The Baker's Dozen

Among the mosaic of faded faces of small children with phone numbers on tiny strips of paper like jagged teeth was a flyer for “Revival Sundays!” It was an odd sentiment, here, in this place where hope had come to die. This waystation for the pleas and cries of parents on their knees in anguish. This place where they affixed copies of freshly created memes with captions that held no humor whatsoever. Jokes like “Have you seen me?”, “Missing since Monday” or “Please call with any information!”

The bold posting was the work of the local storefront pastor of the building on the corner that used to be Uncle Lou’s old rib shack. On hot Sundays, if the windows were open in the back and someone came thru the front door, you could swear you could still smell a hot link / rib tip combo with mild sauce like Uncle use to make. This would at least make the service a bit more palatable as lately the crowds have been thinning out, if you could even call them crowds anymore. There was a time not too long ago when hope was still breathing in the sermons that were preached here. Parents of those freshly printed pages were still clinging to pews, sweating into their bibles and praying like the answers would come if they got the words just right.

But just as the candles at the shrine would no longer hold a flame, the petals on the bouquets had fallen and the moisture on the stuffed animals were no longer fresh tears but better left unsaid, these mothers and fathers had since found other avenues of coping with their grief. Some were in regular counseling or met in groups with bad coffee and leftover pastries from other functions held earlier in the day or the week. Some have become just become regulars on a nearby barstool. One father, a single parent after losing most of his mind when his wife lost her battle a year ago, decided to put what was left of his brain on the kitchen wall.

Alas, there was no candle lit for him at the site, no flowers left behind, or any tears shed. Other than the few instances of “Did you hear what happened to that guy?”, the only connection to him in this sacred place is the jagged-tooth page not far from the one he posted himself. Except this one says things like “2BR 1BA”, “Heat Included”, and “Freshly Painted Kitchen”.

The local constables have long since stopped asking questions. There was even an unmarked car of suits and sunglasses that canvassed the area at one time giving out business cards with callback numbers. But they haven’t been seen in quite a while, unless you count that one time at the motel with that guy with the accent that was staying a few days too long. But that didn’t have anything to do with the kids.

All in all, it’s pretty quiet. I imagine with kids running around doing things that kids do like riding bikes, skateboards and the occasional shouting match to solve some urgent kid issue, it would be noisier. But I hate to say it this way, it’s been dead.

I don’t have any kids of my own and I tend to keep to myself as a writer. And generally, if I want background noise to get into a good flow, I turn on one of those stations on Spotify like “Deep Focus” in order to relax and tip tap out the words on the page. But it just seems wrong here, like something or I guess several someone’s are missing, presumed dead.

I haven’t lived here long. I usually try not to stay in any place for an extended period of time. It helps not to get to know too many people and none of them too well. It’s just easier when it’s time to move on and not have to lie about keeping in touch.

But when I heard about the incident, I was curious like everyone else at the time to find out more information about what happened. It was only on that one week nationally, but like any news cycle, as soon as a new tweet came out that was it.

Local papers tried to keep the story going, but what can you do today with the attention span of our society. A couple of good reporters spoke to all the principle characters, wrote about it from the perspective of the detectives lost for clues and of course, the emotional tugs about the parents. One piece even covered the former resident of this apartment, which is how I got in so quick and cheap.

I don’t usually deal with non-fiction stories, unless you count the one that started my career. I turned my mid-life crisis recounting my life and the regrets I gathered along the way into a three-book deal with Random. But there’s only so much you can get from that grape after you’ve pretty much finished the bottle.

So, I dove into my mind and came up with a Jack Russell terrier named Rainbow that didn’t really belong to anyone but always seemed to show up when some child was in need. She would be hugged, fed some great treat of thanks and even put up for a while by some family grateful for her help.

But like any good lone hero, she moved on shortly after so as not to get too attached to any one place or people. Plus, there was bound to be someone else in need and how can you show up just in the nick of time if you’re lying around getting belly rubs and chew toys?

Take the case of the kid who didn’t quite fit in with the local boys in the neighborhood. He was what we used to call “book smart” or “nerd” for short. I mean, it wasn’t his fault. You deal with the brain you’re given and his spent most days devouring every book in the house. His single mom was the local librarian, so there was almost no shortage of texts available including reference books. But his deceased father was a preacher, so the bible was his first book and he practiced sermons of his own.

As a writer, I like reading as much as the next author, but I stop the bus way short of peer-reviewed journals and I’m an avowed heathen. But again, to each his own. You must respect the kid a bit, too. Because as funding for libraries has decreased, so had his mother’s hours and her health. So, he took it upon himself to start a bike delivery service for the local pizza joint. Pizza is always appreciated, especially fresh from the oven and the kid was quick with the bike so the tips were nice.

Unfortunately, the headphones he invested in to keep up with reading thru audiobooks were a bit too good at noise-canceling and didn’t allow him to hear the driver screeching to a halt until the last moment. Fortunately, Rainbow appeared in front of him making him swerve but also giving her the brunt of the hit. Lucky for both, it was a Prius and though she was a bit roughed up, there were no broken bones. So, he lifted her into his basket and gave her a ride home.

It didn’t take long before Rainbow was eating a few slices of leftover pizza and feeling well enough to stand on her own four feet. She didn’t disappear immediately either as the kid had arranged a nice comfy spot in the garage for her. The kid was gracious with the leftovers and the garage had more than enough space to move around as well as a gap at the bottom of the door which allowed Rainbow to squeeze thru at will.

At one point, the kid had left the door inside open for a bit and Rainbow would visit with the mom which put a rare smile on everyone’s face. Rainbow didn’t make much noise unless it was purposeful usually responding to something said about her or to her. And, making a mess indoors was not becoming of a lady of Rainbow’s stature, so the grassy area just outside the garage was perfectly fine.

However, as trips to the hospital for the mom became more frequent and the kid spending more time away from the house was a regular thing, Rainbow one day didn’t return and that was the end of that chapter in that particular story.

But back to our current mystery, it’s not like they all disappeared at once. But, then again, it didn’t take a long time either. During a summer in the city a couple of years back, one then two and then as the weeks went by thirteen children in all, a baker’s dozen. There are no witnesses. No one has come forward to say they saw a strange van or man or anybody out of the ordinary in the area.

I talked to the parents or should I say tried to talk to most of the parents. That is a hard subject to broach. A few were used to people bringing it up and trying to console them. I guess for them it felt good to talk about their kids because it lent hope to the issue, as if they may still be found. But there were just as many that would snap at the very mention of them. The “How dare you?!” of responses “…after all I’ve been through!”

So, I tried to leave them be and spoke to some cops on the beat. According to them, the kids didn’t all have the same pattern as far as coming home from school, running to the store or just playing outside in the street. All thirteen left the house at various times of day, going to different places or doing different things but the one thing they had in common is they didn’t come home.

The only thing that really linked them together is that they were all around the same age, old enough to be trusted to be on their own but young enough that when they didn’t show up after a while, there was reason to be concerned. Also, the bad thing about this neighborhood is it’s not a wealthy area. There are mostly poor people and maybe a few bohemian young people looking for cheaper rent.

But, it’s also not a bad area. There are no drug houses, no bums on the corner and no gang activity. These people have been going about their lives in the most working-class way for years. The only thing that even got any attention before the missing kids was Uncle Lou’s Rib Shack. People would drive here from around the city and some would make a special trip when they came to town.

That’s really the main reason the kids got the national press that it did because the media would start the story by mentioning that it was happening in Uncle Lou’s neighborhood. I’ve never had the pleasure of his trying his famous lip-smacking ribs because the place closed about a year ago after Uncle Lou passed on in his sleep. Although they say he was losing it towards the end because the ribs didn’t taste quite the same.

Uncle Lou didn’t have any kids to speak of as far as anyone knew. If he did, they didn’t show up for the funeral which was paid for by some local celebrity who had his picture on the wall of the joint for years. It was a pretty big procession for this neighborhood. The mayor and a few other politicians made their way to the front of the pews, but I suspect that was more for them than for him.

The restaurant was made from Uncle Lou’s actual house on the corner which gave it a great location for him. But, having been a rib shack for some thirty plus years, no one was interested in trying to buy it to live in or start any other type of business. So, a former resident turned pastor heard about the passing of Uncle Lou and got a sweetheart deal from the city to turn it into a church.

He didn’t mind the smell because he said it reminded him of his childhood and if it got people to stop by for a sermon or two then more’s the better. The only issue he had with the building was that it still had a coal furnace, which was connected to a chute on the side of the building with a driveway so the trucks could send the coal down the chute.

Uncle Lou had the furnace customized so he could use it with coal and his combination of hickory and other woods to double as a smoker for his meats. Of course, for the business, he ran the furnace all year long, but it had been off since he died. The pastor was even saying that he’s looking forward to firing it up this winter to give the community back some of the nostalgia of that smell.

The detectives and FBI had a moment of pause when it came to the pastor because it turns out he had a sealed file from his youth, something about a sexual assault. But it was over 25 years ago and he hadn’t moved to the area until after the kids and Uncle Lou had gone. From all accounts, he hasn’t had any trouble as an adult and went into the ministry following his father’s footsteps.

There was one theory that didn’t pan out mainly because no bodies have been found. A murder of a child in a nearby woods started law enforcement to feel like maybe it had a lead, but the suspect was in jail last year and there was no further evidence connecting him to any of the kids.

I had signed a lease on the poor father’s apartment for six months thinking that I could use the time to start a new book even if I didn’t find anything interesting to this story. But damned if I can’t get it out of my mind. There has got to be something here, I tell myself. Which is probably the same thing that keeps every cop or parent that tries to sleep or saddles up to the bar to try to forget.

I think at that moment, not a bad idea. I could use a drink. There’s a bar down the street from my apartment around the block from old Uncle Lou’s. As I walk there, I can see the neon sign just above the trees over the backyard fences of the houses. When I get to Lou’s (now House of the Holy something or other), I notice that the driveway leads all the way thru to the alley and there is a vacant lot on the other side. Laziness kicks in and I walk thru alongside a very tall hedge that separates the church from the houses and parts to let the trucks out to the alley.

As I pass along the building, I also notice the famous coal chute that must have provided the fuel that fed this neighborhood for a few decades. I notice it’s got a latch but not really a lock. But I think to myself, who wants to break into a church. And even when it was a restaurant, Uncle Lou had that furnace going so often that I doubt anyone would choose to voluntarily slide into a hot furnace.

As I perch onto a stool, the bartender nods a look of recognition. Hey, I’m a writer. That makes me a regular at any number of bars from here to there and in-between. Placing my Jack neat in front of me, he asks if I’ve had any progress on my story. And while he goes to get my beer chaser, I reply that I was thinking that maybe I would write something about Old Uncle Lou and his legendary rib shack.

Right after I get the words out of my mouth, the guy next to me makes a loud grunt and visibly rolls his eyes my way. I don’t get it, but the bartender says, “Don’t mind him. He’s just mad that Uncle Lou died with his money in his pocket.” I’m thinking ok, I’ll bite. Should be interesting enough to get me through a couple of rounds.

So, I ask him about his beef with the old owner. Turns out this guy was his meat supplier and Uncle Lou owed on his account “Big Time” when he died. But since everyone loved the old guy and he had been such an institution, he let Lou slide a lot with promises that things are turning around and, “I’ll get ya’ next week. I swear!”

Ok, he’s got my sympathy, so I buy his next round. Out of curiosity, I ask how much it could have really been if he was only behind by a few weeks. He replies that he didn’t let it get too far out of hand before he had to cut off Lou’s supply, but that when he did Lou went out and got a new supplier instead of paying what he owed to him.

“I supplied Lou for almost twenty years and let him slide time after time! And that’s how he treats me by stabbing me in the back with some other company?!” Wow, I say. That is worthy of being a bit upset. But then I ask him what other supplier would take Lou’s business if he did him so wrong? There can’t be that many companies servicing the area, right?

He replies that he doesn’t know who Lou was using, but that it must be some small-time place because none of the other companies would touch him. He also added, “It serves him right because people stopped going as much when they found out the ribs didn’t taste as good as they did when he bought from me!”

I don’t know if there was an itch in the back of my mind or just my writer’s sick mind at play, but I asked, “when exactly did you cut Lou off?” That was when he replied, “About a few months before he died two summers back.”

I looked at the bartender. I asked for another Jack but make it a double. Because I knew that I had a phone call to make, and if it turned out to be what I thought, I would need a little liquid courage to get through it.

I looked through the cards I had gathered in my time, in this place where I was lucky enough to have never been. This place where tragedy and sadness and grief hung around in the air like a bad smell. A sweet sickening smell that wafted from the corner of the block. The corner that now had a building with a cross on top like an oversized mausoleum. Because that’s what it really was, right? If I’m right and I hope I’m not right but then that would make me crazy for thinking it in the first place!

I paid my tab and the meat guy’s, too. Because he gave me a story, but who the hell wants this story. Who wants to have their name even associated with the mere mention of it? But I must make this call. I dial the number and talk to the service operator and ask her to have the agent call me right back immediately. I don’t care if you have to wake him up because he is going to have to wake up a lot of people. First, a judge then a local detective, then maybe a few cops and medical technicians and last of all, a pastor.

We all gather at the door of the church. The pastor has been handed the requisite paper with the judge’s signature attached as he is moved to the side with the strangest look on his face. Don’t worry, pastor. You’re not the only one who thinks this is crazy. But as I follow the agent to the basement, to the customized furnace used as a smoker for the old rib shack. I notice something I suspected would be true. The chute is not attached to the furnace. It opens at the top and is attached to a slide that ends just above the floor, big enough for a child to slide down.