by Ray Daniel
A gasp slipped past my lips at this new layer of my father’s lies, this one designed to inoculate the people of Pittsfield if they should ever meet me—the other Tucker boy.
Waters continued, “I’m sorry for your loss. It’s a terrible thing, to lose a brother.”
My reality tilted. Here was a world that had existed alongside my own for more than thirty years, a world in which Cathy Byrd was my father’s wife and my father’s son was named John Tucker Jr. A world in which Aloysius Tucker was the “son from a previous marriage,” a guy these people might treat with respect, but who was the unfortunate result of my father placing his seed in the wrong vessel, the spawn of an ill-considered and ill-fated matrimony.
Somewhere outside my head, Bobby Miller was telling Paul Waters that Cathy Byrd was dead and Waters was covering his mouth in surprise and Bobby was asking him if he knew of anything that could explain the two murders and Waters was saying that he knew of nothing. Their words slipped through my ears and over my brain. They didn’t stick. They couldn’t stick. I was a ghost, a fly on the wall, a man who phased out of this reality and into his own. This wasn’t my world, this wasn’t my reality. I couldn’t be here. I needed to be somewhere where my history still mattered, where my reality was the only reality, a reality where John Tucker Jr. didn’t have football trophies or graduation gowns. A world in which my babysitter was just the distant memory of a young woman who took care of me when my mother ran errands. A world in which there wasn’t a house full of photographs of my father standing alongside his young clone, and the young clone wasn’t happily sharing moments of triumph with his buddy—a wisp of a kid who had appeared over and over, always standing next to JT. Who was that kid?
My trance broke as Bobby nudged my arm. “Tucker, we’re done here. You got any questions?”
I blinked and looked from Bobby to Waters, who regarded me with pale eyes set under soft lids.
Waters said, “Are you okay?”
I thought about the wisp of a kid in all those pictures and asked, “Who was JT’s best friend?”
Waters looked down at his desk and nudged a model of a missile so that it was square with the desk. “Oh, him. Yeah. Between JT getting murdered and him quitting, I’m stuck. I’ve got no one to pick up the pieces for the Paladin.”
Bobby said, “Who?”
“Dave Patterson. JT’s best friend. He almost got fired, but he quit first.”
Bobby asked, “What do you mean he almost got fired?”
“Well, I really can’t go into that. It’s against company policy.”
Bobby leaned his forearms on Waters’s desk and folded his hands. “Paul, the FBI is investigating some serious security issues with the Paladin. So I need you to tell me what you meant.”
“I can’t. It’s confidential.”
Bobby asked, “Security confidential or human resources confidential?”
“Human resources confidential.”
“Fine. So spill it. Why did they fire Dave Patterson?”
“It’s confidential.”
Bobby nodded. “So when I leave here and meet with your boss and ask him the same question, do you think he’ll give me the same answer? Let’s say he does. Let’s say he backs you. What do you think will happen when I go through channels and notify the Department of Defense that there are serious concerns regarding the security of the Paladin project?”
“What concerns?”
“Serious concerns. Do you think that the information you’re keeping from me will remain secret when the Department of Defense starts its investigation?”
“Well—”
“Let me give you a clue. It won’t. What will become clear to your boss and his boss is that a shit storm got started because Paul Waters didn’t share important information with an FBI agent. Because, believe me, everybody will know that I asked you.”
Waters nudged the model back into square. “I could get into trouble if I tell you.”
Bobby said, “No, Paul, you won’t. Because if you tell me now, nobody will know it came from you. It will be our secret. Right, Tucker?”
I nodded. What the hell. What’s another secret?
Waters sighed and said, “They were going to fire Dave Patterson because of security violations. He shared his password with another engineer. He just did it to save time, but he got caught doing it twice and they were going to fire him.”
“So he quit first?”
“I told him to quit. If he got fired for a security violation, he’d never work in defense again. There’s only one other company in town that does defense work, and they wouldn’t have touched him with a ten-foot pole.”
“Who’s that?”
“General Dynamics. He started there last week.”
“How about the guy who got Dave’s password? Does he still work here?”
“No. That was JT.”
“Figures,” said Bobby.
Eighteen
General Dynamics sits on Plastics Ave. The name is a legacy from the time that a brash young chemical engineer named Jack Welch took the advice that Mr. McGuire gave to Benjamin Braddock in The Graduate: he got into plastics on the ground floor.
Unlike Benjamin, whose hormones had been addled by Mrs. Robinson, Welch rode that plastic elevator straight to the top of General Electric. Once Welch reached the top, he looked back at his roots in Pittsfield’s GE facility and promptly dismantled it. Most of its jobs were sent away and the remaining company was sold, to the delight of GE stockholders and the chagrin of the people of Pittsfield. Today, Plastics Ave is a reminder of that history.
We drove past the long, low brick building that housed General Dynamics. Large white signs with plain black lettering declared that General Dynamics made naval ordnances and that they had instituted the ISO 9000 quality practices, a marketing pitch that left me cold but that probably worked on naval procurement officers. All the visitor spaces were full, so Bobby parked at the end of the row of cars under a No Parking sign.
We walked along the building, past another of the big white marketing signs, and up the front steps, where we requested entry into a naval ordnance design center by pressing a little doorbell in the doorjamb. Bing bong! The door buzzed and we entered the lobby. It looked like a doctor’s office, with large comfortable chairs, a plasma TV showing Fox News on the wall, and a nifty one-cup-at-a-time coffee maker tucked into the corner.
At a low security desk, Bobby flashed his badge and asked to speak to Dave Patterson. While he did that, I checked out the coffee maker, taking one of its little flavor packets and following the instructions on the screen to get the thing to kick out a cup of okay coffee. Bobby moved to the machine and went through the process.
I said, “Does this count as the cup of coffee you were going to buy me?”
“We’ll see,” said Bobby. “If you’re good, I might still take you to Starbucks for a cookie and some juice.”
“Mmmm, cookies,” I said. I drank my coffee, looked around the lobby, and listened to some hot woman on Fox read news of Israel and its Iron Dome missile defense system. The system was shooting down missiles fired from the Gaza Strip.
Bobby said, “Those Israelis are clever bastards. They can shoot down missiles. How come we never made something like that?”
I said, “We did. It’s called Paladin.”
The hot news babe backed me up, sharing that Israel was buying the US-made Paladin system to contend with missiles from Iran. Fox went on to say that this was another example of American innovation. It would have been a proud moment for my dad. And apparently for JT as well.
I changed the subject. “Thanks for getting me out of that house.”
“I figured it was getting a little rough for you in there,” said Bobby.
“All those pictures,” I said. I drank my coffee, the paper cup clicking against my teeth. “They just see
med so happy. I don’t think I ever saw my dad smile so much.”
“You guys didn’t have pictures?”
“We didn’t have—Here’s our man,” I said. A little guy wearing a flannel shirt and jeans entered the lobby and talked to the guard at the front desk. The guard pointed at us. I gave him a wave.
Bobby murmured into my ear, “Don’t tell him you’re JT’s brother. We’ll save that for later.”
Dave Patterson was hunger-strike thin. Limp black hair hung over his ears in wisps. A thin caterpillar of a mustache crawled across his lip.
Bobby showed his ID and said, “I’m Special Agent Miller.” He pointed at me and said, “This is Mr. Bologna.”
“Like the town in Italy?” Patterson asked.
“Like the luncheon meat,” I said.
“That’s a tough name to grow up with.”
“You learn to fight and avoid sandwich shops.”
Patterson looked at his watch and said, “What’s this about? I’m on the clock. My time with you guys is getting charged to overhead. My manager hates overhead. He wants all my time charged to a project.”
“What project did you work on when you were at GDS?” I asked.
“The Paladin.”
“Really,” I said. “Did you know John Tucker?”
Patterson gave us a long look. “You guys know he’s dead, right?”
“Yes,” said Bobby. “We’re sorry.”
Patterson shook his head and said, “He got shot two nights ago in Boston. He probably went to visit that crook half brother of his.”
Crook?
Bobby asked, “Who was his half brother?”
“Some stupid name like Alphonse or something. It was a big secret. Not even JT knew until his dad died.”
I started to speak, but Bobby interrupted me. “What happened when John Tucker died?”
“Well, JT’s mom wouldn’t go to the wake or the funeral. She said that she didn’t want to be humiliated. It turns out that Mr. Tucker had another family. He was married to a woman in Boston. That woman was doing the wake and the funeral, and she didn’t even invite Ms. Byrd or JT.”
I said, “Maybe she didn’t know about them.”
Patterson grimaced. “That’s bullshit. How could she not know? Mr. Tucker was out here all the time.”
“And what makes this half brother a crook?” I asked.
“The guy is some sort of Mafia hacker,” said Patterson.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“That’s what JT told me. That’s why he was in Boston. He was going to get this Alphonse—”
“Aloysius.”
“Yeah, whatever. Aloysius was supposed to help him with something.”
Bobby asked, “To help him with what?”
Patterson rubbed his neck, his face blank. “I don’t know.”
“Really,” said Bobby. “You don’t know. Are you shitting me?”
“I swear, I don’t know. I mean, JT’s dead now. What does it matter?”
“JT’s mother, Cathy Byrd, was murdered earlier this afternoon.”
Patterson blinked and whispered, “But why would they kill her?”
Bobby said, “They? They who?”
Patterson slumped into one of the overstuffed chairs. He put his elbows on his knees and cradled his face in his hands.
Bobby repeated, “Who?”
Patterson looked up at Bobby and asked, “Where did you say you’re from?”
“The fucking FBI,” said Bobby. Bobby’s professional veneer was cracking. He loomed over Patterson, who shrank back in his chair. The security guy stood up.
Bobby repeated, “Who killed Cathy Byrd?”
“I don’t know,” said Patterson. “How should I know? I don’t know. If I knew, I’d tell you.”
“You said, ‘Why would they kill her?’ Who is they?”
Patterson looked around the room, made eye contact with the security guy, and then looked back at Bobby. He said, “They. They. You know, like in, ‘They stole my bike’ or ‘They stole that road sign.’”
The security guy edged around the desk. He tapped Bobby’s shoulder and said, “Sir.”
Bobby wheeled on him. “You go sit down or, I swear, I’ll get your clearance junked so fast that you’ll be arrested for trespassing at your own fucking desk.”
The security guy looked at me. I said, “I’d listen to him. He’ll do it. He’s crazy.”
It was fun being the good cop.
The guy left and we looked at Dave Patterson, who was sitting up straighter and had composed himself.
Bobby asked, “Who killed Cathy Byrd?”
Patterson said, “I don’t know.”
“What was Tucker supposed to do for JT?”
“The brother? I don’t know. I don’t. You’ve got to believe me.”
“I don’t have to believe you. I swear to Christ, I will put your life through a wood chipper. Don’t fucking hold out on me.”
Patterson shrunk back into himself, looking even more skeletal in the giant chair.
Bobby reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a business card. Flipped it onto the chair next to Patterson. “You think of anything, you call me.” He wheeled and headed for the front door.
As he passed the security desk, he made eye contact with the guard. He pointed into his own eyes with two fingers and then toward the guard. I’m watching you. The guard ignored him with impressive intensity, staring hard into a video monitor. We exited the building and trotted down the front steps.
Bobby said, “So, Alphonse, what work are you doing for the Mafia?”
I said, “What? You’re going to start in on me now?”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“I’m not doing any work for the Mafia. You’re the one who told me I was connected. I didn’t know that.”
“So why did JT think he could get your help?”
“I have no idea.”
We reached the car and stood on either side of it. Bobby leaned on the roof. “If you get an idea, would you let me know?”
Bobby dropped into the driver’s seat, and I sat in the passenger seat next to him. I stared at the No Parking sign. “Why does Patterson think I’m a Mafia asshole crook?”
“JT told him you were.”
“Why would JT say that?”
Bobby started the car. “Welcome to the wonderful world of family.”
Nineteen
I inspected yet another picture of Dad, one of many hanging on a wall of memories. He was smiling, his hand on JT’s football-padded shoulder.
I remembered my football pads. I had done four weeks of hard time in high school football, sentenced by my dad for the purposes of “toughening me up.” My pads fit so poorly. They chafed my collarbones and gave me bruises on my neck. Running in them was a nightmare. Getting hit in them was worse.
The coaches seemed hell-bent on teaching me that collisions were fun. The drills exhausted me, bruised me, and humiliated me. After four weeks of drilling, we played our first game. I looked into the stands and saw that Dad had found the time to come see me play. It was the first time I had seen him at a school event. For a moment, football held out the promise that it would bring us together. I spent the whole game standing on the sidelines, forgotten by the coaches.
After the game, I threw the pads onto the equipment pile and walked away from football. Dad gave me a speech about how winners never quit and quitters never win. I told him that brain-damaged
idiots didn’t find work and that I was too busy for football. He shook his head and walked away.
The picture on the wall showed that Dad had not given up on his dream of siring a football player. JT stood with his parents, holding a gigantic trophy. My dad stood between JT and Cathy, one arm around JT’s sh
oulder and his other hand resting on Cathy’s hip. His fingers on her hip curled down, their tips resting inside the pocket of her jeans.
The son, the father, the mother; they were all gone now. Someone had erased Dad’s second legacy. Nothing was left but these pictures in this house.
Sadly, I had never gotten my Starbucks coffee. I didn’t even get juice or a cookie. Lieutenant Lee had driven out from Boston and we had come back to the house to meet him. Lee was done talking to Bobby and turned to me.
“You’re sure that you never knew about any of this?”
“You think this would have slipped my mind? Of course I didn’t know about any of this.”
Bobby said, “Tucker, Lee’s just doing his job.”
I turned on Bobby. “Well he sucks at it.”
Lee said, “You never saw strange people at family events? Perhaps people you didn’t know.”
“I always saw strange people at family events. My mother’s family is huge. It’s like a family bush. I had all these second cousins, or half-aunts, or nieces once removed, or whatever the hell. She had the whole damn thing memorized, but I couldn’t follow it. Shit, Bobby had to tell me that my cousin was in the Mafia. I didn’t know that.”
Bobby said, “Tucker’s cousin is Sal Rizzo.”
Lee said, “Your cousin is Sal Rizzo? You could have mentioned this. Why didn’t you mention it?”
“Which part of ‘I didn’t know’ didn’t you understand? Look, this is bullshit. I don’t even know if you guys are telling me the truth about Sal. I don’t really know anything about him. I have no fucking clue. And if I don’t have a clue about my first cousin Sal, why would I have any clue about a family that my father was hiding from me?”
Lee said, “It seems impossible to me that he kept you completely separate. What about his funeral? In Genesis, Abraham died and it says ‘his sons Isaac and Ishmael buried him.’ You and your brother didn’t see each other at his funeral?”
I turned away from Lee and wandered through the house. There was so much here. The place was a tribute to a full and happy family life. I stopped in front of a picture of my dad with a young JT in a Cub Scout uniform. They held another trophy and a Pinewood Derby car. The car was low and sleek. Clearly it had been sanded, painted, shellacked, and, judging by the trophy, tuned to win by an adult.
