"You ever have to bust her?"
Cataldo shook his head. "I don't think there's a town ordinance against gang bangs. If there is, we don't enforce it. We've brought her in a couple of times for failing to disperse when ordered but, christ, we don't even have a matron full time. Her mother always comes down."
"How's the kid act when you pick her up?" I said.
Cataldo swung into the curving drive in front of the high school. In the faculty lot to the right I could see Susan's Bronco, looming like a rhinoceros above the Datsuns and Chevettes. The school was mid-sixties red brick, square and graceless. One of the glass doors in the entry had been shattered, and a piece of plywood closed the gap. Susan had moved up from the junior high school when someone retired. No more eighth graders she had said at the time, and two years later she showed no regrets. Susan doing high school guidance had always seemed to me like Greta Garbo co-starring with Dean Jones.
"Mostly depends on how drunk or stoned or whatever, you know. If she was drunk she'd be abusive, if she was stoned she'd be sort of quiet and not with it-go-aheadarrest-me-I-don't-give-a-shit sort of attitude. If she was sober, she'd be sullen and tough and smoke cigarettes in the corner of her mouth." "She have any boyfriends?"
Cataldo drove on out of the driveway of the high school and we cruised across the street into a development of high-priced homes.
"April." He grinned. "She has several at a time, usually for half an hour in the back seat of Dad's Buick."
"Besides that?"
He shook his head. "No. She hangs on the wall with Hummer a lot, but no dating or that crap." He looked over at me for a moment. "You got to understand these kids, Spenser. Having a boyfriend just isn't something you ask about kids like her. You know? I mean, she don't go down to the fucking malt shop either."
"You got a malt shop in this town?"
"No." Behind the lifeless November lawns, merged one into the next, the new colonial houses gleamed in the rain, expensive variations of the same architectural plan like the Kyles' furniture on a larger scale, a neighborhood set: grand, functional, costly, neatly organized, and as charming as a set of dentures. It made me think fondly of L.A. In L.A. there was room for lunacy.
"If you were going to look for her, where would you start?" I said.
Cataldo shrugged, "Boston, I suppose. She's not around town. Or at least I haven't seen her in the last few days. Usually kids take off from here, they go to Boston."
"Anyplace special?"
"In Boston, how the hell do I know? That's your area, man. I get in maybe twice a year for a Sox game."
"Why do you think she acts like she does?" I said.
Cataldo laughed. "Before I got on the cops I worked ten years as a roofer. What the hell do I know about why she acts that way? She's a goddamned creep, like a lot of the kids in this town."
"How about Hummer and his group-can you get me in touch with them, would they know where she went?"
"I can put you in touch. They won't tell you shit. Hummer's the worst creep in town."
"Bad kid?"
Again Cataldo shrugged. "Yeah-bad in the wrong way, you know?"
We turned down a hill and took a right. The rain came steady and cold against the windshield and rattled on the roof of the car. "When I was a kid we were bad-a lot of guys I grew up with are in the joint. But they were bad for a reason. They stole stuff because they wanted money. Or they got in fights because somebody insulted their sister or made a pass at their girl or came onto their turf, you know? These kids sneak around and break Coke machines and trash the school windows or set fire to. some guy's store-for what? Prove how tough they are. Shit. Toughest kid in this town would get his ass kicked by one of the pom-pom girls in East Boston." He shook his head. "They don't know how to act. It's like they never learned about how to act, about how a guy is supposed to act."
We were near the south edge of town now. Across the street a gas station, a bowling alley, and a small cluster of stores. The gas station was one that sold gas only. Correct change or credit cards after 6 P.m. The bowling alley had been converted from something else. There were kids leaning against the front wall under the marquee out of the rain, collars turned up, smoking with cigarettes cupped in their hands.
"The one with the fur collar," Cataldo said, "and the boots half laced?"
"Yeah."
"That's Hummer," he said.
"Why don't you swing down back and drop me off, and I'll stroll over and talk with him."
"He'll give you some shit," Cataldo said. "Want me along?"
I shook my head. "My line of work," I said, "taking shit."
Cataldo nodded. "Me too," he said.
Chapter 4
Hummer looked about seventeen. He must have spent a half hour getting his look right before he came downtown to hang out. His pale tan Timberland boots were carefully half laced and the cuffs of the jeans were carefully caught inside the loose uppers. Despite the cold rain, his bombardier jacket was open, the fur collar up, the collar of his plaid shirt turned up inside the jacket collar. There were, three other boys and two girls with Hummer. They were all dressed with the same careful pretense of sloppiness. Suburban tough. I always figured I could take a guy wearing eighty-dollar boots and a crocodile on his sweater, but that's probably just a form of prejudice. On the other hand, I was wearing a leather trench coat with epaulets and a belt. I felt like Joel McCrea in Foreign Correspondent.
I said, "You Hummer?" He looked up at me slowly, took a drag on his cupped cigarette, and said, "Who wants to know?"
"Now there you go," I said. "You've been watching Starsky and Hutch again and stealing all their good lines."
Hummer said, "Yeah."
And I said, "Yeah, you're Hummer? Or yeah, you been watching Starsky and Hutch?"
"What's it to you?"
I looked at one of the girls-she was slim and blond and wore high-heeled black boots and tapered jeans and a down vest over a black turtleneck sweater. She had a plaid umbrella folded up, and she leaned on it like a cane. "This is slow going, isn't it?" I said.
She shrugged and said, "Maybe."
Two of the boys looked at each other and snickered. I never cared much for being snickered at. I took a slow breath. "I'm trying to locate April Kyle-man any of you help me on that?"
"April May," the girl with the umbrella said.
"April will," one of the snickerers said, and they all laughed without letting it really out.
"Whyn't you get lost, man?" Hummer said. "We ain't got nothing to say about April."
"Hummer," I said, "just because you haven't had your growth spurt yet doesn't mean you're too little to hit."
"You hit me, and my old man will sue your ass," Hummer said.
"I imagine so," I said. "Any of you care if April Kyle's in trouble?"
"What kind of trouble?"
"Grown-up trouble," I said. "She's got herself in- volved with people who will beat her up for a dollar and kill her for five." "How do you know?" It was the girl with the umbrella talking.
I thought about it for a minute. April's reputation didn't have anything to lose. "She's tricking," I said, "in the Combat Zone. That means a pimp, that means the real possibility of abuse, maybe dying."
"I told her she should stop doing it free," Hummer said.
"You start her hooking?" I said. I was looking straight into his face.
"Hey, man, no way. I just used to kid her, is all. She got into trouble, she done it on her own."
"You got any idea where she's living?"
"You a cop?" the umbrella girl said.
"I know it's corny as hell," I said, "but I'm a private eye. Couldn't you tell by my leather trench coat?"
"How do we know that?" Hummer said.
"Besides the leather trench coat? I could show you my license. One of your buddies could read it to you."
One of the other boys said, "Hey, you cant' a gun?"
"Knowing I was going to talk with you toughies, I thought I'd bet
ter."
"What kind you got?"
"Smith and Wesson," I said. "Detective special." I'd found a subject that interested them. "Thirty-eight caliber. Sam Spade autograph model."
"Hey, lemme see it," the kid said.
"No. I'm not here to play guns. I'm trying to find out how to get hold of April Kyle."
"She had a friend in Boston," the umbrella girl said. "Hey, I said we're not telling him nothing," Hummer said. "That goes for you too, Michelle." I took hold of Hummer's upper arm with my right hand and squeezed it. He tried to flex up his biceps to counteract me, but I was much stronger than he was. From the feel of his upper arm a lot of people were.
"Hummer," I said, "be quiet."
He tried to yank his arm away. I tightened the squeeze a little more. The fixed expression of tolerant superiority began to dissolve. What replaced it looked a lot like discomfort.
"What's the friend's name?" I said to Michelle.
"Come on, man," Hummer said. He pulled at my grip with his free hand.
"You mind if I discuss the name of April's friend?" I said.
He kept working on my grip without much progress. I squeezed a little more.
"Ow, man, shit-you're busting my goddamned arm."
"You mind if Michelle tells me stuff?"
"No, ow, no, go ahead, man-tell him, Michelle-let go."
I eased up on the squeeze, but still held his arm.
"Michelle?"
"Amy Gurwitz," she said. "She used to live here, but she moved to Boston."
"Parents move?"
"No, just her. They threw her out."
"Address?"
"I don't know."
Hummer was trying to tug his arm loose.
"Anybody else?" I said.
All of them were silent. The arm squeeze had scared them. I had the secret to dealing with the difficult teen years. Violate their civil rights a little. Cause some pain. Bully them a bit. No such thing as a bad boy.
"No other friends?" I said.
They all shook their heads again, except Hummer, who was still trying to get his arm loose. I let him succeed. All of them were quiet. Hummer sat with his head down, rubbing his arm.
"You think you're pretty tough, huh?" he said. "Come out and push around a bunch of kids."
"I am pretty tough, Hummer. But not because I pushed you around. l pushed you around because I had to. There's people can push me around. Nothing to be ashamed of."
Hummer didn't look up. None of the other kids looked at him. There was nothing else to say. I walked away, back toward the center of town, where I'd left my car. On the way I looked for a puppy to kick.
Chapter 5
There were seven people Gurwitz listed in the Boston telephone directory. None of them was Amy. I called all the numbers and none of them ever heard of Amy. There was one Gurwitz listed in the Smithfield book. I called them. Mrs. Gurwitz didn't know where Amy lived, and didn't know her phone number, and hadn't heard from her since she had left and didn't want to.
"I got three others to think about, mister," she told me on the phone. "And the farther away she stays from them, the better I'll like it. Her sister made honor roll last quarter."
"Any of the kids know how to get in touch with her?"
"They'd better not, and you better not get them involved with her again either."
"No, ma'am," I said. "Thank you for your time." I hung up and called Susan at the high school.
"The name Amy Gurwitz mean anything to you?" I said.
"Yes. She dropped out last year."
"She and April are supposed to be friends."
"Could be. They were both sort of lost, alone kids. I don't know."
"She got any siblings in the high school?"
"I think a sister, Meredith."
"I talked to Amy's mom. She doesn't know Amy's whereabouts and doesn't want to. Maybe you could ask the kid sister. She must be smart. She made honor roll last quarter."
"I'll talk with her," Susan said, "and call you back. Are you at my house?"
"Yeah, you know the number?"
She hung up. I leaned my forearms on the kitchen table and looked out the window. The maple trees were black and slick in the rain, their bare branches shiny. The flower bed was a soggy matting of dead stems. The house was so still you could hear its vital functions. The furnace cycling on and then off as the thermostat required. The faint movement of air from the heat vents. The periodic click, somewhere, probably of the gas meter. I had listened to too much silence in my life. As I got older I didn't get to like it more. A barrel-bodied Labrador retriever nosed through Susan's backyard, its tail making a steady arc as it foraged for anything that might have been left for the birds. There was nothing there, but she showed no sign of discouragement and moved on past the naked forsythias and into the next yard, with her tail making its rhythmical sweeping wag. The phone rang. Susan said, "Okay. Meredith Gurwitz doesn't know where her sister is, but she's got a phone number where she can reach her. You got a pencil?"
"Yes."
"Okay, here it is," Susan said, and read me the number. "Can you find the address from the number?"
"You forget to whom you speak," I said.
"I withdraw the question," Susan said.
"Before I hang up," I said, "tell me something."
"Yes?"
"Do you spend much time at work fantasizing about my nude body?"
"No." "Let me rephrase the question," I said.
"Just see if you can find out the address for the phone number," Susan said, and hung up. She was probably embarrassed that I'd discovered her secret. I looked in the phone book and then dialed the telephone business office in Government Center and asked for my service representative.
The operator said, "May I have your telephone number, sir?"-they never said phone at telephone business offices. I gave her the mystery number. She said, "I'll connect you," and in a moment a female voice said, "Mrs. Foye. May I help you?"
"You're damned right," I said. "This is Mr. Phunuff' -I turned my head and blurred the name-"and I am getting all sorts of mail from you people that doesn't belong to me. What have you got there for an address, anyway?"
"I'm very sorry, Mr. Poitras," she said. "What kind of mail are you getting?"
"I'm getting the kind I don't want and I'm about damned ready to call the DPU. Now what the hell kind of address have you got for me?"
"We have you at Three Sixty Beacon Street, Mr. Poitras."
"Yeah, that's right," I said, millified, "and you got my named spelled right? P-O-I-T-R-A-S?"
"Yes, that's what we have-Mitchell Robert Poitras."
"Well, then, how come I'm getting all this stuff in the mail?"
"Sir, if you could just tell me what exactly you are getting… ?"
"Yeah, right, well, look-Mrs. Foye, is it?-here's what I'll do. I'll package it up and send it all to you. Are you in Government Center?"
"Yes. Six Bowdoin Square."
"Well, I'll send it in and you'll see for yourself."
"If you'd…" and I hung up. Mitchell Poitras, 360 Beacon Street. I probably could have got Cataldo to get the address for me, or Frank Belson in Boston, but it's always good to know you can still do it on your own if you need to. It was a lot better than bullying a seventeenyear-old kid. Ma Bell was a worthy opponent.
Three Sixty Beacon would be somewhere around Fairfield or Gloucester. Condos: walnut paneling, skylights, private gardens, deeded parking, working fireplaces, gourmet kitchens. Amy had not lowered her standard any by moving in with Mitchell Poitras.
It was raining harder as I drove into Boston. The convertible roof on my MG was aging and some of the snaps were gone. Water leaked inoffensively around the snapless gaps and trickled amiably down the doorframe. Might as well save Amy Gurwitz, too, while I was in the neighborhood. They could make honor roll together. I couldn't ever remember making honor roll. Probably why my roof leaked.
Chapter 6
There are few city places han
dsomer than Back Bay, Boston. The long rows of brick town houses with their idiosyncratic rooflines and their black iron fences out front marched along the dead-flat landfill streets from the Common to Kenmore Square in parallel with the river. There were brownstone fronts, and occasionally gray granite fronts, and, rarely, marble fronts. But the dominant impression of these three- and four- and five-story contiguous buildings was red brick, softened by age and glazed with the cold November rain. There were trees and shrubs, and flower beds in the minuscule front yards. They were somber and wet now, but on summer days they frolicked with color and growth. Even in a cold wet rain, with the day getting darker, it was very nice there. Almost all the dog droppings were in the gutter. Three eighty-three was just past Fairfield, on the left, with a low wrought-iron picket fence and a gate. What was probably a magnolia tree stood in dark outline waiting for the spring. Three granite steps led to the doorway. There were double glass doors, and past them a small foyer with flagstone floor and a white wooden door with raised panels. I rang. Water dripped off the slate roof three stories up. The inside door opened and a women looked at me through the glass of the outer doors. She wore an ankle-length long-sleeved black dress with white fur cuffs and white fur at the collar. Her hair was blonder than a lemon and done in a mass of curls that overpowered her small face. Her nails were painted red, her eyes were shadowed, her lips were glossy crimson. She had large rings on each finger of each hand. The ringless thumbs seemed underdressed. As she stepped toward me her split skirt fell apart, showing high black boots with very high spiked heels. She opened one of the glass doors.
"Yes?"
Her face was startling. The rest of her was so noisy that you didn't pay much attention to her face until your nerves calmed a little. Up close her face was maybe sixteen years old. Behind the eye shadow and mascara and lip gloss and blusher and things I didn't know the name of was a barely formed sixteen-year-old face. She smiled inquiringly when she said yes and I noticed she had a space between her front teeth.
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