The Englishman's Boy by Guy Vanderhaeghe

Monthlie.” The old woman who answers my knock is thin as a straight razor and wears a black dress so shiny it looks wet.
    “I’d like to speak to Mr. McAdoo,” I say.
    “Not here.”
    “When do you expect him back?”
    “Don’t. Moved out.”
    “Do you have a forwarding address for him?”
    “Nothing to forward. He never got mail.”
    I think for a moment, hand on the screen door. “He didn’t happen to skip out on the rent by any chance, did he?”
    “What’s it to you?”
    “I’m a business associate,” I tell her. “It’s possible I might be able to settle any debts. Collect any personal belongings he might have left behind.”
    A shrewd, cold look passes over her face and then she dismisses the opportunity with a regretful, weary shake of the head. “No, he paid in full. Always did. He’s a punctual man.”
    “Do you have a guess where he went to?”
    “No.”
    “Did he say anything? Give any reasons for leaving?”
    Mother Reardon cocks her head, shoots me a look like a bright-eyed scrawny bird. “Business associate, you said?”
    “In a manner of speaking.”
    “Then you ought to know him to be closed-mouthed. Never saidmuch more to anybody than a word at the supper table. ‘Pass the butter.’ ‘Pass the beans.’ That’s all he ever asked from anybody, that they pass him what he paid for.”
    “So he just up and left.”
    “That’s right. Came out of his room one Sunday morning with his duffel bag packed and asked what he owed. Left without breakfast.”
    “On the run?”
    “No. He wasn’t in any particular hurry.”
    “I talked to a man this afternoon. He mentioned something about a director. Did Mr. McAdoo ever say anything about a director?”
    “I heard him say a thing or two about directors. None of it good. I feel the same way. Movie people don’t get into my house if I can help it. They’re all whores and thieves. Except for the cowboys. They may be rough but they’re honest.”
    “Did he have any visitors?”
    “A few young fellows came by. Just to sit with him. They admired Mr. McAdoo. Wanted to hear about the old days. Once I heard him tell them, ‘Don’t ask me about the old days. Let the dead bury the dead. I ain’t dead.’ ”
    “What do you think he meant by that?”
    “I don’t think he meant anything. It’s just something an old man might say.”
    “Do you know the names of any of those young fellows?”
    “No.”
    “And you have no idea why he left?”
    “Could be any number of reasons. Could be money, he hadn’t worked in some time. I’ll carry people I trust until they find work. Mr. McAdoo I trusted, but he never asked me to carry him.”
    “You mentioned there might be a number of reasons. What other reasons?”
    She considers a moment. “I came in the house the night before he moved out. I’d been visiting my sister. It was dark. Saturday night the boys are usually out. I walked in the living room and threw the light switch. Mr. McAdoo was sitting by the radio.” She paused. “He was crying. That’s the last thing I expected to see … Shorty McAdoocrying. He’s a tough old bird. I thought, Lord God, what’s this? His face was all wet with tears, he wiped them off with his hands. I said to him, ‘Mr. McAdoo, are you feeling poorly? Anything I can get you?’ He said, ‘No, the light coming on so sudden made my eyes burn.’ I said, ‘Well, let me get you a cool cloth for them.’ I went out and ran some water on a washcloth; I knew it wasn’t the light. He slipped out before I came back. Maybe he got bad news about family. Maybe he learned he ain’t well.”
    “Anything else?”
    She shook her head.
    In the next few days I make no more progress. Groping for a lead, I go to the obvious places and ask the obvious questions. I spend an unfruitful afternoon loafing around the Sunset Barn, where a lot of the Western stars stable their horses. It’s a popular place for corral buzzards who perch on the rail fences hoping to get