Ashes To Ashes And Dust To Dust

 

By:  Kenda

 

 

*This story was written in 1997, and is similar to And The Angel Wore A Cowboy Hat, and California Dreamin’ in that it’s up to the reader to decide if Rick is dreaming, or if he, on occasion, visits an alternate Simon universe. Though these types of stories are a bit unorthodox, I had fun stretching my writing imagination when I was penning them. 

 

*This story makes reference to the aired episode, May The Road Rise Up, and follows the time-line and events set forth in that episode for Jack Simon’s death.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

     

     The undertaker led Rick Simon into the casket room.  Though the politically correct term was no longer undertaker, it was Funeral Home Director.  And the Funeral Home Director no longer showed you to the 'casket room' but rather encouraged you to choose, "The vessel for your loved one's final rest."  As though your loved one was simply taking a short trip across town, and not making the most permanent departure of all.

 

     The man bypassed the less expensive caskets, those made of low grade, light-weight steel.  Instead, he led Rick directly to a wall of highly polished oak and mahogany models.

 

     "I'm sure you want the best for your brother, Mr. Simon."

     "Oh yeah," Rick agreed. "He deserves the best, all right.  I always promised A.J. I'd send him out in style."

 

     The man didn't so much as blink at the detective's flippant remark.  He'd dealt with thousands of grieving people over the years, and been witness to all types of emotional outbursts.  Some clients were so distraught over the loss of their loved one he was forced to make all their decisions for them.  Some families broke into fights right in front of him as brothers and sisters argued over which casket to bury dear old Mom in.  Some people were stoic, showing little emotion as if the recently departed was barely more than a stranger they'd just met the previous day.  And some hid behind humor, like Rick Simon, in an effort to keep their grief from spilling forth like floodwaters through a broken damn.

 

     The director reeled off prices from memory while talking about the advantages of this casket over that one.  Rick had little hope of keeping up with all the man said, finally settling on nodding his head at what seemed like appropriate intervals. 

 

     "And the lining in all these models here is satin.  As you can see, the pillow is satin, too.  Quite comfortable as well, I might add.  Stuffed with goose down."

 

     "A.J. was allergic to goose down."

 

     The man eyed Rick, trying to gauge whether he was serious or not.  When Rick brushed at his eyes as though wiping away tears, the director cleared his throat. 

 

     "Oh...uh...I see.  Well, we have several other options.  Fiber filled, cotton filled..."

 

     Rick strained to see in the caskets.  "Do you have one that's kinda flat?"

     "Kind of flat?"

     "Yeah.  A.J. never did like his pillows real fluffy.  Said it made his neck hurt."

 

     The director scurried around the room, trying to find something that would please his client.

 

     "Now, Mr. Simon, we can transfer any of these linings and pillows from one casket to another."

 

     "Kinda like Burger King, huh?"

     "Pardon me?"

     "You know, hold the pickles, hold the lettuce, special orders don't upset us."

     "Um...yes, yes rather like Burger King.  A unique comparison, but an appropriate one, nonetheless."

     Rick walked up to a solid oak casket with a gold crest on the lid.  "How much did you say this one was?"

     "Eight thousand dollars.  And a beautiful choice she is.  They don't come finer than this.  She was hand-crafted by artisans in Germany.  This casket literally speaks of how much the one she cradles was loved."

     "Yeah, A.J. was a pretty good guy.  And what the heck, we’ve got insurance for this kinda stuff, so why not.  It's like I've always said, nothin's too good for my baby brother...provided someone else is payin' for it, a' course."

 

     "You'll want a spray of roses, too."

     "Roses?"

 

     "Oh yes.  For the casket.  With a banner that says ‘Brother.’  You mentioned your mother was too distraught to come with you?"

 

     "Well, I didn't say distraught exactly.  Actually, it was her day to host the canasta club.  You know how gnarly those senior citizens can be when an outing they're planning gets canceled."

 

     "Um, yes.  Yes, I suppose I do."

 

     "So anyway, Mom's sittin' down at the canasta table right about now.  But actually, that works out okay." 

     "Because it would upset her so to be making these decisions with you?"

     "Upset her?  No, not really.  She's a tough old bird.  It works out okay because she has to make a lot of food when it's her turn to host the canasta gals.  Why, I'm not sure because all of those ladies are always on diets anyway.  But that's good, too, ‘cause this way we figure there'll be quite a bit left over for the funeral luncheon.  You know, saves on the catering bill and all."

 

     "Oh...well, yes, I see where that would be a savings."

 

     "But that's A.J. for you.  Always thinking of his family.  I wouldn't be surprised if he timed his passing this way knowing Mom had to be in the kitchen anyway."

 

     "Yes.  How...thoughtful of him.   So as I was saying, your mother will surely want a spray of roses on the coffin with a banner that says ‘Son.’"

 

     "And that's important, huh?"

 

     "Oh definitely."

     "How much does it cost?"

     "Now you understand these would be the biggest, healthiest roses we can get."

 

     "Wouldn't want anything less for my baby brother."

 

     "Two hundred dollars for each spray."

 

     "Two hundred for each one?  Geez, seems a little steep, even for A.J., but okay, we'll take 'em.  And how about one more spray?"

 

     "One more?  From your brother's wife, perhaps."

 

     "Nah, he wasn't married.  From my dog."

     "Your dog?"

     "Yep.  With a banner that says ‘Surrogate Master.’"

 

     "That's a bit unusual."

 

     "He's an unusual dog."

     "I'm sure he must be.  But yes, Mr. Simon, I can arrange another spray with a banner to read as you requested."

 

     "That's cool.  You don't mind if my dog comes to pay his last respects, do you?"

     "No, I don't mind.  Provided the dog is well behaved."

 

     "Oh, he's well behaved all right.  Now A.J. might try to tell you a different story but..." Rick broke off with a gasping sob.  He dropped his head, covering his eyes with his hand.

     "Mr. Simon?  Mr. Simon, are you all right?"

     "Yeah...yeah.  Just give me...give me...a second ple...please.  I keep...keep...keep doing that.  Keep forgetting he's...he's...he's gone.  That he ain't gonna tell you about Rex's fleas, or how he likes to chew on slippers, or tear up Ole' Man Gorman's flower garden."

 

     "I understand, Mr. Simon.  This is a difficult time."

     Rick scrubbed his palms over his eyes.  "Yeah, it is.  It'll be even worse next week."

 

     With quiet authority the man stated,  "When the reality of Andrew's passing fully hits you."

 

     "No.  When I have to decide how I'm gonna redecorate his house."

 

     "Redecorate his house?"

     "Yeah.  He willed it to me, ya' see.  But A.J.'s tastes and mine...well, let’s just say our tastes are about as alike as red hot chili peppers and chocolate."

 

     "Red hot chili peppers and chocolate.  Yes, those are two very different things, aren't they?"

 

     "Yeah.  So as you can imagine, I've gotta big job ahead of me turnin' that house into a home.  Do you think the day of the funeral would be too early to hold a garage sale?"

 

     The director arched a diplomatic eyebrow.  "I would advise that you wait at least a few days before doing that.  Out of respect for your brother's memory."

 

     "Bummer.  And here I was thinkin' what a dandy time that would be.  I mean, everyone's gonna be gathered in one place anyway, so why not have that place be A.J.'s garage?  Then while folks eat they can wind through the tables pickin' up this and that at bargain prices.  It'll be kinda like they can take a little bit of A.J. home with 'em.  You think if I advertise it that way people will be more accepting?"

 

     "It's a possibility, I suppose.  Obviously, you know your family and friends better than I."

 

     "Yeah, you're right.  You know, that will work out fine.  You could probably make the announcement for us at the service.  Tell folks Mom and I are gonna ‘meet with 'em and eat with 'em’ back at A.J.'s garage where they'll have the opportunity to make his memory a permanent fixture in their homes."  

 

     "Well...if that's what you really want I suppose I—“

 

     "Oh yeah, that's what I want.  It'll help wrap this whole thing up a lot quicker, don't cha think?"

 

     "Yes, I imagine, but--"

 

     "No, no buts.  This is just how A.J. woulda’ wanted it to be.  He never was one to put off till tomorrow what can be done today."

 

     "I see."  The man ran a hand down his necktie, leading the way from the room.  "Whatever you desire, Mr. Simon.  Here at the Hansen Funeral Home we strive to personalize each service.  If this is what your brother would have wanted, far be it from me to intercede.  Let's proceed to my office so I can itemize the bill for you."

 

     Thirty minutes later Rick Simon walked out into the afternoon sunshine, a ten thousand dollar bill for the funeral expenses of Andrew J. Simon in hand.  He smiled as he climbed into the cab of the Power Wagon.  He paper clipped the bill to a stack of a half dozen other similar bills he had secreted in the glove compartment.  

 

     Recently, the Federal Trade Commission had put laws into effect regulating what funeral homes must disclose to their clients.  The government felt mortuary services had gone unmonitored far too long, meaning many people had been over-charged throughout the years, or had been ill-informed as to burial options that might be less expensive than the norm.  The FTC had mandated that funeral home directors must offer a price list of goods and services, even if the buyer didn't ask for it.  It also prohibited undertakers from charging for casket-handling fees, doing unauthorized embalming, and refusing to give out prices over the phone.   

 

     Until a week ago, Rick Simon hadn't had reason to be aware of these mandates, nor to care about them.  But Simon and Simon Investigations had been hired to spot-check the funeral homes in San Diego for the FTC, a job both Rick and A.J. had willingly taken on with good humor.  In part, because they found the subject matter amusing, but also because, as Rick told his brother, "What the heck, it's easy work for good money.  Can't go wrong on this one, little brother."

 

     Rick and A.J. had split in half the funeral home list given them by the FTC agent.  For the past four days the brothers had crossed paths in their office for a couple of hours each morning, then gone their separate ways as they visited funeral home after funeral home collecting the necessary information to bury their fictional dead.  Or in some cases, such as at the Hansen Funeral Home, they didn't collect the necessary information.  Not only didn't Rick receive a price list, no mention had been made of it, nor of any of the other points that were supposed to be disclosed according to FTC mandates. 

 

     The detective grabbed a spiral notebook off his truck seat and unclipped the pen he had attached to its cover.  He scribbled down the glaring offenses committed by the director, then noted the date and time of his visit.  He tossed the notebook back on the seat and started his truck.  Looking at his watch, Rick decided he had time to make one more stop before calling it a day. 

 

___________________________________

 

 

      The sun was beginning its slow descent down the horizon when Rick returned to his boat that evening.   He tried to call his brother while he puttered around the galley making dinner, but got no answer.  He didn't bother to leave a message on A.J.'s machine. There was no specific reason why he was calling other than to shoot the bull. 

 

     After supper had been eaten and the kitchen put back in order, Rick retreated to the deck with a cold bottle of beer in hand.  He sank down onto a well-cushioned chaise lounge, Rex lying on the floor beside him. 

 

     The detective watched the final rays of sunlight disappear; leaving the clouds stained burnt orange and blood red.  He laid his head back and closed his eyes while mentally reviewing his day. 

 

     Like he had told A.J., it was easy money.  Rick chuckled, recalling   the look on Rudolph Hansen's face when he told the man he wanted to hold a garage sale for A.J.'s belongings the same day of the funeral.  How Rick had come up with such an outrageous line even he didn't know.  He hadn't put too much thought into what his story was going to be when he arrived at the first funeral home he'd visited four days earlier, so when pressed for information he began weaving his tale of poor Andrew’s untimely demise.  As he traveled from mortuary to mortuary his tale, like most that are untrue, stretched to the point that it bordered the ridiculous.  Stretched to the point that Rick often had trouble keeping a straight, somber face while relaying it.

 

     The detective shook his head with amusement as he thought of the high points of his story.   A.J. needing a flat pillow in his coffin because a fluffy pillow had always bothered his neck, their mother hoping to use the leftover food from her canasta club for the funeral luncheon, the spray of roses from Rex, and Rick's biggest concern being how he was going to redecorate A.J.'s house.

 

     The detective laughed at his own dark humor as he rose to retrieve another beer.  He settled back on the chaise lounge, listening to the night sounds - a fish jumping from the water, a boat puttering into port, a foghorn blaring in the distance.  He slowly drained his second beer then sat the bottle on the deck. As darkness blanketed the marina, soft lights popped on in nearby boats, offering a comforting balm that lulled the detective to sleep.

 

 

S&S     S&S     S&S     S&S     S&S     S&S

 

 

     The feeling of falling down an endless, dark abyss woke Rick Simon with a startled cry.  His legs failed involuntarily as though they were attempting to find some type of hold that would stop his spiraling descent.  He gripped the arms of the chaise lounge, trying to halt the free-fall that existed only in his sleep-laden mind.   His breath came in hard, uneven pants while sweat beaded on his forehead and dampened his moustache.

 

     It took a full minute before the detective's pulse and breathing rates returned to normal.  He tried to recall the nightmare he must have had that put him in such a state, but couldn't.  As a matter of fact, he didn't remember dreaming at all.  He felt like he'd slept long and hard, 'like a log' as the expression went. The hours between sunset and sunrise were gone without him ever being aware they'd passed.

 

     Waves lapped gently against the side of the boat as a lone seagull screeched from overhead.  The detective heard the sputter of an engine in the distance, then watched as a fishing boat left the harbor.  Rick glanced at his watch. It was twenty minutes to six.

 

     The man scrubbed a hand over his face and pushed himself

up-right.  He groaned while massaging a kink out of the small of his back.  

 

     I'm gettin' too damn old to sleep in the damp air all night on a lawn chair.  Can't believe I didn't wake up after an hour or so.  I usually do.  It's been years since I've bunked out here all night.  Not since the last time I tied one on with Carlos and passed out before I could reach the door.

 

     Rick stumbled to his feet, the pointy toes of the cowboy boots he was still wearing knocking over beer bottles like bowling pins.  Glass clattered together then tumbled to the deck in domino fashion.  Rex woke with a start, scampering for shelter on the opposite side of the vessel.  Two slips away a man's voice was heard.

 

     "Hey!  Hold it down out there!  People are tryin' to sleep around here ya' know!"

 

     The detective paid no attention to his irate neighbor.  He stared at the deck in open-mouthed befuddlement, counting each empty bottle until he tallied eighteen. 

 

     Eighteen!  What the...I didn't drink eighteen beers last night!  I had two, exactly two.  I haven't drunk eighteen beers in one sitting since...well, since I don't know when.  Probably not since the last time I passed out before I could reach the door.  If nothing else, with age comes a little bit of wisdom.  I finally figured out the morning after wasn't worth the night before.

 

     Rick pondered how all the empty bottles found their way around his chaise lounge while bending to pick them up.

 

     I wonder if this was A.J.'s idea of joke.  I bet that's it.  He came over and found me sound asleep so thought it would be funny to make it look like I went on a bender.  If that little creep poured good beer down my kitchen sink just to empty all these bottles he'll regret the day he was born.

 

     Rick was still internally grousing about his sibling as he used the only free finger he had to fumble for the handle on the patio screen.  Arms laden with amber glass, he stepped into the boat and took an immediate left.  He walked through the galley, entering the short hallway that ran behind.  The boat's bathroom was on his right, his small Whirlpool stacked washer/dryer unit was against the opposite wall.  He moved to put the bottles in the red plastic recycling bin that sat next to the Whirlpool unit, but was forced to halt in mid-motion.

 

     What the heck?

 

     Rick looked around.  The hallway wasn't big enough for the two foot wide by three foot high bin to get relocated or misplaced.  Recycling of plastic containers, aluminum cans, newspapers, magazine, glass bottles and cardboard had been mandatory for city residents for three years now.  And in those three years, the bin the marina had provided Rick with had always resided in this small, out-the-way hall.

 

     I know it was here last night.  I put my other bottle in it when I came in to get the second beer.

 

     The detective headed back to the galley wondering if he'd carried the bin out to the deck the previous evening without realizing he'd done so.

 

     But why would I do that?  Garbage day isn't until Fri...oh no.  No.  Not again. 

 

     Arms still laden with beer bottles, Rick stood motionless in the center of his kitchen floor while finally taking note of the living room.  The living room that, though it possessed the same familiar furniture, had been completely rearranged.  The couch was where his TV normally sat, the easy chair and ottoman was to the left of the couch instead of the right.  His guitar, which usually sat in the corner of the north wall, now sat in the corner of the south wall.  The television itself took up most of the wall opposite the patio doors and was considerably larger than the one Rick had on his boat.  It was almost as big as a damn movie screen and complete with stereo speakers for what was now being referred to as ‘surround sound.’  The three thousand dollar price tag that went with such a unit made it something Rick only dreamed about owning.

 

     The detective let the bottles plunge into the kitchen sink, ignoring the sound of breaking glass as he ran to his bedroom.  Sure enough, the bed and dresser were sitting on opposite walls from where they normally resided.  His brow furrowed when he took note of the ashtray sitting on his nightstand that was overflowing with cigarette butts.  He looked through the doorway into the living room and saw an ashtray in the same untidy condition sitting on an end table.

 

     But I quit smokin' years ago. Rick was hesitant to allow himself to voice the rest of his dreaded thought. Or at least in my world I did.

 

     The man boomeranged to the patio doors whistling for Rex.  He threw open the screen just as the dog bounded inside.  Rick hunkered down, accepting the animal's exuberant kisses.  He grabbed a hold of Rex's collar and gently pushed the dog backwards.  Rick studied the golden retriever's face.  Rex looked years younger. No longer was gray starting to take up residence in his whiskers and around his jowls. 

 

     The detective swiveled, looking up at the calendar hanging in the kitchen.  He squinted to read the month and year.  January, 1990.

 

     But it's actually January of '96 in my...world.

 

     Rick slowly stood, absently sliding the screen door open to allow Rex outside for his morning run.  The man hadn't realized how much his dog had aged in recent years until he watched this younger version of the animal streak across the deck, leap to the dock, then race for the grassy area that bordered the parking lot.   

 

     Though Rick wouldn't deny being surprised by this odd turn of events, he wasn't frightened or unnerved.  He'd found himself in what he considered to be an ‘alternate universe’ a number of times in his adult life. While Rick knew of nothing he did to bring on these experiences he had to admit that, in the end, their meaning was usually revealed to him.  Generally he was sent here to help his counterpart's family in some way.  In some way Rick assumed his alternate self was unable to, or unavailable to.  And based on the information he subtly gathered when he returned to his own world, he'd come to realize his alternate self - the 'other Rick' as he thought of the man - willingly filled his shoes for him while he was 'away,' without A.J. or his mother being the wiser.

 

     Despite his eagerness to uncover the reasons behind this so-called trip, Rick knew there was no use to rush the start of the day.  He'd learned from his past experiences that events unfolded in this world just like they did in his own, a little at a time with a lot of mundane duties to fill the gaps in-between.

 

     Rick began one of those mundane duties now.  He returned to the kitchen where he started a pot of coffee.  Like the living room the kitchen possessed dishes, utensils, and appliances that were twins to those Rick owned, but often times were located in different spots.  Once the coffee was brewing Rick took time to acquaint himself with the remainder of the vessel.  In the four times he'd made this switch with his alternate self over the past fifteen years, he'd never been on the other Rick's boat.

 

     The detective rummaged through drawers and closets until he found all the man's clothes.  Clothes that were exactly like the ones he favored; khaki boxer shorts, yoke-necked undershirts, blue jeans, casual work shirts, three pair of cowboy boots, several pair of tennis shoes, one lone pair of black dress shoes, a black suit and tie, a white dress shirt, a brown corduroy sport coat, numerous hats of all styles, sizes and shapes, and a variety of field jackets. He located his razor and toothbrush in the bathroom, not too sure at first if he was willing to put the toothbrush in his mouth.  For a long moment he stared down at the blue bristled utensil that was just like the one he had at home before finally giving an amused shrug.

 

     What the heck, I guess in some strange way it is my toothbrush.  Hope this guy doesn't have any odd kinda diseases.

 

     The detective took a quick shower, finding the soap, washcloth and shampoo sitting on a built-in shelving unit of the fiberglass stall just like he was accustomed to.  He dried himself, then wrapped the bath towel around his lean hips.  He deposited the clothes he'd been wearing in the hamper by the Whirlpool before heading to the bedroom.  He dressed in a pair of faded Levis and a blue work shirt.  He found a replica of his Magnum in its shoulder holster hanging on a hook on the inside of the closet door.  He carried it, a field jacket, a Panama hat, and pair of cowboy boots to the living room.  He piled everything together on the floor by the couch, then went to the kitchen to make breakfast.  The red blinking light on the answering machine caught Rick’s eye as he passed.  He hesitated a moment before flicking the replay switch.

 

     I suppose I'm violating the guy's privacy, but maybe I'll get some kinda clue as to what's goin' on.

 

     The clues the detective gleaned only made the situation more mysterious.  Every message expressed concern for his counterpart, starting with the first one from Abigail Marsh.  Curiously enough, it sounded like the woman was fighting back tears.

 

     "Rick...honey, sitting alone on your boat and drinking isn't going to change anything.  Please, sweetheart, call me.  I'm worried about you, Rick."

 

     Honey? Sweetheart?   Mmmmm, sounds like this Rick and Abby are just a bit...closer, than I am to the Abigail Marsh I know.  Geez, Abby would toss her cookies if I told her we both existed in an alternate world where she refers to me as sweetheart. 

 

     Rick didn't have much time to ponder his counterpart's relationship with Abigail Marsh as the messages rolled on. 

 

     "Rick, it's Town.  Listen, buddy, I know things are tough right now, but hang in there.  If you wanna talk, no matter what time it is, call me, Rick.  Please."

 

     "Rick, Jerry Reiner.  If you feel like company give me a call back.  I'll stop by with a movie or a pizza - whatever you want.  Rick...it's going to be all right.  I know it is.  Give me a call." 

 

     What's going to be all right?  

 

     "Hey, Ricko.  Sammy here.  I got that surveillance equipment in you ordered.  But listen, I know money might be kinda tight right now, so if you want to send it back that won't be a problem.  The wife and I want you to come to dinner one night, too, old friend.  You shouldn't sit home alone night after night.  Call me and we'll set up a time."

 

     Wife?  Oh, now there's a good one.  In my world Sammy doesn't have a wife.  No respectable broad in her right mind would take up with him.  But it's nice of him and the little woman to invite me...or my counterpart rather, to dinner.   Wonder what everyone is so concerned about this guy for?

 

     Rick pondered the messages a long moment before giving up on trying to decipher their meaning.  He knew sooner or later he'd be party to enough events to be able to figure them out.

 

     While two slices of bread toasted Rick searched the cabinets until he found the cereal.  A box of Wheaties, a box of Cheerios, and a box of Cap’n Crunch sat within.  

 

     Nice to see the guy favors the same brands I do.   

 

     Rick reached for the Wheaties before crossing over to the wire fruit basket hanging in the corner by the sink.  He snared a bunch of bananas and broke one from the others.

 

     Handy little way to store fruit.  I'll have to get one of these for myself when I get back home.

 

     The man sliced the ripe banana over his cereal and carried the bowl to the table.  He returned for the toast that had popped up, slathered it with butter and jam, and sat it on a plate next to his cereal.  The last two trips he made brought a gallon milk jug, a cup of coffee, and a glass of orange juice. 

 

     Rick reached behind him, turning on the radio that was sitting on the kitchen countertop. 

 

     I usually have it on top of the fridge, but I guess this works okay too.  It's kinda nice 'cause I can click it on without having to get up.

 

     The detective paid close attention when the seven-thirty news broadcast began.  From what he could remember about 1990, the

world-wide news events that were being reported were exactly like those that had occurred six years earlier. 

 

     Maybe things aren't gonna be as different as I first thought.  Rex is here, my boat's here – granted, stuff's been moved around a little and this Rick smokes...and apparently drinks like a fish as well, but other than that things are pretty much in order.  Mmmm, I wonder what the reason could be for me bein' sent here this time?

 

     Rick tuned back into the broadcast as the newswoman rattled off the time, day, and date before giving the weather report.   The detective's mind latched onto the date.  The date seemed significant, as though it should mean something to him.

 

     January 9th, 1990, January 9th, 1990, January 9th 1990, Rick’s brain chanted. What is it about that date that's makin' my breakfast do somersaults in my gut?  January 9...

 

     The man shot up, peeling around the corner of the room.  He threw the closet door open in his bedroom, raking carelessly through the clothes hanging there.

 

     It's missing!  The gray suit I wore for A.J. and Janet's wedding is missing!

 

     As Rick gave it more thought he chastised himself. 

 

Of course it's missing, you idiot.  It's January of 1990.  A.J. and Janet didn't get married until September.  Which means they haven't started seein' each other again.  Which means we haven't taken the Garcia case either.  But we will today.  On the 9th!  It was January 9th that Carlos walked in our office with Erika and Adriano.  Hey, maybe that's why I'm here.  Yeah, that's gotta be it.  In this world it must be important that those events never happen.  I bet I'm here to prevent them.  Or at least to prevent us from takin' on the Garcias as clients.  Wish I had the opportunity to go back and do it all over again in my own world.  Sure would have saved all of us a shit load of grief.

 

     It was the one and only case in the history of Simon and Simon Investigations that Rick had never quite forgiven himself for accepting.  It had left a fourteen-year-old girl dead after being brutally raped and tortured.  It had left A.J.'s life in a shambles, causing him to make decisions in the coming months that eventually found Simon and Simon closing its doors and A.J. on his way to Seattle to make a new life with his new bride, Janet Fowler.  But that new life ended in heartbreak as well, when the divorce became final in May of 1995.  The only good that had come out of all of it, as far was Rick was concerned, was the resurrection of Simon and Simon Investigations during the summer of '95.

 

     Though Rick knew what happened here in this alternate universe didn't directly effect events in the world in which he lived, it was nice to think he was going to be able to prevent this alternate Erika's death and spare his alternate brother the heartache that accompanied it.

 

     Since it's the 9th today whatever higher power it is that controls these little trips I occasionally take must plan on this bein' a quick one.  I'll just let it play out like it did six years ago, only give it a different ending.  I'll listen to what Adriano and Erika have to say, but rather than talk A.J. into takin' the case, I'll advise Adriano to immediately move his family out of the area.  It might be a financial hardship what with Adriano havin' to quit his job and then wait for his house to sell, but what the heck, it beats burying your daughter.  Between him and Carlos they've got enough cousins that don't live in the San Diego area.  I'm sure someone will take the Garcias in for a few months.  A.J.'ll go along with me 'cause deep down I know he didn't want to take the case anyway.  He only agreed to it 'cause Carlos is my friend.

 

     Rick was feeling rather smug with himself and his powers of deduction by the time he'd cleaned up the kitchen.  He whistled for Rex

with the intention of locking the dog in the boat for the day.

 

     The retriever sat on the deck outside the patio doors looking up at

his master.  The detective stepped aside and pointed toward the houseboat's interior.

 

     "Go on, boy.  Go in.  I gotta go to work."

 

     The dog refused to move.

 

     "What's the matter with you this morning?  I just filled your bowls with fresh food and water like I do every day...or rather like I assume your other master does every day, and I left a couple rawhide chewies on the kitchen floor.  You'll be fine.  Go on inside."

 

     Every time Rick made the slightest movement the dog bounded for the nearby dock with an excited bark.  When this action was repeated for the fourth time the detective realized what it was the animal was telling him.

 

     "You think you're goin' with me, huh?  No.  No way.  A.J. will have my butt if I bring you to...but hey, this is that other world, isn't it? Where everything's opposite of what I’m used to.  Mmmmm, on second thought, maybe you do come to work with me every day."

 

 

     Though Rick couldn't quite imagine how that scenario would play out, he wasn't against trying it. 

 

     Worse thing that's gonna happen is I’ll have to come up with some cockamamie line of bull to feed this A.J. about why Rex is with me.

 

     Rick stepped into the boat.  When he returned to the deck his gun was holstered in place around his shoulder and he was wearing his field jacket, hat, and boots.  The act of him pausing to lock the door was evidently the signal for Rex to lead the way to the parking lot.  The young dog raced off, his master following behind at a more leisurely pace.

 

     If Rex hadn't been with him, Rick wasn't sure if he would have ever known for certain which vehicle parked in the marina's lot belonged to him. Missing from his assigned spot was the Dodge Ram truck he'd bought in 1988.  He looked around, assuming things weren't quite as they should be just like the furniture on his boat.  He scanned the parking lot but no silver truck was in attendance.  Rex remained sitting by the vehicle parked in what Rick knew to be his spot in his own world.  As Rick walked away from the four door smoky gray Ford Bronco the dog barked.

 

     Rick turned around to see Rex studying him with head cocked.

 

     "What?  Are you tryin' to tell me this is mine?"

 

     The dog barked again.

 

     "No way.  These things go for around thirty grand fully loaded." Rick cupped his hands, looking in the driver's window at the dashboard.  "And believe me, this sucker is fully loaded."  

 

 

     Before Rick could decide what to do a man passed on his way to his own vehicle.  "What's the matter, Rick?  Lock yourself out?"

     The detective recognized the well-dressed banker as a man who moored a houseboat four slips from his in his own world.

 

     "Uh...no.  No.  Just lookin' things over."

 

     "Good idea.  Did I tell you someone scratched the paint on the driver's side door of my car last week?"

     "No, no you didn't tell me. Scratched the paint you say?  Geez, I'm sorry to hear that."

 

     "Yeah, it really ticked me off.  Probably kids goofing around.  I complained about it to the harbor master."

 

     "Good idea."

 

     "But maybe I need to hire a private detective, huh?"

     Rick laughed politely at the man's joke. "Yeah, maybe.  Well, you have a good day, John."

 

     The man wave as he walked on to his Caprice.  "I will.  You do the same."

 

     Now that he was alone once more Rick scanned the keys on the ring he'd picked up off his bedroom dresser.  Until now, he hadn't noticed the key for his pickup was missing.  In its place was a square key labeled Ford.

 

     Rick shrugged while inserting the key in the lock.  "If nothing else this'll be fun for a day or two.  I've always wanted one of these babies."

 

     Rick opened the back door, allowing Rex to jump in on the black cloth bench seat.  He climbed in the front of the sport utility vehicle, took a moment to find the important things like the switches for the lights, windshield wipers, heater/air conditioner, radio, and automatic door locks, then, started the engine.  He fingered through the CD's stacked neatly in a mounted wooden rack on the dashboard, seeing his counterpart and he shared the same taste in music.   He picked out George Strait's Greatest Hits and slid it in the player.  He grinned at his dog in the rearview mirror as he backed out of his space.

 

     "Now this is what I call living, Rex, my boy."

    

______________________________

 

 

     Rick assumed he'd find the current Simon and Simon office in this world in the same location it resided in his world - the Gas Lamp District. 

 

     If things are similar to my world then in 1988 these Simon brothers would have bought the building where their office is housed.  Mmmm, makes me wonder what these guys are doin' different from me and A.J.   After that transaction went through the last thing I could afford was a home entertainment system and utility vehicle like this guy's got.  Maybe I'll pick up a few pointers while I'm here.  Won't A.J. just flip if I come back with all kinda ideas to make us financially more successful.  He'll sure wonder what books I've been readin'. 

 

     Rick parked in his accustomed spot in the small parking lot next to the four story building, but didn't see A.J.'s Camaro.

 

     Maybe he drives somethin' fancier, too.  A Porsche or a Corvette?     Kinda hard to imagine though, 'cause even when A.J. has money at his disposal he's real conservative about how he spends it.

 

     Not knowing for certain whether his alternate brother was at work or not, Rick took the time to prepare himself for the moment they came face to face.

 

     I gotta be careful about what I say.  I can't screw this up and have him thinkin' there's something 'different' about me.  I'll just let him take the lead and kinda follow in his footsteps.  It shouldn't be too hard.  Besides, by the time the day's over the Garcia case will be behind us, and me and the other Rick will be back where we belong.

 

     Rex followed Rick into the building.  The dog didn't seem to have any fear of the old-fashioned elevator car, waiting by it until Rick opened the gate.  When they exited on the fourth floor the dog trotted ahead of Rick, turning into the first office on the right.

 

     "Rex!  Hey, Rex!  Get outta there!"

 

     Rick ran down the hallway expecting to see the three women who worked in World Wide Travel, the travel agency he and A.J. rented this particular office to.

 

     "Rex!"

 

     Rick flew through the door only to discover Rex was a welcome visitor here.  The lone woman in the office appeared to be in her

mid-thirties.  A computer sat on one corner of her desk, a phone on the other, a Rolodex in the middle.  Two plants, an appointment calendar, and pictures of a man and three young children with hair tinted various shades of red were neatly arranged on what space was left.  A sidearm extended from the desk and had a printer and a typewriter resting on it. 

 

     The woman pulled a Milkbone out of a box she kept in the bottom drawer of her desk. Rick watched as his dog accepted the treat, then walked over and lay down in a corner as if this was a daily ritual. 

 

     The woman's attention shifted from dog to master.  She looked up at the detective and smiled.  "Good morning, Rick."

 

     "Morning..."  Rick paused until his eyes found the nameplate on the desk half obscured by a philodendron leaf.  "Donna."

 

     "You look well-rested for a change.  Better than I've seen you look in weeks, as a matter of fact."

 

     "Uh, thanks."

 

     If my counterpart makes guzzling down a dozen and a half beers a nightly habit I imagine I do look well-rested.

 

     Donna Hensel brushed a strand of pale, shoulder length hair behind one ear while sorting through a small stack of pink slips of paper.  Even from this angle Rick could read the heading on the papers - ‘While You Were Out.’    "I've taken three phone messages for you already and the recorder was full.  I left it on ‘announce.’  All you'll have to do is hit the rewind button to get the messages."

 

     "Uh...okay, thanks."  Rick subtly studied the room he was in, noticing that aside from the woman's desk that faced the hallway, a Xerox copier resided in one corner of the room while black file cabinets lined two walls. When she crossed over to one of those cabinets he took the opportunity to glance back at the open door.