shows for their court dates.

The man who entered my office looked like one of the guys who smoked cigarettes over by the bus stop. He was tall and lanky with thinning gray hair, and beard stubble. His faded blue jeans hung low on his hips and it was impossible to read the writing on his sleeveless faded t-shirt. I guessed his age to be somewhere between sixty-five and ancient. His teeth and fingers revealed he was a smoker.

“Are you Scam Likely?” he said as he approached my gray metal desk. Most of my office was furnished from the thrift store a few doors over called Probably Junk. No probably about it.

“That’s me,” I said, not bothering to get up.

“That son of a bitch had a nasty sense of humor,” the man said.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“Homer,” Marjorie fingered him as your father.

“That’s what she told me.”

“Probably because he was Gene.”

“Simmons?”

“Yeah, the gals all wanted to get it on with Gene. Maggie hung around a lot. We all got to know her, if you know what I mean.”

“You were with the group?”

“I was, until that infamous New Year’s Eve.”

“1999.”

“Yep.”

“Where’s Homer now?” I asked.

“Couldn’t tell ya if he’s alive or dead. We all kinda scattered. Me, believe it or not, I got hired as a roadie for a legitimate cover band.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, they were a hell of a lot better than we ever were. I’m Howie by the way?”

“Well, what can I do for you Howie? Are you looking for somebody?”

“Well yes, well, I was. Looks like I found him. I was looking for you?”

“Me, why?”

He scanned my desk and his eyes settled on the mysterious package. “I see you got my package.”

“You sent this to me why? And how did it get here without any address?

“Open it,” he said.

I tore off the brown lunch bag like paper and pulled out a plain white box. The logo looked familiar, it was what I thought, it made no sense why he sent it to me.

Howie saw my confusion. “It’s one of them DNA test kits,” he said. You know, Marjorie, she was stoned a lot when she was around us. Well, we all were. I can see how she could be confused.”

“What are you implying about my mother?” I asked, bile rising in my throat.

“Well, It may be, very probably, actually, that I’m your dad, now Homer.”

I was ready to jump up, come around the desk, take the guy by the scruff of his neck and toss him out the door. Anger flashed in my eyes as I rose, placed my hands on the top of the desk to steady myself, and looked him in the eye. “Look, Mr.—”

“Howie, it’s Howie. Look son—,”

“Don’t call me that.”

“It’s just that, well. I’m sick. I need a kidney and I thought if I could prove you’re my son, well—”

I released him. “You thought I would just give you a kidney. Why would you think that, Howie?” I said, easing back into my chair. “At least Homer made an effort in the beginning. He never denied it.”

“Is that what you think? Isn’t that why he named you Scam? He got a big laugh out of that.”

I tore a piece of paper off the end of a bill, scribbled something on it, folded it and passed it across the desk to Howie. He frowned and the scrap. I motioned with my chin for him to pick it up. He did, unfolded it, and gave me a puzzled look.

“Eighteen years of child support,” I said. “Doesn’t include two decades of interest. You want my kidney, that’s what you’ll have to pay for it.”

He wadded up the paper and threw it at me. “Doesn’t family mean anything to you, son?”

“It told you not to call me that,” I hissed. “I don’t believe you, and even if I did, I don’t owe you a goddamn thing, certainly not an organ.”

He reached over and picked up the box. “Just take the test,” he pleaded.

“No way. You know what happens when you take one of those tests? Your DNA goes into the system. The cops find you in the system, you’re screwed. I’m not giving up my DNA any more than I’m giving up a kidney. I’m sure your sperm got around out there on the road. Find another kid.”

Howie looked down at his feet and shook his head. He turned and left my office.

The white box remained on my desk for several weeks. I actually forgot about the box once it got covered with stacks of files and mail. I came across it one day as I was looking for a phone number I had written on a scrap of paper.

I had lied to Howie. As a PI, I had to submit my DNA to get a license. The guy had just pissed me off. Now, for reasons I could not begin to explain, I was having second thoughts. Howie didn’t seem like a bad guy. Marjorie never denied being a groupie. I was a private dic, but I didn’t need to be a dick. I decided to use my detective skills to find Howie.

I didn’t find him but I did locate a daughter—an eighteen-year-old college freshman at the University of Nevada. She had heard from Howie, not for a kidney, but to let her know he was in hospice care. She told me he had died two weeks earlier. I thanked her for the information and ended the call.

I picked up the white box. I was about to throw it away when I changed my mind. I grabbed my keys, went out and locked the door. I thought about going to ware house across the street. Instead, I went a few doors down to Probably Trash, figuring she could make a few bucks from the unopened kit.

The End