“So what’s the word?” I say.
“What do you know about Mexican culture, Zesty?”
“Really? First it’s MLK and now this? Okay, it’ll be short: I know Cinco de Mayo, Quinceañera, that the Aztecs used to put gold flakes into their coffee because they believed it ensured sexual potency.” Something I’d be willing to try but can’t afford. “And Día de los Muertos is a holiday that honors the dead and loved ones pray to speed the dead’s journey into the afterlife. How’d I do?”
“Sadly, better than most. But you’re spot on about Día, which is really why we’re here. Día starts on October thirty-first, which leaves us less than a month.”
“To do what?”
Solarte reaches into her jacket and lays down three photographs, two black-and-white, one color, of a pretty woman, maybe late teens, early twenties; it’s hard to tell with the heavy black and purplish makeup on her face, the eyelashes painted long, maybe fake, possibly not. Cherry lips in the color photograph. Dark eyes with charcoal stripes underlining them in that one, like what a ball player wears to fight the glare or just look tough. It doesn’t make Camilla Islas look tough, though, just sexy. If you could ignore her junkie thinness and the faraway look in her eyes.
“Cool jacket.” I point out the leather coat that could have been stolen from Chrissie Hynde of The Pretenders. Spikes on the shoulder to dissuade pigeons from roosting. Red stripes on the sleeves.
I look long and hard at the photographs and then up to see Klaussen’s eyes, deep and dark and brimming with tears that flow quietly down his angular cheekbones like water over stone, a level of pain in them that surprises me, probably similar to the fresh grief Rambir Roshan’s loved ones are experiencing right about now. Only this girl in the pictures has been dead for over thirty years. And Klaussen killed her and then disappeared her body with my father. What right does he have to cry?
The second photo is crowded with people, Klaussen and Islas together in a graffiti-covered equivalent of what was once the green room of a Boston club, both of them looking thoroughly wasted but happy, a snapshot of the high-octane Boston rock and roll scene of the time.
“That one,” he points out, “was backstage at the Channel, long gone now, right?” He uses the back of his hand to swipe the tears from his face. “When this picture was taken we’d been together for close to two years and if you can’t tell, we were both hard-core junkies then.”
“The album was out at this point?”
“Yes. Locally, we were as big as anybody. It was us, J. Geils, Aerosmith, you can actually see Peter Wolf in the background there.…” He trails off. “Your father was probably prowling around somewhere, but he’s not in any pictures I still have. Camilla and I, we were both using but I’d gotten her pregnant and she was trying to kick, to get clean. This was just a few months before we were supposed to open for Zeppelin and, well, you know the rest of that story. We were sharpening our set, playing out a lot, and somebody gave me something, somebody was always giving me something, and I pressured Cam into shooting, one last time, always just one last time.” The tears had stopped falling, but they’d left behind a shine in Klaussen’s eyes that made them glint like hard dark marbles in his face.
“We had a show on the Cape and when we got back into Boston I woke up and Camilla’s beside me, a needle sticking out of her arm, and your dad’s trying to revive her. I was so fucked up, Zesty; I didn’t, couldn’t do anything. I don’t remember where we were, but your dad had wrapped her body in a sheet and we drove, not too far, might have been Southie; I remember seeing oil tanks and smelling the marshy waters, industrial waste.… And we buried her. Your father made me shovel, we both shoveled.…”
Klaussen’s wide shoulders shake and silence settles in at the table, a waiter approaching but waved off by Solarte with a discreet wag of her finger.
“We all know McKenna had buried bodies at Tenean and Wollaston, and that Ritter, McKenna’s hatchet man, led the state police there when he cut his deal,” Solarte fills the void after some time has passed. “But Camilla Islas wasn’t one of the bodies recovered so we’ve ruled those places out.”
“But you think she’s buried at—”
“I don’t know where she’s buried. I’m just telling you what I remember. She’s somewhere in the city, that’s all I know.”
“And why’s this suddenly so important?” I don’t bother trying to hide the anger in my voice, but who am I angry at? Klaussen for forcing his girl into an overdose during her pregnancy? Or my father, who let it happen and covered it all up and was now unable to answer for his sins, his ever-growing laundry list of fucking sins? “Why the fuck are you back now trying to fix something you can’t make right?”
“You ask me a question that, regardless of what answer I give you, won’t satisfy you, Zesty. You realize that, don’t you?”
“Deal with it. She’s been dead for over thirty years, for fuck’s sake. Why now?”
“I don’t know what I can tell you beyond the fact that this has weighed on my conscience for those thirty-plus years, and to be absolutely truthful, this is the first time I’ve felt strong enough to confront the guilt. She’s been calling to me, you know.”
“Fuck you.” I slam the table, the silverware jumping.
“I don’t blame you for being upset, Zesty. I get it. But I’m curious, do you believe in such things, the voices of the dead? In spirits and ghosts?”
I’m not sure what I believe. Did the dead speak? Not according to Brill, who claims that the dead are silent, which is why he works so hard to speak for them, to give them the last word.
“What I believe,” I say, finally, “is that you’re a fucking asshole and probably a liar.”
“Yes, I am.” My words sting Klaussen about as much as a butterfly’s kiss. “But what reason do I have to lie now? I don’t want anything from your dad. I don’t need money. Camilla was of Mexican heritage. I only want to give her a proper burial so she doesn’t suffer any more than she already has.”
“Yeah? So while you’re at it, why don’t you go turn yourself in to the police and get them to help find her?”
“And what would that gain? Tell me. You think I haven’t suffered for my sins, is that it?”
“Yeah, pretty much,” I admit.
“Well, you don’t know me.” Klaussen shrugs dismissively and it takes every ounce of restraint I have not to jump across the table and punch him in his smug and bronzed fucking face. “And do you really want to drag your father’s name into this? I understand he’s beyond the reach of the courts, but do you want them poking around, dragging your family’s already infamous past through the papers again? Looking into Zero’s business and affairs?”
Thanks to Sam Budoff it’s a little late for that but I don’t want Zero to have to battle on two fronts at once.
“Here’s the thing,” I address Alianna Solarte. “Him I get not going directly to the police, but I need you to be straight with me. Coming into this, did you know that Camilla Islas’s case was nonexistent as far as BPD is concerned, that it’s all gone, the files, the murder book? That except for a tombstone and an empty grave, Camilla Islas never existed.”
“No.” Solarte doesn’t try to hide the surprise in her face. “I just knew that they’d never let me take a look at it. I think you know why.”
Klaussen interjects, “Which is why we need to be the ones to find her. It’s not right what they’ve done, rendered her invisible. Any more than what I have. Camilla deserves to be remembered. Isn’t that what your people believe, Zesty?”
“My people?”
“You’re Jewish, are you not? As long as somebody remembers the dead, speaks their name, keeps them in their hearts, they’re alive.”
“Something like that.” My ignorance is like a cold slap across my face.
“Well, I remember Camilla. But after me…? I know I don’t have the right to be the one entrusted to carry her, but there’s nobody else who knew her like I did. Alianna say
s Camilla’s parents are gone. She had no siblings, no other relatives that I know of. Her spirit needs release, Zesty. Whether you believe in these things or not, I know it to be true.… There’s no other reason I’ve been left alive but to make things right and aid in her safe passage. I know you don’t want Camilla to be forgotten, Zesty.”
“No.” I think of Zero and his locked safe and newfound happiness. Of my father’s locked mind and newfound silence. Of my mother, who’s been gone so long she hardly even qualifies as a memory anymore.
“Then help me, Zesty. Help Alianna find Camilla and make this as right as I possibly can.”
“I’m not really sure what I can do for you, Karl,” I say.
“Well, for starters,” Klaussen says, “you can take me to see your father.”
“Why the hell would I do that?”
“Because what’s the harm?” Klaussen pleads. “It’s been too long and I miss him terribly and owe him my life. But if all that’s unconvincing to you,” Klaussen raises his glass, takes a sip and pats the guitar case beside him, “despite my many shortcomings, your father always thought highly of my musical abilities. Perhaps he’d enjoy listening to some live music again.”
TWENTY-THREE
There’s a Brookline Police cruiser parked in front of my father’s house on Beals Street, a defibrillating shock of panic spiking my heart until Sid sees me out of the corner of his eye and twitches a wink in my direction. I’d left Casa Romero a few minutes before Klaussen and Solarte and caught rocket fuel in the form of the Modern Lovers’ 1972 Boston classic “Roadrunner,” which powered me through Kenmore Square and up the gradual incline of Beacon Street until I turned into Coolidge Corner and coasted until I hit Beals.
The cruiser’s flashers are off and two uniformed policemen are standing at the foot of the three stairs that lead to the open front porch of my father’s house. One of the blues has his foot on the second stair, writing on an open notepad balanced across his thigh.
Sid’s not so much blocking their entrance as forming a tandem wall with the man who pretty much fits the description the bouncer at the Lounge had given for the guy he called the Rabbi, the mountain of a man wearing a large black overcoat that could conceal a bazooka, an unruly nest of a black beard blanketing his face, and an unusually low hairline that makes his forehead seem small. At least from a short distance, he looks only a shtreimel short of walking out of a Polish shtetl at the turn of the century.
“This is what I told the officer at the scene last night.” His voice emanates as a rumble, but with a strange off-kilter pitch that makes it sound like he’s whining. If a boulder could whine. The Rabbi strokes his beard and cocks his head defiantly. An awning of scar tissue hangs over his brow, shading his eyes. “Perhaps you should compare notes.”
“What he means,” Sid cuts in, “is no disrespect, Officers, but we thought we had this cleared up last night.”
“That was before Rabbi Bloomberg noticed that the padlock on the side door was broken and there were two empty bottles of Manischewitz under the lectern.”
“Of this, I know nothing.” The Rabbi takes offense. “A little sweet for my taste.”
“What’s going on, Sid?”
“A little misunderstanding. Officers, Mr. Meyers’s son, Zesty.”
“What can I do for you officers?” I say.
“You have any identification?”
I produce an ID that’s not a driver’s license and the officer with the pad records whatever he’s supposed to record. Later they’ll run my name and I’ll come up clean as a whistle, proving that miracles still happen.
“Are you aware your father and Rabbi Day here almost got arrested last night?”
“For what?”
“They broke into Temple Israel.” The officer cocks his head toward Harvard Street, the temple out of sight, but just around the corner.
“‘Broke in’ is a little harsh,” the Rabbi rumbles, spreading his hands placatingly. There are large red scars on his knuckles, a bandage that needs changing on his left hand, dark red blood seeping through.
“You broke a padlock on the side door with what, a crowbar?” No-Pad says.
The Rabbi shrugs, half confession, half apology.
I look at Sid, who shrugs the other half of each one. “Your pops wanted to take a walk. Rabbi Day offered to go. What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is they broke into a temple.”
“Watch your tone.” Sid points at me.
“We’ll take care of any damage,” I say. “The two bottles of holy juice.” This is an unusual role for me, I realize, playing the grown-up. Zero might be sketchy, but I’m usually the one getting pulled out of shit shows. “What else do I need to do to make this right, Officers?”
“We’re aware your father has Alzheimer’s, that he’s a wandering risk. But that doesn’t give him or whoever’s watching him the right to break into places.”
“Understood,” I say at exactly the same time the Rabbi says, “A man wants to go to shul, he should be allowed to go to shul.”
“Excuse me?” The officer with the pad looks up sharply.
A couple houses down Alianna Solarte and Karl Klaussen unfold themselves from a cab and I hold my finger up to them to stay back a minute, the porch crowded enough as it is.
“No, I agree with you wholeheartedly, Officer.” The Rabbi softens his stance. “My issue is with the locking of the temple itself. I understand the security concerns, the political climate being what it is, but if a man wishes to pray, should he not be allowed to enter a house of the holy and commune with his God?”
“At three in the morning?” The officer goes back to writing on the pad. It looks like a lot of paperwork for a lot of nothing.
“My dad’s internal clock isn’t working anymore,” I say by way of apology. “There’s not a lot of sleeping going on around here. I’m sure they were both pretty loopy at that point.”
“I understand that,” No-Pad says.
“My dad asked to go into the temple?” I look to the Rabbi.
“He led and I assisted.”
With a crowbar? I thought but managed not to say.
“Nobody’s looking to press charges. We just want to reach an understanding here, gentlemen, for future reference. Rabbi, do you have a temple you’re affiliated with?”
“I’m, at the moment, as they say, between congregations.”
“Who’s ‘they’?” I say.
The Rabbi shoots me a withering look from deep behind his beard and brow. I’m sure it’s a look that’s frightened many a recalcitrant bar mitzvah boy to death, only I’m not particularly religious.
“Is there a problem here?” No-Pad picks up on the vibe.
“No,” I say. “Again, probably just a lack of sleep.”
“What’s with the hand, Rabbi?” Pad doesn’t look up from his scribbling. A future detective, this one. He has the languid demeanor of a card shark, not even his fin sticking out of the water. But he’s seen the blood seeping through the Rabbi’s bandage, knows there’s more to this story than what the Rabbi’s divulging.
“The joys of learning a new trade,” the Rabbi says.
“Oh yeah, what’s that?”
“I work at the Zen Moving Company,” he responds cheerily. “Coming hard to the realization that it’s a job for graceful apes who have the ability to dance backwards like Gene Kelly in high heels. I skinned my hand.”
“Okay,” Pad says, not buying any of it, but moving on. “You also understand how maybe you wouldn’t want your temple broken into in the middle of the night?”
The Rabbi throws up a Talmudic shrug. It seems to be enough.
“Perfect. So the next time Mr. Meyers feels the urge to pray, you’ll attend during regular temple hours, agreed?”
We watch as the squad car pulls away. “Brookline’s Finest. How much luckier can a cop get than to have Coolidge Corner as your beat? The finest of coffees, fresh bagels, and hello, who do we got here?”
>
I make the introductions all around, Sid extra-attentive to Alianna Solarte as he is with all women, a fool for love, or at least a tire-kicking roll in the hay. But he does a double take as Karl Klaussen’s name registers with him, Sid only a handful of years younger than Klaussen and a music lover in his own right. Hell, he’d probably seen Mass play out in the clubs and undoubtedly knew the legend of Klaussen’s disappearance. Did he know more? Sid has spent a lot of time with my father the past few years, been privy to my father’s one-way conversations. Had my dad spoken of Klaussen? Of Camilla Islas?
“No fuckin’ way! Zesty, you’re always full of surprises. Where the fuck did you find this guy?”
“Long story,” I say.
“Man, I used to see you guys all over town: the Rat, Chet’s. I think I even got my first blow—”
“Sid!”
“Oh shit.” He reddens. “I apologize.”
Alianna Solarte winks at Sid, distracting him from his fanboy moment, and we step into the house leaving behind a sky the color of dried roses, a line of softer pink and blue at the tail end of the street as dusk settles in. But it’s already dark under the canopy of oak where we are, the motion sensor lights on the porch flicking on as I shut the door behind me.
My father sits motionless at the large octagonal poker table we’d bought for him a couple years ago and where he prefers to sit and seems most at ease. His eyes remain vacant as we trundle through the front hall like the starting five to some misfit basketball team. Two giant forwards in Sid and the Rabbi; Klaussen the thin, wiry center ducking his head, probably out of habit, as he comes through the front door; Solarte looking like she could run around forever; and me running point, though everybody’d probably complain I don’t dish enough, always looking to squeeze off my own shots.
A Town Called Malice Page 16