“Change your name? Over my dead body,” Ma said.
Tommy said she might as well save dying for something important because there’d be lots more stuff she wouldn’t like. I thought I’d like to see that happen, her death, I mean. I shudder to write it now, it makes my head rumble. But a second later I slapped my face for even thinking it. Ma was Ma after all was said and done, better than a No Ma, didn’t I find out.
The next week Tommy came home looking like a greased pole dipped in ink. That’s what Ma said, because he’d gone and dyed his hair black. Two weeks later it was red at the roots. You might say Tommy had a problem, and you’d be right. He had a problem by the name of Ma. Same as me. Maybe that’s what would kill me in the end, my mind and its inability to crawl away from my Ma problem and be done with her once and for all. But not me, I keep running back to all the Ma Substitutes in my life. And there have been many, believe me.
A Wednesday in February
My brother is a lawyer, a few years older than me. He took me under his wing.
“You should become a paralegal. I’ll get you a good job. I know three lawyers opening up their own shop.” The sun shines in Brighton Beach and sends its shards streaming from my brother’s glasses as he’s talking to me.
“Why won’t you get me a job where you work?” I ask.
“Not your type of place, sis. We chase ambulances.”
“Who cares, I can run after them. Anyways, what kinda brother are you?”
“The kind that knows the men who work in my office. Trust me.”
Did you ever meet a lawyer who didn’t say “trust me”?
I was interrupted in my read by the arrival of Whiskey’s brother. After introductions were made, Tommy Marsh sat on the edge of the sofa holding his head, wads of dyed blue-black hair poking through red fingers. Poor guy was in agony.
“I never thought she’d wind up like this, never. How could she abandon Maddie?”
“What do you mean, ‘like this’?” Lorraine asked.
“Gone. Whiskey’s gone, can’t you feel it? I can. Geez, you read about this happening all the time. Am I the only one who can feel it? She’s vanished. Got too much for her mind to handle or something.”
“Still alive?” I asked. I held my breath waiting for his reply.
He sat back on the sofa and Lorraine asked if she could get him something, a glass of water, a beer or maybe some brandy. She stood before him, expectant, her mouth working.
He shook his head. His fingers trembled. I half expected the hair dye to slither down his cheeks along with whatever was oozing from his eyes.
But he was nothing if not a lawyer, and soon after he’d gulped down a full glass of water, he worked back into his smooth ways. He cleared his throat and the real Tommy Marsh slipped from my grasp. “She wouldn’t just chuck it all. And she’d never, ever leave Maddie.”
I asked him for the usual—her social, the names of her doctors, any scars, tattoos, birthmarks, her boyfriends, her old addresses, but he couldn’t come up with anything. He was a blank slate, or at least a cautious one. Later Cookie told me that brothers, unlike sisters, don’t have the kind of information sisters do. Whiskey was born out of luck. Not only was she missing, but she had Tommy Marsh for a brother.
While he wasn’t good for solid information, he did tell me what Whiskey was like growing up, her dislike of the neighborhood, how she felt like an outsider, how she always came up with unique ways to have fun, Coney Island being one of her haunts. He told me about her first job at Nathan’s Famous and how boys flocked around her and her disastrous affair with a Malcolm somebody, “a housepainter, I think.”
I looked at Cookie, who shrugged.
Tommy continued. “They lived in Cobble Hill someplace for a while until Whiskey moved out. She told me he bored her. A sucker for the flash in the pan.”
Lorraine hugged herself.
“And there was another painter she was crazy for. I can’t remember his name. Whiskey went through men like water through a sieve.”
I was silent and so was everyone else in the room. I could feel Lorraine’s concern.
“I got her a job at Weinberg, Kalamazoo & Marsh.”
“Your law firm? But I thought you didn’t want …” I bit my tongue.
He nodded. “All these years, she’d been trying to get out from under.”
“Out from under what?” Lorraine asked.
Cookie sat there not saying much of anything, just taking him in. I could tell she didn’t trust him.
“Brighton Beach, Coney Island, the Wonder Wheel, Shoot the Freak, what have you. In some ways, my sister is like a yo-yo. She had to leave Brighton Beach. She said it often, but at the same time she was drawn to it. She tried to get out from under Ma, yet she talked about her constantly, about how she hurt Ma.”
I chewed on this information for a while. Cookie chewed on her gum, nodding.
“You remained close,” I prompted.
“You might say, but lately we kind of had a falling out, especially after she left that Malcolm whatever his name was.”
No one said anything, but our expectation for him to explain hung in the air.
“He was so good to Maddie. Malcolm. Treated her like he was her father. Took her places, a children’s museum someplace in Brooklyn. The park, they went to the park almost every day after he picked Maddie up from school.”
I wondered how he knew this, and I wrote down a bunch of question marks. My pen scratched the pages while he spoke, and when he stopped, I let him have his own thoughts for a while, but by now the story was pushing at his insides, so eager was he to get it all out, as if by the telling, he’d be done with the guilt or whatever it was pouring out of Tommy Marsh.
“She had plans, big ones for herself, but when she moved away from Malcolm and went to Liam, Trueblood & Wolsey, we kind of lost touch. Her leaving Malcolm was a slap to Maddie; her leaving my law office felt like a slap to me.”
“How so?”
He looked at me like I was a simpleton. But that’s how investigators need to be: simple, pure, no preconceptions.
“Ungrateful. Ashamed of her roots. But that’s Whiskey. So we move in different circles. Whiskey tries to get out from under Brighton Beach, but it’s not that easy.”
I was beginning to get a feel for Whiskey. And I could tell by the way she looked into a space beyond the room that Lorraine was, too.
“If Whiskey isn’t back in an hour, we’re going to call the police,” I said. Why I hadn’t done so earlier, I didn’t know, not really. Or rather, yes, I did know why. And it wasn’t just for Maddie’s sake. My dithering started with a woman called Jane, the devil’s detective. You’ll meet her soon; you’ll see what I mean. And the longer I waited to call in Whiskey’s disappearance, the more I dreaded Jane Templeton’s rant. Besides, I was hoping against all hope that any minute a car door would slam and footsteps would run up Lorraine’s stoop and Whiskey would appear. Her image flickered in my head, a woman the worse for being almost worn out, lipstick smeared, hair a mess, standing in the doorway, for whatever reason frantic around the edges. “Have you seen Maddie, my little girl?” she’d ask in a breathless panicky way.
Tommy asked why we hadn’t reported her missing before this, so I dragged out the Maddie’s-welfare excuse.
He sat on the edge of the couch again, holding his head. When I closed my eyes, his form was etched into my brain, stretched to gauntness, nervous-twitched, long-necked—your normal everyday Ichabod Crane type. Caught.
“Does the name Arthur ring any bells?” I showed him the sketch Cookie made.
Tommy recognized him immediately. “That piece of scum is back again? That never-get-lost, drag-you-down lowlife?”
“We met him this afternoon,” Cookie said. “He smelled like a moldy keg of beer.”
Tommy Marsh pulled at his hair and teetered on the sofa’s edge while the three of us gave him a rundown of our encounter. All the while Tommy Marsh kept shaking his head, saying Wh
iskey told him she’d broken up with him years ago.
“He’s not Maddie’s father, is he?” Cookie asked.
Tommy’s head sank almost to his knees. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
Lorraine leaned over to him. “We could find out if we could find Arthur. Do you know where he lives?”
Tommy Marsh didn’t have a clue. “I thought you were looking for Whiskey.” His jawbone flexed.
“We are. But the more we find out about her past, the closer we’ll be to finding her.”
“Name’s McGirdle, I know that much. Or at least it was back in the day.”
“Where did he live ‘back in the day’?” I asked.
“Not sure. Someplace around Coney Island, I guess. When I first met him, he worked at Shoot the Freak and moonlighted for the fat lady.”
“There was a fat lady?” Cookie cracked her gum.
Tommy Marsh shrugged. “That’s what he said, but you can’t trust the guy. Told a million tall tales. Whiskey was crazy about him. ’Course, she was, what, only sixteen. Known him since way back when.”
“How long were they together?”
“On and off. Oh, it didn’t last, I knew it wouldn’t. The guy’s from a different planet. Every once in a while he’d show up. And when he did, it was like she couldn’t help herself—she was drawn to him.”
Lorraine shot me a look.
I motioned to Cookie, who followed me into the hall.
“Here’s Whiskey’s old address in Cobble Hill,” I said, texting her the information. “Would you mind doing a neighborhood?”
“I thought you’d never ask. I’ll call Clancy. Maybe he’ll help. Unless”—she made air quotes—“he’s got to go to his cousin’s again.”
I squinted up at her.
“Don’t even think about asking. We’re okay, I think. It’s just that he was so fierce for me at first, but lately, some of my shine seems to have worn off. Maybe I’m reading too much into it. I don’t know, I keep waiting for the excuse, you know, ‘I’ve got to help my folks out, I’ve got to cancel, I forgot about my cousin’s birthday. We’ll get together next week.’ It starts out great but by the second month …”
No wonder Cookie was in a mood. My heart squeezed for her. She was gorgeous with a perfect figure and men flocked around her. But as soon as she invited a guy to listen to one of her lectures or started talking to him about her writing and the authors she loved, his ardor faded. Cookie just couldn’t find Mr. Right. I hoped Clancy was better than the others, but I had my doubts. After all, there was only one Denny.
“Let me know what happens with Tommy Marsh,” she said, tossing her curls. “I don’t trust him and I want to check him out. The scum. Besides, I haven’t been to Brighton Beach in a while.”
I hadn’t returned to the parlor more than two minutes when Maddie and Robert entered. Maddie’s hands were bulging with chocolate fudge.
“I beat Robert good this time.” She made that gloating expression kids do until she looked over at the sofa. In a subdued voice she said, “Hi, Uncle Tommy.”
I felt bad for Maddie—and for Tommy Marsh, too. I’d been in his place many times, ignored, even disliked by kids.
“What brings you here?” Maddie asked. “Aunt Bertha around? Not that we care.”
I watched his face blotch and his jaw work and his eyes follow the girl while she walked over to Lorraine and sat on the chair next to her.
“Do you have a bag for my stash? Just until after dinner. I know you don’t want me to eat sweets beforehand. What are we having, by the way?”
Tommy Marsh cleared his throat. “I’m here because of your mom.”
“She’s not here.”
“I know that.”
Silence.
“She left. We don’t know where she is. But she’ll be back soon enough. I know because I made a bet with Robert that she would, and I always win.”
Robert smiled.
Tommy rose. “I’ve got a few connections in the mayor’s office. They might help.”
I had the presence of mind to ask for his cell phone and told him I’d keep in touch, adding him to my people to update. At this point, the list was a long one. It included Trisha Liam, Cookie, Lorraine, Tommy Marsh, Tig Able. And of course, Arthur. Pretty soon it would bulk out with Jane Templeton and her sidekick, Willoughby. I shuddered at the thought.
Whiskey in Chains
Earlier
Whiskey threw herself at him. “If you hadn’t come along, I don’t know what would have happened. He has a gun. Where are they taking him? Where are you taking me?”
“Don’t worry about him.”
“Believe me, Arthur’s not a threat, just a little crazy sometimes. Who are your friends?”
“I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything. I owe you my life. But tell your friends to let Arthur go. Phone them now. Arthur means well, and he’s got a wife who needs him.”
“They’re taking care of his wife, too. But you’ve got to come with me. Now.”
Whiskey shook her head. “No, I’ve got to get back to my daughter.” Why did she attract all the creeps in Brooklyn?
“It took me a long time to persuade them to let me have you. And believe me, coming with me is better than going with them. As it is, you know too much, so this is the way it has to be.”
“What are you talking about?”
“No more questions. Just come with me.”
“You can’t mean now—it’s almost four in the morning. Maddie will be up in a few hours. Where are you taking me?”
“No more questions.”
“Let go of me. I don’t believe this is happening.”
Denny
Denny ran sweaty palms along the sides of his jeans. He never should have answered the call. He’d cringed when he saw the name Robert McDuffy flash across the screen. But face it, his balls were in a vice when it came to his dad. His father’s form flashed before him, disapproving in the morning light.
Denny’s friends called him Robert. Not to his face, of course. Sometimes they exaggerated the R, like rolling a burr in the mouth, as in, “What would Rrrr-Robert say?” Why couldn’t he call him by his first name the way Brian did with his old man? Denny said the first letter aloud, but the room blinked. No, he couldn’t do it. Brian told him to take it one step at a time. “Think of him, not as your old man, but as Robert.” Denny said the first syllable softly, just to dare himself, but it was too much. Even in the trying, he’d known it was wrong. He could hear his father’s voice: “Don’t you ever disrespect me like that.”
Denny knew his dad wouldn’t have called him unless it had been important. Something might have happened to Fina. He hadn’t been able to reach her. Had she let her battery discharge again? And she hadn’t been wearing the additional cell he’d given her for her birthday. An expensive gift, too. It had saved her life once, so she should jump at the chance to use it. But his calls to both her phones slid into voice mail.
Another thing: the old man hadn’t bothered him before this, and he’d been going up to Brian’s cabin since he was sixteen, deep in the Maine woods with no TV, no radio, and—something unspoken between him and his parents and the precinct—no calls. On this trip, though, because Fina’s job was getting dangerous, he’d kept his cell on and fully charged.
So when he’d felt his phone vibrate, he was surprised. Surprised to be getting a signal, surprised anyone would call him. Fina, maybe. Damn, it was the old man. Without thinking, Denny answered. He’d never ignored his father. Never, except for that month after the fight.
It had been about Fina, who else. His old man the meddler didn’t like her, tried to get Denny to find someone else. “A looker and a cooker, that’s what you need, son.” They’d had words, big time. Denny stormed into the hall but took a backward glance, his undoing. Because he saw the old man sitting in his chair in the living room, rubbing his shirt collar between thumb and forefinger, folded into himself like a piece of wallpa
per curling away from the molding.
He had to get out of the Maine woods and fast. Something about the light and the mood made him too dreamy. So he started to pack, moving fast so his mind wouldn’t bite him in the behind.
Denny’s first mistake had been answering the call. His second mistake had been listening, but his father was talking to him in that gravelly, hurried way of his, something about the female tenant who was missing. How long? A handful of hours. What was all the fuss? She could have had a hot date and overslept in some guy’s bed, or run to the store for milk in the middle of the night and slipped.
His dad knew better than to bother him about this, and Denny should have said something. At the very least, he should have faked a disconnect. But the guy was his father, after all, he owed him everything. And not for nothing, his father thought he, Denny, walked on water. Pretty amazing, considering his dad. He remembered him that one time talking tough to a bunch of punks on the corner, and in a second they’d scrammed. He had that strong-arm way about him, the kind of cop that vanished in the fifties, but the old guy never got the message about the world changing. Easy when you didn’t step out of Carroll Gardens.
The call was the problem, the fact that he’d answered it, had to answer it, really; the fact that he’d acted on it, intruding into Fina’s investigation. The fact of Fina and what she’d say. Her fury. God, he couldn’t blame her. She’d been through so much. He knew he was a lucky guy to have both parents alive. Take Fina, for instance. No parents, that was the trouble with her, his dad never tired of saying. She didn’t deserve Denny’s fickleness. But he had to, he had to.
He tied up his pack and stormed into the kitchen, splashing cold water over his head. Squeezing his eyes shut, he wiped off his face with the dishrag. He wished he could take back the day. Because answering the call wasn’t the worst mistake he’d made. No, his mortal sin of the morning had been doing what his father commanded: he had reached out to Jane.
Whiskey’s Gone (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 3) Page 6