The Lost Tiki Palaces of Detroit

Noise of the Heart

117 there was a thundering in Leland’s ears as he attempted, with unsteady hands, to work his way behind the bookcase to where the telephone was connected. There was a small box on the floor in front of him. He kept glancing at the disclaimer on the back of the box. It was giving him the creeps: This Telephone Surveillance device is not intended for the unauthorized interception or recording of wire communications and should not be used for those purposes. This device is to be used only in a legal and lawful manner in accordance with all applicable FCC regulations. “Fuck the FCC,” said Leland aloud. The sound of his own voice startled him for a moment, as he disconnected the phone cord from the wall jack. Somehow the FCC wasn’t a concern when your wife was working late three nights a week. Or taking off for six hours on a Saturday and coming back noise of the heart 118 The Lost Tiki Palaces of Detroit with an excuse about getting her hair styled. Or maybe the FCC could investigate the piece of foil he found in her purse that he was pretty sure was from a condom. Leland fitted the cord from the back of their phone into the Spy Shop Model 2800 Auto-Telephone Recorder, then after fumbling a few times behind the bookcase, connected the recorder cord into the modular wall jack. He plugged the recorder into the electrical outlet, turned it on, and slid it behind the bookcase, out of sight, but where he could access it when necessary. Now the phone would record all incoming and outgoing calls. He would find out exactly what was going on. The FCC could prosecute him after that. It was a long shot anyway. Whatever was going on was being conducted strictly on Madeline’s cell phone. It was ringing an awful lot at home these days and she wasn’t taking the calls in front of Leland. It had gotten to the point that he felt physically ill every time he heard her ring tone, a digitized version of “Call Me” by Al Green. Of course, he could just ask Madeline what was going on, but that was too terrifying. Besides, he already had an idea of what the answer was. All this was really just to get him to believe what was probably already true. Two days later, there were five calls on the tape, but he didn’t want to listen to it at home. The only other place he could play it was in his car, a six-yearold Beetle that had a cassette deck along with the CD player and radio. A lucky break, because who the hell had a cassette player these days? He listened to the first two calls as he drove through Royal Oak, looking at all the over-caffeinated people sipping lattes in outdoor cafes. Both calls were from Madeline’s mother, first reminding her that they were supposed to go shopping, then calling back to confirm the time. Talking to her mother, Madeline sounded distant and distracted, even annoyed. She sounded the same way on the third call talking to Leland, when he called from work to tell 119 Noise of the Heart her that he was going to be a little late. One call was from the Institute of Arts, asking for donations, and yet another from Madeline’s mother. That was it. Two days later, he listened to the most recent calls as he drove aimlessly down 8 Mile, past the U Buy We Fry fish joints, the topless bars, and the storefront churches. Six calls, all from Madeline’s mom, Leland, and people who wanted money. Apparently they were the only ones who used their landline these days. This wasn’t working, thought Leland. That night about four a.m., Leland quietly extricated himself from the twisted, dampish sheets on his side and got up from bed. Madeline stirred. “Where are you going, Lee?” she asked drowsily. “I can’t sleep. I’m going to watch some TV.” “Close the door.” On a small table by the vestibule was Madeline’s cell phone on its charger cord. He picked it up, flipped it open, hit the call button and scrolled the history . Besides all the expected numbers, there were several numbers he didn’t recognize. He thought about writing them all...