Child Not Found

by Ray Daniel

  Twenty-Eight

  The North End had fully recovered from the snowstorm. Hanover Street pulsed with double-parked madness as cars, trucks, and pedestrians vied for control.

  “It is not safe here,” Jael said.

  I watched a hipster on a bike navigate around an unloading truck. “Is it ever?”

  “For you, rarely.”

  We passed Cafe Vittoria on the way to Battery Street. Hugh Graxton sat in the window, engrossed in his MacBook Air.

  “Let’s touch base with Hugh,” I said.

  We stepped into Cafe Vittoria. Hugh looked up, alarmed. Oscar reached under his jacket. Jael unzipped her purse. I patted the air. Let’s all calm down.

  Hugh waved at Oscar to put away his gun. Turned to me. “If it isn’t the newsmaker.”

  Nick caught my eye from behind the espresso machine.

  I shook my head. I wouldn’t be here long. “It looks like you made the news yourself,” I said.

  “Rittenhauser’s an asshole,” said Hugh.

  “No doubt,” I said. “Still, is it true that you’re trying to take Sal’s spot?”

  Hugh looked at Jael. “Is Tucker wearing a wire?”

  “No,” said Jael.

  I said, “You could have asked me. Don’t you trust me?”

  “I asked who I asked. Don’t get your panties in a wad.”

  “You haven’t answered the question.”

  “You noticed. Well done.”

  “Why are you even here? You have a nice thing going in the suburbs.”

  “You’re playing checkers when you should be playing chess, Mr. MIT.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  Hugh looked at Jael. “I’m really going to have to explain it?”

  “Please explain it quickly,” said Jael. “We are exposed in this window.”

  Hugh said, “Sal and I were partners, of sorts. For one thing, we stayed out of each other’s way. More importantly, we had each other’s back.”

  “I can see how that would work.”

  “It’s like the Army. I covered Sal’s flank, he covered my flank.”

  “Okay.”

  “The rest is left as an exercise to the reader.”

  “If Pistol runs Boston, you’re worried that he’ll roll on you.”

  “Not just Pistol. Sal has a whole crew with delusions of grandeur, and there’s two things I can tell you about those guys. First, they’ll get arrested on some bullshit within two weeks. Second, they hate me.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Why not? I’m the kind of guy who made them feel stupid as kids, except now I make them feel stupid as adults.”

  “How?”

  “I wear a jacket and sometimes I use big words.”

  “You didn’t make Sal feel stupid?”

  “Sal’s smarter than you and me combined, and he knows it. He understood about the flanks. Pistol, on the other hand, is a shithead. He’ll throw me under the bus first chance he gets.”

  Silence.

  Jael said, “We are going to see David Anderson.”

  “You be careful around that bastard, okay?” Hugh said.

  “Careful? Why should I be careful?” I asked.

  “I was talking to Jael. You don’t need to be careful. You can do what you want. Just don’t get her killed.”

  I looked from Hugh to Jael and back. “Is anybody going to tell me—”

  “Here’s the deal,” Hugh said. “Sal and I were in business with David Anderson. We wanted to move our money out of … its current place.”

  “How?”

  “We made some investments in a startup.”

  “PassHack.”

  Hugh’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know about that?”

  “Maybe Mr. MIT can play chess after all.”

  “Sal told you, didn’t he?”

  “He’s pretty pissed about it.”

  “I’m pretty pissed too.”

  “Why? I talked to the CEO, I didn’t hear about any of this.”

  “That little shit Jarrod?”

  “Yeah. He told me that Sal was an investor.”

  “Is there something about this you don’t know?”

  “I didn’t know you were involved, until now.”

  “So what’s your plan now that you know?”

  “Jael and I are headed over to—”

  The floor-to-ceiling glass that fronted Cafe Vittoria blasted open in a shower of crystals. Two guys stood on the sidewalk. One dropped the red sledgehammer he had used to smash the glass. The other was Pistol Salvucci, one arm in a sling, the other holding a gun.

  Jael, Hugh, and I sprang into action. Jael went high, leaping onto Hugh’s table in one long stride. Hugh went low, diving beneath the same table. I stood stock still, my mind frozen between options.

  Pistol couldn’t decide whether to shoot high or shoot low, so he decided to shoot me. Aimed the gun at me and pulled the trigger. I flinched. The bullet tore goose down out of my ski jacket. I dove for the floor. Rolled away and looked behind me.

  Oscar stood in the middle of Cafe Vittoria. A red stain grew on his chest. He dropped to his knees, then onto his face.

  Jael sailed above Pistol. She fired straight down, blasting red spray from the top of his head. The guy who had smashed the window had produced a gun of his own. He tracked Jael in her arc. His gun rose as he aimed at the spot where she’d have to land now that gravity had turned her into a target.

  “No!” I shouted.

  Jael landed, rolled, and smashed against a parked car. The pile of snow trapped her on her back in the gutter. The guy fired and blew out a tire. Hugh Graxton shot him twice in the middle of the back. The guy went down as Jael rolled away from the settling car.

  Hugh scrambled out from under the table, jumped down to the sidewalk, and helped Jael to her feet.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Jael.

  I climbed to my feet and looked around. Oscar was dead, a sheet of blood spreading from his chest. Nick the barista was gone, probably hiding.

  Hugh called from the sidewalk, “Tucker, grab my laptop.”

  Typical Mac guy. He would have climbed back into a burning building for the thing.

  I grabbed the Mac and hopped onto the sidewalk, handed it to Hugh. “What now?”

  “Now we scatter and lose the guns.”

  Jael said, “Agreed.”

  “See you guys around.” He looked at Jael. “And thank you. I owe you.”

  “We are even,” said Jael.

  Hugh set off toward Government Center.

  I asked Jael, “Where do you want to scatter?”

  “We will go to your meeting with David Anderson and act as if nothing had happened.”

  Jael and I walked down Hanover, deeper into the North End, deeper into enemy territory.

  Twenty-Nine

  We hustled down Hanover Street as police sirens started wailing. I was having trouble acting as if nothing had happened. I held my gloved hand out in front of me. It bounced and trembled like a captured rabbit.

  “Is this normal?” I asked.

  Jael said, “Yes.”

  “What should I do about it?”

  “Keep walking. You must burn off the adrenaline.”

  “Okay.”

  “Also try deep breathing and prayer.”

  “Prayer helps?”

  “It does not hurt.”

  I walked, breathing deeply and replacing prayer with the lineup of the 2013 Red Sox: Ellsbury, Victorino, Pedroia, Ortiz … “Why aren’t you shaking?” I asked.

  “I have been trained.”

  “Who trained you?”

  Jael ignored the question. Instead, she disassembled her gun, pulling out a tiny piece an
d throwing it in the snowbank, then putting the barrel into her pocket.

  “What did you just do?” I asked.

  “Ballistics is based on the gun barrel and the firing pin. I will replace them and my weapon will be clean.”

  “What will you tell the police if they find pieces of the gun on you?”

  “I will tell them nothing.”

  “Right. Silence. I always forget silence.”

  Battery Street had rung a bell when I had looked up Anderson’s address. As we neared the street, I realized that it was one of the three streets that framed Joey Pupo’s triangular block. Sal’s street ran parallel.

  “Anderson lives near Sal and Joey,” I said.

  Jael said, “It is not a surprise.”

  We turned down Battery and followed it until Commercial cut in half. We ran across Commercial, skirting the snow piles that blocked the sidewalk, and walked toward the water and David Anderson’s building at the end of the street.

  I had called David Anderson’s office expecting to deal with a receptionist. Instead, Anderson himself had answered the phone. I explained that I was Sal Rizzo’s cousin and that I was looking for Maria.

  “I don’t see how I can help you,” said Anderson. His voice resonated, deep without being deep.

  “I’d just like to talk,” I said. “There’s no telling what could help me find Maria.”

  “I read about that this morning. It’s tragic.”

  “It’s not tragic yet. I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “Sure,” said Anderson. “Come on by.” He had given me directions and hung up.

  Now Jael and I stood at the base of a long four-story building that jutted into the gray ocean. A stiff breeze came off the water, chilling me, blowing goose down from my ski jacket’s new bullet hole. We walked around the building, leaned on a railing, and looked out into the harbor.

  Jael dropped the gun barrel into the sea right in front of us.

  “Wouldn’t you want to throw it deeper?” I asked.

  “A longer throw would allow witnesses to see the shape,” she said.

  “Good thinking.”

  “It is my profession.”

  We entered the lobby, two city folk walking amidst the deep mahogany and cream marble of luxury. A few questions and phone calls later, and David Anderson was inviting us into his condominium.

  To say that Anderson and I both owned condominiums would be like saying that Han Solo and Darth Vader both owned star ships. He had a kitchenette like mine, with a breakfast bar and stools, but the similarity ended there. My little shotgun condo would have fit in Anderson’s living room, a living room that overlooked a snow-covered terrace and a view of Boston Harbor—Coast Guard ships in the fore, the Tobin Bridge in the background.

  Anderson had a couple of inches on me, which put him at six-two. He was fit and wore a V-neck wool sweater over a white button-down shirt tucked into dark blue jeans, a working-from-home-and-might-have-to-Skype look. We made introductions all around.

  “I just brewed some coffee,” he said. “Can I get you a cup?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Black.”

  “No, thank you,” said Jael.

  “Tea?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Our condos were also similar in that they both lacked a woman’s touch, or even a gay friend’s touch. Anderson’s living room featured black leather couches, a huge television, and a black granite coffee table.

  Anderson brought the coffee in a large French press, pressed the plunger, poured the coffee into two big mugs, and sat across from us. The coffee was excellent.

  Anderson asked, “Is this conversation being recorded?”

  I said, “What?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s a formality my lawyers insist upon.”

  “You’re the second person who’s asked me that today.”

  “You must lead an interesting life.”

  “You have no idea.”

  Silence. “Is it being recorded?” he repeated.

  “No,” I said, “it’s not.”

  “Well, that’s good. I’ve never had someone say yes. It would lead to some awkward moments.”

  “I imagine it would.”

  “How can I help?”

  “To be honest, I don’t know. I’m looking for Maria Rizzo and I’m grasping at straws.”

  “How would any straw lead you to me?”

  “I only know that Sal Rizzo did some business with you and lost his money.”

  “Told you that, did he?”

  “Yup,” I lied.

  “Called me a thief?”

  Interesting. “He made mention of it,” I lied again.

  Anderson rubbed his nose and looked out toward the Tobin Bridge. “Sal Rizzo is an idiot.”

  “Really?”

  “He thought his investment was some sort of a loan. Wanted his money back. Of course I didn’t give it to him. He’s a big boy. He can take his lumps like the rest of us.”

  “How much did he lose?”

  “All of it. Just like me.”

  “How much was that?”

  Anderson drank more coffee. “It’s my own fault, I suppose.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I didn’t vet Sal properly. I let Hugh vouch for him.”

  “How do you know Hugh?”

  “Undergrad at UMass, business school.”

  “Another UMass guy.”

  “We’re everywhere.”

  “Hugh invested with you too?”

  “Yes, but Hugh understood the rules of venture investment. I figured that he’d told Sal, but he hadn’t. So we had misalignment.”

  “Misalignment?”

  “Sal thought he was making a loan, when he was really making an investment. He thought he had no risk, but he did. He was misaligned with reality.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t wind up paying him back.”

  “Why would I pay him back?”

  I had more of the wonderful coffee. “Sal can be pretty persuasive.”

  “You mean because he’s a Mafioso?”

  Well, that was direct. “Yeah. I guess that’s what I’m saying.”

  “Are you a Mafioso?”

  “No. I’m just Sal’s cousin.”

  Anderson looked at Jael, who was sitting on the sofa next to me, the black leather of her outfit acting as sofa camouflage. “If you’re not a Mafioso,” he said, “then where did you get your hired muscle?”

  Jael said, “I am not hired muscle. I am Tucker’s friend.”

  “But you could be hired,” Anderson said. “Am I right?”

  Jael said nothing.

  Anderson pressed, “You do provide security services, don’t you? You have the look.”

  Jael said, “Yes.”

  “How much do you charge?”

  Jael told him.

  “You could be making much more, afford better equipment—a Kevlar vest.”

  “I am fine.”

  “I’m sure you are.” Anderson turned back to me. “Tucker, last year I cleared eleven million dollars. It’s not Mitt Romney money, but it’s still good money. I use it to hire security personnel such as Jael here.”

  I had never thought of Jael as “security personnel.”

  “Believe me when I tell you that Sal was never a threat to me,” Anderson said.

  I said, “Okay.”

  “I’m not threatened by a two-bit hood with a crappy business model.”

  “Crappy business model?”

  “Prostitution? Drugs? Really?” Anderson scowled. “Prostitution isn’t scalable. Drugs have supply problems. You need to fight for street corners, and half your sales force is stoned.”

  “I’d never thought of it that way.”

 
; “The fact that Sal noticed a loss of two hundred thousand dollars tells me that he doesn’t make very much money. Those poor assholes have to scrape for every penny.”

  “Have you told this to Hugh?”

  “Oh, he agrees with me, but he loves the thrill. He’s nuts.”

  “I see.”

  Anderson poured more coffee from the French press. “Have you had any luck tracking Maria down?”

  “No. I was hoping to discover some thread from you.”

  “No threads here.”

  I downed my coffee. “Sorry I bothered you.”

  “Not a problem.”

  We stood and headed for the foyer. Anderson noticed the hole in my jacket. “Catch it on a fence?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Stupid fences.” I let Jael through the door ahead of me. Ladies first. I started to leave, but turned. “Oh, one last question.”

  “Okay,” said Anderson.

  “What happened to Jarrod’s technology?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Jarrod Cooper is a frigging genius, and his technology alone should have recovered some of the investment. But you said you lost all of it.”

  “We did.”

  “So you didn’t sell Jarrod’s technology.”

  Anderson’s cheeks turned a light shade of anime pink. “Turns out it was unsellable.”

  “Why?”

  “It was all just derived from open source software. Jarrod hadn’t invented anything new.”

  “Huh.”

  “That deal went bad every possible way.”

  I shook Anderson’s soft hand. “Thank you for your help.”

  “Anytime.” He closed the door.

  I was silent as we rode the elevator down and walked through the lobby. Once we were down the street and at the corner, Jael spoke up.

  “Did you learn anything?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I learned that David Anderson is a big fat liar.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I worked on Jarrod’s stuff. It was original. He could have—hey look, it’s Angie.”

  Angie Morielli, resplendent in a long fur coat, hustled down Battery Street carrying shopping bags.

  I headed for the curb. “Let’s go say hello.”

  Thirty

  The idea that you could get a traffic citation for crossing a street is more than foreign to native Bostonians; it’s laughable, a prank pulled by tourists. “A ticket? Seriously?” On the other hand, drivers consider stopping for someone in the street to be a merciful act, worthy of note and praise. Streets are for cars, not people.