by Joe Clifford
Finding no evidence of Vin Biscoglio, I turned my attention to his boss, Ethan Crowder. Cobbling together archival pieces and featured articles, I came up with a disturbing portrait.
Ethan Crowder began his charmed life behaving like a typical spoiled rich kid, an only child cracking up expensive cars, making an ass out of himself, squandering opportunity, and embarrassing the family with ill-timed photo ops. Kicked out of some prestigious university, the billionaire playboy traipsed around the globe, making social page headlines. Clubs in Morocco, Mykonos, Corfu.
When he inherited the company from his father, Ethan didn’t behave much better. This was the part of his story that caught my eye: the womanizing and history of violence, especially after my earlier conversation with Alison Rodgers. There were charges that he beat women, including his first wife, domestic abuse a personal pastime. When you’re that wealthy, charges have a way of disappearing. There were allusions to hush money, payoffs, backroom settlements to keep scandals quiet. But these allegations were old news. His first marriage, he’d barely been thirty. Ethan was in his fifties now. Not a word of any trouble since he married Joanne almost twenty years ago. I had a tough time believing the love of a good woman had set him straight. Maybe he had mended the error of his ways? Stranger things had happened. Didn’t matter. Ethan Crowder was the last guy I’d ever work for.
There were pictures of Ethan in his younger days. I wanted to see what he looked like now. Such photographs proved nearly as elusive as those of Biscoglio. Apparently, Ethan didn’t have a lot to do with the day-to-day operations of Crowder Steel, eschewing the spotlight, surfacing only at the big-money events. The few pics I uncovered were all the same. Slender, silver haired, clean shaven, well dressed, Ethan Crowder could’ve been any man you passed on Wall Street. In the most recent pictures, a young, petite blonde accompanied him. This was obviously not the mother of his son. Basic math would’ve put her around three years old when Phillip was born.
Wasn’t until I scrolled through half the Internet that I found Joanne, although the name didn’t match the face. Some awards dinner from a few years back. Due to my own prejudice, I’d expected upscale and uptight, highbrow, a WASP-y type. This woman was darker skinned, almost exotic looking. She, too, was a blonde—Ethan seemed to have an affinity for the flaxen-haired. Here, the peroxide yellow jarred against the natural bronzed complexion.
Pictures of their son Phillip were easier to come by if only because of Facebook and social media. Maybe I was predisposed, but Phillip didn’t seem like a happy boy. Sullen, blond, ineffectual, he oozed sadness in every shot, wounded and listless. My eyes locked on a photograph of Aiden, Jenny, and me on my desk. It had been taken right after we were married, a summer day in the park. I couldn’t remember who snapped the picture. I found myself studying my eyes and Aiden’s, panning back and forth between Joanne’s and Phillip’s, uncertain what I was looking for, even when instincts told me I’d found it.
I was adamant that Jenny not post pictures of Aiden online. I didn’t have a fucking Facebook or Twitter account. I knew she, like most people in the 21st century, did. Sometimes when I had a few too many beers, like this afternoon, I’d check her profile. All that stuff is public. I’d convince myself I was checking in, but I was totally lurking like a creeper. She had a few photographs of Aiden, but I wasn’t going to be a dick and give her aggravation; I knew a lot of my aversion was projection. After Gerry Lombardi, I was touchy as hell about kids’ images online and what dirty old perverts did with them. I also knew Jenny lived in a different world, and that’s what people did these days. Most of the pictures featured her new husband, Stephen, the jerkoff. There was even one where she was feeding him a bite of food in a swanky restaurant and him laughing. Totally staged. Every time I saw that picture I’d clench my fists, grind my jaw, and want to hit something. I didn’t know what the hell she was feeding him, but it sure wasn’t fucking steak because the pussy was a vegetarian. He was also an investment banker making ten times the money I’d ever see. Whenever I wanted to make myself angry, I’d look at that picture, feel the fury flame in my gut, feel the outrage, feel alive. I didn’t know why I did that to myself. I’d had my chance. I’d blown it. And I wanted her and my son to have a better life. The only way that could happen was without me. So I tortured myself with these reminders to stay gone.
I returned to the best photo I had of Joanne. Something about the look in her eyes . . . Was it kindness? Character? The opposite of her son, hers was an expression of strength, resiliency.
In this scenario, the Crowders’ custody battle, I knew I should be siding with the husband. Vin Biscoglio had pitched that story line, playing on sympathies. Help the poor man whose bitch ex-wife had stolen his kid. There was nothing poor about Ethan Crowder, and maybe you can’t judge a book by its cover, or in this case some cobbled electronic portraits. But if you could, Joanne came across as the one you’d rather have lunch with. Ethan Crowder looked like the douche in a sports car taking up two spaces and leaving a shitty tip. Then again, I’d turned into a class warrior. Stephen, the jerkoff, was rich. The Lombardis, who I blamed for my brother’s death, also loaded. All around me, money, money, money. So much money that men like the Lombardis and Owen Eaton and Vin Biscoglio could throw thousands at me to do their bidding. I pretended I was above taking their payoffs and bribes, and maybe that was true, but I was also none the richer for it.
I had two browser tabs open. One with the Crowders. The other, Jenny’s Facebook page and that jerkoff vegetarian giggling about eating twigs and weeds. I had drunk all the beer.
This was getting me nowhere, other than pissed off. I reached for my prescription bottle, because any minute I was going to lose my shit and hurl that computer off the back porch into the snow, like I’d chucked my telephone, and then I’d be out another four hundred bucks. And, yeah, I was buzzed, which invites its own brand of introspection and ire. Everything I wanted, like gold in my hand, and now this grass-grazing asshole was raising my kid? Men like Crowder and Biscoglio, Owen Eaton and the Lombardis were scumbags. So fucking what? They were flourishing. Why shouldn’t I get my piece? Last I checked, Master Card didn’t let me pay my credit card bill with lofty ideals. I should’ve taken Biscoglio’s money, Owen’s as well. Going back four years, I should’ve accepted Lombardi’s bribe, too. Maybe then I’d still have my family.
My head was swimming when I jumped up and shoved in the chair. Out of beer. Out of smokes. Pissed off. The usual. I went to power down the computer when a tiny thumbnail, like on page fifty-three of the Google image search, caught my eye. From a recent Crowder building dedication. Down in Boston. This past summer. No Ethan. No Joanne or Phillip. No Vin Biscoglio. But there was another face I recognized.
I rang Fisher. He was at Charlie’s. Alone.
“Heard from Finn?” he asked.
“Assume he’s still at the Dubliner. That’s where I dropped him off.”
Fisher was online, too. I could hear him clacking away, multitasking. No doubt designing the new issue of his wackadoodle e-zine.
“I’m worried about him,” Fisher said. “He’s drinking more than before.”
“I know. But what can we do about it? Can’t make anyone stop if they don’t want to.”
Neither of us said anything for a while, both thinking the same thing. Our friend had gone from a fun-loving goofball who loved beer and chicken wings, to a sad, pathetic loser who was wrecking his life with alcohol. It was like watching a man drown in slow motion.
“What do you want?” Fisher said, interrupting the melancholy. “I’m busy.”
I was grateful we were getting back to busting balls. All that tenderness was making my heart hurt.
“Do me a favor. Look something up online.” I gave him the URL, and waited while he cued it up.
“Yeah, and?”
“Go to page fifty-three.”
“Fifty-three? How long you been sitting there? You need to get laid, Porter.”
“Jus
t pull up the image. Lower right hand corner.”
“Hang on. Gonna take me a minute . . . The one of a McDonald’s?”
“No,” I said. “Second from the bottom. The one with two steel pylons. Looks like a football stadium breaking ground. Big Crowder Steel banner in the background.”
“Do you even know how computers work? Different algorithms, man. Tailor-made to each user. Based on individual search history. You and I won’t get the same result.”
“Find the picture I’m talking about.”
“Hold on . . . Is there a lady with a yellow hat?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“For your information, that image is on a totally different page when I search. Forty-nine.”
“I give a shit. Pull it up. Enlarge it. In the background, by the—I think it’s field goal posts? See the guy?”
“I don’t see any—” I heard the surprise in his hard stop. “Shit. Is that really him?”
“Who else has a giant Star of David tattooed on his neck?”
“Holy fuck.”
Bowman.
Bowman’s real name was Erik Fingaard. I called him Bowman because first time I met him in a cold, tweaker pad, he wore a wife-beater tee shirt with the word Bowman stretched across his broad chest. I had been searching for my brother Chris after he stole that hard drive, which deposited me in that hellhole. A name needs to fit the face, and this mutherfucker, with his prison muscles and neck tattoo, was a Bowman all the way. A former biker turned thug-of-all-trades, Bowman worked construction security until a beef with the Brothers Lombardi had him on the run.
“Thought you said he was fleeing the country?”
“That’s what he told me last time we met for donuts on the Merrick Parkway.”
“He works for Crowder Steel now?” Fisher said.
“Looks that way. I haven’t heard a thing about him in three years.”
“Photo is from last June. Guess he’s down in Boston now, doing what he does.”
What Bowman did was off-the-books intimidation and beat-downs, a real charming guy, the sort of cretin you hire to make problems go away.
“I wouldn’t read too much into it,” Fisher said. “People tend to stick in the same field. Construction’s a rough game. You can always use an enforcer. Guys like Bowman will never hurt for work. Not surprised he’d land at a company the size of Crowder.”
“Maybe.”
“Leave the conspiracies to me, Porter.”
“Any luck hacking into Tom’s e-mails?”
“Not yet. These things take time. But I do have something that might be of interest. It’s about Rewrite Interventions.”
“I’m listening.”
“Rewrite Interventions farms out recovering addicts.”
“What do you mean ‘farms out’?”
“As in literally. They have partnerships. With farms. It’s part of their credo. Recovery. Unity. Service.”
“That’s AA’s slogan.”
“Same difference. Stay busy, stay out of trouble.”
“What kind of farms?”
“Mostly sugarbushes. Y’know, distilleries to make maple syrup?”
“I live in New Hampshire. I know what a sugarbush is.”
“That house I sent you to? That’s the address for the couple that runs RI, Richard and Alison Rogers. Couple of ex-addicts, husband and wife team. They started the rehab.”
I didn’t bother mentioning how much time I’d already spent in Alison’s company.
“Got any names?”
“Some. Information is tough to find. They want to keep associations on the down low.”
“Ashamed to hire addicts? Or profit from slave labor?” My mind instantly went to dark places.
“I knew you’d say that. Program looks legit. Junkies don’t increase property value or curb appeal.”
“Know which one Phillip is at?”
“Nope. These sugarbushes are all over the map, here, Vermont, even upstate New York. You could go knocking on doors. I’m guessing no one’s gonna be itching to talk to you. November isn’t peak season. Not sure how many will be open to the public.”
I tried to figure logistics. “These addicts . . . live on the farm?”
“They work the land to earn their keep. I’d guess that includes room and board.”
“How many?”
“Sugarbushes? Fourteen so far. Like I said, particulars are not easy to pin down. I’ve been surfing recovery chartrooms, piece-mealing shit. Graduates of the programs are very protective.” Fisher paused. “I know you’re skeptical of these places because of Chris—”
“I’m also not a big fan of kidnapping.”
“Understood. But from the looks of it, Rewrite is a last resort, a desperation move. And it seems to work. They boast a high success rate.”
“I’m sure. E-mail me the list.”
“You have an e-mail?”
“Everyone has an e-mail.” Jenny made me get an account a while ago. I logged in about once a month. Mostly ads to see if I wanted a bigger dick or some other scam to steal my banking information.
“Do me a favor?” I said. “Can you get contact info for Bowman?”
“How the fuck would I do that?”
“Computer?”
Fisher laughed. “They’re not a magic portal, man. We don’t even know for sure that’s him in the picture—”
“He has a Star of David tattoo on his neck—”
“Why would I do that? You remember the last time we had anything to do with the guy? I still can’t take a leak with the lights off.”
“Never mind. Send me the list.”
After I hung up with Fisher, I watched my inbox, sniffing my own rancid breath, which stank with sour beer and stale nicotine. I’d lost my buzz. No matter how much I drank these days, I never kept a good buzz. I kept thinking about Bowman. Being in the same line of work made sense. The rest? Not so much. If Fisher hadn’t turned Biscoglio on to me, maybe Bowman, now working for Crowder Steel, had? But why?
Fisher’s e-mail came in. All tolled, I counted sixteen farms. One dairy, two slaughterhouses, the rest sugarbushes.
I tried printing out the list but couldn’t get the fucking printer to work. I did what I could to try and fix it, which entailed turning the machine on and off, and when that didn’t work smacking the shit out of it. With that, I’d exhausted my diagnostic capabilities.
I ended up copying down the names and addresses by hand, a pain in the ass. Fisher wasn’t kidding. Places were all over the map.
When I was a kid, I’d taken a field trip to a sugarbush in middle school. Salt-of-the-earth, ox-and-mule, Pilgrim reenactment horseshit. Like it was still 1684. We’d gone in December, right before Christmas. That was the year I’d made my aunt put me on a Greyhound to spend the holiday with my brother. Meaning Charlie’s mom let me stay at their house, since Chris was already homeless. Mrs. Finn made cinnamon rolls. I could still taste the warm dough and icing if I thought hard enough. Despite being winter, I remembered sugarbush employees running around dipping cheddar cheese in wax, packing holiday baskets, hanging buckets, leading private tours. The state pumped out about one hundred thousand gallons of maple syrup each year. Production never stopped. The region flooded with amber gold, and there’s always work to do around the farm.
I picked the closest, biggest sugarbush, which was just over the border into Vermont. Had to start somewhere. I’d fan out as needed. At least I’d get a sense for how this operation worked, and, maybe, if I got lucky, someone would know Phillip Crowder.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE PRASCH SUGARBUSH in North Brighton was open for business and housed an impressive operation, grand in scope, shameless in its self-promotion. I’d seen the name before, the Dutch Boy britches synonymous with the Prasch name. Several restaurants carried their brand, and I’d slathered Aiden’s flapjacks more than once with their sauce. But I had no clue where they actually produced the stuff. How often does one study the back of
a maple syrup label?
Exiting Billington Lane, I followed the signs offering daily tours and encouraging me to “Ask About Slokey’s Special.” Tall trees lined the perimeter of the plantation, boxing in rolling acreage, towering evergreens cradling snowy crowns in extended arms. Big barns, where they stashed the large-tank evaporators, the type used for mass production, came into view, looming large behind the maple orchards.
I pulled my truck into the big lot, watching the performance.
Workers decked out in period costumes carried vats of fresh brew across snowy fields, long sticks affixed behind their necks, hands draped over ends, like they were toting crucifixes, buckets tied to twine, swinging low. It’s all about the presentation, the illusion that times are simpler, mankind not yet corrupted. Quaint shops on Main Street that add a superfluous “e” to everything—Ye Olde Shoppe, Ye Olde Towne Pub, Ye Olde Waffle House. I knew for a fact trees were tapped in the spring. We lived in the twenty-first-fucking century, yet a huge contingency got off pretending they’d just landed on Plymouth Rock. Another rip-off. Saw that on a class trip once, too. Expected a boulder. Thing’s about a foot wide. Passing off corporate as cottage industry’s a goddamn pastime in these parts.
A few tourists, mostly hunched-over old people with plastic bags tied around shoes, shuffled behind tour guides dressed like Little Lord Fauntleroy and Hester Prynne. The Prasch Sugarbush was the closest maple maker on the map, but it was still a solid forty minutes away, and by the time I got there, I’d missed the day’s last tour. What would I learn playing that card anyway? I wasn’t a very good actor, and pretending to care about the difference between wood- and oil-burning stoves would’ve blown my cover. This was a recon mission, get a handle on the arrangement with Rewrite Interventions, a sense for how the partnership worked, maybe sniff out when the boys went into town for the AA meeting because all these programs force-fed the Twelve Steps.
