December Boys (Jay Porter Series)

by Joe Clifford

  Nicki still refused to pick up. I kept driving, hitting the Turnpike south, checking my phone every six seconds like a girl waiting on her prom date. The dark winter skies churned, tractor-trailers zipping by, gas stations glowing with the promise of free coffee with every fill-up. I watched the rearview, anticipating the fleet of squad cars that never materialized. I wished I had the complete package to give to the reporter, but waiting wasn’t a luxury I had. I decided to forgo getting it right for getting it right now.

  I needed to give Nicki time to call me back. The farther from Ashton I got, the better I felt about my decision.

  One eye on the road, the other on my cell trying to follow the squiggly GPS instructions, I chain-smoked, jittery, shaky, break-of-day surreal, ears ringing, pulsating, pounding with blood flow, an old Subaru’s rumbling gut underfoot.

  Pittsfield wasn’t far, a few counties south. At this hour, with little traffic, I knew if I got there fast enough I could catch Jim Case before he left for work, which beat all hell out of having to trek down to Concord and trying to talk my way onto a newsroom floor.

  Seemed like only minutes ticked by before I was parked outside the turquoise house on the subdivision’s street, wondering if it could really be this easy. I checked the mirror, licked my palm to smooth the tangled mop atop my head. My hair looked like I’d shampooed it in a deep fryer, and with the sprouting beard I resembled a crackhead. Unshaven, gaunt, black circles under my eyes, unrecognizable even to myself. I grabbed my papers and rang the bell. The world kept going faster and faster, spinning like a bottle top I couldn’t make stop.

  A man answered the door. Glasses, limp hair swept to the side, already dressed and prepared to conquer the day, he held a novelty coffee mug, which read: Never Bury the Lead. I thought I recognized his face from his Facebook picture. I also knew from social media that he wasn’t much older than me. Somehow he seemed a lot older. I had to be sure.

  “Are you Jim Case? Reporter for the Monitor?”

  He didn’t respond, but his eyes told me I had the right man.

  I presented my wadded-up paper bag.

  Case peered past the weirdo on his porch. No one else on the street, everything serene, another pleasant valley suburban morning. How did I expect him to respond?

  “That’s everything you need on the Lombardis and Roberts,” I said. “Well, almost everything.” I thrust the bag forward, my offering.

  He didn’t take my bag.

  “You’re Jim Case, right?”

  Maybe I had the wrong guy. Maybe he didn’t care. I was operating on a few newspaper bylines, a couple thumbnail pics, what Bowman had told me, which for all I knew was spoon-fed bullshit, and very little sleep. If I was wrong, the slammed door would come next.

  Instead Case stepped aside, opening his home to let me inside.

  Had I been thinking right, I would’ve asked the right questions, like why he was letting a man as disheveled as me into his home, why he hadn’t asked my name yet. Only I wasn’t thinking right. I was as far from right as you get. I stood inside the vestibule, on the mud mat, brain all jumbled, doing nothing to help my own cause. Jim Case carefully pried the bag from my clutches. At the breakfast nook, he removed my photocopies and charts, stacking them on the counter beneath a cupboard, going through them, one by one, not unlike Bowman, glancing over at me every few turns.

  “Where did you get this?” he asked. It was the first time he’d spoken.

  “Friends of mine. Copies from the courthouse. Internet research. Some parents I spoke to. Judge Roberts is selling kids to the North River Institute.”

  “What’d you say your name was?”

  “Jay. Jay Porter.”

  Jim Case continued to scan through the pages.

  “It’s not everything you need,” I said. “I’m waiting on something else.”

  “Something else?”

  “A report on interstate extradition. I think UpStart is bankrolling the project, trying to inflate numbers to get that new private prison built on the grounds of the old TC Truck Stop. Y’know, in Ashton?”

  “Can you wait here a minute?”

  His landline rang. And suddenly I knew I had to get out of there.

  We both looked at the phone.

  Jim Case held up his hands, letting the phone keep ringing. “It’s okay, Jay.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “You just told me.”

  He was right. I had.

  Jim Case swung open an arm, guiding safe passage to a small kitchen table, where he sat down first. “Please. Have a seat.”

  I could only guess what had to be going through this guy’s head. I could smell myself. I stank like that bum inside the Dunkin’ Donuts. I didn’t know why was he even talking to me. How was explaining Bowman going to help?

  But Bowman had said he was next on the list. I had to warn him. I was having that problem where I could formulate cogent points in my head, but when I tried to articulate a coherent sentence, my tongue got all thick, and I couldn’t pluck the right word, resulting in a lot of starting and stumbling. I sounded retarded. “Why are you talking to me?” With those words, I knew I only sounded crazier.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You don’t know me. I’m just some guy who knocked on your door at seven in the morning. You shouldn’t let strangers in your house. You’re in danger.”

  “Are you here to hurt me?”

  “No!”

  “I didn’t think so. I trust my instincts. It’s why I’m a reporter.” He pointed at the documents stacked in front of him. “I think we are on the same side. I rely on sources from all walks of life.”

  “I’m not a bum. I’ve had a rough few days.”

  Jim Case held up his hands, the way you do when you agree to disagree.

  “I know what I’m doing,” he said. “How serious it is. I’ve been looking into North River for a while. Roberts too. Now why don’t you tell me what you know?”

  The phone rang again, and I jolted, startled. He made no move to answer it, gesturing for me to stay calm. “It’s just the phone. People call me for work. It’s okay. You seem really jumpy. Relax. Can I get you some water?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Talk to me.”

  “I just told you. Judge Roberts is shipping kids to the North River Institute in exchange for kickbacks. I know the parents are . . .”

  “Parents are what?”

  “Receiving kickbacks! Housing repairs getting pushed through HUD. Big fat stacks. Payoffs, man.” I pointed at the paper trail. “It’s all in there. Well, not all of it. You’re missing something.”

  “Sorry, Jay. I’m having a hard time following you. What exactly am I missing?”

  “I told you. The out-of-state stuff. I don’t know, exactly. But I know where to get it. I’ll get it, okay?”

  When the phone rang again, I stood up, shoving in the chair.

  “Hold on. Where are you going?”

  “To prove it. You got a business card or something? How I can reach you?”

  He plucked a business card from his pocket, passing it along, wary, like you do meat scraps a feral dog.

  I snatched the business card. “Watch your back.” I bolted out the front door as the phone started up again.

  Back in the car, I popped the battery from my cell. Which I knew would make it tough for Nicki to return my call. There’s a fine line between preparation and paranoia. Charlie’s was my safe house. I couldn’t go home. I realized I was headed back to Ashton without consciously making the decision to do so. Like a moth drawn to the firelight. Or bug zapper. I needed off the grid. Somewhere with a secure line. I had to talk to Nicki. How hard was it to return a goddamn phone call? Where do the invisible go when they have to disappear?

  * * *

  When I was young, we used to tease the poorer kids. Anytime the school bus took the Turnpike, we’d point at the fleabag motels, say, “This is where you’ll end up living someday.” Because kids are mean littl
e shits. And karma is one vengeful bitch.

  I needed to dump Charlie’s Subaru. I was driving a stolen car. I shouldn’t have risked taking it to Pittsfield. Even if I knew my buddy wouldn’t press charges, Turley had the license plate, which meant those Longmont cops did too. I had to buy a few hours, long enough to reach Nicki.

  Racing north along the Turnpike, I took the Duncan Pond exit, hopped the access road down a dirt path, abandoning the stolen car behind a patch of cattail. I scattered dead branches, bulrush and sedge over the roof and hood. Then I started walking. Pond swamp mucked my shoes. I kept hearing helicopters overhead, but when I’d look up, I’d find nothing but the same churning mountain skies. This is what skipping sleep does, little brother. Turns your brain to mush. Can’t think straight. Goops your oatmeal, bogs you down in a slog of maple. Try stirring that shit with a spoon.

  I weaved through woodland until I hit the string of cheap motels. Despite the early hour, the welfare cases were already out, pushing their shopping carts along icy shoulders. Bums with cardboard signs touting patriotic service in fictitious wars. I spotted a pair of junkies, frighteningly malnourished, about a hundred pounds between them, flightless birds in search of a morning meal. I pulled my collar, hunched my shoulders, and joined the hobo parade.

  No one asks for an ID at these motels; that’s the beauty of Turnpike living. I paid my thirty bucks and change with crumpled bills and coins sifted from lint, got my oversized key, and locked myself away in a tiny room choked with B.O., fast food, and stale cigarette smoke.

  I flicked on a lamp. Low wattage revealed streaks of red and black shooting across the walls and ceiling. The impressionistic artwork felt out of place with the rest of the sparse, pawnshop décor. I remembered overhearing a pair of junkies talking once while I waited to admit Chris into rehab. They were bitching about bad veins, how after so many misfires, the needle would clog with sludge. To clear the line, they’d have to push the plunger extra hard. Drugs and bodily fluids would spit out, spraying everything. That’s what I was looking at. Dried blood and wasted lives.

  I sat on the edge of a lumpy bed and pulled the janky parts of the cell phone from my pocket. I didn’t know how long service providers required to pinpoint location from a tower, whether that was even a real concern or some drug addict urban legend, a plot device employed by lazy TV show writers. But I couldn’t afford to test theories. I fitted the battery, retrieved Nicki’s number, scribbled it down, and popped the battery back out. I wasn’t taking any chances. I called her again from the motel phone. Another voice mail. I left as polite a message as I could, considering the rage burning inside me. I laid out everything Bowman had told me, again, spelling it out in slow, small words. I trusted her with everything—the stakes, how indispensable she was, because what other choice did I have? She’d call back. Or she wouldn’t. I couldn’t do a goddamn thing but wait.

  I peeled off my clothes, sniffed my shirt, which stank worse than my days laboring on the cow farm. I brought the shirt with me into the shower and scrubbed it clean with the complimentary sliver of soap. Rang the tee out, threw it over the radiator to dry. I brushed my teeth without toothpaste, using my finger.

  Stepping from the fog, I cleared the mirror with my hand and studied the man standing before me, the guy who was usually clean-shaven, good looking, put together. My left eye twitched. An honest-to-God facial tick. My bottom lid quivered, like teeny tiny worms had burrowed beneath the lashes and were staking claim. I remained transfixed, fascinated by my own eye’s squirming involuntarily. The parasites had taken over.

  I combed back my wet hair with my fingers, stepped into the next room. Just had the one. The motel didn’t offer the option of a suite upgrade. I could smell trap grease from the KFC/Taco Bell combo next door. Peeling the curtain, I watched my new neighbors hoof it across the parking lot, broken men with sagging guts and receding hairlines, six-packs in hand, the day’s first already cracked. It wasn’t even nine a.m. A beer sounded pretty good about now.

  I checked the progress of my tee shirt drying in the bathroom. Still damp. If I tried walking outside with a wet shirt in this weather I’d end up with walking pneumonia. I wrapped the winter coat around me and bundled up shirtless. I could use food. I needed a beer.

  I was about to head outside when the telephone rang.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “JESUS, JAY, YOU’RE worse than an ex-boyfriend. How many times are you going to call until you get the hint?”

  “As many times as it takes for you to call me back!” I tried to keep the anxiety at bay and not sound like a complete psycho. We hadn’t parted on the best terms, I knew, conflicting emotions warring inside me, but I needed Nicki on my side. What I said next didn’t help my cause. “Where have you been sleeping?”

  “What the fuck business is it of yours?”

  “That came out wrong.”

  “I’m busy. What do you want?”

  I tried explaining the same information I’d already left on her phone half a dozen times. Her reaction told me she hadn’t listened to any of those messages. I reiterated about Bowman and how desperate the Lombardis were for that one particular Xerox. I told her about the reporter, Jim Case. How close we were. Then she tried to make me sound crazy.

  “I know, Jay. I got the voice mails. All sixty-four of them.”

  “I didn’t leave sixty-four voice mails.”

  “Where are you? What number is this?”

  “My friend said—”

  “Your friend is wrong. Everything I copied from Longmont, I gave you.”

  “The only reason I asked where you’re sleeping is because they sent someone to your apartment, house, wherever you live to get it.”

  “Who?”

  “Lombardi!”

  “To get what?”

  “The photocopy!”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The man I met with—he broke into your place. To steal a photocopy. Kids shipped out of state. Think.”

  “Why are you talking to a guy trying to break into my house?”

  “That’s Bowman! See! You didn’t listen to my messages!”

  “For the last time: I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jay. Have a drink. You sound fucking cracked out.”

  “Please, Nicki.”

  Dead silence on the other line.

  “Nicki?”

  “Go ahead.”

  I resented the belittling tone but did my best to break down my night, a conversation and circumstance so surreal—meeting my former adversary Bowman at a Dunkin’ Donuts on the seldom-used Merrick Parkway, attached to a gas station I’d never seen before, Jim Case and his phone that never stopped ringing—the longer I talked, the more I began wondering if, in my sleep-deprived, neurotic state, I hadn’t gone fugue and imagined the whole damn thing, conflating my brother and me, last year and this. I didn’t have any lorazepam with me, chest thumping, thrumming, rattling the rib cage. Thank God Nicki finally came around.

  “Wait a second. My last day there. When they fired me, yeah . . .”

  “Yeah what?”

  “I was all hyped up over Judge Roberts, y’know, back when I thought if I helped you out, you might give a shit about me.”

  What could I say to that?

  “I’d gone down to the basement. There was a box. I think it was meant for records. I told you, remember? Kids shipped out of state to Kentucky and Arizona.”

  “Yes! That’s that one.”

  “It’s funny because it barely mentioned Roberts’ name. Had other shit on there.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. It was very academic. Like the overview for a study.”

  “Do you still have it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can you check?”

  “Jesus, is it that important?”

  “Yes!”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  I fired up a cigarette and paced around my room. I peeke
d out tattered curtains. Fissures cracked the clouds. Freezing rain fell. Cars zoomed up and down the Turnpike, spinning mist and mud, miniature oily rainbows shimmering over mounds of dirty snow. Soon as I was done with one smoke, I lit another. The telephone rang.

  “The header reads ‘Executive Summary,’” Nicki said. “It’s like a cost analysis. An abstract. Concerns the juvenile justice populations in Kentucky and Arizona, the states where New Hampshire unloads its overflow. A feasibility prospective. Y’know, for privatization.”

  “It says New Hampshire?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Does it say that New Hampshire is the one shipping the kids out of state, and not, say, Vermont?”

  “Why would New Hampshire keep a record of what Vermont does?”

  “Never mind.”

  “I don’t see anything here, Jay. Doesn’t mention North River at all. Nothing about UpStart. I don’t know what good it’s going to do you. Unless you need some furniture hauled away.”

  “Huh?”

  “There’s the outline of a business card I copied by mistake. Guess it was paper-clipped to the original. Some moving company.”

  None of this added up. There had to be more.

  “How many pages?”

  “Just the one. I must’ve I stuck it in my back pocket. Found it in my car under a pile of garbage. How perfect is that?” I didn’t get the joke. She didn’t laugh.

  “What do you think it means?”

  “How the fuck should I know?”

  “I need it.” I caught myself. “Wait. Where was it?”

  “In my car. Wadded up in a pair of dirty jeans with the rest of the junk.”

  I remembered her car, which had been spotless. “Nicki, you have the cleanest car I’ve ever seen. Especially for a girl.”

  “That’s because before I picked you up, I stopped at the car wash and vacuumed the hell out of it, shoved everything in the trunk.”

  “You didn’t have to clean up for me.” What would I care?

  “I didn’t want you knowing I live in my car.”

  “What do you mean ‘you live in your car’?”