Under Water

by Casey Barrett

  “And before that? Had she been making practices regularly?”

  Marks shook his head. “Not as tough as I once was,” he said. “Back in your day, a girl like that? She would have been gone long ago. Got no time for it. She wants to throw away her talent, that’s up to her, but I got kids in here . . .” He swept his arm across the lanes. “I got kids in here who want it, who are willing to put in the work. Athlete like that, all that talent and no commitment, she’s bad energy for the entire group.”

  “But since she’s Charlie’s sister . . .”

  “Yeah, I know, she gets a pass.” He sighed. “Like I said, I’ve gone soft in my old age. That family has been so good to me. I need to do right by them. By Charlie, and by Margaret too. Their girl’s in a bad way, and I need to be there if she wants to get her act back together.”

  “Mrs. McKay is worried. She hasn’t been able to reach her in the last week. Says Charlie saw her, briefly, leaving their place upstate last Sunday. Then she says she got a text that was out of character, apologizing for something. And there was a missed call to your number that same day?”

  Marks nodded. “She didn’t leave a message.”

  “That sounds like her last attempted contact with anyone. Any idea what she could have been calling about?”

  “Not a clue,” he said.

  “She call you often?”

  “She’s barely a part of this team,” said Marks. “If I had to guess, I’d say she was calling to tell me she’d finally decided to quit, for good.”

  “You try calling back?”

  He took a step closer to the edge of the pool. “The girl needs rehab, not swim practice,” he said. “I know she’s using, just like I know you’ve been drinking. You folks think you can pretend to straighten up and fool people, but you can’t. Or at least you don’t fool me.”

  Called out, I felt a wave of intoxication wash over me. His words stripped away my false sobriety and I was drunk again. I realized I was sweating heavily; I felt the whiskey seeping through my cheeks.

  “Does she have any friends on the team?” I asked.

  “Not a one,” he said. “When she’s here, which is rarely, Madeline keeps to herself. She’s older than most of this group now. She’s got no interest in ’em. We’ve got a few her age in there, maybe she talks to them, but I’ve never seen it.”

  “You mind if I ask them about her?”

  “Right now? Yeah, I do mind. We’re getting ready to do a three thousand for time this afternoon. I’m not getting anyone out for any interrogations. You come back in a few hours, at six, sober, and you can talk to whomever you like after practice.”

  In here the world operated on his terms, every second under his control. It was pointless to object. I understood why he rarely surfaced. A shaky hand found a business card in my pocket, and I offered it to him.

  “Be back in a few hours then,” I said. “If you hear from her, would you mind giving me a call?”

  Marks looked at the card with amusement. “Duck Darley,” he read. “ ‘Finder and Consultant.’ What does that even mean?”

  “Don’t ask,” I said.

  On the way out I met two of his lieutenants, assistant coaches who looked like they stepped from a Speedo catalog. Both were blond, late twenties, unsmiling. The boy had close-cropped spiked hair and the wide shoulders of a butterflyer. The girl had a hard air and harder blue eyes. They walked together with the self-conscious closeness of a couple pretending they weren’t. I stopped them and introduced myself. They weren’t impressed. They told me their names were Nicholas and Anna. Anna had a thick Eastern Euro accent.

  “You’re late for practice,” I said. “Warm-up’s almost done.”

  “We coach the younger group,” said Nick. “Their practice doesn’t start till six.”

  “We come early to help with Elite,” said Anna.

  “Very industrious. How long you been working for Marks?”

  “Few years,” said Nick. Anna said nothing, just stared back at me like a leopard trying to decide if she was hungry.

  “You guys know Madeline McKay?” I asked.

  They exchanged a look. “Uh huh,” said Nick.

  “Seen her lately?”

  “No,” said Anna. “I believe she has quit. Is that right, Nicholas?”

  “Yeah, she hasn’t been here in, like, a month,” he said.

  “Well, if you see her, or hear anything about her, maybe you can let me know?” I offered Nick a card. Anna took it from him and examined it. She frowned and slid it in the back pocket of her jeans. She had slim hips and thick thighs that could crush little Nicky and leave him patting the mat in submission.

  They slipped by me and nodded their hellos to Fred. He scampered up and held the women’s room door for Anna. I climbed the stairs into the daylight, out of the chlorine, trying to stop the sweating. I needed to lie down, to clear my head. Clouds had rolled in and the temperature had dropped, the seasons turning like the caravans of cabs changing shifts along Third Avenue. I looked up at the sky as the sun was swept behind a dark, moving mass.

  It looked like rain, and I wanted to get drenched.

  Chapter 4

  It was after seven when I felt her foot in my face. I was passed out on the couch with Elvis curled at my feet. There was a dull ache behind my temples, and my tongue was as dry as cured meat, but at least the sweating had stopped. A leather toe pressed into my nose and I heard her laugh above me.

  “So much for staying sober,” she said.

  I opened my eyes. All six-plus feet of Cassandra Kimball stood above me. She set down her foot and put her hands on her hips. Black heeled boots, black leather pants, long-sleeved black crocheted shirt, a cross around her neck that fell into C-cups held by black lace. Above a long, pale neck, a porcelain face of runway model proportions. Her black hair was pulled back into a severe ponytail. Her brown eyes were still heavily mascaraed and her crimson lipstick looked like a violent gash of premeditated passion.

  “Will you marry me?” I asked.

  “Get up, you drunkard,” she said.

  She reached out and grabbed both hands and helped me to my feet. Elvis grumbled and jumped down from the couch and rubbed himself against her boots.

  “See you’ve been hard at work.” She walked off to the kitchen, poured a glass of water from the sink, and removed an ashtray from a cabinet.

  “It’s been a rough one,” I said. “Turns out memory lane is full of potholes.”

  Cass set the water and ashtray on the coffee table and settled into my recliner and lit a Parliament. She released a dragon plume of smoke between us. We watched each other until she sucked it down to the filter. Then she stubbed it out on her boot and tossed the butt in the tray.

  Not for the first time, I wished I liked what Cass liked. Vanilla sex doesn’t interest her, and being tied up and beaten and berated doesn’t do much for me. Alas, it appears I’m doomed forever to lust over my incompatible partner. There are worse problems to have.

  “How was work?” I asked, ever the good wannabe husband.

  “Crazy,” she said. “Had a new client this afternoon. Hasidic rabbi. Those guys are insanely kinky, even for me.”

  “What did he want you to do?”

  “Confidential, Duck, you know that.”

  “C’mon, just a hint, you know how much I love to hear about your day, dear.”

  She giggled, reached into her pack and lit another cigarette. “Let’s just say he needed diapers. And a few, um, shocks to the system.”

  “And that turned him on?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes, most definitely. He’ll be back. I suspect he’ll be a regular.”

  “Different strokes,” I said. “Go figure.”

  She shrugged, puffed away. “So, are you gonna tell me about your day? I thought we had a new case. Or have you just been getting shit-faced with Elvis on the couch all day?”

  “I put in a hard day on the pavement,” I said. “Admittedly between a few drinks. Altho
ugh it appears I’ve missed my last appointment this evening.”

  Cass leaned forward and began to scroll through the artists on my iPod. She tapped at the screen with an approving smile. The speakers at the corners of the room crackled, and then Jimmie Dale Gilmore began to croon.

  While I told her about Margaret McKay and Charlie and the fuck-up kid sister, Madeline, old Smokey sang to us about heading for a fall. I told Cass about the girl’s West Village pad, the drugs, her twenty grand a month allowance, and my visit to see my old coach. Cass knew all about him; she’s heard about my aborted glory days. She listened in her intense, nonjudgmental way, watching me like a shrink from her chair.

  When I finished, she asked for the envelope from Mrs. McKay and got to work. She examined the two pictures of our missing girl first, took out her phone and snapped pics of the hard copies and set it aside. I got up, went to the kitchen, and dropped a cube in a glass and poured myself four fingers of Bulleit. The sweet bourbon burn washed away my grogginess, and the tension behind my temples evaporated. I watched Cass through the counter space of the kitchen. She was hunched forward on the couch with her back to me. Her shirt crept up to reveal the tattoo at the small of her back. In Gothic type, it read KNEEL. Call it a tramp stamp at your own peril. Next to Cass’s laptop, Madeline’s phone records and bank statements were spread out in a blizzard of white paper across the table.

  “What are we finding?” I asked.

  “Well, according to her latest AT&T statement, it seems this Madeline really likes the person at 646-555-4414. Over six hundred texts to that number; some nights she was sending more than fifty.” Cass cross-referenced the statement with Mrs. McKay’s contact list. “And that number would belong to one Mr. James Fealy.”

  “The boyfriend,” I said. “When’s the last one she sent?”

  “According to this, her last text to Mr. Fealy was sent, let’s see, seven days ago. Storm texting him every day, then it stops entirely.”

  “The mother claims they broke up.”

  “Maybe you can ask him why.”

  “What’s the number again?”

  She read it off, and I dialed James Fealy. Voice mail, of course. No one answers an unrecognized number any more. I put on my best could-be-a-cop voice when it was time to leave a message. Yes, good evening, Mr. Fealy, I’m calling in reference to a Miss Madeline McKay. I am investigating her disappearance, and I’m told you may be of some assistance . . . I left my number and stressed that a prompt call back was appreciated and expected.

  “Poor little rich girl,” said Cass. “Broken-hearted, into the hard stuff . . .”

  “I know. I’ll check in with Dr. Burke. See about any Jane Does at the morgue.”

  “No missing persons report filed by the mother?”

  “Appears she has an aversion to cops,” I said.

  “Fair enough.” She went back to studying the paper trail. “Last withdrawal was two grand cash, on Saturday, September third. Then the texts a few days later, and nothing since. Are we looking for an OD?”

  “Her mother is sure she’s alive. Says a mother would know.”

  “Don’t they all.”

  “There’s no sign of her passport,” I said. “It’s not at her place, and her mother doesn’t have it.”

  “If she really wanted to get away, I suppose that last couple grand could have gotten her somewhere.”

  “Except Mrs. McKay claims her daughter has a phobia of travel. Hasn’t left the country in years.”

  “Lovely. What about friends in the city?”

  “Mother only remembers one. Girl named Lucy Townes, fellow swimmer, only friend her mother could recall.”

  Cass was scanning search results on her laptop, half listening. “Google ‘Madeline McKay’ plus ‘swimming’ gets you a bunch of meet results, with her name next to times, but not much else.”

  “The mother says she has no presence on any social media, that she closely guards her privacy.”

  “Eighteen-year-old girl who’s unplugged from all that stuff?”

  “Bizarre, I know.”

  “What did you say that friend’s name was again?”

  “Lucy Townes. See what you can find on her.”

  Cass typed a few strokes and leaned in. “Okay, this is more like it,” she said. “Looks like a cute blond girl, seventeen, a breaststroker. Usual presence on Facebook and Twitter. I’ll reach out.”

  “What can you find about the ex-boyfriend? Mother says he’s a film student at NYU.”

  “Let’s see. James Fealy, was it?” Her sharp nails clicked over the keys. “A senior, in the Tisch School of the Arts. Founder of Scion Productions, how obnoxious. Lists himself as a director, producer, impresario. Search also places him as the son of one Max Fealy, some hotshot hedge funder. Hence the name of the production company.”

  “Does Scion list an address?” I asked.

  Cass clicked back, scrolled down. “It does. 259 East 7th Street, suite 3W.”

  “Presumably his apartment. If I don’t hear back from the punk, I’ll stop by.”

  My four fingers of bourbon were down to a fingernail. I drained the rest and returned to the kitchen. I decided to be responsible and grabbed a Beck’s instead of an amber refill. “What else are you finding over there, Ms. Watson?” I asked.

  She glanced at the papers splayed before her and opened a new tab on her browser. Cass clicked on something, and her eyes widened as she read. “Wow, Madeline’s brother was Sportsman of the Year?” It was an old story from Sports Illustrated, a hero’s feature on Charlie post-Olympics. “You knew this guy?” she asked. “He sounds remarkable. Hot too.”

  “A regular Greek god,” I said.

  “It’s so sad—their father died just four days before the Olympics. Then his son goes out and wins four gold medals in his honor. Can you imagine?”

  “A tale for the ages. Did wonders for the TV ratings too.”

  Cass read the piece in silence. I sat there brooding, filled with those coulda-been-a-contender memories that never fade. I remembered Charlie’s father from meets when we were kids. Slick Stevie, my father used to call him. He was an overcaffeinated, hairless man who talked too fast and knew the best times to the hundredth of every swimmer on the team. He worked in finance like all the other dads, but far from my father’s growling testosterone orbit. Steve McKay’s considerable fortune was a product of his proximity to wealth; a rich boy who learned how to rub elbows with the old boys and funnel billions into his funds, where he grabbed the usual two percent for doing nothing at all. Big Larry Darley disdained pretty much everyone, but he left special contempt for those born-to-it country club clowns who compounded their trust funds while risking little of their own. Dad built his false fortune from the bootstraps up. He was the son of a degenerate gambler from Queens, a public high school teacher who pissed away his paycheck on the ponies at Aqueduct. Maybe bad bets are in the Darley blood.

  In any case, Slick Stevie died and Big Larry went off to prison, and their sons went off in different directions too.

  Cass stopped reading and held up the yearbook picture of Madeline. She looked into her face and smiled softly. Some kind of female empathy passed between them. “She’s a beautiful girl,” she said. “Even when she’s trying to look ugly.”

  Chapter 5

  The bar at Zum’s was full, but I found a seat in the corner and sipped on a half liter of Hofbrau. I’d popped a few more of Madeline’s vikes, and all was feeling fine and free with the world. I was back at work, with a bundle of cash in my pocket, and something to find. These were the best times, the first steps on a trail, when the romance burned brightest.

  It was a cool, clear night with the moon almost full and little darkness down Avenue C. It used to be junkie land, but now it was just another conquered stretch of bars and boutiques. Some people lament the lost edge of certain once dangerous neighborhoods, but not me. Get mugged a few times, feel the tip of a blade on your belly as you fumble for your wallet, then tell m
e you miss the broken window days. Now there were clean, safe bars of a half dozen ethnic varieties—German, Aussie, Serbian, Austrian, Irish, and Brazilian—on this block alone. An urban Epcot for the thirsty man.

  The bar at Zum’s was a tall redbrick wall that jutted out around a semicircle of good German beers on tap. A portrait of a Prussian kaiser was framed above my head to my left, and three tipsy girls pressed into my space on my right. They held big empty liter glasses and were searching without success for refills. The barmaid saw them and was avoiding eye contact. The girls were shameless and clueless and jovial. They called for drinks and chattered about their jobs and the guys who were screwing them over. They looked like they wanted to keep getting screwed.

  The noise in the bar was full of laughter and loud talk that drowned out the bad German music. There was a speaker positioned nearby; I think I was the only one to hear the Scorpions above the din. Then someone behind me bellowed: “The Duck man!”

  Roy Perry stood there, shit-faced and swaying and wiping a runny nose. I gave him a knowing grin. Roy was trouble, a coke buddy from way back; I could see by his reddened nostrils that he was already into the stuff tonight. Thanks to his profession, he also served as my all-access pass into every celeb haunt and hipster lair in the city. I figured Madeline might have been seen in those parts.

  “Thanks for meeting me,” I said.

  Roy muscled between the girls and called out to the barmaid by name. Sylvia turned and, seeing him, shook her head in amusement. She came over and leaned across the bar and kissed both his cheeks. She began pouring him a liter without asking and told him it had been too long. “Too many bars in this town!” shouted Roy. “Too many beautiful bartenders to keep up with!” Sylvia gave him an indulgent smile and pushed his liter in front him. Foam sloshed down its sides and Roy hungrily slurped off the overflow. “Three more for these ladies,” he called. “I do believe they were waiting before me.” He turned to them and offered a rogue’s bow. “On me, girls,” he said with a wink.