Yard Goat

by Ray Flynt

  “Where exactly did you spend last weekend?”

  “At my place,” Megan offered, “in Haverford. Why?”

  “How many people saw the two of you together?”

  Joel and Megan stared at each other.

  “The maid who made up my room,” Joel began. “I saw two guys from the lawn service on Monday.”

  “Nina, our cook, served us meals,” Megan said.

  “Except for Saturday night, don’t forget the pizza guy.”

  I was running out of fingers to keep track. “What are the chances that Carlin had you under surveillance?”

  Megan laughed, drawing attention from nearby tables. “He’s clueless.”

  Joel cringed at her description. Clueless was a word I’d find myself repeating in the days ahead.

  3

  “You’ll help me?” Megan shoved the $10,000 check toward me.

  I pushed back my chair and stood. “Your husband’s been gone for more than a week, so it’s not like time is of the essence. Are you heading to Philadelphia this afternoon?” She nodded. “I want to make a few inquiries first. I’ll visit your home in Haverford at 11 a.m. tomorrow and let you know.”

  After telling Joel I would meet him outside, I retrieved my umbrella and marched to the valet stand. Only a sprinkle remained, and the pungent aroma of ozone hung in the air.

  As I waited for my car, Megan walked out clutching Joel’s arm. She gave him a peck on the cheek and raced toward the self-park lot where she climbed into an SUV in a disability parking spot. My opinion of her dropped a notch.

  Joel joined me at the valet stand. I aimed a thumb at Megan’s departing vehicle. “She’s disabled?”

  “Give her a fuckin’ break. I’m sorry I even called you.”

  That makes two of us.

  We stood in silence. When my car arrived at the curb, Joel said, “I’d still like to show you the museum.”

  “You live close by, right?”

  “Yeah, Roland Park.”

  “Hop in. I’ll drop you back here when we’re done at the rail yard.”

  Joel navigated, directing me to the West Cold Spring Lane entrance onto I-83. I drove and tried to restore detente. “If I’m going to help Megan, I need the whole picture.”

  “I know. I’m sorry for not telling you earlier.”

  “No worries. Is this just a fling with Megan?”

  “It’s complicated.” Joel leaned into the headrest. “It started that way, at least as far as I was concerned. Things had gotten stale with Cecilia after fourteen years. Family took precedence over intimacy. When Megan and I reconnected six months ago, without intending to, I fell in love with her.”

  “I assume Cecilia doesn’t know about any of this.”

  Joel exhaled. “No. The whole situation is eating me up. I feel painted in a corner...honestly don’t know what I want.”

  I glanced toward the passenger seat. “Is Megan in love with you?”

  His head rocked side to side. “She avoids the subject.”

  “But she knows how you feel?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He stretched out the first word.

  Traffic thickened as we worked our way downtown. Joel suggested bailing onto Mt. Royal Terrace. We passed Symphony Hall minutes later. He seemed to prefer pointing out landmarks than elaborating on Megan and him.

  “Has she told you how she feels about Carlin?”

  “She prefers to describe the situation.”

  I stared at him quizzically. “Which is what?”

  “He’s sixty-two years old. Young by today’s standards, but thirty-two years older than she is. Megan’s the trophy wife—a fact she reminds me of all the time—grateful for everything he’s done. A year ago, Carlin was diagnosed with Parkinson’s. She told me his symptoms aren’t obvious yet, but enough for his doctor to authorize a disability hang tag. He’s not in any imminent danger, but it won’t be long before tremors increase and mobility becomes more difficult.”

  “Does Megan inherit his entire estate?”

  “She doesn’t know.”

  More eccentricity.

  I cast a sideways look. “Seriously?”

  “She’s never discussed it with him, so she says. There was a pre-nup, which spelled out what she’d be entitled to in case of separation or divorce. That same agreement isolated his business interests from any claim by her.”

  “You ever do legal work for Trambata?”

  Joel shook his head. “Only spoke to him once, at the wedding reception. I find him off-putting. I don’t know what Megan sees in him.” He laughed. “Hell, I barely know what she sees in me.”

  I turned onto West Pratt and encountered a backup on the three-lane street. Up ahead, fire trucks, their lights flashing, blocked the way. I lowered the front windows while we waited. The deafening whir of a helicopter passed overhead then hovered beyond the fire trucks. A second—possibly a media chopper—circled the scene. Sirens warbled in the distance.

  “If there’s been a fatality, we could be here for hours.”

  Joel groaned.

  The one-way street kept everyone from bailing in the other direction.

  Growing numbers of people got out of their vehicles. The rain had stopped, but the pavement still glistened. They craned their necks for a better view, or swapped confused looks with others who’d abandoned their cars.

  Horns blared in frustration.

  Joel got antsy and jumped out. He strutted between the rows heading straight for the fire trucks. I lost sight of him. Ten minutes passed before I saw him strolling toward me shaking his head.

  He yanked the door open and plopped onto the passenger seat. “You’re not going to fuckin’ believe this. Somebody spotted a cardboard box with a tarp over it in the park across the street from the museum. They called 9-1-1 to report a possible bomb. The bomb squad’s over there right now. Everybody’s on edge since the World Trade Center attack.”

  I knew the stench of fear. In the days after Mom and Lucy were kidnapped every corpuscle strained to understand what had happened and why. Dad, my brother, and I were startled every time the phone rang. Police presence did little to calm us. We grasped for hope, while steeling ourselves for the worst. When word of their torture and murder came, my only release was vomiting my guts out.

  “And you know what else?” Joel’s voice brought me out of my train of thought. “One of the drivers said that box has been there for weeks. He thinks it belongs to a homeless man. That dumb fuck probably made the mistake of wandering off to a soup kitchen. When he finally comes back, all his possessions will be blown to smithereens.”

  It’s definitely creating a new normal.

  Joel fidgeted. I went at him. “What’s your theory on Carlin’s disappearance?”

  “I think it’s all tied up with this 9/11 stuff. Trips to DC aren’t new for him. Herron Industries gets lots of federal contracts. The big difference now is what happened in New York City last week. Everything’s gotten a little wonky since then. The secrecy... suspicion.”

  I nodded.

  Joel was on a roll. “Hell, I took my seventy-year-old aunt to the airport last Tuesday night for a flight to Ireland. She went through the metal detector, turned to wave goodbye, and then I watched airport security pull her aside for a frisking. She’s seventy for God’s sake. Looks about as scary as Granny in The Beverly Hillbillies.”

  I’d had a similar experience traveling to a stockholder’s meeting in Houston. After going through security, they made me empty my pockets a second time before entering the Jetway.

  “For all I know,” Joel added, “Carlin’s working out of Rumsfeld’s office on a new kind of body scanner. You know, one that’ll count the fillings in our teeth.”

  “I’ll settle for one that’ll keep box cutters off airplanes.”

  Joel threw me a thumbs up. “Fuckin’ right.”

  A muffled explosion rumbled through the air. A plume of gray smoke rose above the fire trucks.

  Drivers returned to their c
ars, although six or seven minutes passed before we started moving.

  We spent two hours at the B&O Railroad Museum. For a train guy like me, my heart beat a little faster at the sight of the historic brick roundhouse. Inside, surrounding a sixty-foot turntable, they had their most prized engines on display, including the “Thatcher Perkins,” a black and red painted ten-wheeler steam engine built when Lincoln was president.

  Joel led me on a private tour past model railroad layouts. “They’re not as impressive as yours.” We headed out into the yard.

  A diesel locomotive in particular, dating from the 1940s, drew my attention. Its carcass, now plagued with rust, had seen better days. On the cab, painted in yellow, “Octoraro Rwy #3.”

  “There used to be an Octoraro Railway in Kennett Square, near me.”

  “Yep, that’s where we got it. About ten years ago, I think.”

  “Switch engines fascinate me. You have more impressive rolling stock, but I bet that old yard goat could tell more stories.”

  I left the museum vowing to come back and spend a whole day.

  On the return trip to Nevan’s Bistro, where Joel had left his car, he became the questioner. Perhaps after a couple of hours of showing off his hospitality he felt less inhibited in grilling me. “Do you think you’ll take Megan’s case?”

  “I’m still not sure.”

  Joel sounded miffed. “Why the hell not?”

  I explained a potential conflict of interest given my father’s business dispute with Carlin and Herron Industries. “Andy runs day-to-day operations, but I’m chair of the Joedco Board. There’s no escaping my family name.”

  “Does your brother still act like a turd? You two never seemed liked brothers to me.”

  I smiled to myself and thought he offered a good summation of Andy’s personality. “We have divergent interests that’s for sure. I want to have a conversation with Dad before I decide...you know, get his perspectives.”

  “I understand.” His tone suggested otherwise.

  “I also want to talk with my mentor, Nick Argostino. See what kind of contacts he has with the DC cops.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “I’ll figure out what I’m going to do by morning and tell Megan.”

  Joel turned to me. “Whatever you decide, try not to hurt her.”

  What an odd choice of words.

  4

  I forgot how thick I-95 traffic could be on a Friday afternoon when weekend travelers mingled with regular commuters. A group of young people fastened red, white, and blue fabric to overpass fencing forming the letters USA. I joined other drivers tooting their horns as I passed underneath.

  My pit stop at the Maryland House rest area included a call to Nick Argostino. I wanted to arrange a meeting for later that evening, but had to leave a message.

  A detective with the Philadelphia police, several years earlier Nick had served as the lead investigator when my mother and sister were kidnapped and murdered. We initially clashed over what I perceived as lack of progress on their case, but grew to respect each other.

  When Nick suggested street money might help loosen the tongues of informants, I gave him what he needed. Three days later, I was with him as suspects Eddie Baker and Frank Wilkie were cornered inside a dilapidated row house in West Philly and taken into custody.

  We later partnered to form the detective agency. I hoped that Nick—now a mostly silent partner—could help me figure out what to do for Megan Trambata.

  I found my father sitting in the dining room at Bairnes Center, an assisted living facility where he’d resided since a stroke robbed him of the mobility to live at home. I tried to visit three or four times a week, occasionally arranging to have lunch or dinner with him. “Hey, Dad!” I called from four strides away.

  He pivoted in his wheelchair and smiled recognition. He pointed at his tablemates. “You remember Chuck, Oscar, and Jerry?”

  “Of course.” I winked at them. “It takes all three just to keep you in line.”

  The septuagenarians laughed.

  I gazed at the indistinguishable food left on their plates. “Looks like you guys had mystery meat tonight.”

  Dad pointed and mocked. “My son, the detective.”

  They laughed again.

  He aimed a thumb over his shoulder. “You can push. I’m ready to go back to my room.”

  Several staff nodded greetings as I rolled his chair down the carpeted hallway, decorated like a boutique hotel, toward his two-room suite. Dad ate most meals in the communal dining room, but had a kitchenette with a coffee maker, mini-fridge, and microwave. As he described it, “I can skip breakfast without them sending a posse.”

  I locked the wheels on the chair. He stood and transferred to a wingback on his own power. He reached for the remote.

  I caught his attention. “Carlin Trambata.”

  Dad made a face like he’d eaten a sour pickle. “He die?”

  I shook my head.

  “Too bad.” He turned on CNN.

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “Worst human being I ever met.”

  “Sounds harsh, Dad. Can you elaborate?”

  “I’ve dealt with tough competitors, but he functioned like a Mafia Don.”

  “Threats? Intimidation?”

  A “Breaking News” graphic appeared on the TV, accompanied by ominous music. Dad’s attention shifted to the screen.

  The anchor introduced a reporter silhouetted against the Capitol in Washington. The dome gleamed in mid-afternoon sun.

  “The Taliban rejected President Bush’s ultimatum, vowing to protect Osama Bin Laden and his terrorist followers even if it provokes a war. Meanwhile, the United Arab Emirates cut diplomatic ties with Afghanistan’s ruling Taliban.”

  Agitated, he snapped off the TV. “I saw the same report four hours ago.” He pointed at the microwave. “Want some popcorn?”

  I nudged him back to our conversation. “Trambata?”

  “He’s a jerk.”

  Maybe I had a better filter than my dad, but we shared the same genes on our thought processes. “Do you remember the patent issue between Herron Industries and Joedco?”

  “I may move slowly, but I still got my wits about me.” Dad tapped the side of his head.

  A fact for which I was eternally grateful. I didn’t appreciate my family until half of them were obliterated. Within six months of the kidnapping and murder, Dad had a stroke. The doctors attributed it to stress. A second one followed eight months later, prompting the need for assisted living. All I saw was collateral damage caused by the assholes who killed Mom and Lucy.

  I settled into a chair across from him. “Tell me what you recall.”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “You go first. I’ll explain after.”

  Dad crinkled his lips and peered over the top of his bifocals. “In the mid-90s we had a contract to do research for the Navy. They wanted stealth capability for submarines. One of our engineers, a young up-and-comer named Russ Hébert, left the project and later took a job with Herron Industries. Joedco gave him his first chance out of grad school.”

  “Didn’t he have a non-compete clause in his contract?”

  “Yes, but in the end it didn’t seem to matter. We had a breakthrough on the development of a coating which would absorb sonar, making it more difficult to detect a sub. But our patent application was denied—deemed similar to one already applied for by Trambata and company. We suspected our engineer had shared the basics of our research and enabled Herron to leapfrog us. We appealed, but Trambata came at us with an army of lawyers.”

  “Did Mr. Hébert admit he shared information learned while working for us?”

  Dad harrumphed. “We were never able to talk with Russ. He suspiciously left Herron Industries—after their patent application—and relocated to Martinique.”

  “You ever deal with Trambata personally, or just through lawyers?”

  “If he walked in here right now you’d
never suspect what a jerk he can be. He’s short. Kinda reminds you of Ross Perot, till he speaks.”

  I raised an eyebrow, wanting him to finish the thought.

  “Carlin grew up in New Delhi. His father was a career diplomat assigned to the US Mission before India’s independence. He speaks with a British accent.”

  I excused myself to use the restroom. Grab bars on both sides of the toilet and an emergency pull cord jutting from the wall jolted me back to his need for the care facility. All of it easy to forget amidst the familiar furnishings and art work from Dad’s Bryn Mawr estate.

  When I returned to the sitting room, Dad had turned the TV back on and was muttering at the commentator. “These guys are itchin’ for us to get into war. It’s gonna be like Vietnam all over again.”

  I picked up the remote and lowered the sound.

  He glanced at me. “You sure you don’t want popcorn?”

  I caught the hopeful glimmer in his eyes. It dawned on me that he wanted popcorn.

  “Sure, Dad.”

  He pointed at the cupboard next to the sink. “You’ll find a new box.”

  I read the instructions, stuck the packet direction side up in the microwave, and set the timer.

  Three minutes later, I placed a bowl of popcorn on the table next to Dad. “Did you know Carlin Trambata’s first wife?”

  “I met one of ’em...don’t know if it was his first. Honey, that’s what everybody called her. Never knew her real name. She was at least twenty years younger than him. He liked to show her off.”

  “Did they divorce?”

  Dad shrugged. “Why are you asking about his wife?”

  “I met wife number two earlier today. She’s at least thirty years younger.”

  “He likes ’em young.”

  “Carlin’s missing. She wants me to help find him.”

  Dad’s face brightened. “If he’s missing, I’d suggest leaving him right where he is.”

  I chuckled, then filled Dad in on my trip to Baltimore and the luncheon meeting with Joel Driscoll and Megan Trambata. Dad remembered Joel from times when he’d visited the model train layout when we were kids. I explained Megan’s version of events for her husband’s trip to Washington on September 12th, and that she hadn’t heard from him since last Saturday.