Give Up the Dead

by Joe Clifford

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE REST OF the night wasn’t a total bust. I put in solid bids, brought a decent haul. Sorlie sofa. Pendant chandelier. Travertine end tables. A sturdy, dependable night in which I played it safe, took few chances, and made someone else money. I’d get paid, as always, and when you subtracted bills, rent, child support, groceries, gas, I’d have a couple bucks left over. If I didn’t blow it all on Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and too many cigarettes, packed my lunches, I’d be able to squirrel away a few nuts for a rainy day. And in about a hundred years I’d have that forty grand I’d need to buy Tom’s business. Assuming I didn’t die as early as my folks and brother. In my family, mid-fifties constituted old age. The American Dream is terrific, as long as you don’t wake up.

  After I’d logged items for Tom, I collected fees and said my goodnights, doing my best to smile or at least not scowl. Some day, I hoped, this company would be mine.

  Sad as it sounded, my biggest victory of the night might’ve come via that winter coat. I didn’t often get jazzed about new clothes, but when I slipped it on, thing fit like a glove, like it had been tailor-made just for me. I checked my look in the mirror. Heavy, tan corduroy with furred camel collar. Had to admit, felt pretty cool. Also made me laugh. The coat was my first new stitch of clothing in years. Not counting tee shirts that came in a ten-pack. I owned one pair of jeans.

  After I hooked up and secured the U-Haul, Charlie wanted me to drop him back at the Dubliner. He had sobered up by then, but of course planned on getting drunk again. Like making your bed in the morning, what’s the point? Charlie lived in his dead mother’s house on the plains, at least a couple miles away in the deep, dark wood. Staring into that starless abyss chilled me to the marrow. I couldn’t fathom making that trek on foot.

  “How’d you get down here?”

  “Got a bike.”

  “Like, what, a dirt bike?” Charlie was my best friend, but I didn’t see him all that often. I didn’t see anybody that often; my closest friends were empty houses and long solitary drives. Still, I figured I’d know if he got a motorcycle.

  “Dude, after that last DUI, I can’t drive anything with an engine. I mean bicycle.”

  “We’re in northern New Hampshire. It’s fifteen degrees.” And that might’ve been optimistic. Ashton was closer to the Canadian border than it was Massachusetts. “You’re too old for a bicycle.”

  I understood riding one in the summer months for exercise, maybe. Although I’d rather shoot myself in the head than get bunged up in skintight latex and a pointy helmet. Charlie was as old as me. At our age, there’s a big difference between hobby and necessity.

  “Throw the bike in the back of the truck. Let me drive you home.”

  “Nah.” Charlie nodded at the bar door. “Already here.”

  Fine by me. Truth was, I wanted to be alone. Since the divorce, I’d been hermitting hard.

  That auction with Owen Eaton highlighted a bigger problem: I had a tough time pulling the trigger. I didn’t think of myself as risk-averse—I’d taken plenty of chances in my life—it’s just that those choices usually turned to shit. My life began spiraling out of control because I’d taken too many chances, starting with believing my dead junkie brother, Chris, after he said he’d uncovered a town-wide conspiracy. And it hadn’t gotten any better the following year when I signed on as an investigator for NorthEastern Insurance. My last case in Plasterville cost me my marriage. That’s not fair to say. My marriage was already on the skids before I met Nicki. And without her help, I wouldn’t have been able to uncover the kids-for-cash scandal that rocked the state. Besides, by then I’m pretty sure Jenny was already fucking Stephen. Both Chris and Nicki had been telling the truth. And each time the root of evil traced back to the most powerful family in town, the Lombardis. And up against that competition, I was out of my league. I was done sticking my neck out and taking needless risks. I’d never walk right again. Winning battles at the cost of losing the war is still losing.

  I’d reheated my Denny’s leftovers, grabbed a beer, and propped up my feet in the recliner, ready to catch a few minutes of highlights from the football games I’d missed, when someone knocked on my door. I lived atop an auto shop, same dumpy one-bedroom I’d rented out of high school. Used to be only Jenny Price or Charlie Finn rang my bell. Now my ex-wife lived a state away with the jerkoff, and Charlie hadn’t had time to peddle his little bicycle across the tundra.

  I took a bite of cool, rubbery turkey, hoping whoever it was would get the hint. The knocking started up again.

  Walking back in the kitchen, I slid the dead bird in the trash, dropped my plate in the sink to signal being pissed, and yanked open the door.

  A stocky, well-dressed man, with a head polished shinier than an apple fresh out the tumbler, stood there. I’d never been a suit guy. Didn’t know the difference between an Armani and Men’s Wearhouse off-the-rack. Not counting my brief, disastrous foray into corporate, I’d worn a suit exactly two times in my life: when my brother Chris died and when I got married—and even then I’d been rocking the rolled-up sleeves and no-tie look before the priest finished last rites. Part of the reason I didn’t fit the corporate mold was my utter disdain for suits.

  But I could tell this suit wasn’t cheap. The fabric practically shimmered in the stairwell light, individual threads glinting, almost crackling with the sound of crisp hundred dollar bills.

  “Can I help you?”

  The man extended his hand. “My name is Vin Biscoglio.” I sized up the hunk of gold around his wrist. We auctioned off enough watches for me to tell when one was the real deal. “I was hoping to speak with you. Mind if I come in?”

  “Sort of. It’s late, man. I’m about to go to bed. Plus, I don’t know you.”

  Did this dude go around all hours, visiting strangers, thinking his fancy suit and expensive watch was a free invitation?

  “Apologies for the late hour. I’ve been sitting in my car, waiting for you to come home. Must’ve missed you.” Vin Biscoglio glanced over his shoulder, out the tiny window that framed the white tips of Lamentation, the mountain range that goldfish-bowled our quaint, rustic town. Didn’t know what he hoped to find. I’d spent enough time traversing those icy peaks to know the only thing that waited up there was heartbreak. “I promise I won’t take up much of your time.”

  I couldn’t place the accent, but he wasn’t from here. I left the door open and headed to the fridge for another beer. I’d been trying to cut down, no more than a six-pack a night. I was better off managing lingering panic attacks with the pills the shrink prescribed. But beer was still my primary staple.

  I snapped the magnet opener off the fridge, popped the top, and lit a cigarette from the stove because, as usual, I couldn’t find a lighter or matches fast enough. I’d given up trying to quit. My fat cat walked in the room, rubbing her belly against my leg. I stooped to pet her. Standing, I almost forgot what I was doing because no one was in my kitchen. Guy stood on the landing like the world’s most insecure vampire.

  What was he waiting for? A corsage?

  I waved him in.

  I swear if he had a hat, he would’ve folded it over his chest. For a dude resembling a linebacker able to bench press Humvees, he was oddly nonassertive.

  “You want a beer?” I asked. Vin acted like the kind of guy who wouldn’t drink anything not aged in an oak barrel. My discount schwill was below his pay grade. But I liked to be courteous.

  “I’m okay, Mr. Porter.”

  “It’s Jay. Now what do you want?”

  “I need your help finding a missing teenage boy.”

  I waited for the rest. Because unless the boy had gone missing in some couch cushions, this had nothing to do with me.

  But he didn’t say anything else.

  “I’m sorry a boy is missing,” I said. “But, like, go to the cops.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t go to the cops.”

  “You can’t come to me either.” I laughed. “I think
you have the wrong Jay Porter. I work in estate clearing. Moving dressers, cleaning out the shit nobody wants from dead people’s houses.”

  Vin Biscoglio only stared.

  “I’m a scavenger.”

  Vin glanced around my cramped, ugly apartment, uneasy. “You worked as an investigator for NorthEastern Insurance?”

  “Yeah. Worked. Past tense. It’s been a while. And I didn’t exactly set the insurance world on fire. Lasted less than a year. Pretty much got canned.” My stomach gurgling, I made for the fridge, holding open the door. Weak yellow light bled across my floor as I confronted the startling lack of food. Beer, mustard, slab of cold cuts that had turned a funky shade of gray. I think it used to be chicken. Without Jenny, I’d fallen back into the trappings of bachelorhood. Trips to the market were reserved for beer. I picked up most of my food at the gas station downstairs. “How’d you find me anyway?” All I could think was my name remained on the NorthEastern website.

  “Your friend Fisher.”

  That little mutherfucker.

  Fisher was a friend of Charlie. I liked him fine, okay, not really. If it wasn’t for Charlie, Fisher would be off my radar completely. He’d been with Charlie and me when my brother found that hard drive. Fisher worked for NorthEastern, too. But down south, at the big office, in Concord. I hadn’t talked to him in years, but this made sense. Fisher was the sort of guy who would send a stranger in an expensive suit to my doorstep on Thanksgiving.

  “Fisher says you may be able to help out.”

  “Fisher’s full of shit.” Couldn’t the guy at least call and warn me?

  Vin stepped to a rolling side table, which housed Jenny’s old recipes. He plucked a cookbook, held it up. “You like to cook?”

  “No.”

  Vin Biscoglio placed the book back between the others. He pointed at a kitchen chair. “May I?”

  “Knock yourself out.” I wished he’d stop with all the formal crap. He was creeping me out. “You change your mind on the beer, feel free. Need to take a leak, the can is over there. Now finish your pitch so I can say no.” The pause gave me a chance to apologize. You live alone long enough, you forget manners. There was a boy missing. “I don’t mean to be rude, man. It’s been a long day, but I don’t work investigations.”

  “You broke the Lombardi pedophile case, yes?”

  “We found some pictures. We couldn’t—”

  “And your work at NorthEastern in the Longmont kids-for-cash scandal was instrumental in sending Judge Roberts to prison.”

  “Not exactly. Sort of. Yeah.” I stopped. “How do know about any of this?”

  I had been behind uncovering Gerry Lombardi was a pedophile. Wasn’t easy. There were bikers working security—one nasty bastard in particular named Bowman tormented me endlessly, knocked me out cold, almost killed me. But allegations never reached the press, and no charges were filed before the old man died. Judge Roberts taking bribes to ship kids to private prisons? Sure. And for my efforts, I received a big fucking headache and a whole lot of nothing.

  Biscoglio’s demeanor changed, the pretense of politeness gone. I now saw this was a man who wore nice suits because he could afford to wear nice suits, a device employed to get what he wanted. Clothes don’t make that man; he is born that way.

  “I know all about Adam and Michael Lombardi’s involvement, too,” he said.

  Vin Biscoglio was going for the hard sell. The Brothers Lombardi were my personal bane. During both scandals, they, like me, remained nameless, behind the scenes, at least as far as the law was concerned, which only intensified my hatred for both. Evoking their names now was a cheap ploy to elicit my help.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “This is my chance to put the Lombardi brothers away for good.”

  “No,” Biscoglio said. “I’m afraid this one doesn’t have anything to do with the Lombardis.”

  It was funny. My brief moment of annoyance gave way to disappointment. No matter what lies I told myself, until the brothers were behind bars—or six feet under—I knew I’d never find solace.

  “I bring them up,” Biscoglio said, “because it shows how deep you are willing to dig for the truth. It’s what’s caught the attention of my boss, and why your services are being sought.”

  Man, only me.

  I hopped up and headed for the cupboard, rooting around. “Who’s your boss?” Pack of stale graham crackers, tin of tuna, can of protein patties that had always been there.

  “I work for Ethan Crowder.” Vin Biscoglio waited for my acknowledgment. Name meant nothing. “Steel.”

  “You want me to steal something?” I spun around, gunning for the freezer. I remembered I had frozen bean and cheese burritos lurking inside. They were about a thousand years old. Those things never went bad.

  “Mr. Crowder is in the steel business. Crowder Steel? Out of Boston?”

  I found the burritos buried beneath a crystal ice cave, packed like a prehistoric Mastodon in the glacial shelf. I reached in the utensil drawer for a butter knife. I had no idea who this Crowder was. At this point, I didn’t much care. I wanted those burritos. Solid block of ice. Would not budge. I’d never defrosted the freezer, which left me a very tiny window in which to operate. I jammed and wedged the tip, stabbing.

  “Right now,” Biscoglio continued, “Ethan and his wife, Joanne, are going through a nasty divorce. You may have read something about it in the tabloids?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Joanne relocated to the Coal Creek Mountains a short while ago, which is where the Crowder family is originally from, taking their son with her.”

  The knife slipped out of my grip and sliced my hand, or as much as a butter knife can slice, more like a serious chaffing, leaving a raised, ragged pink line. “Fuck!”

  Biscoglio startled. I sucked on the meat of my palm, winding with my other hand to get on with it.

  “Their son, Phillip, is caught in the middle. He’s a good kid, but he’s fallen in with a rough crowd, experimenting with drugs. Small-time stuff. Pills. Pot. Mrs. Crowder, Joanne, has taken drastic actions. We think she has had Phillip taken, against his will, to one of those military rehabs you have up here. Are you familiar with Middlesex County?”

  I shrugged, nursing my wound. Middlesex was untamed wilderness rife with doomsday preppers, halfway houses, and radical recovery types. My brother had spent a lot of time up there when we were trying to get him straight. So had his girlfriend, Kitty, the mother of my nephew, Jackson. Of course Vin Biscoglio, having done his homework, would’ve known this.

  “Place called Rewrite Interventions. Have you heard of them?”

  I shook my head.

  “Rewrite Interventions employ controversial techniques for teenage addicts. They send someone in the middle of the night, throw a pillowcase over the addict’s head, and toss them in the back of a van, basically a kidnapping. Except totally legal. They take away cell phones. Allow no contact with friends, loved ones. Even the parents. As a divorced father whose ex has custody of his son, you can understand how terrifying this must be for Mr. Crowder.”

  Nice try. “I’m sorry. I still don’t know what this has to do with me.”

  “Our mutual friend, Fisher, explained about your brother, your personal interest in drug-related cases. Given your impressive investigating record, we were hoping you might be willing to help. For a fee, of course.”

  “It’s late. I have to get to bed. I don’t know what Fisher told you, but I am not an investigator. I don’t take on cases or sign clients. Pretty sure you need a license to do that sort of thing, and the only license I have is the driving kind, so I can haul junk. If you can’t go to the cops, hire a private investigator.”

  “Mr. Crowder would like to hire you.”

  “Tell him, thanks. I’m flattered, but—” I put on the brakes. “I am sorry about the kid. How old is he?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Sixteen. Shitty age. Hope it all works out. I have to go to bed, man.”

  Vin B
iscoglio stood with a gracious nod, returning to his airs. He plucked a business card from his inside pocket, placing it down on the table. “That’s my number. If you change your mind. I wrote Mr. Crowder’s offer on the back.” He closed the door behind him.

  Fitting end to a fucked-up Thanksgiving. In the morning I was going to tear Fisher a new one. It was too late to do anything about it now. I walked to the window, making sure the guy wasn’t stuffing auto parts in his trunk. At that point, nothing would’ve surprised me. The snow continued to fall. I didn’t see a car leave. There were no lights below. I had a strange feeling he was still down there. I bundled back up, stepping into my untied work boots, tramping down the stairs, out into the frigid night. With the wind blowing so hard, I didn’t even see footprints. I slid on my cell flashlight. Still couldn’t see jack. Not a single print. Not one tire track. Like no one had been there at all.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THREE YEARS AGO, at the tail end of the Roberts investigation, I suffered what my shrink called a psychotic break. When I protested that assessment, because it was fucking ridiculous, my doctor let me plead down to post-traumatic stress disorder. She broke it down into gentler, less bat-shit parlance.

  “Basically, Jay,” Dr. Shapiro-Weiss said, “you harbor guilt over your parents’ and brother’s deaths. I’m not saying you’re crazy. Only that for you, during stressful times, reality can be tenuous. When that stress becomes too much, you sever ties with what is really happening.”

  Standing in Hank Miller’s parking lot, my little flashlight out, clearing garage windows, peeping in the backseat of rusted cars like a tweaker in search of invisible bugs, examining evidence that wasn’t there, snow piling high, freezing my ass off, I felt that creeping sensation return. Like everyone was in on the joke but me.

  If not for the business card left behind, I might’ve lost my mind.