Walking the Perfect Square (16 page)

“They don’t call him the Stick cause he’s skinny,” Rico winked. “If he hurt his knee like you, he wouldn’t have to buy a cane. Fuckin’ guy keeps the head warm in his sock. Big dick and a bigger mouth; he was gonna get wacked and ran. Amazin’ how talkative they get when it’s their ass is gonna get chopped up and thrown in the Fountain Avenue dump.”

I agreed. When I saw that he was finished, I started to tell him about where I’d gotten with Patrick Maloney. But just as Rico had stopped me from my stroll on the boardwalk, he stopped me now.

“That’s what I’m here about,” he said, pulling an envelope out of his coat pocket. “This is for you.”

Inside the envelope were ten crisp hundred-dollar bills, a phone number and someone’s name scrawled out on a sheet of stationery from Francis Maloney’s office.

“Who’s Brian Kupf?” I asked.

“When you and Aaron apply for your liquor license, give him a call. He’ll take good care a ya. The little donkey said the thousand should cover the work you’ve done.”

“What, no roses? No thank-you card?” I feigned disappointment. “I don’t get it. I—They haven’t found the kid yet. Isn’t the father getting a little ahead of himself?”

“What can I tell ya?” Rico shrugged. “I guess he figures now that he got a good lead, he can focus his forces. Makes sense to me.”

“If the lead is good.”

“I heard you thought it was,” he countered. So, Rico’d been talking to Sully. “Until now, Maloney’s had people lookin’ all over the fuckin’ map.”

“Even if it was really Patrick the witness saw, the kid could be a million miles away by now.”

“Maybe, but it’s two months already and he’s still close.” Rico was right, of course. “So anyways, even Francis Maloney doesn’t have unlimited funds. He’s trimmin’ the payroll a little. I’m sure you’re not the only guy gettin’ shown the door.”

“I guess.”

“Hey, for what, a week’s work, you pocketed a grand and a fast track on the liquor license. Be happy! Take the fuckin’ bread and run.” Rico looked at his watch. “Shit, it’s late. I gotta split.”

He sucked down his fortified coffee, shook my hand and headed for the door. He mentioned something about getting together for a night out. It was all pretty vague, perfunctory. In spite of the friendly, deprecating banter, I sensed a distance between Rico and me I couldn’t conveniently attribute to his wife’s prejudices. Even as he slipped out the door I felt him slipping away. The sun no longer seemed especially bright.

 

“I’M SORRY I didn’t get back to you,” she said breathlessly. “I just got back from—”

“—Hoboken.”

“Putting up posters and asking around. We had like a hundred and fifty volunteers. Everybody was rushing. After all the discouragement, this news . . . Listen, Moe,” Katy’s tone grew
suddenly serious, “was this witness—I mean, do you believe him? Do you think he really saw Patrick?”

“I do. Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“How,” I was curious, “did you know I spoke to the witness?”

“You have to ask?”

I guess I didn’t, not really. “Your dad.”

“I think he knew before the detective called him. He’s got friends, you know . . .”

“I know.”

“Isn’t it great news, about my brother?” she wanted my encouragement.

“Except for one thing,” I said. “I’m out of a job.”

There was loud silence on the other end of the phone. Then: “What? My dad fired you?”

I explained that “fired” wasn’t quite the right word. “Look, he didn’t exactly hire me in the first place. It was more of a trade type of thing; a favor for a favor. When I came on board, your family was grasping at straws. What harm could taking a flyer on me do? I’d gotten lucky once a long time ago. Maybe I’d get lucky again. As it turned out, you didn’t need my luck. Hey, at least I got to meet you.”

But she wasn’t having any. “It’s not right. I got a bad feeling about this.”

“Don’t turn superstitious on me,” I said, remembering Dr. Friar. “It was a business decision.”

More silence. “Can I hire you?”

“What?”

“Don’t turn deaf on me. You heard me. Will you work for me?”

It was an intriguing idea. Truth be known, I wasn’t happy about getting my walking papers at this stage of things. I knew too much to walk away fat and happy now. My curiosity hadn’t waned. Quite the opposite. I played for time: “Can we talk about it later?”

She relaxed: “We better or I’ll have to kick your ass.”

“Tough Catholic girls make me nuts. Think you can fit into your old plaid skir—”

“Watch it or I’ll kick you in the knee. Eight o’clock okay with you?”

“I’m afraid to say no. It’s fine. Where do—”

“Pooty’s,” she said, no hesitation in her voice.

I seconded the nomination without debate.

I GOT THERE purposefully early. Pooty’s was nearly empty, the jukebox quiet. Grimy as ever, you could almost hear the mold spores growing. Jaundiced Jack, the Shakespeare of single malts, was behind the bar chatting up some skinny peroxide girl. Maybe he was asking her to come back to his garret later so they could compare needle marks.

“Pete downstairs?”

He screwed up his face like he was getting ready to challenge me. Then, the dull bulb of recognition flickered. With supreme effort he smiled and tilted his head toward the staircase. Just as on my previous visit, Pete Parson was busy working an adding machine. I rapped on the wall outside the office. Turning, he recognized me right off. He didn’t smile.

“I didn’t expect a kiss,” I said, “but—”

“Sorry.” He offered me his hand.

“State Liquor Authority still busting your shoes?”

“With regularity,” he said, holding up several pink memo sheets. “These are all messages from their investigators wanting a piece a my time.”

“Here,” I handed him another sheet of paper.

“What’s this?”

“Give that guy a call,” I said, pointing to Brian Kupf’s name. “Tell him you’re a friend of mine and that Maloney says to get off your back. Try not to push him. I may need his help myself someday soon.”

“Why you doin’—”

“I don’t know if it’ll work, but try it. Did you hear, the cops found somebody says he saw the kid in Hoboken two days ago?”

“No shit!” he smiled. “Credible witness?”

“I think so.”

“Hey, thanks for this.” Parson held up the paper I’d given him. “Can I do anything for you?”

“I’m meeting a date here in a few minutes and—”

“I’ll call Jack upstairs and take care of it. Everything’s on the arm tonight. If either you or your date sees the bottom of your glass, you let me know. I’ll fire that conceited prick bartender so fast it’ll make his geeky little head spin. He’s good but he annoys the shit outta me.”

“Thanks, Pete.”

“Here,” he flipped me a roll of quarters. “That should keep the jukebox busy a while. And do me a favor, there’s this song Jack just hates. That Bruce Springsteen song. I don’t know. It’s got a sax in it. Something about tramps.”

“ ‘Born to Run?’”I said.

“That’s it.” He stood and clapped me on the back: “You got it. Play that song a few times. It makes Jack crazy. What’s he say, playing that song makes the bourgeois twerps from Jersey feel cool? Asshole’s from fuckin’ Dayton, Ohio, and he’s bad-mouthing Jersey? Play that song, play it a lot.”

Something popped up in the back of my mind, an idea, a random thought . . . I can’t tell you what, but it felt important. Something about music, maybe. Important or not, it was lost the minute Pete started talking again. He was going to come up to the bar and check on me, he said, and to see the look on Jack’s face when that song came on for the tenth time.

“You okay?”

“I think I was gonna say something,” I frowned, “but it’s gone.”

“I hate when that happens,” Pete commiserated. “Feels like an itch you can’t scratch.”

Upstairs, Jack was just getting off the phone with Pete when I sat down at the bar. He regarded me with all the enthusiasm of a coma victim. Apparently, gimpy ex-cops were just too uncool for words. He informed me that my money was no good at his bar; the evening’s tab was on the house. I played dumb. It was big of him, I said, throwing a twenty on the bar.

“How about tip money?” I coaxed. “Go ahead, take it.”

He hesitated like a starving dog sniffing poison meat. I could see the wheels turning behind his eyes, the fix already cooking in the spoon. Twenty bucks in the tip jar was a comfortable way to start the night, but what if Pete found out? Was it worth getting canned? He took it.

I pointed to the beer pulls: “Becks Dark. Hey, got any ABBA on the jukebox?”

He just rolled his eyes as I brought my pint over to the juke. I pumped about five bucks worth of quarters down the slot.

“If I ask nicely, will you show me your gun?” Katy whispered in my ear as she snuck up behind me.

“Depends how nicely you ask,” I said, not turning to face her. “What’ll you have? And don’t hold back. We’re drinking free tonight!”

“Glenfiddich, straight up. Why, what’s the occasion?”

Laughing, I said: “Your dad’s doing one of the owners a favor. I’ll explain later.” I handed her the roll of quarters. “Play whatever you’d like as long as you play 135 every few selections.”

She looked at the box. “I didn’t figure you for the Springsteen type.”

“He’s all right, but that’s not the point. I’ll explain that later, too.”

She joined me at the bar as the early Fab Four faded out. We clinked glasses, exchanging nervous pleasantries, saying how happy we were to be there. She said she’d punched in about ten more selections, 135 accounting for two of the ten. I explained about the bartender and Pete Parson and worked my way back to how her father was doing Pete a favor.

“Dad needed someone to blame,” she said.

“I figured as much. That’s why I’m doing what I am. I like this place. I’d hate to see it go under because of misplaced vengeance. So, how’d it go today?”

“It’s hard to say.”

Just then, a drummer pounded his skins, a sax let out a low sustained growl, a glockenspiel tinkled and a twangy guitar hummed. Number 135 filled the air: “In the day we sweat it out in the streets of a runaway American dream . . .”

“Oh, fuck!” Jack snarled. I almost spit out my beer. “Ooh, it’s the Boss,” he swooned. “Apocalypse on the fucking boardwalk. Did you play this?” Jack asked me.

“What can I tell you?” I shrugged. “You don’t have any ABBA.”

Katy nudged me. “I guess he really does hate this song.”

“I have a funny feeling that by the end of the evening we’re not gonna be very fond of it ourselves.”

Pooty’s wasn’t the type of place where folks made an entrance. People just sort of drifted in off the street. It was happening now,
empty bar stools filling up around us. We watched the door, trying to guess what kind of jobs the most recent arrivals were out of.

“Actress,” Katy elbowed me, as a lean, hollow-faced girl came in.

“Dancer,” I argued. “Look at those legs.”

When two young guys dressed in Rutgers sweatshirts walked through the door and headed straight for the jukebox, Katy and I looked immediately at Jack. He cursed under his breath and started singing: “ ‘Dancing queen, she’s so sweet, only seventeen . . .’ Maybe ABBA isn’t such a bad idea,” he smiled, refilling our glasses.

I repeated my question about the day’s progress in Hoboken. The results, she answered, were decidedly mixed. Their goal for the day had been to find at least one, hopefully two other people who could place Patrick at or near the shopping center at approximately the same time Mr. Sica had reported seeing him there.

“Right now,” she said, “our optimism is like a broken stool standing on one rickety leg.”

“Enzo Sica.”

“And,” Katy continued, “it’s leaning against a wall of blind hope. But if we could find other witnesses, our optimism would stand on more solid footing and we could move it off the wall.”

They had found a few people who claimed to have seen Patrick, but when pressed none of the potential witnesses panned out. Some got the time all wrong. Some the place. The ones who got those details right, couldn’t swear they hadn’t confused their own memories with what they’d read in the papers. None remembered the shopping bags. Again, a detail omitted to help weed out the cranks and treasure hunters.

It was the strong impression the nervous young man had left on Enzo Sica that helped convince Sully and me the old stone mason was being truthful. Today’s witnesses were not so impressed by who they had or thought they had seen. Katy didn’t think that made them liars, but . . .