“You already did that.” Phoenix cringed. “Sorry.”
“For what?”
“I sounded like my father just then. He was a military man too.”
“Did he rag you out and praise your brother, like my father did to me?”
Phoenix sat on a rock, careful not to wrinkle his suit. “I was an only child. So my dad just ragged me out. And he generally expected the impossible from me.”
“Sorry.”
“Now we’re both sorry.”
They shared a smile.
Kendall, wearing a white T-shirt and gym shorts, stretched his calf muscles. “If you’re going for a morning run, I suggest you get out of that suit, man.”
Phoenix shook his head. “I like to get a jump on the day and check out the resort.”
“How does it look?”
Phoenix glanced at Kendall. “Better now.”
Their eyes met.
I continued to the parking lot, where I met Jamison. We plopped into Jamison’s car, and he drove as we sipped pineapple smoothies and ate pumpkin quinoa muffins. By the time we reached Reading, we, and the town, were ready to greet the morning.
Jamison parked on a main road, and we visited the veterans’ center, boxing school, and a pretzel shop—one of many. In each case the person behind the counter had never heard of Armando Caro or his family. Twenty-four years ago might as well have been two hundred years ago in Reading.
Next we entered a Catholic church. The cavernous marble and gold structure was empty. As we walked by beautiful stained glass windows displaying Jesus healing the sick, serving and welcoming everyone, and demanding help for the poor and outcasts, I felt saddened at how his message had been distorted by so many to one of hate and exclusion. When we reached the altar, an elderly priest appeared.
I said, “Father, I’m hoping you can help us.”
He replied, “I’m sorry. We no longer offer clothing for the poor.”
Jamison whispered to me, “Maybe we should invest in a new wardrobe.”
“I’m Theo Stratis, and this is my husband, Jamison Radames.”
The priest sighed. “Our adoption agency does not welcome homosexual couples.”
Jamison held my arm. “We’re looking for someone named Armando Caro. He and his family lived in Reading approximately thirty years ago, and they were members of the Catholic church.”
Displaying Asher’s picture, I pointed to Armando. “This is him.”
The lines on the priest’s face deepened. “I remember the family. They’re gone now.”
“Do you know where?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
A blue-eyed altar boy appeared next to the priest.
The priest smiled at him and then asked us, “Is there anything else?”
“No, thank you.”
He pointed. “No thanks are necessary, but there is a donation box in the rear of the church.”
Our next stop was a diner converted from an old railroad car. After making our way to the reception area, we were greeted by a tall, thin, bespectacled young man in a white shirt and jeans. “Four?”
Jamison and I glanced behind us and then shrugged at the empty space.
The man explained, “I thought the ladies might be in the bathroom.”
“No women,” I replied.
“Two for breakfast, then. Come this way.”
Jamison stood in his path. “We’re looking for someone.”
The man scratched his auburn hair. “I thought you said the ladies weren’t in the bathroom.”
I explained, “An Armando Caro lived in Reading thirty years ago with his family.”
“I wasn’t born yet,” the man replied.
Jamison asked, “Is there someone who worked here back then?”
“Yes. Samantha, the cook.”
“Can we speak with Samantha?”
“I doubt it. She’s dead,” the boy replied. “The new cook moved here from Chester last month. Do you want to talk to him?”
I rubbed my forehead. “Do your parents or grandparents live in Reading?”
“Yes.”
“Is it possible for us to speak with any of them?” Jamison asked.
The boy replied, “I can call my mom on my phone.”
“Thank you.”
Jamison and I shared a hopeful glance.
As the boy picked up his phone and punched in the number, he said, “Mom talks a lot on the phone to her old friends back in Johnstown.”
Jamison’s voice tightened. “When did you move here from Johnstown?”
“Last year,” he replied.
“You don’t need to call your mother,” I said.
The young man sniggered. “Don’t let Mom hear you say that.” He rested his phone on the counter.
Jamison tried again. “Do you know anyone in this town who lived here thirty years ago?”
He scratched at a freckle on his neck. “There’s a lot of old people who come in here on Sundays after church. You can come back then. But I wouldn’t go from table to table and ask them about your friend. They might think you work here and give you their food orders. Someone might even mistake you for the owner.” He giggled. “Which is funny since the owner is, like, eighty years old.”
I perked up. “Is the owner originally from Reading?”
“No, but her husband is.”
“Can we speak to her husband?”
“That would be a problem.”
Jamison rubbed his temples. “Why is that?”
“After their divorce, he moved to Florida.”
I’d had enough. “Thank you for your time.”
He snapped his long fingers. “You should talk to Wiliana over at the laundromat.”
Since Armando’s mother had done the family’s laundry at a laundromat, my ears perked up. “Was Wiliana a resident here thirty years ago?”
He guffawed. “I doubt it. She’s twenty-two.”
“Then why should we talk to her?”
Adoration filled his young face. “If anybody can help you find your friend, Wiliana can. She’s really smart.” He smiled proudly. “She went to the community college! And with her position at the laundromat, she knows everybody. Wiliana is really beautiful, and she’s totally nice.”
“I can tell you like her.”
“I sure do. If I thought for one minute she’d say yes, I’d ask her out on a date to the diner.” He sighed. “But I’m not in her league.”
“Thanks for your help.” Jamison tugged at my arm.
“Tell Wiliana that Yatzi sent you.”
I called out over my shoulder, “Thanks, Yatzi.”
He shouted back, “And say hi to Wiliana for me.”
After we walked across the street, I pulled open the laundromat door. Once we had passed by the rows of washing and drying machines, I approached a pretty young woman sitting at the desk. Her head was shaved on one side, and long purple hair hung to her shoulder on the other.
“Excuse me.”
She glanced up from her phone.
“Are you Wiliana?” I asked.
She played with the silver ring on her nose. “That’s me.”
I said, “Yatzi at the diner recommended we speak to you.”
She unleashed a warm grin. “Yatzi’s a great guy.”
I replied, “He speaks highly of you too.”
“Yatzi never has a bad word to say about anybody.”
“I think he’s interested in you.”
She waved me away. “A terrific catch like Yatzi is out of my league. You should see how the girls at the diner flirt with him.” Wiliana pulled down her peasant blouse, exposing a shoulder. “I got this tattoo because it reminded me of him.”
Glancing down, I read, “Rock star.” I couldn’t resist. “Have you told Yatzi how you feel about him?”
“There’s no point. He’s above me on the food chain.”
“Wiliana, we just spoke to Yatzi, and he told us he’d like very much to date you.”
Her jaw dropped, exposing a tongue ring. “Yatzi said that?”
I nodded. “And I think you should head over to the diner during your lunch break and tell him about your tattoo.”
Her eyes sparkled. “I may just do that!” She giggled merrily. “Thanks!”
Jamison took over. “And now we’re hoping you can help us.”
“Shoot.”
“We’re looking for someone who lived here many years ago.”
“Are you detectives?”
“No, but we really need to find Armando Caro.”
“Sorry, I’ve never heard of him.”
I asked, “Can you think of anyone in town who might be able to help us?”
She nodded. “Merton, the psychic up the street.”
Jamison smirked. “We don’t believe in psychics.”
“Neither do I, but Merton knows everything about everybody in this town. And he’s always happy to… share with others. He’s lived in Reading forever.”
I grasped at her straw. “Thanks, Wiliana. We’ll do that.” As we left, I called out, “And talk to Yatzi.”
“I will!” She reached into her purse and applied black lipstick.
We hightailed it up the street and entered a building through a door marked, “Right Next to Heaven.” After climbing the narrow stairs, we entered a waiting room featuring Tiffany lamps and furniture covered with silk scarves. New Age music permeated the small space, and incense shrouded the air. A door opened, and a middle-aged man stood in the doorway. A purple-and-gold sari covered his thin body. “Welcome!”
I asked him, “Are you Merton?”
“Yes, I am the truthteller. Please follow me for a reading.”
Jamison spoke up. “We aren’t here for a reading.”
Merton seemed disappointed.
“My name is Jamison Radames. This is Theo Stratis.”
“We’re looking for someone.”
“And you’ve both been thinking about him all day,” Merton said.
“That’s right.”
Merton closed his eyes. “This person you are looking for is very dear to you.”
“No,” I replied.
“Or rather dear to someone you care about.”
“True.” I was growing impatient with his parlor game attempt at hooking us into a reading.
“And you want to find this man for your friend.”
“Yes.”
“This man’s first name has an A in it.”
Jamison took over. “Yes.”
“Arthur?” Milton asked.
“No.”
“Arnold?”
I cut to the chase. “The man we are looking for is Armando Caro.”
Merton nodded. “Armando was brought up in Reading.”
“Yes!” Jamison replied.
“But he left to join the Navy.”
I asked, “How did you know that?”
He opened his eyes. “I remember him.” Merton’s voice lost its airy, ephemeral quality. “Did my cousin Merton put you up to this?”
“Your cousin has your same first name?” I asked.
“Same last name too. Our mothers thought it would be cute.” He sighed. “But it isn’t cute now when my mother goes on about her son the ‘struggling’ psychic and my cousin the ‘successful’ real estate agent. So if my cousin sent you here to laugh at me—”
My gaydar went up at his histrionics. “Merton, your cousin didn’t send us here. Our friend served in the Navy with Armando.” I showed him the picture.
Merton sighed. “He was a cutie, wasn’t he? And your friend wasn’t hard on the eyes either.”
“They were very close until being parted by the military’s old Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy. Now our friend is distraught, and he would very much like to see Armando again. He needs to see him again. Is there anything else you remember about Armando Caro that might help us find him?”
Merton took off his turban, unveiling a bald head. “After Armando left the Navy, he couldn’t get a job. My cousin hired him to work in his real estate office.” He gave us the address. “It’s on the other side of town. The good side, according to my mother. You can ask him about your friend.”
Jamison said, “Thank you for your help.”
Merton frowned. “I’m sure my cousin will help you more. Then he’ll brag about it to my mother, who will rub it in my face like cheap aftershave.”
Despite the warning glance from Jamison, I couldn’t help offering, “Merton, do you miss your cousin?”
He sighed. “We got along great as kids. Merton taught me how to play basketball, football, and hockey, which he’d never admit since I was such an awful player.” Smiling nostalgically, he said, “Merton was like a brother to me.”
“Why did you stop seeing him?”
“He stopped seeing me! A prince has no time for a pauper. Even if the pauper is his cousin.”
“I’m sorry, Merton.”
He seemed to realize it. “So am I.”
Jamison thanked him and led me out of the room. After a quick drive, we parked and hurried up the stairs of an office building to the second floor. Upon opening the door to “Merton’s Real Estate, You Buy, We Kvell,” we found a round man who appeared in his fifties sitting behind an old desk. The moment he saw us, his dark eyes sparkled. “Welcome! Merton Fogelman at your service.”
I cleared my throat. “Hello, I’m Theo Stratis, and this is my husband, Jamison Radames.”
“No worries. I don’t believe in that ‘religious freedom’ nonsense. It will be my pleasure to find you a house. And after you move in, you guys can fix up the neighborhood.” He laughed jovially. “Please, take a seat.”
We sat on worn chairs next to his desk.
He turned toward his computer. “Are you relocating to Reading?”
I replied, “No, actually we are—”
“Smart. Though nobody told the miners, coal is dead. You want a house in Quakertown?”
“No, you see—”
“I don’t blame you. Too quiet. Pine Grove?”
“Actually, we’re—”
“Too many snobs. How about Philly?”
Jamison said, “We’re not—
“Too crowded. And the pollution will kill you.”
I spoke up. “We’re trying to find—”
“A contemporary house? I’ve got a four-bedroom in Pottstown that will make your friends and family suicidal with envy—and hopefully they’ll leave you all their money.” He laughed.
“No, you see—”
“A colonial? Nobody learns history anymore, but they like living in a historic atmosphere. Go figure.”
“I—”
“Split-level? People with vertigo won’t visit, but who needs them falling on your property and suing you anyway?”
“No, my friend—”
“Sharing a house? I’ve got plenty of two-family homes.”
“We’re not looking for a two-family house.”
“Good. Sharing means fighting. How about a ranch? You can feel like a cowboy and never have to walk up the stairs. Or a raised ranch? They’re decades old, but what’s wrong with that? I didn’t have an ulcer and a hernia twenty years ago.”
I shouted over him, “We’re trying to find Armando Caro for a friend. Armando worked for you.” I displayed the photograph.
He cocked his head at me. “That’s why you’re here? To ask about somebody who worked for me a zillion years ago?”
We nodded.
He groaned. “Did my cousin put you up to this?”
“We spoke to Merton,” I explained.
He rubbed his balding head. “My cousin, Mr. Perfect, who according to my mother is at the top of the top one percent.”
Jamison said, “We visited Merton and—”
“Did he tell you we were once friends, but we haven’t spoken in years—including when we pass each other on the street? Though my mother mentions him—constantly—throwing in my face like a cream pie how he lives a life of lu
xury in a home that would make Buckingham Palace seem like an outhouse, and I, the real estate agent, don’t. Did Merton ask you to come here so he can tell my mother I lost another sale?”
I explained, “Merton remembered Armando Caro worked for you.”
He nodded. “That was when Merton and I were pals.” He sighed. “Merton was a good guy back then. We laughed like crazy together. I taught him how to play chess, and I beat him every time. He was best man at my wedding. We gave each other advice on how to start our businesses. Now, according to my mother, he’s proof of my failure.”
I leaned toward him. “It seems like you’ve been thinking about your cousin.”
“I think about him all the time.”
“Merton thinks about you too. And he’d like to see you.”
“Merton said that?”
I nodded. “But he thinks you’re too wealthy to socialize with him.”
He guffawed. “My cousin is the big shot.”
“According to your mother. But his mother told him you are the successful one.”
“That’s nuts!”
“Merton, your cousin isn’t wealthy. As a matter of fact, he’s struggling just like you.”
He sat dumbfounded. “Imagine that.”
I brought him out his trancelike state. “Would you like to know what I think?”
“Why not?’
“It sounds to me like your mothers have done you both a disservice. If you and your cousin compare notes, I think you’ll be friends again and feel a whole lot better about yourselves.”
He asked, “You sure Merton isn’t wealthy?”
“Positive. Will you call him?”
Merton thought about it. “I might just do that.”
Jamison brought us back to task. “Since that’s settled, can you tell us when Armando Caro started working for you?”
Merton rubbed his neck. “It must have been around 2004. Armando had been let go from the Navy under that Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell nonsense. He couldn’t find employment. I felt sorry for the guy and gave him a job here.”
I asked, “How long did Armando work for you?”
Merton adjusted the collar of his aging suit jacket. “When Armando didn’t sell many houses, he became frustrated. After a year, he got a job working in sales.”
“Selling what?” I asked.
Merton rubbed his eyes. “As I recall, refrigerators and then vacuum cleaners. Bicycles were next, I think. He went through a few jobs here in Reading.”
Finding Armando (Found At Last Book 2) Page 7