Tight Lines

by William G. Tapply

  “Yes.” I touched the picture. “May I keep it?”

  “Of course. If it will help.”

  “Everything will help.” I slid the photograph from its frame and put it into my attaché case. Then I lit a cigarette and sipped my coffee.

  “I can’t think of anything else,” she said.

  “Call me if you do.”

  “I will.” She stood up. “Come see my flower beds.”

  She held her hand out to me. I took it and rose. She led me down the two wide stone steps from the patio onto the lawn. The grass was long and soft and damp and impossibly green underfoot. We walked hand in hand along the edges of the mulched gardens. “I’ve planted lots of bulbs,” Susan said. “Daffs and croci and snowdrops and narcissi and tulips. Tell me why.”

  I turned to her. “Huh?”

  “Tell me why I’ve done this. They won’t bloom until spring.”

  “Oh.” Susan expected to be dead by then. “You can give me a tour when they’ve come up,” I said to her.

  “Don’t try to bullshit me, Brady Coyne.”

  “I try not to bullshit anybody, Susan.”

  “Try harder.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  We finished our tour of the backyard and returned to the house. Terri Fiori was seated at the kitchen table with a stack of papers in front of her. I poked my head in and said, “Take care, General.”

  She looked up and winked at me.

  Susan led me to the front door. “I don’t know what I’d do without her,” she said.

  “She seems very competent.”

  Susan jabbed my side with her elbow. “Competent? You are an incorrigible bullshitter, Brady Coyne. Terri’s beautiful, is what she is.”

  I shrugged. “I hadn’t really noticed.”

  Susan chuckled.

  I opened the door, then turned and hugged her and kissed her wrinkled cheek. “Be well, Susan. We’ll keep in touch.”

  “Can you do it?” she said. “Can you find her?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll try.”

  2

  I STOPPED AT THE Walden Sandwich Shop in West Concord for Italian subs for me and Julie. I thought of dropping in on Doc Adams at his Concord office. It was likely that Doc would be performing surgery at Emerson Hospital, but maybe his unbearably delicious assistant Susan Petri would be in, and I could ogle her.

  Somehow, my morning with Susan Ames had deflated my enthusiasm for that. Even Susan Petri. A temporary condition, I trusted.

  So I took the back roads through Concord and Sudbury and Lincoln, out past the farm stand at Nine Acre Corner where I bought a pumpkin for Julie’s daughter, past all the harvested corn fields where murders of crows and gaggles of Canada geese gluttonized, past the Sudbury River, past Walden Pond, and finally back onto the highway. Autumn was everywhere, the annual and inevitable maturing that presaged the death of the earth, and it reminded me of the cycle of all things. Turn, turn, turn. Susan’s impending death found its place, as, one day, would my own.

  I recalled the way Terri Fiori had smiled and winked at me. It made me feel better.

  I got back to my office in Copley Square a little after noontime. Julie was on the phone. I plunked the pumpkin down on top of her desk, gave her a sniff of the bag with the subs in it, and went into my office. I thumbed through my telephone directories. No listing for Mary Ellen Ames anywhere.

  A few minutes later Julie joined me.

  “Hey, thanks for the pumpkin,” she said.

  “It’s for Megan, not you.”

  “We’ll carve a jack-o’-lantern and name it Brady.”

  “I’d be flattered.”

  “Let’s eat,” she said.

  We spread waxed paper over the top of my desk and dug into the thick sandwiches. We drank Pepsi from cans and chomped on giant dill pickles and barbecued potato chips. I told her about my morning with Susan Ames.

  “Boy,” she mumbled around a large mouthful. “That sucks.”

  “Death generally does,” I said.

  “About her daughter and her, I mean.”

  Megan, Julie’s daughter, was five. I knew what she was thinking. I have two boys of my own.

  “So how do you plan to find Mary Ellen?” she said.

  I reached over with a napkin and wiped a dab of olive oil off her chin. “I guess I’ll start with this Rahmanan and see where it leads me.”

  She nodded. “And when you find her?”

  “I’ll tell her her mother wants to set things right before she dies.”

  “And if she refuses?”

  I shrugged. “That’s between Susan and her.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Just keep the world at bay for a while so I can make some calls.”

  We swept the detritus from our lunch into the wastebasket and Julie went back to her desk. I looked up the number for the Fletcher School and pecked it out. I didn’t know if Professor Sherif Rahmanan still taught there, but it was the logical place to start.

  When the woman answered the phone, I asked for him.

  “I’ll ring his office,” she said.

  So he was still there.

  Another woman answered the phone. Again I asked for Professor Rahmanan.

  “He has no classes today,” she said. “May I take a message?”

  “Is he home?”

  “I have no idea where he is, sir.”

  “Thank you. I’ll try again. No message.”

  The big Boston directory listed a Rahmanan, Sherif at a Bailey Street address in Medford. I tried the number. After a couple of rings a woman picked up the phone and said, “Hello?” Even from just those two syllables, the thick accent was obvious.

  “Professor Rahmanan, please.”

  “And who is this?”

  “My name is Coyne. I’m an attorney.”

  “One moment, please.”

  A minute later a man’s voice, also accented, but cultured and precise, said, “How may I help you?”

  “My name is Brady Coyne. I’m Susan Ames’s lawyer, and I was hoping—”

  I stopped. He had hung up.

  I waited the length of time it took me to smoke a Winston, then rang the Rahmanan number again. This time the man answered.

  “Now look,” I said quickly. “You are going to talk to me. One way or the other. Do not hang up on me.”

  “Please. Just leave me alone.”

  “No.”

  “What do you want?” he said softly.

  “I don’t want to embarrass you. I need information. About Mary Ellen Ames.”

  “I cannot talk. I cannot help you.”

  “Listen, Professor,” I said. “I will give you one hour to call me. If I don’t hear from you, I will get into my car and come to your house. Surely I will find somebody there who can help me.”

  There was a long hesitation. I expected him to hang up again. Finally he said, “Give me your number.”

  I gave it to him.

  “I will get back to you.”

  I fooled around with some paperwork Julie had left for me. Three quarters of an hour later my console buzzed. I picked up my phone and Julie said, “You got your man, Dick Tracy. Professor Rahmanan on line two.”

  “I think it was Sergeant Preston of the Yukon who said that.”

  “No. He always said, ‘King, this case is closed.’”

  “Elliot Ness, then,” I said.

  “Oh, boy,” muttered Julie.

  I pressed the blinking button and said, “Professor.”

  “Please,” he said. “Quickly. What is it that you want?”

  “I want to talk to Mary Ellen Ames. That’s all. I have no interest in delving into your past. Do you know where she is?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, come on. You and she—”

  “Please, sir. Just leave me alone. I cannot help you. I have returned your call, as you insisted. Now I have answered your question.”

  “I have some other questions.”

&nbs
p; “This is awkward. I cannot talk.”

  “Meet me, then.”

  “I cannot do that.”

  “One way or the other, Professor, we will talk.”

  He hesitated a long moment. “Where?”

  “Do you know Hung Moon’s? It’s in Somerville. Must be near you.”

  “Yes. All right. I know it.”

  “How’s eight?”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Eight is not good. The evening is not good for me.” He paused. “I will be there at five. I can give you an hour.”

  “Fine. Five.”

  “How will I recognize you, Mr. Coyne?”

  “I’ll be wearing a lawyer’s costume, complete with attaché case. You?”

  “I have a beard, sir. I look like an Arab.”

  3

  HUNG MOON’S IS ON Highland Avenue in West Somerville, just over the line from Cambridge. It was a favorite spot of Les Katz, a private detective friend of mine. Hung Moon’s, Les always said, had the best monosodium glutamate in Boston. Les liked the Cambodian waitresses, who shuffled around in their soft sandals and tightly wrapped saronglike dresses and, according to Les, offered services beyond the delivery of food and drink. The last time I was at Hung Moon’s was the last time I saw Les Katz alive. That was a couple of years earlier.

  I arrived a few minutes before five. The large dining room was empty. I smiled at the hostess and ducked into the bar to the left of the foyer. Two beautiful Asian women wearing business suits were seated there drinking white wine. The bartender was a young Asian man with a smooth face and a wispy Ho Chi Minh beard and a classically inscrutable expression.

  I climbed up on a barstool at the end opposite the two women. The bartender came over and emptied the ashtray in front of me. “Sir?” he said.

  “Jack Daniel’s. Rocks.”

  He nodded. In a minute he slid my drink in front of me.

  I lit a cigarette and took a sip of the drink and Sherif Rahmanan appeared in the doorway. He looked at me and frowned. I reached down beside me and held up my attaché case. Rahmanan came over and sat beside me.

  He was wearing chino pants and a green crewneck sweater. He had a dark beard, liberally flecked with white. The fringe of hair that half-circled his head was mostly white. I guessed he was close to sixty years old. When Mary Ellen was nineteen, this man would have been approaching fifty.

  I held my hand out to him. “Professor. Thank you for coming.”

  He hesitated, then took my hand briefly. He didn’t bother to grip it or shake it. “You threatened me,” he said. “I had to come.”

  “You know what I want,” I said.

  “And I already told you. I cannot help you.”

  The bartender presented himself in front of Rahmanan. He asked for a glass of soda water.

  “You know Mary Ellen,” I said. “I need to talk to her.”

  “I do not know her any longer. I once did. It was many years ago. It is over. I am deeply ashamed.”

  The bartender placed a glass in front of Rahmanan, who nodded absently and did not pick it up. “Look, sir,” he said to me. “My wife is, how do you say it, Americanized. Women from my country traditionally do not question the behavior of their husbands. Husbands do as they please. Women are taught to accept and serve. It is our culture. It is my culture. My wife, she is not a traditional woman. She does not think that way. I have learned that I no longer think that way, either. According to my culture, I should feel no guilt, no shame. But I felt deep shame, vast guilt. I begged her forgiveness, and she reluctantly granted it to me. We have not been the same since then. I will not subject her to any of that again.”

  “I don’t want to screw up your marriage. I just want to talk to Mary Ellen.”

  He paused for a long time. “This has nothing to do with me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You mentioned her mother.”

  “She is dying. She wants to reconcile with her daughter.”

  “She has forgiven her, then? And me?”

  “I don’t think forgiveness is the issue. Susan Ames couldn’t care less about you.”

  “I must trust you on this.”

  “You can.”

  There was another hesitation. “Very well, sir. I will trust you.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I have not spoken to or seen Mary Ellen in many years. Our—our relationship—it lasted only a few months. Directly after her father died. Then she tired of me. It was easy for her, difficult for me. I had left my wife. I had three children at home then. I did not care. When Mary Ellen abandoned me, I returned to my family. It was—painful. I continued to love Mary Ellen. I tried to see her. I kept track of her, called her, watched her, followed her. She would have nothing to do with me. She threatened me.”

  “Threatened?”

  “She threatened to have me taken to court. For harassing her. It didn’t matter. Her threats only served to intensify my obsession.” He had been talking in a monotone, staring straight ahead. Now he swiveled on his stool and faced me. “I behaved without pride, Mr. Coyne. She was very young, very beautiful, very American. I could not believe that this young woman could be attracted to me. I was teaching an introductory international relations course at Tufts, a large lecture class, and one day this young woman came to my office, and—”

  I waved my hand quickly. “Spare me,” I said. “I don’t care about this.”

  He blinked at me, then nodded. “Of course,” he said. “In any case, when—when her attraction died, I could not bear it. You see, my wife and I—our marriage was arranged by our parents. I had never known love. Having never known it, I did not miss it. But when I had it, after Mary Ellen Ames seduced me, and then I lost her love, I was very depressed. I did not know how to behave. It took me many years, sir.”

  “She seduced you, huh?”

  “I see that you do not believe me.” He shrugged. “It does not matter. That is how it was.”

  I sipped my drink. “You’re right,” I said. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I behaved badly,” he said.

  I shrugged.

  “I left long messages on her answering machine. I sat in my automobile in front of her building, waiting to see her come and go. I watched the place where she worked. I did this for several years after she left me.”

  “Where did she live?”

  “She was living in Cambridge.”

  “Was?”

  “As I told you, it has been many years now. She moved. I could not find her again. It was a relief. After a while I stopped trying.”

  “You have neither seen nor spoken with her recently, then?”

  “No. Many years.”

  “How many?”

  He scratched at his beard. “Seven or eight.”

  “And you don’t know where she’s living?”

  “No, sir. The last time I tried to reach her, she had moved, no forwarding address, no phone number listed.”

  “What was she doing, the last time you were in touch with her?”

  He chuckled softly. “She was a salesperson in a bookstore.”

  “Why is that funny?”

  “Because Mary Ellen has great wealth. She has no need to work.”

  “Where is the store?”

  “On Massachusetts Avenue between Harvard and Central Square. It specializes in literature of the counterculture. It is called Head Start Books. She no longer works there.” He shrugged.

  “What about friends? Do you know any of her friends?”

  He shook his head. “No. I never knew her friends.”

  “And since she moved…?”

  “I have not seen her. Seven or eight years. I have returned to my family. Mary Ellen Ames is no longer a part of my life.”

  “There must be something else,” I said.

  “No, sir. That is all. I have told you everything. I hope you will leave us alone now. I can help you no more.”

  “I may need to get back to you.” />
  “Sir,” he said, “if you must do that, please call me at the school. I promise you I will return your call. Do not call my home.”

  “Fair enough,” I said.

  “Now I must leave,” he said.

  And leave he did, without shaking my hand. I watched him go, a small, dark, slumped figure. From behind, Professor Sherif Rahmanan was a hunched old man.

  I turned back to the bar and picked up my drink. The professor had not touched his glass of soda water.

  4

  WHEN I GOT TO my office the next morning I rechecked the Boston telephone book for Ames, Mary Ellen, and after that I pored through the various suburban directories. She was listed in none of them, which could have meant several things. She might have married and been using another name. She might not have been living in the Boston area, married or not. Or she might have an unlisted phone or have taken a new number since my directories were published.

  I dialed 555-1212.

  “What city, please?”

  “Cambridge, Boston, I’m not sure,” I said. “Last name Ames, A-m-e-s. First name Mary Ellen.”

  “Do you have an address?”

  “No.”

  “Just a moment.” A moment. “I have an Ames, M. E. It’s an unpublished number.”

  “That’s probably her. What was the address?”

  “I can’t tell you, sir.”

  “Sure. Okay. Thanks.”

  I hung up. Easier than I had expected. It was a simple job for Charlie McDevitt, my old Yale Law School chum and currently a prosecutor for the United States Department of Justice, Boston office. Charlie knew how to wheedle unlisted phone numbers from NYNEX. I dialed him at his place at Government Center on the other side of town.

  Shirley answered. “Mr. McDevitt’s office.”

  “Come away with me,” I said. “Just you and I on a tropic isle. We’ll eat papayas by day and make love by moonlight.”

  She laughed. “Ah, and it’s you, Mr. Coyne.” Charlie’s secretary is a widow with seven grown and fecund children, a grandmother many times over, plump and white haired. She resembles remarkably the famous portrait of George Washington that hangs in every third-grade classroom in the country.

  “How are you, sweetheart?”

  “I am wonderful, Mr. Coyne. How are you?”