by Ray Flynt
Shaun’s cell buzzed. He stared at the screen and muttered, “I gotta take this.” When he tried to talk, he kept losing the signal and finally climbed the steps to his porch to carry on the conversation.
While Brad studied the man, Nick signaled they should go.
Brad held up his hand.
“You’re the boss.” Nick began pacing the yard.
When Shaun ended his call, Brad said, “Thanks, Shaun. By the way, when did your neighbor move?”
“This morning. Early. I couldn’t sleep they were so damn noisy. I shouted for ’em to quiet down, and this smartass in a suit came out and gave me the evil eye. I gave him the finger.” Shaun dissolved into laughter.
“Thanks,” Brad muttered. Nick had already made a beeline past him on the way to the car.
Brad drove in silence for a few minutes before turning to ask Nick, “What did you find in the grass back there?”
Nick kept his eyes forward. “You mean while you were busy farting around with that dipshit?”
At first he thought Nick was joking, but when laughter didn’t follow, Brad realized Nick felt annoyed.
“I learned a couple things,” Brad ventured, sensing Nick was about to take the wind out of his sails.
Nick tilted his head as if to say “Like what?”
“The hand cart—”
“We already knew that.”
“Yeah, but not its orange color that might have come from Home Depot.”
“The only thing orange that guy saw was a pill he was popping.”
Nick’s overreacting.
In a matter-of-fact style, Brad said, “Well, we can check it out.”
Nick folded his arms across his chest. “You’re the boss.”
That’s the second time he’s said that. Brad added, “Shaun also told us about the guy in the suit who gave him the evil eye. That sounded like Hamilton Grayson.”
Nick sighed. “Brad, look, I know I’ve become a cynical old fart, but I’ve been at this for thirty years. I run into hopped-up, narcissistic malcontents like him every week.” After a pause, he added, “I’ve been to Home Depot three times this week. Ruth wants me out of the house. Their building is painted orange, and their rolling carts are orange, but trust me I didn’t see any orange hand trucks.”
Brad drove a few more blocks until he finally said, “Are you going to tell me what you found in the grass?”
“A button. Well, part of a button,” Nick explained. “Buttons usually have two or four holes. The fragment I collected,” he patted his shirt pocket, “sheared off only one of four holes.”
“Interesting,” Brad said.
“Now it could be a button from the victim. But if Lucas was found shirtless, like Haller, then it might have come from the perp. My guess is the rest of the button is still attached.”
“What color?” Brad asked.
“Marbleized tan and brown.”
“Could it have been there awhile?”
“I doubt it. Still clean and shiny, with no grass clippings or dirt clinging to it.” Nick turned toward him. “What are we doing next?”
“While we’re in the area, I thought I’d swing by Ruddigore’s and talk with Phil.”
“No way. I can’t do it.” Nick sounded grumpy again. “The deputy commissioner told me to stay clear of that place.”
“Sharon said there’s a Starbucks nearby. I won’t be long. You can have a coffee and then I’ll drive you home.”
Nick shook his head. “Drop me at the Broad Street subway.”
“It’ll take you an hour and a half to get home that way.”
“It’s okay. Ruth’s in no hurry to see me,” Nick said ruefully.
Had it been any other time, Brad might have laughed. Given how irritated Nick had acted since they’d left Haller’s place, he hated just to drop him. But he also didn’t want to risk pissing him off even further.
Brad changed course.
“I’ll take you to 30th Street Station then you won’t have to change trains.”
Nick shrugged. “Okay.”
When Brad stopped near the entry for SEPTA trains, Nick gave a slight wave and jumped out of the car without saying anything.
Brad lowered the passenger side window and shouted after him, “I’ll see you Monday.”
Nick turned toward him and dipped his head so Brad could see his face through the open window. “Sure. Ruth wants me out of the house.”
No smile; just a look of consternation. It wasn’t the way Brad wanted to leave things with his mentor, friend, and business partner.
13
Brad needed time to think.
Maybe the transit trip would help declutter his friend’s mind. Nick had climbed aboard an emotional roller coaster that would likely have more downs than ups before Brad could succeed in clearing the assault charges hanging over Nick’s head. He only hoped Nick would show up as promised on Monday morning.
He decided to visit Ruddigore’s as he’d originally planned.
Brad recognized the bar from Sharon’s description and found a parking spot three doors away. He sat in his car for a few minutes and watched the street activity. It was a useful trick he’d learned from Nick, akin to “look before you leap.”
Midafternoon latte business appeared brisk at the neighboring Starbucks. He observed a half dozen people entering or exiting within a short period. Automobile traffic seemed light, so most of their patrons had walked from nearby residential neighborhoods. No one entered or left Ruddigore’s.
As he walked toward the bar, Brad passed a storefront for an H&R Block service center, shuttered since the end of tax season.
Next to the entry he found a glass-enclosed bulletin board decorated with cutouts of pumpkins and witches. A Ruddigore’s flyer advertised “Halloween Karaoke Nights” with half-priced drinks every Tuesday until Halloween for those in costume: First Responders Welcome! Nick said Phil likes to cater to the police.
He tugged at the heavy wooden door. Brad’s eyes took a few minutes to adjust from the bright sunlight to the dimly-lit interior of the tavern. To his left, he saw two men, illuminated by the stained-glass billiard light, playing eightball. He didn’t recognize either of them, and they were too chubby to fit the description of the cops Sharon had seen.
The contours of the bar came into focus against the mirrored wall decorated with pumpkin lights and cobwebs and holding bottles of liquor on glass shelves. Brad sat on a stool and looked around, wondering what had happened to the bartender.
As if reading his mind, one of the guys at the pool table shouted out, “Steve’s in the head.”
Phil’s not here.
“Thanks,” Brad replied and swiveled on his stool to survey the rest of the place. He and the pool players were the only ones there.
On the back wall a TV broadcast a home game against the Mets—Phillies up by one in the top of the fifth inning. He spotted the karaoke equipment Sharon had mentioned and remembered it was in that far corner where Saul Kasheski had sat on the night of the “incident” with Sanders and Barkow.
Moments later, Steve, the bartender, ambled back into the room. He had a ruddy complexion, dark-blonde hair, and wore an apron emblazoned with the bar’s logo. Brad pegged him at about thirty-five.
“I knew the second I took a break we’d have customers,” Steve said good-naturedly. “What’ll you have?”
“Michelob Lite. In a bottle, if you’ve got it.”
“Coming right up.”
“How ’bout a pretzel with mustard, too,” Brad requested while the bartender pulled a bottle from a nearby refrigerator.”
“When will Phil be back?” Brad asked after Steve delivered the pretzel.
“He had a wedding to attend today. Be back tomorrow.” Steve smiled. “I hope my service has been okay for you.”
“It’s been fine. I wanted to catch up with Phil before he gets all wrapped up in Halloween.”
“Yeah, the man gets off on all this shit.” Steve waved his hand tow
ard the billowing ghosts—white gauze draped around the basketballs suspended from the ceiling. “He only puts up a puny tree at Christmas.”
Brad sipped his beer and munched on the pretzel while Steve busied himself putting glasses back on the shelf from the dishwasher.
“Slow day. Things will pick up tonight,” Steve said, as he puttered toward the pool table to see if those guys needed fresh drinks.
Brad laid a ten-dollar bill on the bar and carried his food and drink to a nearby table where he could watch the Phillies game.
After fifteen minutes, Steve came over to check on him. “Another round?”
Brad looked at his watch. “No. I’ll be leaving soon.”
“Have you known Phil for long?” Steve asked.
“I guess I’ve known about him for a little while,” Brad answered truthfully, but in that euphemistic manner that suggested they’d been long time friends. “Do you happen to know Nick Argostino?”
“Not personally. Heard of Captain Argostino, though.”
“I thought he was a regular,” Brad commented.
“Could be. I’ve only worked here six months. Part time. Usually only two days a week.”
Brad pointed to the empty seat across from him. “Sit down for a minute.”
Steve looked around as if to find a person who’d give him permission.
“Go ahead. It’s okay,” Brad urged. “If a customer walks in you can take care of him—or her.”
“We don’t get many ladies in here during daylight hours.” Steve pulled the chair back, angling it toward the front door before sitting.
“I know you weren’t working that night, but three weeks ago there was an altercation between Nick Argostino and two other police detectives named Jack Barkow and Donald Sanders. Do you know those guys?”
The bartender glanced at the pool table.
I wonder if those guys are cops.
Steve lowered his voice and said, “I know Skull. Sanders, I mean. He’s divorced and comes in a lot. Barkow’s married, but I’ve seen him occasionally.”
Brad smiled. “I guess you’re married and know the drill.”
Steve blushed. “Yeah.”
Brad liked this guy’s casual style. Aside from keeping his voice down so the guys at the billiard table wouldn’t hear, Steve had freely answered all of Brad’s questions.
A roar from the television drew Brad’s attention. Chase Utley had fired a home run over the right field fence with a runner on base to expand the Phillies lead.
“Had you heard about the altercation I mentioned?”
Once more Steve looked toward the pool table before responding. He bobbed his head.
Brad leaned forward and whispered. “What did you hear?”
“How much money you got?” Steve laughed.
His flip response renewed Brad’s thinking about the time he’d spread money around to learn the whereabouts of his mother’s and sister’s killers. “How much did you want?”
Steve held up the palms of his hands and lurched back in his chair. “Oh man, I was joking.”
“I’m not,” Brad said. “I don’t carry a lot of cash with me, but I’m good for it. How much? Fifty? A Hundred? Two hundred?”
Steve’s eyes seemed to grow wider as Brad raised the stakes.
“Whoa. I don’t need your money. Besides, I can’t tell you much. Only what I heard from Phil.”
“Go ahead. Tell me what you got.”
“I know exactly when it happened,” Steve began. “It was the day after Labor Day. Phil called me that night and asked me to work the next day. When he called, he told me there’d been a dustup but that everything was fine.”
“Dust up? Those were his words?” Brad asked.
“Yup. The next day—Wednesday—I arrived at eleven a.m. On weekdays we usually open then and call for last round at eleven forty-five p.m. Phil had left me a note saying that if Nick Argostino asked for him I was to say, ‘Phil isn’t available’ and to advise the captain ‘He is no longer welcome’ at Ruddigore’s.”
“Do you still have a copy of that note?”
Steve shook his head.
“Did Argostino show up that day?”
“No.”
Brad pursed his lips.
“I told you I didn’t know much.”
“When did you see Phil after that, and did he ask you whether Nick had shown up?”
“I saw him the following weekend. He never mentioned it.”
Brad pulled out his wallet and extracted a couple of bills.
Steve held up his hand. “You left a ten spot on the counter. You’re paid up.”
Brad reached out with two twenties and a ten. “This is for the information.”
“No. No. It’s okay.” He refused to take the money. “I couldn’t charge you for that.”
“You have kids?” Brad asked.
“A daughter, age five.”
“Then buy something nice for her.” Brad slid the bills across the table. “I do have a favor to ask.”
“What?”
“I’d like to post a notice—maybe in the restrooms—asking people to call me if they have any information on that argument. Would you have a couple sheets of paper and a pen?”
Steve rolled his eyes toward the ceiling as he contemplated the question. “Let me look.” He stood, walked behind the bar and disappeared into a small room that appeared to be an office.
He returned to Brad’s table with a couple sheets of orange construction paper. “I figured this might work for you,” Steve announced. “It’ll fit in with everything else around here.” He laughed and handed Brad a black Sharpie. In a deft move, Steve reached for and pocketed the money Brad had given him.
“Perfect. Thanks.”
Brad considered what to write, opting to say argument rather than altercation, and omitting specific names. According to Nick, there were no more than a dozen patrons in the bar at the time of the alleged assault. He wanted to hear Phil’s version of events and track down Saul Kasheski, but it wouldn’t hurt to see what others might say.
Using the Sharpie, he created the first version:
CASH REWARD
for
Information
Regarding an Argument
between
Three police detectives
on
Tuesday, September 3rd – 10 p.m.
Below it Brad wrote the number for a prepaid cell phone he used when he didn’t want calls traced back to him. Similarly, he added a Hotmail address that couldn’t be easily traced to him. For fun, he drew a Jack o’ Lantern at the bottom of the page.
His first-grade teacher, Ms. McMillan, had always praised his drawing ability. But as he stared at the crooked teeth on the pumpkin, he realized that first grade might have been the high-water mark for his artistic talent.
He wrote a second copy to put in the women’s restroom and decided to add “(or aftermath)” below Regarding an Argument. Perhaps an astute observer had heard a revealing comment from Sanders or Barkow after Nick had left the bar that night.
Brad approached Steve to ask if he had any thumbtacks so he could post the notices in the restrooms.
“Hold on.” Steve disappeared into the office again and emerged with a roll of masking tape. “This is the best I can do.”
“That’ll work. Thanks.”
In the men’s room, Brad posted the reward flyer above the urinal.
In the smaller women’s room, he decided to tape the notice above the toilet paper holder. The orange paper clashed with the hot pink color of the ladies’ room wall, which made it hard to miss wherever he placed it.
Brad returned to his table, collected the Sharpie to give back to Steve, and prepared to leave.
Dramatic music pulled his attention toward the TV screen where NBC 10 posted a “Breaking News” graphic. Brad noticed that the pool players also stopped what they were doing to gaze at the TV.
The weekend news anchor appeared on screen in shirtsleeves and no t
ie. “We apologize for interrupting the game, but we want to alert our viewers that SEPTA has halted train service at 30th Street Station. Within the past hour, a middle-aged man reportedly jumped in front of a westbound Chestnut Hill train, halting service. There will likely be several hours of delays as police and the medical examiner’s office investigate. We have unconfirmed reports that SEPTA is organizing alternate bus service.
“A reporter is on her way to the scene.”
Nick!
Brad no longer heard the words on the TV. The bottom had fallen out of his stomach. All he could think about was his friend. He prayed to God his worst fears weren’t correct.
14
Brad raced for his car. He hadn’t given the bartender so much as a wave as he shot out the door of the tavern.
He drove up Market Street with his foot pressed hard on the gas pedal, sped through yellow lights, and ran a red light for his turn at the intersection with Twenty-Second Street. Brad aimed for JFK Boulevard. If a cop pulled him over, he’d flash his private detective’s license and beg for an escort.
Even as he rushed to 30th Street Station, Brad second-guessed his decision to drop Nick off for the train instead of altering his plans and driving him home. At least then he could have exchanged a few private words with Ruth about Nick’s erratic mood shifts.
Please, God. Let Nick be safe.
Brad circled the building and took the first parking spot he could find, skipped feeding the meter, and dashed into the Twenty-Ninth Street entrance.
He didn’t pause—as he often had—to appreciate the majesty of the station’s travertine walls and coffered ceiling painted in gold, red, and cream. Brad dashed toward the ramp that led to the SEPTA rail platforms.
Through the glass doors, he saw passengers lining up to board alternate bus transport. The waiting area seemed unusually crowded for a Saturday afternoon, and Brad suspected many people had decided to wait for the trains to roll again.
Police tape blocked the entryway to commuter rail. Behind it, a cluster of disgruntled travelers yelled at uniformed officers positioned fifty feet away—near the automated ticket machines—to ask when train service might resume. Their shouts were largely ignored.
