Whiskey’s Gone (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 3) (23 page)

The other day he had the nerve to bring his latest home, right under my nose—me standing there trying to warn the poor thing. At first she didn’t get the picture, but when she saw my beaten face, she gave Arthur a few bats of her eyelashes, and turning on her heels like a tractor churning up fallow ground, she stormed out.

When Ma died, I inherited her 1986 Dodge Caravan, rusted out but it ran, a maroon eyesore. Every other day I had to move it. So when Arthur and I started going out for serious, he decided we should drive the Dodge and see the world. We got as far as St. Louis when the caravan went kaput. We took the bus home.

But the trip turned out good because staring out the window at the speed blur of America, I decided that Arthur was a broken dream, like the St. Louis we never got to see. I remember all the hot cars whizzing by like we were toys and all those cars filled with people who were somebodies, looking down their long noses at us nobodies. And you know what, Whiskey? I realized then and there that Arthur was like Ma’s rusted-out Dodge, busted long before he knocked on my door.
 

Do you understand, Whiskey? How I wish I’d never met him. He’s made my life a misery when he’s sober, made my life into a tragedy when he’s had a few. Like the other night, I could hear him coming home, his unsteady tread in the hall. I don’t know where I got the strength, but I got behind the dresser and pushed and shoved until it was wedged underneath the knob, and all the while he’s whistling at the front door and singing one of those bawdy tunes.

Even now I hear the key in the lock, and I’m sweating and he’s pounding on the wood outside, “Open up, goddammit, Flossie,” and I’m praying to the holy lady and he’s slamming on the jamb and finally the dresser tips and he tumbles inside.

I crouched in the corner, no lights in the apartment. My heart was beating like a banshee, and he grabbed me and shook me and beat me good. I could have died. I wish I had.

I’m a goner, don’t you see, Whiskey? My life’s over, but you, you still got a lot of fight in you. If you know what’s good for you and your little girl, don’t go running to him when he calls you, no matter what he says. Because Arthur’s touch is a rattler’s bite.

Coney Island

I shut the book and listened to the conversation coming from the backseats.

“So why aren’t you wearing your uniforms?” someone asked Clancy and Denny.

“Because today they’re snoops,” someone said.

“Zip it, Johnny,” Kit said.

I gave them a mini lecture on surveillance, on the need for blending in by wearing ordinary clothes, concealing gear that might look unusual. To illustrate, I pulled binoculars out of my bag to show them. For the first time I looked at their clothes and decided they wouldn’t need a cover, at least I didn’t think so. But I could tell no one was listening to me. Heather began rooting through her backpack while the others whispered or squirmed or texted.

Teenagers have a way of talking to one another that excludes adults. They speak a language that makes no sense except to themselves. I know, because Cookie and I used to do the same thing. Measured in years, it wasn’t so long ago, but right now it felt as far away as the stars.

“What do you think you’re doing?” someone asked Heather.

Suppressed sniggers in the back. More rustling.

“Getting out her notebook,” Kit said. I could tell she was Rina Rosanova’s daughter—a younger version without paint spots on her clothes.

“Just use your phone, stupid.”

“You’re mouth is steaming up the windows!”

“Is not!”

“Is too!”

“You’re fierce!”

Cookie shot me an eye roll.

“What are we doing again?” Johnny asked.

“You’ve got the picture of Arthur?” Cookie asked.

They nodded. Johnny said something under his breath. Elbowing and mumbling followed, but the mood was changing, I could tell, into something I’d call almost expectant, and I knew I had to give Brandy and her friends some more direction if this was going to work.

“You’re asking store owners and others if they’ve seen Arthur recently. If so, ask them where. Get as much detail as you can—date, time of day, address.” I explained again about not giving away information. “For instance, don’t use his name, just show his picture to whomever you’re asking.”

“You talk like a teacher.”

Denny turned and smiled at me.

“Tell them he’s a friend of your uncle and you’re trying to find him,” Cookie said.

I heard them muttering about who was going to do the talking. Brandy appointed herself.

“Can we go on the rides? I want to go on the Cyclone again. My dad took me right before he died,” Brandy said.

Silence for a few seconds.

“I don’t see why not.”

“Because this is a weekday,” Cookie said. “No rides will be open.”

“You’re wrong there,” Brandy said. “My mom read it. The rides will be open today, I don’t know why.”

“Because they want our money, stupid,” someone said.

“But we’re not here to go on the rides,” Brandy said.

Silence for a minute.

“Remember, you’re supposed to be kids having fun at Coney Island, so you’ve got to act the part,” Denny said. “Go on the Wonder Wheel and the Cyclone. Who knows, you might look down and see Arthur staring up at you.” He looked at me and winked. I got the impression he and Clancy thought this whole surveillance thing with kids was a dumb idea. Maybe so, but Brandy’s group had already fed me with information. They were the ones who spotted Arthur going into Cody’s; they were the ones who found Malcolm’s van for me. Maybe they’d get lucky in Luna Park.

“We can take pictures like we’re tourists or something.”

“Right. But remember, you need to be focused on your target. Look until your eyeballs drop. It’s a lot of work. You may come away with nothing.”

I could feel Brandy shaking her head. “We’re going to find Whiskey.”

“That’s not going to happen today, but you may uncover a small chunk of information, just like you did last night when you found Malcolm.” I told them about my meeting with him. Someone said it was a waste of time because I didn’t find Whiskey.

“Not at all,” I said. “Because in talking to Malcolm, I got a better picture of Whiskey’s past. And the more I understand her past, the better chance we have of finding her. That’s why we’re looking for Arthur.”

They chewed on that. I didn’t say it, but I wondered what would happen when we found Arthur. Would we also discover Whiskey’s body tied up in some dark corner of his apartment? A jolt of fear zinged up my spine.

“There’s always that magic moment when you find a tiny piece of information. You think it’s nothing at the time, a throwaway, but it turns out to be the key to unraveling the mystery. We’ll find Whiskey, but only with persistence and hard work.”

Someone spotted the Cyclone. I cracked open my window and smelled the sea.

“Check out Nathan’s Famous and guys hovering around cotton candy booths,” Clancy said.

“Don’t forget men sweeping up or maybe selling cotton candy or working the rides,” Denny said. “But watch out for the seagulls. They can be mean. And more important, if you spot this guy, Arthur, text us at once. Don’t get too close to him. He might be dangerous.”

“He might have a gun,” Clancy said.

Suddenly the kids were silent.

We found parking on a side street near the boardwalk, and I watched Brandy and her friends, mute, heads turning this way and that, as they walked in front of us. I guessed they were sober from the weight of what they were doing. I told them we’d split, adults and kids, and to meet us in front of the Wonder Wheel in an hour.

“Can we split up into two or three smaller groups?” Brandy asked.

The first word out of my mouth was going to be no, but I bit my tongue, remembering how I felt when I was Brandy’s age, and worse, what I did when an adult told me not to do something.

“That gets complicated. I mean, think about it. What if you see Arthur? You’re going to text me and then have to find the others while you tail him? I don’t think so.”

They huddled into a group, discussing, but I heard Heather or Brandy hiss something to the others.

“Above all, have fun, otherwise you’ll blow your cover,” Denny said, and their mood changed from anxious to solemn. It figured—say one thing and they feel the opposite of what you’d expect. But I felt the same somberness. Getting closer to the rides usually gave me an exhilarated feeling—I love Luna Park and Coney Island—but today I felt the weight of Whiskey’s absence and the daunting task of finding Arthur. If NYPD detectives couldn’t find him, how would we?

We separated then, Brandy and her group drifting toward the rides while we made for the boardwalk.

It was crowded for a weekday, but we walked up and down, listening to the gulls and feeling the spray of the sea and looking for Arthur. At one point, Cookie thought she spotted him, but the man turned out to be a father looking vaguely like the dipsomaniac, at least having dark red hair and wearing a similar flannel shirt, but surrounded by his six kids.

An hour later, we were standing in front of Nathan’s Famous, shooing off the seagulls and waiting for Clancy and Denny to finish their third hot dog when my phone began vibrating. It was Brandy.

She spoke in hushed tones. “He’s here. I know he is. I can feel him close by. Heather and I swore we saw him. The others said no, but they were busy talking to this guy, a mechanic who works on the rides. He said he’s a friend of Arthur.”

“Do you see him now?”

She didn’t reply.

I heard the crashing of the waves, voices in the background, and felt something sour travel up to my throat. I looked at Denny, who understood and gave me a hug.

“They’ve seen him,” I said.

“So soon?” Clancy asked through a bite of hot dog.

Cookie sipped her coffee. “What was he wearing? Did they take a picture?”

Brandy must have heard through my speaker. “He had on the same shirt as last night. I was talking and turned around. I saw him out of the corner of my eye, no time to take a pic. We’re near the Wonder Wheel. Better get here fast before this friend of his disappears. I told him that you’d want to talk to him.”

“This better be good,” Denny said. The wind off the sea was hitting me, and the birds were crying, practically plucking the last of Denny’s hot dog out of his hands. It took us a few minutes to walk from Surf Avenue to the Wonder Wheel.

“He’s over there,” Brandy said, pointing to a squat man standing near a small refreshment stand.

“We’re going to walk around,” she said.

“Why?”

“To find Arthur.” The rest of her gang nodded. I noticed they held their smartphones in their hands but, amazingly, weren’t texting.

Clancy shook his head. “Too dangerous. Wait for us over there.”

“We’ll find him, but we’re going to work together,” Denny said.

The kids slouched against a ride a few feet from us while we talked to the man they’d found who knew Arthur. He introduced himself as Zeno, but he didn’t need to tell us—his name was sewn in gold letters on the breast pocket of his blue jumpsuit. One look at his greased-up fingers told me he was a mechanic. To prove it, he held a half-eaten donut in one thick mitt and an oil gun in the other.

“Park’s supposed to be closed. We’d gotten the rides all buttoned down, ready to move south, me and the missus. Got the RV already packed and look what happens, the schmucks decide to keep it open extra days.”

He paused to finish the donut, licking the last of it from his fingers. “Whoever did this to us must be having a brain fart, meaning the regulars now need extra help. Most of the guys have already gone south, but I’m a sucker, I tell you. So now I got the old lady sore as hell at me because she wants to hook up with her friends in Delray Beach, meaning nag, nag, nag in my ear and twice the work to boot. But they’re paying me good, so why do I complain? Beats the shit out of me, just not used to sticking around.”

“You know this guy?” I asked, holding up Arthur’s picture.

“Sure I know Arthur. Everyone knows Arthur. Regular fixture around here, what do you think? Him and me, we go way back from the time of Desert Storm and before.”

“When did you last see him?”

He jerked his thumb, pointing in back of his shoulder. “He was just here.”

“When, exactly?”

His forehead furrowed. “Couple minutes ago. Me and him got caught up on a lot of crap. He owes me money, the bastard. Says he’ll pay it soon, too. Then he takes off.”

“Do you have an address? A cell phone?”

“You kidding? Like I say, I know Arthur from way back. But I know Arthur to see him around and that’s it. Think I’d be friends with that kind of guy? You got another think. I wouldn’t be caught dead in his house.”

“Why?” Denny asked.

“You trying to be a cop or something? Meaning he’s not my friend, far from it.” The mechanic swiped at his nose with his sleeve.

“But he lives around here?”

Zeno took out a large handkerchief, immaculate. It looked like a sail in his hands. He shook it open and blew. “Got a place somewhere on Neptune Avenue. Must be close by. Say, what’s he done this time?”

Zeno was about to leave but Cookie stopped him. “Have you ever seen Arthur with anyone else, a woman?”

He laughed. “You got to be kidding. Plenty of times. Got plenty of buddies and plenty of broads. Hangs out in the bars. Can’t help but love the guy, even though he owes me big time. Something about him, though. For one, he’s a drinker. The old lady saw him loaded once. That was it. Said to steer clear of him, and I do what she says or forget about it.”

He stopped talking, and I thought that was all we were going to get from Zeno, but I was wrong, I realized as I stared at him while he interrupted himself for a blow into his handkerchief.

“Long time ago Arthur was friends with a guy, an old army buddy, he said. Used to see them around, meaning if you saw Arthur, Berringer wouldn’t be far away. You see one, you see the other. Joined the army together, came back together. The wife didn’t like them, told me they were trouble, told me to steer clear.”