Child Not Found

by Ray Daniel

  Stuck on the train wearing an asshat #commuting

  I sighed, happy to stop moving for the first time all day.

  When the moving stops, the thinking starts.

  Sal had said, Get out, you Judas.

  I imagined a big white board with two lists: “People who want to kill me for betraying Sal” and “People who want to kill me for supporting Sal.” I mentally wrote Sal’s name under “betraying.” The third column, “People who want to keep me alive,” had one name, Jael Navas, partially erased. I let my mind drift away from Sal and into technical musing.

  As the trolley squealed through the tunnel at Boylston Street, I let myself focus on classifying Angie. Which list would she go on? That depended upon the results of our date. I could add a fourth list: “People who want to sleep with me.” That would also put Angie in the “People who want to keep me alive” list. It would be inefficient to write Angie’s name down twice. I could make the “sleep with me” list a sublist of the “keep me alive” list.

  Copley Station slid into view. As the last guy into the train, I was the first one pushed out when the crowd made a break for it. I should have waited for the crowd to empty and climbed back on board, but I lost patience with the whole thing and ran upstairs to Boylston Street. Leaving Angie to fend for herself on a street corner would be no way to make a good first impression.

  I hustled down the street, dodging left and right around pedestrians who strolled as if they had all the time in the world. Perhaps they did. I didn’t.

  I saw Angie before she saw me. She wore the same fur coat and was doing a fantastic impression of an angry woman who had been stood up: walking in little circles, arms crossed, looking up and down Boylston Street, checking her watch, and shaking her head.

  “Angie!” I called.

  She turned and transformed from a menacing harpy into a welcoming angel. She gave me a big smile, reached out, hugged me close, and kissed me on the cheek. Her perfume floated around us, turning knobs in my stomach.

  “I thought you were going to turn out to be a jerk,” she said.

  “There’s still time,” I said.

  “Let’s go in.” Angie took my arm and stepped toward the Capital Grille.

  I hesitated.

  Angie stopped tugging. “We’re not eating at the Capital Grille?”

  Actually, I had been thinking Bukowski Tavern—burgers and beer from a bartender. The Capital Grille was steaks and wine from a sommelier. I had told Angie to meet me here because it was an obvious landmark. My brain jammed as I adjusted to the change in plans.

  Angie pulled herself close. “I wore my new dress. You’ll want to see it.”

  “Um—”

  “We can go somewhere else,” she said, “if it’s too expensive.”

  Too expensive? Of course it was too expensive. No food was worth that much money. But that didn’t mean that I couldn’t afford it. I had plenty of money, an eight-digit souvenir of a truly horrific separation with a previous employer. I decided to defend my financial honor and rationalize it by noting that I had been late for our date. It was time to stop disappointing the lady.

  “Let’s go,” I said. “I haven’t eaten here in years.”

  “Why not?”

  “There’s been a shortage of beautiful women in my life.”

  Angie rewarded me with another brilliant smile. We entered the restaurant, and she rewarded me further by taking off her fur coat. Red, short, and satiny, her dress clung to her curves, giving me views of breast and thigh that encouraged my imagination to paint a picture of the rest. My eyes widened, my heart skipped. Other parts of my body did awful, wonderful things. Her dress alone was worth every penny.

  I took off my coat and handed it to the coat checker. I wore blue jeans and a cotton button-down. At least it had a collar.

  Angie said, “Oh honey, you really weren’t planning to come here, were you?”

  I looked down at my shirt and jeans. “I’ll be fine. They’ll just think I’m a dot-com whiz kid.”

  Angie looked at my shoes. “Do dot-com whiz kids wear UGGs?”

  “Tom Brady wears UGGs.”

  “Don’t feel bad. They’re cute.”

  The pretty girl behind the maître d’ station ignored my UGGs and said, “Right this way.” I put my hand on the small of Angie’s back to guide her, but she slid toward me so that my hand wound up around her waist, resting on her hip.

  “This day is looking up,” I said.

  Angie snuggled closer.

  Twenty-Three

  The Capital Grille exists to allow men and women to show off their finest assets. The women show off their bodies, the men show off their money. It’s a win-win. The maître d’ sat us in a dark corner. We ordered our drinks, white wine for the lady, Lagavulin scotch for me. The scotch was $20, but what the hell. If I was going to show off my wealth, I was going to drink good scotch.

  “Have you heard anything about Maria?” Angie asked.

  “No.” I stared into Angie’s brown eyes to avoid staring at her generous décolletage.

  Angie said, “That poor kid.”

  “On top of it, some guy named Pistol Salvucci tried to give me a beating.”

  “Pistol? What for?”

  “He thought I was siding with Hugh over Sal.”

  “But you are siding with Hugh, right? I saw you guys.”

  “I’m not siding with anyone. I’m just looking for Maria.”

  Our drinks arrived. We clinked glasses. “Cheers,” I said.

  “Salud,” Angie said.

  The Lagavulin’s smoky warmth settled in my stomach and flowed into my brain.

  “Pistol’s an asshole,” said Angie, “but he’s pretty tough. You don’t look beat up.”

  “I have a friend who—but screw Pistol. How long have you known Sal?”

  “Aw, hell. We grew up together, went to high school together. But now look, you’ve got me talking about my age. Where were you in 1976?”

  “Well—ahh—”

  “Were you even born?”

  “No. I was born in ’78.”

  “You are the cutest thing. You don’t even remember Bucky Dent.”

  “I read about him.”

  Angie pointed her wineglass at me. “I’m robbing the cradle.”

  “You want to see my cradle?”

  Angie slapped my hand. “Fresh.”

  Our salads arrived. Angie had a Caesar with anchovies, I had an iceberg wedge served with bleu cheese dressing and bacon. Ah, the wedge … you have to love a salad that you eat with a steak knife.

  Angie asked, “How will you find Maria?”

  “I don’t know. I’m digging into Sal’s relationship with a guy named David Anderson.”

  Angie said nothing.

  “Have you heard of David Anderson?”

  “Nope.”

  “I’m probably not even looking at the right one. There are tons of David Andersons.”

  “Which one are you looking at?”

  “The private equity guy.”

  “What’s a private equity guy?”

  “He’s a guy who makes money buying and selling companies.”

  “What would a guy like that have to do with Maria?”

  “I don’t know. But Sal hates his guts.”

  Angie sipped her wine. “What would you do if you found Maria?”

  I drained my Scotch. “I have no idea.”

  “Would you let her live with you?”

  “She wouldn’t want to live with me. Maybe her Aunt Bianca would take her.”

  “Sal’s Jewish sister? She lives on Long Island.”

  “Adriana, then?”

  “The gay one?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Angie stood. “I need to find the ladies’
room.”

  “It’s that way,” I said, pointing.

  Angie turned and left.

  I should have stood when she stood. Or should I? Do people still do that? Was I resisting the patriarchy? Either way, it was too late. I finished my salad, scooping the last bits of applewood bacon onto my fork. Around me, rich men in business suits entertained beautiful women. My cotton button-down made me feel like a kid sitting at the adult table. Nobody would mistake me for Mark Zuckerberg; I’m too old. The restaurant clinked around me, muted conversations forming a background hum.

  My Droid chirped. I despise the default sounds on a phone, but I hadn’t gotten around to replacing them.

  It was a text message from Caroline. Lunch tomorrow?

  Is this about Sal? I texted.

  No.

  What then?

  It’s about you and me. The 617 Restaurant. 1 PM. My treat.

  What was I going to say? OK

  “Boys and their toys,” Angie said.

  I looked up from the screen and Angie was sitting across from me. I had missed my chance to stand again.

  “Who were you texting?”

  “Sal’s lawyer.”

  “You know what?” said Angie. “Enough with Sal. Let’s just enjoy ourselves.”

  The waiter arrived with plates of food, and we did just that. I ate a steak that was worth every one of the $45 I would pay for it. Angie tucked into a broiled lobster that had been gently dissected so that she didn’t have to use nutcrackers to break the claws. We talked about my views on the Celtics, what it was like to grow up in Wellesley, my house, my job, my thoughts about what it took to make a happy life. It was all me, me, me. Angie was an outstanding conversationalist.

  After dinner, we had more drinks: a Courvoisier VSOP for the lady and a glass of port for the gentleman. I paid the check, promising myself that I would expunge the price from my memory. We rose, went back to the coat check, and prepared ourselves for the cold December night. Angie’s fur coat enveloped her dress. I donned my ski jacket. We exited and stood on the corner of Boylston.

  On the sidewalk, I pulled Angie close and gave her a test kiss. She responded, but with some resistance.

  “Would you like to come back to my house for a drink?” I asked.

  Angie gave me a peck on the cheek. “On our first date? What kind of girl would that make me?”

  “A lucky one?”

  “You’re a sweetie pie. I’m going home.”

  I hailed a cab. It pulled up and I put Angie inside, giving the cabbie twenty dollars. “Take the lady home, please.”

  Angie kissed me softly, her tongue feathering my lips. “I’d like to see you again,” she said.

  “Same here.”

  The cab pulled away. Angie’s feathery kiss had me all discombobulated. I considered getting a beer at Bukowski Tavern, but decided that I’d rather go home and take a cold shower. I walked back to the South End, unlocked the door to my building, climbed the steps. Frank Cantrell sat in front of my door.

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  Twenty-Four

  Cantrell sat at my kitchen counter, tapping on Click and Clack’s aquarium glass.

  “Please do not tap the glass,” I said.

  Cantrell said, “Huh?”

  “It disturbs the animals.”

  “I thought they were dead.”

  “They’re resting.”

  Cantrell spread his hands on the counter. Looked at me.

  I said, “Yes?”

  “You gonna offer me something to drink?”

  “No. What do you want?”

  “I heard you screwed the pooch.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That means you were supposed to use an FBI conference room to get Sal to turn, and instead you punched him in the face.”

  “He accused me of helping David Anderson kill Sophia.”

  “Did you help David Anderson kill Sophia?”

  “I can punch you in the face too.”

  Cantrell stood, hands still on the counter. “Let’s not go there.”

  “You done? You want to leave now?”

  Cantrell just stood, staring at me, heavy eyelids over five o’clock shadow. “I didn’t sit outside your door for a half hour just to leave.”

  “Then get to the point.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to offer me a drink? Get one for yourself too?”

  I hesitated, looked Cantrell up and down. “You aren’t here because of Sal?”

  Cantrell shook his head. “No.”

  “Why did you sit outside my door for a half hour?”

  “I wanted to tell you something face-to-face, figured you’d come home eventually.”

  “What do you need to tell me?”

  “You got scotch? You’re gonna need it.”

  I opened the cabinet over the fridge. I had scotch, but I wasn’t in the mood for it. I like ice in my scotch, and it was too cold for ice. Instead I pulled down some Bully Boy white whiskey. Distilled in Boston, it was all the rage: whiskey that had never sat in a barrel.

  “What’s that, vodka?” Cantrell asked.

  I slid a rocks glass to Cantrell. “Moonshine.” I poured Cantrell an ounce and made mine a double.

  Cantrell sniffed at the white liquor, then took a sip. Winced. “Jesus, it tastes like tequila mixed with whiskey.”

  “I know, right?” I said. “The good stuff.”

  Cantrell pushed the glass to one side, pulled out his phone, and started screwing with it. “I got a call today.”

  I revolved my index finger: C’mon, get on with it.

  “It was from a Globe reporter, Jerry Rittenhauser.”

  I drank half my whiskey. Took Cantrell’s glass, poured it into mine.

  Cantrell brought up a picture. “He sent me this.”

  It was the picture of Maria’s ransom note. I said nothing.

  “Rittenhauser wanted me to confirm that this was a real ransom note. I asked him how he got it. Naturally, he wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Maybe Bobby sent it to him?” I said.

  Cantrell said, “Sure. Try again. Bobby and I didn’t want this note out there. We didn’t want people to know that Maria was in play.”

  “In play?”

  Cantrell put the phone away. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Tucker. Don’t be a fucking idiot. If people know that Maria is out there, that somebody grabbed her, then they’re going realize that she could be used as leverage.”

  My stomach clenched. The whiskey wasn’t helping. “Leverage,” I said.

  Cantrell said, “When you were a kid, did you ever play Smear the Queer?”

  “What?”

  “You know, that game where you kill the guy with the ball.”

  “We didn’t call it that in Wellesley.”

  “Well, Mr. Fancy Ass, once this picture gets out, Maria’s the ball.”

  I drained my whiskey, wishing for the alcohol to find the pain and wash it away. It only made me dizzy. “Did you do it?” I asked.

  “Did I do what?”

  “Did you confirm that photo to Rittenhauser?”

  Cantrell said, “I told him that the FBI refuses to comment on ongoing investigations.”

  “So you didn’t confirm it.”

  “No. I didn’t want Maria’s blood on my hands.” Cantrell stood from the breakfast nook, shrugged on his winter coat. “I thought I’d leave that to you. I’ll let myself out.” He opened the front door to leave.

  I called to him, “Cantrell.”

  He paused. “Yeah?”

  “Couldn’t you have told me this over the phone?”

  “Sure. But then I wouldn’t know what I know now from looking at you.”

  “What do you know now?”<
br />
  “That you gave Rittenhauser the picture, and that you never thought any of this through.”

  I said nothing.

  “Buck up, Tucker,” Cantrell said. “At least you’re not a suspect. You’re too stupid to be a suspect.” He closed the door behind him and clomped down the stairs.

  I locked it behind him.

  He was right. I thought making that picture public was going to help me find Maria, but the only people who would see any significance in it were more likely to hurt her than to help her. I grabbed my phone and called Rittenhauser.

  “Hey!” said Rittenhauser. Bar noise reverberated behind him. “How you doing, Mr. Front Page?”

  I winced. “Yeah about that, Jerry. I need to apologize.”

  Pause. “What do you mean you need to apologize?”

  “You can’t publish that picture.”

  “Aw, shit. It’s a fake? How could it be a fake?”

  “No, it’s not a fake. I just can’t let you print it. It could put Maria in danger. So I have to take it back.”

  “Are you shitting me?”

  “No. Sorry, but I can’t let you print it.”

  “Wait a second. I need to get someplace quiet.”

  A pause. The bar noises disappeared. A siren whirred by in the background. Rittenhauser had moved to the street. “Say that again.”

  “You can’t print it?”

  “My City editor is going to love this.”

  “Yeah, I know—”

  “He’s standing out here in the cold with me. Why don’t you tell him yourself?”

  “Can’t you tell him?”

  “Tell him what? That he needs to stop the presses because you got cold feet?”

  “That he needs to stop them because—”

  “There’s nothing happening here that you didn’t ask for.”

  “I know. I didn’t think it through.”