Child Not Found

by Ray Daniel

  “Who?”

  “The girl in the orange pom-pom hat.”

  “Who?”

  Idiot. “Thanks,” I said. Walked on past Battery. Looked across Commercial to David Anderson’s condo/lair. Would he consider that a provocation? Send Kane out to kill me? I moved on to Salutation. Turned back to Sal’s place, climbed the steps. Reached his door. Knocked. No answer. Knocked again. Nothing.

  Maria wasn’t here.

  Sal wasn’t here.

  Jael wasn’t here.

  I had no coat and no plan. Settled myself down on the top step to wait, then my cell rang. Jael. I answered, listened.

  “Sal’s where?” I’ll be damned.

  Forty-Five

  The sun had said, “Screw this,” and set at 4:30. The cold dug its fingers into my unprotected back and shoulders, crushing my trapezius into my spine as I hustled down the street, wishing I had taken a moment to grab my coat before running after Maria. My elbow throbbed, the frigid air grinding away at its black-ice bruise. I dodged around slow-moving pedestrians on Hanover, glanced across the street at the Paul Revere statue, and pulled open the door to St. Stephen’s Church.

  Charles Bulfinch designed St. Stephen’s in 1802 for a Congregationalist parish. Its simple square interior had always struck me as a place where one would attend a town meeting with God rather than a Mass. My mother’s family had come to this church since I was little, christening, marrying, and burying a long line of Rizzos.

  Sal sat alone in a pew halfway down the church. Jael sat by the door. I stopped next to her.

  “I am worried about him,” Jael said.

  “What did he say?” I asked.

  “Nothing. He just sits there.”

  I moved down the center aisle toward Sal. He had flipped down the kneeling bench and rested against the pew in front of him. I knelt next to him and said nothing. He’d talk when he was ready.

  The cold that had sliced into my joints kept up its pressure. The church was heated, but winter cold finds you no matter where you go. I rubbed my elbow, feeling around for the knot.

  “What happened to you?” Sal asked.

  “Black ice,” I said.

  “Jesus. You okay?”

  “Nailed my elbow.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  “Yeah.”

  Silence.

  I looked around the church, my eyes floating over the Corinthian columns that held up a second-level balcony. Twisted in my seat to look at the organ that had played a dirge for my mother at her funeral. Sal followed my eyes.

  “Angie sings up there,” he said.

  “I know. She sang at my mother’s funeral.”

  “Sang at Marco’s funeral too.”

  Was this the right time? There’d never be a right time. “What happened at Marco’s funeral?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Frank Cantrell told me that you had a fight with Joey Pupo and walked out of it.”

  “I gotta have a talk with Frank Cantrell.”

  “What happened?”

  “I fucked up. That’s what happened.”

  “How?”

  “You get that Joey, Marco, and I were friends since we were kids?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I mean, Joey was always sucking hind tit, but still, we were friends.”

  “Right.”

  “Then one day Joey comes over and kills Marco.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I saw him. Marco and I were watching the Bruins game in Marco’s man cave. Joey knocks on the door and says that he told Marco to stay away from Angie. Then he shot him.” Sal tapped my chest twice, then my forehead. “Two in the chest, one in the head. Then he went home. I should have killed Joey then, but Marco wasn’t dead. I held that fucking guy in my arms. Watched him die.”

  “What did you do then?” I asked.

  “I got stupid. Came to Marco’s funeral, listened to the priest, thought about forgiveness, gave Joey a chance to turn himself in.”

  “It was the right thing to do.”

  “Yeah, sure, the right thing to do.” Sal twisted on his knees to face me. “What did it get me? If I had just killed Joey, just gone over to his apartment and did the same to him that he did to Marco, none of this would have happened.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  Sal turned to face the altar. “It’s all my fault. I should just shoot myself.”

  Oh for Christ’s sake, here we go. “Don’t say that,” I said.

  “What do you know about it?”

  “I know you can’t talk that way.”

  “What do I got to live for?”

  Screw this. I said, “You know, you’re right.”

  “What?”

  “You should just go shoot yourself. We’d all be better off.”

  “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

  “Except maybe Angie, she’d lose that sweet apartment.”

  “All right, that’s enough.”

  “Seriously, you and Angie?”

  Sal said, low and quiet, “You stay away from that.”

  “Beautiful wife like Sophia, and you’re fucking a putana like Angie?”

  Sal grabbed my shirtfront. “It’s none of your business.”

  “I thought you loved Sophia.”

  Sal pulled a hand back, ready to slap me. I stuck my chin out, ready to take it.

  “Of course I loved her.”

  “Then why Angie?”

  The hand came in, tapped my cheek. “I know what you’re doing, little cousin,” he said. He released my shirtfront and turned to face the altar.

  “Did it work?” I asked. “Or are you still going to shoot yourself?”

  Silence.

  I faced the altar. Took a deep breath.

  Sal said, “Why don’t you go?”

  “I can’t go,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t have a coat.”

  Sal looked at me out of the corner of his eye, a little smile tugging at his face.

  He said, “You’re a fucking idiot, you know that?”

  I shrugged. “What can you do?”

  Sal stood, pulled off his black greatcoat, rested it over my shoulders, and wrapped it around me like a blanket, still warm from his back. The warmth seeped through my shoulders.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I’m not going to shoot myself.”

  “Good,” I said.

  “But I’m going to shoot someone, that’s for damn sure.”

  “Jesus, Sal we’re in a church.”

  “Jesus would agree with me.” Sal called out to the altar, “Right, Jesus?”

  Jesus had nothing to say.

  We stood, walked back down the aisle. Jael joined us as we pushed the doors open. The cold buffeted us, but Sal’s coat kept me warm.

  Forty-Six

  Sal poured black coffee from the Bialetti coffeemaker into a small coffee cup and slid it in front of me, then he poured two more for himself and Jael.

  It was bitter as hell. “Wow,” I said. “Did you burn this?”

  “No,” said Sal. “I turned off the fire before I ran out. Didn’t want to torch the house.”

  “Why is it so bitter?”

  “It’s always like that,” Sal said.

  “It is an acquired taste,” said Jael. “It is the only coffee I’ve had in America that tastes like coffee.”

  Angie’s kitchen made mine look like a kid’s toy set. Where I had a nook separated from the rest of my condo by a countertop, Angie had room for an entire wooden table. We sat around the table and drank black coffee.

  “How is it that Angie lives here?”

  “What do you mean how?”

  “How is it that you gav
e Angie a place to live?”

  “It’s none of your fucking business, that’s how.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought that seeing as it looks like Angie has Maria, this was all relevant.”

  Sal picked up his coffee cup. “I don’t think that girl you saw was Maria.”

  “What are you talking about? She was wearing Maria’s hat.”

  “I never saw the girl in the hat,” Jael said.

  “Neither did I,” said Sal.

  I said, “So you guys think I’m lying.”

  “No,” said Jael.

  “I imagined it?”

  Silence.

  “Really,” I said. “You guys think I imagined a girl in an orange pom-pom?”

  Jael gave me a look: It’s happened before.

  “That was a long time ago,” I said.

  More silence.

  I said, “Totally different situation.”

  Sal looked from one of us to the other. “What? What are you talking about?”

  “Now it’s none of your fucking business,” I said.

  “What’s none of my fucking business?” Sal said. Then to Jael, “What’s he talking about?”

  “Tucker will have to tell you,” Jael said.

  I stood and pulled on my coat. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Tell me what?” Sal asked.

  “You haven’t earned it.” I headed for the door.

  “Earned what?”

  “You start trusting me with your secrets and I’ll start trusting you with mine.” I banged through the front door, down the steps, and into the street.

  It was dark and I was starving. Fortunately I was in the right place. Boston’s North End has literally hundreds of restaurants, but I only had eyes for one.

  I headed toward home, zigging down one street and zagging down another until reached my goal: 11½ Thatcher Street, or Regina Pizzeria. I have no idea how you get an address like 11½; it probably comes from being on the corner of one of those Boston intersections that made sense for horses, but not for cars.

  I walked past a line of people waiting for tables, climbed the steps, pulled open the door, and allowed myself to be enveloped by the aroma of bread and tomato sauce. Stopped, took a deep breath, and got hit by someone coming in behind me.

  “Jesus, buddy, move it.”

  Happy holidays to you too.

  The bar was full, but a lone surface was crammed behind the coat rack, a little table that faced straight into the wall and a poster sharing Boston’s many firsts: first public park, first sewing machine, first college, the list goes on. I settled into the nook and turned to catch the bartender’s attention. Police Department patches festooned the wooden shelving and a neon sign declared that Peroni was “Italy’s #1 Beer.” I ordered a Peroni and a slice of pepperoni. Tweeted:

  Calling Peroni Italy’s #1 Beer is like calling someone America’s #1 Soccer player #beersnobbing

  They arrived and I tasted the Peroni. Turned out that Italy’s #1 beer is pretty good, probably like America’s #1 soccer player. I relaxed into my dinner, happy to stop moving for the first time all day.

  It was a bad idea, because that was when the thinking started.

  Maria had not been a figment of my imagination. Sure, there was a time when I’d had long conversations—arguments, really—with my dead wife, Carol. But Carol would appear in front of me, wearing her funeral dress and taunting me. She’d never led me on a chase through the city. No. The girl in the orange pom-pom was real, and she was Maria. Maria was safe somewhere in the North End with Angie.

  Which raised a simple solution to the problem: I called Angie.

  Her phone rang five times, then went to voicemail. “Hey Angie, it’s me, Tucker. Call me.”

  That should do it: one whiff of the old Tucker charm brings them right out of the woodwork. Tried calling her again, just in case. Went to voicemail immediately. Angie had looked at my name and chosen not to take the call. So much for the charm; she probably hadn’t heard the voicemail.

  I’d give the charm one last try. Made a phone call. Caroline picked up on the first ring.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “Regina Pizzeria, why?”

  “I just heard some things. I was worried.”

  “If you heard what I think you heard, then you were right to worry.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’m in a public place. Let’s just say that you saved my life today by getting Sal out on bail.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “And how was your day?”

  “You’re going to act like nothing happened?”

  “For as long as I can. I’ve gotten pretty good at repressing things, though I could use a hug.”

  “You’re going to need more than a hug.”

  “You have a bazooka?”

  Caroline switched subjects on me. “Where’s Sal?”

  “I left him at Angie’s place, or his place, or something,” I said.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Long story.”

  “You left him there?” Caroline asked.

  “With Jael, though she’ll probably head out soon.”

  “Tucker, don’t leave him alone. He didn’t look so good today.”

  “Really? You want me to go back there?”

  “Could you?”

  I blew out a heavy sigh.

  Caroline said, “He trusts you.”

  “Oh, that’s why he never tells me anything?”

  “He’s protecting you. He never wants you to get subpoenaed.”

  “He’s a big pain in the ass.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “So you see my point.”

  “He needs you.”

  I chewed some pizza, washed it down with Peroni. “Yeah, I’ll go back over there.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So, that lunch we had yesterday,” I said. “Was that a date?”

  “Do you want it to be a date?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then it was a date.”

  “When could we have a second date? Or is that forward and creepy?”

  “I’m busy tonight, but soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “Go help your cousin,” Caroline said and hung up.

  Go help my cousin. I drank my beer, tore at my pizza. Thought about Sal screwing Angie, shook my head. The shit catches up with you eventually. Love to know the story that led to Angie getting an apartment.

  My phone rang.

  It was Sal. “You want me to trust you?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m trusting you. We’ve got a meeting, I’m gonna clear some shit up. You in?”

  “Yeah, I’m in.”

  Subpoena, here I come.

  Forty-Seven

  There is no clearer sky than the one overarching a frigid winter night. I hunched into my coat as I stared up at bright stars punching their way through light pollution over Commonwealth Avenue. Sal, Jael, and I formed a small circle within the arms of a memorial to nineteen firefighters killed in the Hotel Vendome fire. The snow had slipped off the memorial’s low granite wall, exposing quotes from the firefighters. My eye followed the line of stone to a firefighter’s helmet and coat, seemingly left by an owner who would return for it, though we knew he wouldn’t. Beyond the hat was the spot where the hotel had collapsed.

  “Jesus, it’s cold,” I said. “Why are we out here?”

  “Because nobody else is here, and I have to meet someone,” said Sal.

  “Who?”

  “Here he comes.”

  Frank Cantrell joined us in the circle. “Hi, Sal.”

  Sal punched him in the stomach.

  Cantrell
doubled over, wrapping his arms across his gut.

  I said, “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Payback,” said Sal.

  Jael watched, relaxed but ready for action.

  “Urrgggh,” Cantrell said.

  “You fucking asshole,” Sal told him. “I paid you twenty thousand a month to keep me the fuck out of jail.” He stepped forward.

  Cantrell, still bent over, stepped back. Put out his hand in a placating gesture. “I did my best, Sal. Miller kept me out of the loop.”

  “Because you blew it,” Sal said. “He suspects something, doesn’t he?”

  “Hey, I got you out.”

  “After—”

  Sal’s argument with Cantrell drifted away as I processed what I was hearing. I was no longer straddling two worlds. Until today, until this moment, I had told myself that I had nothing to do with Sal’s profession. To others he might be a gangster, maybe even a murderer, but to me he was Cousin Sal. And me? I was just the guy who came over for Christmas dinner and took Maria sledding.

  Now I was an accomplice. I’d watched Sal kill Vince and his crew. The shipping crate was going someplace where they didn’t care about crime scenes. I was standing next to Jael, who had killed the guy on Hanover Street, and I had watched Hugh Graxton kill the other. This was the final coffin nail. Frank Cantrell was a dirty FBI agent, and Sal had been running him.

  I was dirty too.

  I heard the name “Caroline” and rejoined the conversation.

  “Caroline?” Frank said.

  “That’s right.” Sal poked Cantrell in the chest. “Caroline got me out of jail, and now I’m a fucking snitch.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t have strangled your wife!” said Cantrell.

  “You cocksucker, I will fucking kill you!” Sal took a step forward. Jael moved to intercept him.

  Cantrell held up a finger. “Don’t you touch me again.” He stepped back. Straightened his coat. “I’m still an FBI officer.”

  “He is right,” Jael said. “Also, it would be hard to explain his beating if you left marks.”

  “I didn’t kill Sophia,” Sal said to Cantrell. “Why would I kill Sophia?”

  “Word has it that she was fucking Marco.”

  Cantrell was standing too close. Sal’s right fist smashed him in the nose. Cantrell spun, blood spraying across the snow from his shattered nose.