Hard Rain by Peter Abrahams

writing hurriedly on a scrap of paper with a pencil stub. “I wish you’d heard the tape,” Jessie said through the car window. Barbara turned the key. Jessie took a deep breath. “Come on, Barbara, you know about these things. What do you really think? Has he gotten in trouble with dope dealers or something like that?”
    â€œIt happens,” Barbara said. She revved the engine. “Parental kidnapping happens too.”
    â€œNo,” Jessie said, holding onto the car. “It couldn’t be that. He’s never even asked for more time with Kate. Why would he kidnap her?”
    â€œJunkies do the damnedest things.”
    â€œHe’s not a junkie. Junkies are heroin addicts. Pat smokes grass and does some cocaine, but it doesn’t interfere with his life.”
    Barbara’s voice rose. “Don’t be an asshole. You’ve been divorced for five years, and you’re still defending him. He’s a loser, Jessie. When you get Kate back …”
    â€œWhat?”
    Barbara softened her tone. “You’d better make some changes, that’s all.”
    Barbara drove off. Jessie watched the car until it turned the corner. Her hands were shaking. She put them in her pockets.
    The bag lady finished writing and stuck the pencil behind her ear. “Beam me the fuck out of here,” she whispered urgently. Jessie reentered the house.
    She went from room to room. Was Pat a loser? She looked at the flat stomach of the laughing woman on the wall and the fast-food containers on the table; she looked at the bag of cocaine in the bedside table; she looked at the Clinique bag too, but didn’t open it. She looked at Jane Eyre . She looked at the empty space where Jimi Hendrix’s Stratocaster had hung. If Pat was a loser, what was she? They’d lost their marriage together. Maybe she should have handled things differently; maybe she should have … Jessie stopped herself. It was over. All it had left behind was a residue of regret; and from time to time she missed him, a lot.
    Jessie looked at the hall table. Hadn’t there been unopened mail on top of it? She went through the drawers. She found advertising circulars, receipts from clothing stores, a few unpaid bills in small amounts, a handful of pesos, guitar picks, but no unopened mail. At the back of the bottom drawer, she found a crumpled piece of carbon paper. She smoothed it out. It was the copy of a money order, signed by Pat. On March 18, he’d paid ten thousand dollars to Eggman Cookies.
    The name meant nothing to Jessie. She called information for Eggman Cookies and found no listing in L.A., Santa Monica, Hollywood, the beaches, the Valley. She tucked the carbon in her pocket. Ten thousand dollars was a lot to pay for cookies.
    Could Eggman Cookies be the name of a band? Jessie went into the music room. Pat had hundreds of records, tapes and compact discs. He had Merle Travis, Carl Perkins, Muddy Waters, Doc Watson, Eric Clapton and everything Blind Lemon Jefferson had recorded. He had Charlie Christian, Django Reinhart, Wes Montgomery, Joe Pass, Bucky Pizzarrelli. He had Andrés Segovia, Narciso Yepes, Julian Bream, John Williams. He had a rock collection that went from Abba to Z.Z. Topp and included Blue Cheer, the Blues Magoos, the Moody Blues, David Blue and Two Jews’ Blues. But he didn’t have Eggman Cookies.
    Turning to go, Jessie noticed a tape inserted in one of the cassette players. Just to hear what it was, she flicked it on. Joni Mitchell. She was singing about Woodstock and the future she hoped she had seen there. Not Pat’s kind of music, Jessie thought as she turned it off. Perhaps the woman with the flat stomach liked it.
    â€œShit,” Jessie said. She went into the kitchen and splashed cold water on her face. As she dried herself with a paper towel, her eye was drawn again to the blackboard. She turned on the overhead light and examined it closely. She could