Get Lost

by Robert D Kidera

  “Kids going away to school?” He turned and grabbed three plastic packages from the shelf and laid them on the counter.

  “How soon can you activate them?”

  “The codes and instructions are included. You can do it online. It’s easy.” He totaled the cash register.

  I considered the Feds might have my computer key-logged and my e-mail intercepted. “I got another fifty for you if you do it right now.”

  Twenty minutes later I sat in the Land Cruiser with three new cellphones, updating each speed-dial with the numbers of the other phones.

  The local news came on the car radio. Some guy in the South Valley had gone postal and blown his girlfriend into the Hereafter. He’d had enough class to save the last bullet for himself. A puff piece followed on the culinary delights featured at the State Fair. Then the weather. No word on the Pueblo-66 killing.

  I took my old cellphone out and turned off its GPS applet. Shoulda done that before. The first call on my new phone went to Rebecca at her apartment.

  “Good news,” she said. “Got a ton of info on Klein.”

  “Stop—don’t say another word.”

  “Okay…”

  “Meet me at our favorite rib joint. How fast can you get there?”

  “Twenty-five minutes?”

  “Great.”

  I made a pit stop at my house. No phone messages, no word from Nai’ya. Otis got a can of “Shredded Salmon Fare in a Delicate Sauce.” A small group of reporters trailed me back to my car, undeterred by my litany of “no comments.” I waved good-bye and drove down Fourth Street.

  C.J. worked on a late lunch behind his desk. He looked up when I entered. “If it isn’t the ringmaster!”

  “Don’t get up,” I said.

  “I wasn’t about to.”

  I sat across the desk and rested the bag of phones in my lap. “Ringmaster?”

  “That’s some circus you have going at that casa of yours. Busier there than here, for sure.”

  “You heard.”

  “Be serious, man. I saw your house on the news ten minutes ago. CNN update. Congratulations, you’re famous. Again.”

  “Shit.”

  “Jimmy Hoffa?” C.J. put down his pulled-pork sandwich. This allowed him to waggle a finger at me.

  I rubbed my temples. “Gimme a beer.”

  “Aren’t you on the wagon?”

  I waved off his concern. “Beer’s not real booze. Anyway, drinking’s just something I do from time to time now.”

  “Like five o’clock, nine, and eleven? Stop and think, man.”

  “Give me a beer now, or I’ll buy a six-pack later.”

  “Just one.” He reached into his small refrigerator and pulled out a brew.

  I grabbed it and popped the tab. “Thank you, Mother.”

  “Heard from Nai’ya?”

  “Nothing.” My first chug slid down easy. “Just as well. With the Feds crawling all over, my phones are probably tapped. They’d track her if she called me.” I put the beer down and reached into the plastic bag. “That’s why I brought you this.” My hand slid one of the new cellphones across his desk.

  C.J. picked it up and turned it over in his huge, brown hand. “What’s this for?”

  The office door opened and Charmaine appeared. “Any room in here for this lovely young lady?” She backed away and a red-cheeked Rebecca entered.

  “Just in time. Here.” I pulled a straight-backed chair over to the desk and set it next to mine.

  Rebecca held a yellow file folder out to me before she sat down. “You want this now?”

  “In a minute. I have something for you first.” I handed her one of the two remaining phones.

  “I already have a phone.”

  I held up a palm. “Let’s assume the Feds are bugging my phones. Yours too, maybe. So from now on we use these to call each other.”

  C.J. rolled his eyes and forked a dollop of potato salad into his mouth.

  “Okay, so maybe it’s a bit paranoid. But from now until Nai’ya, my daughter and grandson are safe, use these any time we need to contact each other. Understood?”

  “What about my regular cellphone?” Rebecca said.

  “Call my old cell and home phones with it once in a while so the law won’t figure out we have these new ones. If Nai’ya calls either of you on your other phones, let me know on these new ones.”

  “Game of Phones, eh?” C.J. dabbed at his lips with a napkin. “Got to hand it to you, pal. When you turn psycho, you go all the way.”

  My old cellphone rang. Archuleta again. I placed a finger against my lips. “What can I do for you Sam?”

  “Did you know Tommy O’Donnell was an investigative reporter?”

  “Really?”

  “New York Daily News.”

  “Did not know that.”

  “I thought, you being from the Big Apple, you might still read the local papers. Maybe tell me what kind of stories he did. If one of them could have brought him out here.”

  “I need to speak with you in person. Can you come to C.J.’s?”

  My friend shook his head from behind the desk and mouthed a silent NO WAY.

  I held up my hand to assure him. “How about we meet in the parking lot out front?”

  C.J. nodded.

  “Why all this secrecy?”

  “I’ll explain when you get here.”

  Sam exhaled so deeply into his phone I could almost smell the tobacco. “Okay. I’m five minutes away. Be right over.”

  I shut off my old cell and turned to C.J. “Don’t worry. I know how you feel about cops. I’ll keep you out of this.” I cleared my throat and tried to clear my head. What to do next?

  “You okay?” C.J. bit his lower lip.

  “No.” I told them about my trip to the morgue and about Tommy and his job as an investigative reporter.

  “This is getting weird,” Rebecca said.

  “The answer lies in New York. I can feel it. I gotta go back.” I glanced at her. “Would you mind staying at my place to keep an eye on things there? And see to the cat?”

  “Of course not. Otis and I will take care of everything.”

  We stood. I took Rebecca’s hand. “Sorry about our dinner.” I pulled a couple of fifties from my wallet and folded them into her palm. “For food and expenses. If that isn’t enough, I’ll send more. Don’t know what I’d do without you.” I kissed her forehead and her cheeks flushed once again.

  C.J. laughed in Rebecca’s direction. “Don’t you worry, I’ll make good on the old guy’s dinner promise. Eat here tonight. On the house.”

  “Thanks. There’s a red-eye from Albuquerque to New York just before midnight. If I’m lucky, I can still book a seat.” I looked at Rebecca. “My travel info will be on the library desk. I’ll keep in touch and let you know when I’m coming back.”

  C.J. struggled up from his chair. “Be careful, Gabe. Call if there’s anything I can do.”

  “Just be around in case my girl here needs backup.”

  “You forgot the info on Klein.” She handed the folder to me.

  “Right. I’ll read it on the plane.” I hugged her, gave C.J. a thumbs-up and left.

  Waves of heat from the afternoon sun shimmered above the pavement. The restaurant’s front awning sheltered me until Sam pulled into the lot. I hustled over to his car.

  He was on the police radio. I rapped on the window. He rolled it down. “Right,” he said into the phone. “I’ll get on that once I’m finished here.”

  “Stay there.” I motioned him to remain seated and walked around to the passenger’s side. I sat inside.

  He hung up, then lit up and shared his irritation. “What the hell is going on?”

  “I think my phones are bugged. Didn’t want the Feds to hear us.”

  “You’re losing it, Gabe.” He looked at me like my ears were on backward, then gazed out his front window. A flicker of a smile showed when he turned back to me. “Then again, you might be right. Aw, fuck the Feds
. What do you want to talk about?”

  “Tommy,” I said.

  “Me too. I want to know why he was at the casino.”

  “I can’t help you on that. Yet. I’ve been out of touch with him for more than thirty years.”

  “Can you help me get through to his widow? She won’t talk to the New York cops and his editor at the paper has clammed up. Something stinks.”

  I hesitated. Working too closely with the police risked losing Nai’ya’s trust. Then I got an idea. “How about you give me Tommy’s address and phone number?”

  “I can’t go giving out information on an active case. You know that.”

  “Listen, I’m flying to New York tonight on personal business. I used to be close to Siobhan. Maybe she’ll see me. Maybe I could drop by and pay my respects?”

  “After your antics at the morgue, you’re in no position to ask favors.”

  “You got your I.D. You expect me to sit around and do nothing?”

  “Say a rosary. But if you think you can get anything out of the widow, go for it. Just do it on your own.”

  I wrenched the car door open and slammed it once I was outside.

  Sam leaned out his open window “You hear from Nai’ya, I still want to know.”

  “Forget it.” I turned away and took the car keys out of my pocket.

  “Wait a minute. Come back here.” He waved a small index card at me.

  “What’s that?”

  He handed me the card and stared out the front window. “Your old girlfriend’s address. Get the phone number on your own.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I thought about Tommy and the old days all the way up Fourth Street. The dashboard clock read half past four—six-thirty back in New York. I got a couple hundred bucks from a drive-through ATM, picked up Otis’s food and a bag of coffee for Rebecca.

  Back at the house, I called the New York Daily News from my new phone. Given the hour, my call went to the night desk. A computerized voice told me how important I was and suggested I hold for the next available operator. After listening to a lifetime’s worth of Kenny G, I reached a human being.

  “I’m sorry, sir. We don’t give out personal information.”

  “Of course. But Mr. O’Donnell was an old, dear friend of mine. I want to offer my condolences to his family. How about I give you my name and phone number? You can pass it along to Tommy’s wife. It would mean a lot.”

  “Well…”

  I had her. “That way—if Siobhan wants—she can call me back. And you haven’t broken any rules.”

  She took my name and new cellphone number. Then she hung up.

  I logged in online and reserved a seat on a non-stop midnight flight to JFK. It would get me into the Big Apple just before six in the morning.

  My stomach rumbled, but there wasn’t enough time to dine out. The freezer coughed up a box of microwavable lasagna. I settled for that.

  I packed enough for a couple of days, donning one of my better suits and cramming everything else into a single carry-on. My laptop, electronics, and Rebecca’s folder on Klein went in a shoulder case.

  The day’s mail sat on my desk in the library. No bills. Otis stopped by and nuzzled my hand when I jotted down a few last minute notes for Rebecca. Then I called her.

  “I left you some coffee. Once I get settled I’ll text you with my hotel info. I’ll go through your folder on Klein during the flight.”

  “Don’t worry about anything, Gabe.”

  “Did you really say that?”

  The library clock chimed seven times. I set out linens and towels for Rebecca and fresh litter for Otis. Almost ready to go.

  I poured three fingers of whiskey and slugged it down. No word from Nai’ya in two days. And now Tommy. I refilled my glass, sat back and spent a half-hour remembering him and the rest of the gang from my old neighborhood. It seemed so long ago, it could have been some other guy’s life.

  My cellphone rang, a New York number. The female voice sounded frail and beaten down. “Gabe?”

  “Siobhan?”

  “Hello.”

  I hunched over my desk and softened my voice. “I’m so sorry about Tommy. I had to reach you to see if there was anything I can do.”

  “It’s been so long.”

  “Nearly thirty years.” An uncomfortable silence followed. “I’m sorry to reconnect like this.” I fidgeted with the Mont Blanc pen on my desk.

  “How did you find out?”

  I paused a moment. Should I tell her? “I identified his body in a morgue, here in Albuquerque.” No response. I wondered if she was still on the line. “Siobhan?”

  “How did he look? Did he suffer?”

  “Uh…I don’t think so.” I kicked myself for not expecting the question.

  “We were happy. Tommy was a good man.” Another silence. “What am I going to do without him?” Her voice trailed off with each word.

  “Do you have any children?”

  “They’re all grown.”

  “Of course. They would be by now. Any of them out here in New Mexico? I thought maybe Tommy was—”

  “No. Jenny lives in Boston with her husband and Timmy, our grandson. Mark is a journalist, just like his dad. He works for Reuters in their London office. They’re all coming home the day after tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be there, too. I’m flying into New York tomorrow morning.”

  “It’ll be good to see you again.”

  “Siobhan, I have to know why this happened. What was Tommy doing in New Mexico?”

  “He didn’t tell me. Not exactly.”

  “Not exactly?”

  “He only said it was the biggest story of his career. That’s all. Except that it would be too dangerous for me to know any more.”

  “Did he keep any records or files at home?”

  “What? Well…Tommy used the front room as his office. There’s a safe in there. He kept our tax records and personal files there. He usually kept his business files at the Daily News, but there could be something in there, I don’t know…why are you asking me these questions?”

  “Don’t you want to know why he was killed?”

  “What difference does it make now?” Her voice heaved and I heard her cry.

  “I’m sorry Siobhan. There’s something big going on here. Is there a computer at home?”

  “Yes, but…Gabe, I don’t understand this at all. It has nothing to do with me.”

  “There are things I need to tell you. My daughter works at the casino where Tommy was killed. She may have been a witness to Tommy’s murder. She’s missing. I’m afraid whoever killed Tommy is after her now.”

  She blew her nose. “I’m sorry. I really don’t know what I could do or say that might help you.”

  A knot grew in my stomach. My tongue was dry as sand. “Please, try to think what happened before Tommy left. Something he said. Anything. Maybe by tomorrow—”

  “Please, stop!” Her crying grew loud enough to force the phone away from my ear.

  I looked at the clock. Less than an hour to get to the airport. I was ready to hang up when at last she spoke.

  “I suppose I could look around for the combination to his safe…”

  “That would help. May I stop by the house while I’m in town? We could talk.”

  “Well…okay, for a little bit anyway. Tommy always did like you.”

  I checked Sam’s index card on the desktop and read off the address. “Is that still—”

  “Yes, that’s our address.”

  “I’ll stay in town for the funeral.”

  “It’ll be at Saint Sebastian’s, of course. They’re releasing his body tomorrow. We’re waking him all day Friday. The funeral is Saturday morning.”

  Her words sounded so final. We agreed I’d drop over at ten the next morning.

  The mention of St. Seb’s stirred a flood of memories. Tommy and I attended grammar school and drank our first wine there as altar boys. We’d starred on the baseball and CYO basketb
all teams. At last, I’d be going back to my old neighborhood.

  A drink for the road, and then a smooth trip to the airport. Once aboard, I sat by a window and had a whole row to myself. Until a beefy guy with a gym bag came aboard at the last minute and parked himself in the aisle seat. His sweat-stained shirt suggested he’d come straight from a workout. He leaned forward to stow his bag under the seat. It became clear he hadn’t bothered to shower. At least the flight left on time.

  I asked a flight attendant for a pillow, turned on the overhead reading light, and leaned against the window. Once we attained cruising altitude, I slipped Rebecca’s folder from my carry-on bag and settled back in my seat. The first few pages of her research contained background information on Klein Associates. Real estate, mostly investment properties, plus a few commercial and residential buildings added to the mix. I noticed they’d incorporated in New York State way back in 1930.

  Before I read any further, the combination of stress, exhaustion, and body odor from the guy two seats away took its toll. I couldn’t focus. The folder would wait until New York.

  We touched down at JFK ten minutes early, but I hit traffic on the Van Wyck Expressway. Seven-thirty in the morning, yet bumper-to-bumper all the way. Welcome home, McKenna. It took me two hours to reach the Woodside neighborhood in Queens.

  Siobhan lived on Sixty-first Street, one of the few remaining with a visible, vestigial Irish presence—two bars and Finnegan’s Funeral Home. Most of the store signs were in Spanish now. Colombians owned my old neighborhood.

  My stomach growled, so I stopped at a diner on Roosevelt Avenue that touted arepas con chorizo. Time for a quick breakfast.

  My front window seat gave me a clear view of the avenue. Donovan’s Pub, where I earned my first dollar as a busboy, still graced the far side of the street.

  I sipped my coffee and sighed. It’s a bitch to feel so old on a sunny morning.

  After breakfast, I drove to Sixty-first Street and grabbed the first available parking space, two blocks from Siobhan’s. Her building’s entry door was ajar. I walked up the front steps and took the stairs to her second floor co-op, hoping to work off my breakfast sausages.