Yard Goat

by Ray Flynt

  “I’ve been worried about you.”

  “No need to worry, Dad.”

  “Yeah, there is. You’ve been hanging out with Trambata.”

  I sat facing him and filled Dad in on developments in Joel’s murder case and Carlin’s arrest. As well as him being attacked in jail, hospitalized, and now out on bail.”

  Dad crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Dealing with Trambata was the worst experience of my life...maybe I didn’t say that before...I should have. I almost lost the business your mother and I worked so hard to build.”

  There were tears in his eyes. He’d been stressing about Trambata. I had to allay his fears.

  “Well, it looks like he was set up. You’ll be happy to know I’m not working for him or his attorney anymore.” I didn’t elaborate about being fired.

  He looked at me with a glimmer of a smile.

  “Contractors are wrapping up work on the new office addition. Would you like to visit on Friday and see everything we’ve done?”

  “I’m not sure. I might need to check my busy schedule to see if I can get away.”

  I laughed. “I’ll sweeten the deal and promise you lunch at Hudson’s.”

  “In that case, I’ll clear my calendar.”

  Hudson’s wasn’t much more than a greasy spoon. The better I got to know Dad, I realized we shared a love of diner food. They served breakfast food all day, or you could have quarter-pound burgers embellished with lettuce, tomato, cheese, pickles, anything your taste buds desired. I looked forward to my lunch with Dad.

  My phone sounded and I answered.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  Dad heard Andy’s shout and rolled his eyes.

  “Hey, brother, it’s good to hear from you. I’m in Dad’s room. I can let you say hello.”

  Dad waved me off.

  Andy had other ideas too. “I don’t want to talk with him. I spent a couple days with Todd Vicary and Iggy Armstrong. When I left we’d worked out a great deal on the acquisition of their Houston subsidiary. Then, this afternoon, Todd called me and said you’d been meeting with Trambata and the deal was off. What the hell happened?”

  I was reluctant to get into it with him while visiting the assisted living center. Dad’s emotional well-being was more important. Andy didn’t know all the particulars of my investigation and wouldn’t have the patience to hear me out. Maybe he just needed a dose of reality. “The majority stockholder, that’s what happened.”

  “You mean Trambata?”

  Andy couldn’t stop yelling into the phone, and I could tell by the look on Dad’s face that he was listening intently to every word we exchanged.

  “I’ve been talking with Dad about the time we almost lost Joedco because of Trambata, so maybe we’re better off not getting entangled with him again.”

  “Don’t give me that crap.”

  “You haven’t forgotten who our majority stockholder is, have you?”

  Andy breathed heavily before exploding. “I run this company now.”

  “Yes. But it’s not a dictatorship. I’m still the Chair of the Board and ultimately have to look out for our stockholder’s interest.”

  A smile creased Dad’s lips.

  “You’re trying to undermine me. I’ll make sure to mention that during the next director’s meeting.”

  “I’ll be happy to include it on the agenda.”

  When he realized I wasn’t backing down, Andy grew silent. “I still want to know. What did you do to piss off Carlin Trambata?”

  Andy’s question took me aback. Maybe all I did was ask too many questions.

  “Look. I’m not gonna get into it right now. Call me tomorrow when you’ve calmed down. I’m about to enjoy dinner with Dad.”

  37

  Later that evening, I sat in the living room of Nick Argostino’s Dutch colonial in the Mt. Airy section of Philadelphia, recounting the details of Joel’s murder, my trip to Boca Raton, Carlin Trambata’s arrest, the attack on him at the Baltimore jail, his subsequent hospitalization, and the bail hearing. I filled Nick in on Sal Zalinski’s mysterious appearance at the railroad museum, and about watching the video showing it was Zalinski who delivered the note inviting Trambata to Baltimore. Nick listened patiently, only interrupting twice to ask for clarification. When I’d finished, I gave him a curious stare. “What do you think?”

  Nick dumped the remainder of a bag of pretzels into a bowl on the coffee table, before plopping back into his favorite recliner. “Sounds like an HBO mini-series.”

  Unlike our previous get-together, Nick seemed unusually relaxed. Ruth had taken their son to visit her sister for a couple of days, and he’d begun three days of leave from his stressful job as a Philadelphia police detective. Nick downed his third Yuengling and reached for a half-smoked cheroot from the ashtray on the table next to him.

  I waited him out.

  “I don’t know Carlin Trambata, but your father’s instincts tell me a lot. Sal Zalinski, I know. He’s the kind of guy who gives private dicks a bad name.” Nick struck a match to re-light the cheroot. “Although you aren’t exactly setting the detective world on fire yourself.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I try.” Nick puffed on his cigar, bringing it to life. “It’s telling that a guy with Trambata’s clout employs a prick like Zalinski.”

  “What should I do next?”

  “Leave it to the Baltimore police.”

  Nick’s grin confessed he was messing with me. I’d made my desire to find justice for Joel clear. “I’d hate having to pull those new tires off your car.”

  “Not happening. Besides, you already told me we could keep their retainer.”

  I got up from the sofa. “Gonna make a pot of coffee.” From the early days of our partnership, I knew their kitchen as well as my own, easily finding filters and ground roast, with the measuring scoop already in the can.

  Nick called out, “The note Zalinski delivered, have you seen it?”

  I filled the reservoir with water and put generous scoops of coffee in the filter tray. “No. The Baltimore police have it. Why?”

  “Wondered about the writing. FYI, Zalinski’s a South paw.”

  I arched my brow, wondering how Nick knew that tidbit.

  “I’ve watched him sign a few property receipts.” Nick tugged at his moustache.

  “The note was typewritten, confirmed by Jackson and Trambata. But when I watched the video, it looked like the name on the envelope could have been hand-written. Hopefully, Detective Jackson will tell me if the name was written by a lefty.”

  The amber ready-light shone on the coffee maker. I pressed the brew button. Nick stood by the counter. “Did you see Zalinski at the museum fundraiser?”

  “No. There were a couple hundred people. I couldn’t identify everyone but would have recognized Zalinski.”

  “Which makes his visit to the museum this past Monday all the more curious.” After a pause, Nick asked, “Since you plan to pursue this, what’s next?”

  I handed Nick his coffee and returned to the living room with my cup. “Thought about driving to Baltimore and giving Detective Jackson a heads-up on Zalinski’s activities.

  Nick stared at me with a do-you-really-think-that’s-a-good-idea expression.

  “What?”

  “Before talking to Jackson, it might help if you knew more. Maybe we pay a visit to Zalinski and ask him what he’s been up to.”

  I peered over at him. “We?”

  “I’m still a partner in the agency, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “And you’re planning on heading to Baltimore, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  Nick reached for a fist full of pretzels. “Presumably, Zalinski doesn’t know that you’re aware of him dropping off the note or visiting the museum.”

  I nodded.

  “Call and ask him for a meeting. He’s a licensed PI, just like you. Make it sound like you have an assignment...dangle the prospect of a pay che
ck.” Nick had a gleam in his eye. “He’s not rollin’ in dough, which is why he gets drawn into shady shit.”

  “Okay.”

  “When Sal shows up, confront him with what you know, and get his reaction. What’s the worst that can happen? With that limp you described, he’s not gonna run.”

  “True.”

  Nick leaned back, elevating the foot rest on the recliner. “Let’s say he lies.”

  “That’s a good assumption.”

  Nick aimed a finger. “Exactly. What’s important is not what he says but who he reaches out to afterward. If somebody paid him to deliver that note to Trambata’s office, you can bet he’s gonna let the guy know. I’ll follow him to find out who he contacts. I mean, I’ve got a couple days off...and you’re going to Baltimore...so you can’t.”

  Ruth must have a few nasty projects on the honey-do list.

  “Why the smirk?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing. I like the idea.” I pulled Zalinski’s business card from my wallet. “His address is on Osborn St. in Wissahickon.”

  “Yeah, that’s in the city. Must be where he lives. A guy like him mostly works out of his car. Find a neutral location, one where I can hear what’s going on, but not be seen.”

  I first thought of a convenient Starbucks, but remembered Sal at the cafe on Connecticut Avenue, which gave me another idea.

  “Zalinski has a sweet tooth. Valerie’s sister, Rhonda, operates a boutique wedding cake shop in Ardmore. Does tastings on her sun porch. If she doesn’t have any appointments, I’m sure she’d let us meet there. There’s a back entrance, and you could listen from the kitchen. She might even have a cupcake or two he can sample.”

  Nick agreed.

  I called Valerie, described the plan, and asked if she’d check with her sister. Twenty minutes later Valerie called back. “Rhonda opens at eleven in the morning and doesn’t have any appointments until two. If you can be there before one, that’ll be fine. She’ll even have an apricot cream cake and a Devil’s Food you can sample.”

  “Thanks. Tell Rhonda she’s a godsend.”

  The last time I was with Zalinski, he’d told me about bugging the fruit basket sent to my room at The Hay-Adams Hotel. My body tensed as I recalled how livid I had been at the revelation. Fortunately, I’d kept my tongue and hadn’t made any threats that might dissuade him from meeting with me now.

  Nick shook me from my thoughts. “Well, are you going to call him?”

  Just after nine p.m. I dialed Zalinski’s number. After five rings, he answered, “Who’s this?”

  Must not recognize the number.

  ‘Sal, it’s Brad Frame.”

  Silence on the other end.

  “I’m going out of town for a few days,” I continued, “but I’ve got a case that needs leg work. Thought maybe you’d be interested.”

  “Uh huh.”

  Is that a yes?

  “It only pays two hundred an hour plus expenses.”

  I suspected that was more than he usually commanded.

  “Okay.” A bit more enthusiasm in his voice.

  “Are you free at eleven tomorrow?”

  “Let me check.” The line went quiet. I heard barking and suspected he was either letting a dog in or out—making me wait in the process.

  Sal cleared his throat. “Eleven will work.”

  “Great. I have to be in Ardmore before then. My girlfriend’s sister has a wedding cake bakery there where we can meet.” I gave him the address.

  “If it has to be all the way out there,” he said, “make it eleven-thirty.”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  I disconnected and flashed a thumbs up to Nick.

  38

  Nick suggested I take six hundred dollars with me to lay on the table at my meeting with Sal Zalinski. We discussed a cover story for the assignment Sal would tackle—one that sounded plausible, even though it represented a wild goose chase.

  Before midnight, I returned to the family home in Bryn Mawr. As I stepped out of my car onto the cobblestone drive, the crisp air delivered the scent of aromatic logs from my neighbor’s fireplace. Howling wind rattled the garage doors.

  I unlocked the front entry and snapped on the wall sconces before closing the door tightly behind me. My footsteps on the marble floor echoed in the cavernous two-story foyer. The family home was now mine, but the décor remained Mom’s, a style a former girlfriend dubbed late-Ladybird Johnson. Not exactly the digs of an eligible bachelor.

  At the top of the curved stairs, I turned off the lights. I stood gazing through the front windows, mesmerized at how the wind made light from the porch dance as it reflected off my Mercedes.

  My ruminations drifted to all that Nick had done. Still green, I realized how much he’d carried me these past few years. He kept reminding me that I had the instincts of a private detective. Time would provide much needed experience.

  Instead of heading for the bedroom, I took the attic stairs to my train layout. When I was ten-years-old, my parents commissioned an HO gauge model train set on a counter-height platform at the east end of the attic and surprised Andy and me that Christmas. I loved it. Andy, who was older, quickly tired of their novelty. By the time he headed off to college, the trains had become exclusively mine.

  Since living back home, I’ve added additional plywood platforms on the north side. Eventually, I want the trains to wrap around the control console in mid-attic.

  Joel also liked the trains. A couple of times a month he’d come by after school. We’d uncouple engines from the freight or passenger cars and race them. Joel was profane back then too, more so when his chosen engine won. He’d flash his middle finger or shout, “Shit, yeah!” More reserved—as my parents had taught me—I laughed and enjoyed Joel’s antics. My eyes moistened at the remembrance. It all seemed so important back then, one of us coming across the finish line a half-inch ahead of the other.

  Joel wouldn’t visit again, but my memory of him would always be found in that attic.

  I walked to an unfinished area, grabbed a piece of loose track for size reference, and drew a circle. I sketched out an area on the plywood for a rail yard similar to the Baltimore museum. It would make a great place to store rolling stock. I’d been wanting to add a turntable to the layout and decided to build Driscoll’s Roundhouse in honor of Joel.

  On the opposite end of the room, I found a switch engine I could paint rusty yellow to remind me of the old yard goat.

  39

  Wednesday, October 10, 2001

  My bedroom ceiling hadn’t changed any since the last time I stared at it so it wasn’t a distraction. I rehearsed how things would hopefully go with Sal Zalinski.

  An extended hot shower almost made me forget how little sleep I’d gotten. With my bag packed for the trip to Baltimore, I picked up the morning paper to read along with breakfast. As the nation prepared for the first-month anniversary of 9/11, Al Qaeda promised new attacks on the US. The war on terror, it seemed, would involve a war of nerves.

  My phone rang before 7:30, and I saw a number I didn’t recognize from the 410 area code—Baltimore. “Hello.”

  “Brad, this is Cecilia Driscoll.” She sounded all business. “I picked up a box of Joel’s things from his law office yesterday. In his appointment book, I saw an entry for Friday, September 21st, which said ‘lunch with Brad and M.’ I assume M refers to Megan. Did you bring her with you from Philadelphia?”

  I was tempted to say, “What if I did?” Joel had confessed his infidelity with Megan, but he was no longer around to castigate. It was like Cecilia wanted to assign blame to a living person so she could experience catharsis.

  “No, Cecilia. She was already with Joel when I arrived for lunch that day.”

  “Were they talking about me?” she asked sharply.

  Since Trambata had been charged in her husband’s death, a fact she knew, I didn’t want to reveal his Washington disappearance as the subject of my initial meeting with Joel and Megan. “No. As
I recall, I brought up your name, asking about you and the kids.” It had been a week since Joel’s funeral. “How are things going?”

  She sniffled. “Okay. McMillan is being very difficult. Jeremy’s a rock.”

  Our conversation had run its course. She blew her nose.

  “Cecilia, feel free to call me anytime.”

  She blubbered, “Thank you.”

  A Queen Anne-style cottage, painted in pink and green pastels, housed Rhonda’s Rhapsody, her boutique wedding cake business. Conveniently located a block off Route 30 in Ardmore, the front yard had been bricked over to provide three customer parking spaces. Out back hosted Rhonda’s parking needs since she lived above the shop. After a stop at the bank, I arrived there just before eleven.

  Valerie had explained that her sister’s business was by appointment only, typically meeting with prospective brides, grooms, and bride’s mothers on Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday, devoting the end of the week to baking and delivery.

  She offered one-of-a-kind cakes to fussy Main Line clientele and had successfully operated her business for ten years.

  Rhonda greeted me at the front door along with the fragrant scents of vanilla, coconut, and lemon. “I saw you sitting in your car. I’ve been preparing samples for my two o’clock meeting.” She smiled. “I’ll share some with you and your friend.”

  She led me past glass cases bulging with decorated cakes and out to the sun porch. “Those are plaster mock-ups of the kind of work we do.”

  “Looks scrumptious.”

  I explained that Detective Argostino from the Philadelphia police would be coming to the back door any minute, and that he’d like to listen in to my conversation but not be seen.

  She held her finger in front of her lips. “Mum’s the word.”

  I wasn’t sure what Valerie may have told her. Rhonda smoothed her apron. “I’ve never been a part of an investigation before, so you’ll have to tell me what to do.”

  The sunroom, draped in floral chintz, held a glass table and wicker chairs. “Just be your charming self. This’ll be perfect.” I glanced through the windows at the parking out front. No sign of Zalinski.