Recovering Dad

by Libby Sternberg

  “Yeah,” Connie adds, “in the same market you’re in. He’s a ringleader. Won’t be at all happy if something happens to us. Better be careful about that. He won’t kill just you.”

  Hooded Dude snorts out a laugh. “Who’s your stepdad?”

  “Steve Paluchek,” Connie says, victory in her voice. She shoots me a look. Translation: See, I told you — the guy’s crooked as a wet noodle. Even here, with a gun to our backs, she has to be right.

  But now Hooded Dude is really chuckling. Translation: Paluchek is not crooked as a wet noodle, and he doesn’t scare me.

  Way to go, Con.

  But I won’t be cowed. I stop and turn and face Hooded Dude. “Look, I’m serious. What’s Moffit giving you — a few thousand here and there? That’s diddly compared to what Steve can do. He’s got a palace out in Hunt Valley. A new Porsche. A Harley and …” Here I shrug back toward where the SUV was last seen. “… a spanking new Hummer.”

  Hooded Dude’s eyebrows shoot up.

  “Name your price,” I continue. “I’ll get on the phone right now. You can arrange the drop anywhere you like. He knows these streets. Simple transfer of a ransom for us.”

  Mentioning the cars must have gotten him thinking. What guy doesn’t want a new car? And I’ve introduced the idea of an entirely new criminal possibility — kidnapping — which clearly intrigues him. He pauses, his eyes lost in thought. I know he’s thinking because he actually blinks now, for a few seconds.

  He shakes his head. “Paluchek will want more than you.” He waves the gun at the two of us. I understand what he’s saying. Paluchek will want information — the goods on the gang. He pushes us forward and we start walking again.

  “So? You don’t need to give it up. You can go into Witness Protection. We’ll give it up,” I say. “We already know Moffit’s the ringleader. We saw his files.” A stroke of genius hits me. I stop again and turn, planting my feet wide apart and putting my hands on my hips, the one still holding the shoe bag.

  “Moffit’s got you all over his files — pictures, reports, you name it.” Here I take a chance and improvise. “I liked you better without the moustache, by the way. Much more debonair.” He might not know the precise meaning of “debonair,” but it sounds good.

  Connie catches the drift and adds to my story. “Don’t be stupid. He’s going to split for South America soon and hand that file over to the FBI. You’re toast and he’ll be home free.”

  Hooded Dude ponders this. I know because his eyebrows go up and down. Twice.

  “South America?” he asks at last.

  “Argentina,” Connie says. “Saw the airline receipt on his desk. Two tickets. And my guess is the other one’s not for you. It’s probably for him and his hot little secretary.”

  Great. If Hooded Dude has ever seen Moffit’s secretary, he knows she’s not a hot little anything. She’s a stiff little grandma.

  Nonetheless, Hooded Dude looks disturbed by Connie’s bluff. I know he’s disturbed because the corners of his mouth are puckered. I’m hoping “disturbed” lasts longer than “pondering,” because I’m running out of ideas. In the distance, I hear the lonely hoot of a tugboat. The sky is charcoal gray. The air smells of exhaust, oil, and dampness. Seagulls caw overhead, their racket competing with the long splash of cars driving through rain on nearby Fort Avenue and the Interstate. The cars sound close enough to touch. They sound so close, in fact, that …

  Hooded Dude looks up and past us as cars crunch closer. I take advantage of his distraction and swing my shoe bag up and away, wide enough to clobber his right cheek while yelling at Connie to run. Hooded Dude grunts and drops his gun. It gives us time. We race into the last of the train cars faster than you can say, “Jimmy Choo saved my life.”

  Hooded Dude tries to come after us, but by this time the cavalry is flooding the area, their flashing red and blue lights signaling the party’s over for him and Moffit.

  Thank God. I was scared. Forget my bluster and improv act. I was so scared I thought I would have to hug Connie and tell her … something mushy. As Connie and I peer out from behind a Southern States container car, we see a big, hulking fellow appear from the mist, his gun drawn as uniformed officers tackle and cuff Hooded Dude.

  Paluchek. He sees us, holsters his gun, and comes our way. His face is a weird mix — worry and anger, gleaming eyes, creased brow, pressed lips, and reddened cheeks. He’s glad we’re okay but mad as hell we got mixed up in this.

  “I can explain,” I begin.

  “How’d you know we were here?” Connie asks, suspicion coloring her voice. “One of your pals tip you off?” She nods her head back toward the SUV spot.

  Paluchek opens his mouth to answer, but I respond before he has a chance. “I called him, Connie. When you went to check things out.”

  “The GPS on your cell phone allowed us to hone in on you,” Steve says.

  Connie still looks irritated, as if the idea of Paluchek saving us is worse than not being saved at all. Her mouth is a thin line of anger, and she kicks a pebble to the side.

  “We were this close,” she says, holding thumb and index finger a millimeter apart, “to getting the goods on you. We still could. We know you had something to do with our father’s—”

  Paluchek steps forward, clearly tired of all of Connie’s guff. “Your father, Connie, was no saint. He—” Time stops as I mentally yell, “No, no, no. Don’t say any more. We’ve come this far. Just shut up!”

  Catching my vibe, Paluchek looks at me and my wide-open eyes. Maybe he’s been with Mom long enough now to get the translation mojo, because I sense he can read what I’m thinking: Don’t. Don’t tarnish him. It means the world to Connie that he always be the hero.

  Paluchek’s face changes, softens. “Your father was just like the rest of us. He tried his best. Just like me. So cut me a break, will ya?”

  Connie might be reluctant to embrace the guy into the family, but I have no qualms about thanking someone who just saved us from a horrible fate. I step forward and wrap my arms around Steve’s waist. “I’m so glad you found us.” It’s not insincere. A tear pools in my eye. I’m more than glad. He pushes me away and puts his hands on my shoulders, looking me straight in the eyes.

  “Never again, Bianca.”

  I nod.

  “Your mother would be—” He breaks off and swallows, then shakes his head slowly.

  “I know who killed your father. Your mother knows, too — has known for a while now.”

  Steve has called Mom to let her know we’re okay. And then he takes us out for a hot cup of coffee. As we sit in a lonesome booth, our hands around warm mugs, Paluchek looks directly at Connie. If he wants her to “cut him a break,” he’s going to have to supply some information.

  “Seventeen years ago,” Paluchek begins, not taking his eyes off Connie, “Jimmy Winslow was a bad cop on the take. He took bribes, which clouded his vision. He turned a blind eye to everything the smuggling gang was up to.”

  “And Dad found out,” Connie whispers.

  Paluchek nods. “I’ll never forgive myself for asking your father to take that shift that night. It should have been me.”

  Connie broods for a while. “He figured it out. Saw Winslow trying to pick up the payment …”

  “The clerk at Bromowich’s was the one who set it all in motion. When your father came in that night for some coffee, the clerk thought he was Winslow — they looked a bit alike — and started telling him the latest payment was in the box—”

  “How do you know that?” I ask. My theory was right. Imagine that!

  “I had an informant who talked to the man before he fled the country,” Steve says. “Nobody knows exactly what happened after that. But my guess is Winslow figured it out and they had words … And then it was impulse — kill or be killed. If your father had given him up …”

  “The gang would have killed him.” Connie looks at her coffee.

  “What did he do with the gun?” I ask, remembering Con
nie’s question.

  The corner of Steve’s mouth curls up. “Ran it over to his pal at Bromowich’s. Told him to get rid of it or else.”

  Connie raises her head and narrows her eyes, sending Steve a penetrating gaze. “Why’d you help Winslow? What’d he have on you?”

  “I didn’t help him,” Steve says. “I helped his wife. Jimmy Winslow was still taking bribes after your father died. And he was getting brash about it, as if he didn’t care. Killing your father changed him,” Steve says. “He acted like he was doomed anyway, so why not live it up while he could?” When he bought himself a shiny new Cadillac, among other things, Steve decided to question Virginia Winslow about what she knew. “He’d told her he came into some money and she believed him — she wanted to believe him,” Steve says to Connie. “So I kept digging … until—”

  “Until Winslow was killed in that car accident,” I say.

  “Was it an accident?” Connie asks. Her voice is normal now, not defensive or angry.

  Steve shrugs. “I’m not so sure. Jimmy was getting more and more reckless. Could have been they wanted to get rid of a problem. And a car accident certainly was their modus operandi. I was close to bringing him in, too,” Steve sighs. “I was just stringing him along to get what I could on the gang.”

  “You use informants,” I say, thinking of the night we saw him on Fort Avenue.

  He nods. “Yeah. Some reliable. Some not.”

  “Why don’t you do it now — close Dad’s case?” Connie asks. Her lower lip sticks out in a childish pout. She’s back to being resentful, but not as powerfully as before. And she’s beginning to see that Steve Paluchek is not a monster.

  “I was going to. But at the funeral — the one for Winslow — I looked over at Virginia and her three daughters. Three mouths to feed. And Virginia didn’t work at the time …”

  “And it wasn’t their fault,” I say, getting it. “What their father did.”

  Steve nods, not looking at us. “They could have lost all their benefits. And some people might have even believed she was involved — she knew his salary, after all, and it couldn’t cover all his new stuff. So I told your mother, of course, so she could rest easy, knowing who did it. And I told Virginia Winslow I’d keep my mouth shut for her girls’ sake, as long as she walked the straight and narrow and did what was right by them.”

  “So you got rid of the evidence …” I remember the empty box in Steve’s closet. “Except for the key.”

  He shoots me a serious stare. “Getting rid of evidence is a crime,” he says. “What I had was a collection of things to jog my memory.”

  “You kept the Post Office box key,” Connie says.

  Paluchek fakes surprise. “Is that what it was?”

  “And the picture of Dad. You kept that — except you tore it up.” Connie’s look is a mixture of defiance and fear. She’s afraid of what he’ll tell her. So am I.

  Steve opens his mouth to say something, looks down, up and away, and sighs. “That was a mistake,” he says at last. “Just a mistake when I was getting rid of the other stuff. I meant to tape it back together. That’s why I didn’t get rid of it. I thought at one time your father might have been involved in all this. But I was wrong.” That explains the list I found and never showed to Connie. “The whole thing got me into some trouble.”

  Steve goes on to explain how his own look into Winslow made IA put him on the suspicious list, too. He soldiered through it okay without having to give anything up, but it meant a reassignment and a slap on the wrist.

  Connie thinks about this for a moment. Then, suspicion darkens her gaze yet again.

  “Where’d you get so much money?” she asks. “Far as I know, no cop on the beat can stash away enough for a palace in Hunt Valley.”

  Steve’s eyes narrow and his mouth thins with irritation. But a quick glance at me softens his face, and I think he understands what I’m thinking: Connie’s a tough one. Cut her a break.

  “You know who Casimir Molinowsky was?”

  Connie nods. “That dude who squirreled away a million or two and passed away last year.” He was the guy we’d joked about. The man lived quietly and alone in a one-bedroom flat in Highlandtown and was sitting on a million dollars stored in suitcases under his bed.

  “My uncle on my mother’s side,” Steve says.

  “You were his heir?”

  “They found the will.” He sips his coffee. “A week after the story of his death, thank God.”

  Connie sighs and sits back. If she’s still hoping for some last bit of evidence to convict Steve of malfeasance or financial shenanigans, she’s out of luck. Knowing her, she’ll check it out later. But I strongly suspect she’ll find the story to be just as Steve told it. This, at last, should put the lid on her manic search for reasons he shouldn’t marry our mother.

  Of all the things Steve told us that night, his explanation of why he tore up Dad’s picture is the only lie. I know why he did it. And so does Mom. And so does Gardenia — Gwendolyn — Beckel, Steve’s first wife.

  Steve Paluchek asked my dad to cover for him that fateful night because Steve was watching his home for Gardenia’s lover to appear. But the man — my father, Michael Balducci — never showed up.

  “But why didn’t you just tell her, Mom?” I ask. “Connie’s old enough to understand.” I sit on the edge of Mom’s bed later that night. Connie’s in her room, talking on the phone to Kurt. I now know why she wanted us to back off the investigation. She knew about Dad and Gardenia.

  Mom gives me a smile, another one reflecting more love than happiness. “There never was a good time,” Mom says. “When I first found out your father was unfaithful — right before he died, and before Steve even knew — she was too young to understand. And every time I thought of telling her later, I realized she might be angrier with me than with your father. I’d be stealing him from her all over again. She would have hated me for it.”

  “But she would have gotten over it.”

  “Then why didn’t you let her know when you found out, Bianca?”

  For the very same reason — I didn’t want to break Connie’s heart.

  I see my sister now as my mother sees her, as she will probably always see both of us — as her “girls.” For all her bluster, Connie still has a little girl’s vulnerable heart. It makes me want to call up Kurt and bully him into commitment so she doesn’t need to wonder about him anymore. Connie deserves good things — as all good girls do. As I do.

  Mom pats my hand. “I didn’t want to take a chance. I was selfish. I admit it. I kept it from her because, after losing your dad, I didn’t want to risk losing her, too. You and your sister and your brother were all I had left.” Her voice quivers and for the first time, I think of how absolutely awful it must have been for Mom after Dad died. Everyone talking about what a hero he was, what a good man he was, while she suffered alone, grief-stricken over his infidelity and sorrowful over his death. How did she get through it?

  With Steve Paluchek’s help. He was always there, always available. Connie might have resented him for trying to step into Dad’s role, but for me and Tony, he was a great guy. Always willing to play catch with Tony. Always around when I needed help. But never forcing himself on us or Mom.

  Looking at Mom, I now know why she didn’t get together with Steve earlier. She waited until we were “grown,” until her life was becoming her own again. Aw, Mom.

  I get up and come around to her, giving her a big bear hug and kissing her on the forehead, something I haven’t done in a long, long time.

  “I love you, Mom,” I whisper.

  EPILOGUE

  KERWIN MOFFIT WAS arrested that week. At last, Steve said, they had enough to pull in the net on him, and sure enough, we awakened one Tuesday to see a newspaper photo of Kerwin doing the perp walk outside his office. Funny how a thousand-dollar suit only makes a suspect look even more suspicious. Kerrie’s dad told her Kerwin was always viewed as a shady character, and it didn’t surpri
se him one bit he was caught at something.

  Although Steve didn’t say anything about it, I wonder now if Connie and I helped or hindered the investigation. Either way, he probably won’t tell us. To let us know we’d helped would be akin to encouraging us to get involved in more risky business. To divulge we’d hindered things would just make us feel worse than we already did that frightful evening down by the harbor. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Steve Paluchek in the past month or so, it’s that he’s an all-right dude. Of course, that’s what I’d thought in the first place.

  Even Connie is thawing out toward him. She calls him “Steve” now and will politely answer his questions when he joins us for dinner. She’s not yet warmed to the idea of Mom remarrying — she’s not quite embracing the guy with open arms — but she started out thinking he was the man responsible for our father’s death. That was quite a chasm for her to cross.

  Because of Connie’s shift in mood, Mom is going ahead with her marital plans. Connie’s even helped by making some suggestions about a reception (church hall) and food (Mama Rosa will cater at a cut-rate price). I’m looking forward to the wedding because I’ll get to wear a cool new dress, as yet undetermined. Connie and I will shop together — she’s going to be maid of honor.

  Meanwhile, I have a pretty cool new dress to wear to the Junior/ Senior Ball. It’s a sleek pistachio-colored “trumpet skirt” with a neat flounce at the hem and spaghetti straps at the shoulders. To compensate for my lost lilac bra, I splurged on a strapless one that admits me into the Kingdom of Curvy Cowgirls. Even without straps, I’ve got a hint of cleavage. This thing is amazing!

  We do the picture-taking routine at home, and then it’s into the rented limo with Kerrie and her date. It’s only the four of us sharing. Just Kerrie, Richard, me … and Doug.

  Yeah, I’m going with him. I couldn’t quite figure out how to take back the invite without feeling like a louse who goes for the flavor-of-the-month boyfriend. It broke my heart to do it, but I told Brian I’d already made an arrangement with Doug and I hoped Brian was available for the Mistletoe Dance come December of our senior year. Kerrie coached me on that one. Brian seemed to like the idea, but I could tell he was disappointed.