by Linda Barnes
“Nice,” he said, setting the frame back carefully. “Pretty kid. She live close by?”
“Close,” I said. “If she’s home.”
“Late to be out for a little girl.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. And I found myself telling Clinton about Paolina, how we’d met, how she’d changed, how worried I was about her. Chalk it up to anxiety, I guess. Told a perfect stranger something I hadn’t told Mooney.
“She’ll be fine,” he said.
His easy assurance was sandpaper on my nerves. “You don’t have to worry about her,” I snapped. “She’s legal.” I was tired as hell. Hints of my headache were coming back.
Clinton paced. “You don’t like me, do you?”
“I don’t like your job.”
“You one of those people who think all cops are pigs? You think my job’s easy? Or unnecessary? You think we should just pack up and go home and let anybody in the front door? Criminals and smugglers and people with contagious diseases?”
I flopped onto the couch. “My grandmother came over from Poland without a dime. I guess I’m for ‘give me your tired, your poor.’ That old stuff.”
“Which worked fine when we had the whole goddamn frontier out there. When we had plenty of room for plenty of people. They were giving away land back then, for chrissake. Homesteading. You want a family of five homesteading on your property?”
“I’m tired,” I said.
He went on as if he hadn’t heard me. “And the hell of it is I almost agree with you. I work with a bunch of jerks. They’ve heard every hard-luck story so many times they don’t hear anything anymore. They just file forms.”
“Your buddy Jamieson’s supposed to be a great one for that,” I said. “He in on the Hunneman action?”
“Jamieson and I work together, but he’s no buddy of mine. I’m not sure what he knows.”
He came over and joined me on the couch, sitting a bit farther away than he had from Roz. Our thighs didn’t touch. I found myself wondering what it would feel like if they did.
He said softly, “We got somebody tipping off illegal establishments before we can get it together for a raid. Somebody on the inside.”
“You think Jamieson’s the one?” Maybe that’s why he was bird-dogging Mooney so closely, I thought. So he could warn somebody if the cops got hot.
“I didn’t say that,” Clinton insisted. “Jamieson’s got a lot of years in the service and a lot of friends.”
“Hard to believe the friends part.”
“Yeah,” he agreed with a grin, “I guess it is. Charming bastard, isn’t he?” He stretched and stared around the room. “I like your place.”
“I’m tired,” I repeated. He’d given me a lot to mull over. I hoped I’d be able to sleep.
“Me too,” he said, but he didn’t take the hint and stand up to leave.
I hoped Roz hadn’t invited him to spend the night with her. I was conscious again of his blue-jeaned thigh, a lot closer to mine than it had to be.
He said, “It’s the little factories that employ the women these days. The men mostly work at the racetracks, the stables. The pay’s miserable and the bosses treat them like shit.” He sighed deeply. “Somebody’s got to stop it, you know. It’s all very well to stand back and not get your hands dirty, but it doesn’t do any good in the long run.”
“I guess,” I said reluctantly. I was only half hearing him, I was so damn sleepy.
And there he was, stretched out on my couch, relaxed, with his slow Southern drawl and easy grin, looking immovable and placid, like he’d just started the night. If he hadn’t been so good-looking, I’d have kicked him out.
He picked up his glass off the table. “Can I bother you for a refill?”
“Of?”
“Roz and I split a Rolling Rock.”
“One drink,” I said. “Then I’m asleep.”
“Okay, I appreciate it. Gets damn lonely out there. I guess I haven’t made a lot of friends since I moved up here. Not like Jamieson.”
“Feeling like an outsider?”
“Don’t tell me I ain’t, Yankee. The way I talk, the folks I work with think I oughta register with Immigration. They also think I’m practically retarded because my words don’t come a thousand a minute.”
I got the beer from the kitchen. As I walked toward the door I heard a scuffling noise on the stairway, probably T. C., who hadn’t come out to greet me with his customary yowl. Maybe he was scared of Clinton. Jealous, more likely.
“Where you from?” I asked Clinton when I handed him his glass. He brushed my hand with his when he took it.
“Why, Texas, ma’am. Where else?”
“¿Habla español?”
“Like a native, ma’am.”
“Why aren’t you working out of Brownsville?”
“I got tired of chasing folks across the border. I got some family up here—”
“So much for the lonely-guy routine.”
“Family ain’t everything,” he said. “I find these Yankee gals hard to get to know.”
“Call ’em gals and you sure will,” I said. “I could see how much trouble you were having with Roz. Real standoffish.”
“She some kind of painter? She invited me up to see her acrylics.”
“Not to be missed,” I said dryly.
“Artists are strange,” he said. “I’ve always been partial to volleyball players myself.”
“You play?”
“Hoop’s my game. Used to be, anyway. College stuff. I’m too old for college hoop—and college dating.”
It reminded me of a blues lament: Too old for the orphanage, too young for the old-folks home. I grinned.
“You trying to say something?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said, “I am. See how fast you Yankees are? You married or anything?”
I hesitated for just a second too long. “I’m seeing somebody,” I said.
“Permanent and exclusive, like?”
“He’s out of town for a while.”
“Far out of town?”
“Far,” I agreed.
“Good,” he said, “then maybe you’d have dinner with me Friday? I could make it Saturday too. In case you have to wash your hair Friday.”
I smiled. “And what if I have to do my nails Saturday?”
“I don’t know what you’d do to them, short and unpainted like they are.”
“Saturday,” I said, uttering a silent apology to Sam. He wasn’t even sure when he’d be back. What the hell did he expect?
“I’ll look forward to it.”
“Me too.”
“And remember the other stuff I said, not just my handsome face, okay?”
“When’s the raid?” I asked.
“Soon. Unless something screws it up. Don’t let it be you, okay?”
I nodded absently, yawned, and told him it was time to leave. I was half reluctant to see him go. As I let him out the door, he reached a hand over, tilted up my chin, kissed me gently on my bruised cheek. It was surprisingly sweet. I turned and let him have my mouth, and we kissed for a while on the front porch like awkward teenagers on a first date.
He said, “I left one of my cards on the hall table. In case you threw the other one away.”
I wondered if he’d kissed Roz.
I went inside and closed the door, leaning against the smooth wood. Then I bolted the door to keep me from rushing back out and inviting Clinton upstairs. His kisses, his hands, the strange musky smell of him left me breathing hard, made me realize how long Sam had been gone.
I dialed Marta’s number. Paolina hadn’t returned, and Marta was torn between worry and anger. I played her the tape. It didn’t soothe her. She accused me of stealing her daughter, faking the tape, keeping Paolina hidden in my house. I warned her not to go to the factory. I’m not sure she heard me.
By the time I got her off the line, she’d awakened all my anxieties about Paolina. I’d been hoping to go to sleep with nothing but the memory of Harry
Clinton’s kisses on my lips. I was too tired even for that. As soon as I climbed in bed, the cool sheets surrounded me and dragged me down to sleep.
25
I slept until almost noon, which made me feel guilty because I missed Kristy’s practice session. Usually I’m up early. Usually I don’t cram my days as full. I scrunched under the covers and let faces roll through my memory like images on a loop of grainy film. Jamieson, Mooney, Hunneman, Lilia, Marta, the woman at the Herald. The Herald woman … I opened my eyes and checked the bedside clock. Plenty of time. I closed my eyes again. The faces that lingered were Paolina’s and Clinton’s.
And the woman who’d told me her name was Manuela Estefan.
I padded barefoot to the dresser and couldn’t find the phone book. It’s supposed to be near the phone, but it rarely is. Maybe Roz was painting its portrait somewhere. I dialed information and got the number of Paolina’s school. I asked the woman who answered for the attendance officer, not really knowing if there was any such thing. But she connected me to another voice, and I asked if she could check on Paolina.
She could and did, and Paolina had not come to school. She wanted to ask me a few questions, but I hung up.
Showered and dressed, I went downstairs to scare up something to eat, checking for Clinton’s card on the hall table along the way. It was gone. Good old Roz. I stood a long time in front of the refrigerator door before settling for cold cereal that was no more appetizing than it looked. I used the last of the milk, so I went to the fridge to add it to the shopping list.
I scrawled my addition and surveyed our message center on the refrigerator door. It was full of expired food coupons, take-out menus, and aged postcards. I decided I’d mention clearing the door to Roz. Then I saw it.
Hung on the tip of one of the magnets was a gold wire fish, Paolina’s fish. I racked my memory for the last time she’d been at the house. When was the last time I’d really looked at the door? I couldn’t remember, but I damned well would have spotted that fish.
Paolina had a key to the house. Paolina could have walked here from Marta’s, a long walk. She could have taken the subway. I shook my head in rueful admiration. The kid was okay. She knew where to go to stay safe. It was like she’d said on the phone.
Relief turned to anger in seconds. I left the breakfast dishes on the table and ran up the stairs.
“Paolina!” I shouted. “I know you’re here. Come on out.”
I heard a noise in one of the bedrooms I used to rent to Harvard students, a place I now call my study, although I don’t use it much. I called Paolina’s name again, pushed the door ajar.
T. C., the cat, strolled out, head and tail held high and snooty. The room showed no other signs of habitation.
I remembered the scuffling cat noise I’d heard last night while getting that drink for Clinton. T. C. or Paolina?
I quickly searched the rest of the second floor, came to the conclusion that she must have stayed with Roz, and got angry all over again. A ten-year-old girl, out all night, and Roz keeps it a secret. Fuming at her irresponsibility, I trudged heavily up the steps.
I rapped sharply at the bedroom door, walked on in.
It looked like the house had been abandoned to me, the cat, and the bird. Nobody else around. An extra blanket lay on one of the tumbling mats. I touched the rough yellow wool and wished Paolina were still sheltered by its warmth. Not the strange, hostile child of the past few months but the little girl hiding somewhere in the tough new shell.
I hoped Roz had fed the girl breakfast. More likely Paolina had reminded Roz to eat.
I did a quick search of the room and found none of Paolina’s clothes or books. I looked for strands of her hair and found two caught in Roz’s hairbrush. They stood out against the garish blond ones, evidence enough for me.
I remembered Marta’s harsh words on the phone last night, clattered downstairs to the nearest phone, and dialed her number.
A flood of Spanish and English gushed forth as soon as Marta realized who I was. I had trouble following it, but the gist seemed to be that Paolina had not come home, had not gone to school, and now she must call the police no matter what they did to her, and if they charged her with being an unfit mother, although why they should, she didn’t know, where would her boys go and—
I broke in on the torrent, explained what I knew.
“You think I should call the police?” she asked.
“She’ll probably come back here tonight. She doesn’t know I know.”
“Then we’ll wait,” Marta said grimly.
“Did you call Lilia?”
“Why?”
“Tell her to call in sick, okay?”
“You did it, didn’t you? You went to the police.”
“It’s not me. It’s something I heard. I think it would be better if Lilia stayed away for a while.”
“I try to get hold of her.”
“Thanks, Marta.”
“You call me as soon as Paolina comes. I have things to say to her. Privately.”
“I’ll call.”
I hung up and glanced at my watch. Time was getting short. I checked my clothes and changed out of my jeans. I put on khaki slacks, a jungle-print shirt, an olive-green sweater vest, and tucked my hair up under a slouch cap. We Boston cabbies have our dress code.
26
I kept my fingers crossed all the way over to Green & White. Gloria hadn’t promised me a cab. Gloria rarely promises anything, but she almost always delivers.
She was on the phone when I walked into the office. Whenever I think about Gloria, a phone is part of the picture, as if one were permanently welded into the chink between her shoulder and neck. Food is also included.
She had a jumbo bag of Tootsie Rolls on her desk alongside an open jar of peanut butter. As I watched, she spoke into the receiver, peeled a Tootsie Roll, and plunged it into the peanut-butter jar. The candy came out with a massive scoop of yellowish goo on one end. Gloria stuck the whole mess in her mouth and kept on talking on the phone. I swear she didn’t miss a syllable. I don’t understand it, but I saw it. It made my teeth hurt.
Gloria should write a cookbook: Junk Food Treats—Combinations Your Seven-year-old Never Thought Of.
She hung up the phone and flashed me a smile, her teeth amazingly white.
“Got you a cab,” she said. “When you gonna bring it back? Or shouldn’t I ask?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Bring it back in one piece,” she ordered. “You too.”
Somebody once ran me off the road in a Green & White. Gloria remembers.
“Listen,” I said, “if Paolina calls or comes around, give her a place to stay, okay? She’s having trouble at home.”
“That’s all you gonna tell me?”
“She ran away yesterday, stayed at my place last night, except I didn’t know it.”
“And you a private eye and all,” Gloria muttered. “I always said that girl was sharp.”
“Yeah,” I said, “she is. And she may figure I’d catch on if she spent more than one night. So if she comes to you, call me, okay?”
“What if she don’t want me to?”
“Gloria, she’s not even eleven years old. Tell her what you have to tell her, but let me know. The issue here is safety, okay?”
“You telling me it’s okay to lie to somebody long as they’re young enough?”
“Shit, Gloria,” I said, taking down a key from the pegboard, “I’m not trying to tell you anything. What a waste of breath that would be.”
“Those are the right keys,” she called after me. “Have a good ride. Any news from Sam?”
I pretended I hadn’t heard her.
The car was one of Gloria’s newer Fords, roomy enough, with loose steering and rotten brakes. I flipped off the two-way radio and turned on my tape deck, selecting an old Biograph blues collection. I turned the volume up full-blast and squealed the tires on the way out of the parking lot. I hoped Gloria heard me, but she was probably
back on the phone, eating Tootsie Roll peanut-butter glop.
I pulled off at a Dunkin’ Donuts, bought half a dozen assorted and two large coffees. From a phone booth I dialed the Herald advertising office and told Helen to go downstairs and wait for Cab Number 34, Green & White. She giggled, which I did not take as a heartening response.
I’d debated whether to seat her in the front or the rear. A cab with two in front looks odd. But a passenger idling at the taxi stand near the pillow factory would look a bit strange too. I waved her into the front seat. All Gloria’s cabs have a plastic dividing shield that is supposed to stop bullets and effectively stops conversation.
“Didn’t recognize you,” she said. I sometimes think if I dyed my hair, my best friends wouldn’t know who I was. You get so used to seeing that red that when I stick it up under a cap, the change is dramatic.
I recognized her. She still wore basic black, but this time it was skinny black jeans and a scoop-necked T-shirt of Day-Glo chartreuse, topped off with a black sweater that looked like moths had been chewing the elbows. She had chartreuse ribbons in her jet-black hair. This woman was obviously a conservative. Roz would have sprayed lines of chartreuse dye.
I turned down the music, softening a fine Robert Johnson riff.
“How’d you get the cab?” she asked. “Boost it?”
“Don’t sweat,” I said. “We won’t get arrested.”
“How long’s this gonna take?”
“Depends how lucky we are. We’re gonna park in a cab stand, and you’ll look at some women and tell me if you see the one who brought that letter yesterday, and then I’ll pay you. I don’t want you identifying just anybody—”
“Hey, I wouldn’t do that.”
“Good. If you’re not sure, say so. Anybody you think of as a possible, I’ll take her picture.” I indicated the camera I’d placed on top of the meter.
“Hey, I could do that,” she said. “I’m a great photographer.”
And here I thought her only outlet for artistic expression was the candy-cane stripes on her fingernails.
“Well, I’d like to be a photographer,” she amended, “but you can’t make any good money at it.” She hefted the camera. “You ought to have a tripod.”
