Truck Stop by Jack Kilborn Page A

indicate
frigid.
It was lying to me, blowing tepid breaths in my face that did little to combat the sticky summer air. I settled for lowering the window enough to get a breeze but not so much that it disrupted my conversation.
    “That was good of you, Zach. Remind me to talk to Sully about getting you a regular news beat.”
    The kid got all excited but there was no reason for him to. It was an empty hope, he just hadn’t figured that out yet. The newspaper industry was dying, slowly, painfully. The Suburban Herald, my employer for the past fifteen years, was just like all the other rags that had gone terminal before anyone realized what was happening.
    Reporters have always fought over stories with front page potential, but at least there was usually enough space to go around. These days, we often spend our time wrestling over every precious column inch.
    “Is Sully around?”
    “No, Mr. Chapa, he’s in another meeting with the accountants, all the editors are.”
    I thanked Zach for the tip, then called Matt Sullivan’s line and left him a voicemail. I took the next off-ramp, crossed over the expressway, and headed back toward the Loop. I’d be on the story before my editor had a chance to wonder whether someone else should be instead.
    My office is located in the western suburbs, but I was in the city that day following a lead from Nina Constentino, a pint-sized woman in her late sixties who offered me a cup of green tea and a well-used chair to sit in while I drank it. I passed on the tea, and standing would’ve been the wise choice.
    “You’re my last hope, Mr. Chapa.”
    “Please call me Alex.”
    From the looks of it, Nina was wearing the same makeup she put on the day her husband went missing.
    “Emil would never disappear like this. Not without telling me. It’s been two days now, and I know something bad has happened.”
    Truth is I normally would’ve given her a gentle brush-off. People do sometimes get lost for a day or two. These stories pop up all the time.
    “You’ve tried the police?”
    “They came by, took my information. But they didn’t seem to be in a hurry to do anything. Said he hadn’t been gone long enough.”
    “I don’t want to cause you any more worry, but have you tried the hospitals? Maybe he got in some sort of accident.”
    She raised her voice, probably as much as her frail frame would allow. “I’ve called every hospital and clinic in Chicago asking for Emil or anyone unknown fitting his description. I’m not a fool, Mr. Chapa.”
    “Alex,” I said gently.
    She nodded, sniffled, then I lost her face to a yellowed, embroidered handkerchief that I would have bet was older than I was.
    “I’m sorry, Alex. Didn’t mean to snap at you. I haven’t been able to sleep, and I’m a wreck. But I’ve tried the hospitals, and everyone we know, and the police, and I don’t know what I’m going to do next.”
    The handkerchief returned to her face, but she continued.
    “This isn’t the sort of big story you like to be involved with, I know that. But even after forty years of marriage Emil still makes my heart jump. He’s all I have.”
    I leaned in to comfort her, but thought better of it when the chair crackled and squealed.
    “There are private detectives.”
    “I called one, but he wanted to be paid much more than I can afford. Our finances lately, because of the business—well, I just don’t have it, Mr. Chapa.”
    I felt for her, but didn’t see what I could do. Sadly, this wasn’t really news. Maybe if I spun it, took the human interest angle, something about how no one cares for the senior citizens in our society.
    “I can write a story, print his picture. Maybe someone will recognize him.”
    “That’s not enough. I need to go looking for him. Do you have a car?”
    “Yes, but Mrs. Constentino—”
    “Please. I’d go myself, but Emil has our car. I don’t have anyone else to turn to.”
    I let myself entertain the notion, cruising around Chicago with