Dead Anyway (19 page)

I wrote Evelyn and asked her to wire the money to one of my accounts, with promises to explain when I got the chance. Then I packed a duffle bag, filled up the Outback with boxes of electronics and drove to Hartford.

I’d been to Hartford frequently enough to have a general idea of the layout. The city itself was a tight cluster of office buildings surrounded by mostly poor African-American and Hispanic neighborhoods. Across the Connecticut River was working-class East Hartford. West Hartford was principally an affluent reserve, though along the border with the city there were several blocks of wood frame, multi-family housing.

I headed there first.

Two of the apartments had either too many stairs, or not enough parking to accommodate the Outback and the food truck. A third was close, but a kid on the first floor was practicing a tortured rendition of “Foxy Lady.” The rental agent forced a smile and we moved on.

The fourth stop was an ordinary house with a grandmother apartment above the garage in the back. There was plenty of parking, with a small, privately-owned convenience store—what in New York you’d call a bodega—within easy walking distance. The apartment had two bedrooms, one of which I could use for the computers. The agent warned me it was a little over my budget, but she knew I’d like it. Thus explaining why it was the last one we saw.

She confirmed that one of the garage bays was available, though for another hundred bucks a month. I wrote her a check for the security deposit and six months in advance. She looked at me like I’d swindled her.

“There are some even nicer places on the other side of Farmington Avenue,” she said, hopefully.

“This’ll do.”

I’d already moved in the computer equipment and miscellaneous gadgets, unpacked my growing wardrobe and filled out a shopping list when someone knocked at the door. It was a short woman, swarthy and broad of beam. She stuck out her hand.

“I’m Louisa Colon-Cordero, the owner of this little house.”

“I’m Alex Rimes,” I said, taking her hand. “The happy renter of this little house.”

“I want no noise, no crazy parties, no trouble requiring the police,” she said. “The rental people tell me not to say this, but I think it’s good to lay down the rules of the road.”

“I want the same thing. I hope you will honor my wishes,” I said to her in Spanish.

She looked confused, then lit up with a smile that seemed to extend past her face.

“Very good joke,” she said in English. “We will be fine.”

“I only know Castilian.”

“My father was a professor of biology,” she said in Spanish, struggling to maintain proper Castilian usage and inflection. “We had many fine people from Spain in our home. My grandfather rode a white horse in the Mexican Revolution,” she added, probably out of habit. “He brought it over from Spain. In a boat. He owned a ranch, but gave it to the people. This is the type of people my family have been. It’s too bad Marcelino, my husband, was so jealous of them. He died unhappy. Leaving me this house,” she added, with a sweep of her hand, as if to both define and celebrate her good fortune, despite the intervention of great tragedy.

I thanked her again for the privilege of renting her little apartment, the charm and cleanliness of which she spared no effort to go unacknowledged, after which she left me, reluctantly it seemed, her proclaimed defense of my privacy notwithstanding.

Señora Colon-Cordero’s pride in her apartment was justified; it was a very charming and comfortable place. Especially after months of subsistence accommodation, I couldn’t help but notice. I wondered what that meant—if I was getting healthier, or simply more alert to my surroundings.

Either way, I didn’t care. I had things to do.

B
ILLY
R
OMANO
was true to his word. The truck and onboard equipment was in perfect condition. Every surface was sparkling clean and the cab was like a cozy living room.

Billy himself was just as tidy. Short, well put together and defiant.

“So what did you think,” he said, for no good reason, “a piece of crap, right?”

“I never thought that,” I said. “I’m not thinking that now.”

He was only partially satisfied with my answer. Trust was likely hard-earned with Billy.

“Okay, so what else do you need to know?”

I asked about the route and permissions from the various manufacturing outfits and construction sites. He pulled an iPad out from where it was tucked into his belt and swished his fingers over the touch pad. Then he held up an Excel document.

“It’s all here,” he said. “Read at will.”

As he said, all the routes, addresses, arrivals and departures, the names and birthdays of security people—a complete dossier elegantly laid out on a series of spreadsheets.

“Didn’t expect that from a dumb gumba, eh?” he asked. “I’ve got a degree in accounting. Tried it for a few years, hated getting stuck behind a desk. Plus I’m a people person. The kind of interaction you get when you’re auditing somebody’s books isn’t what I’m lookin’ for.”

“I never make assumptions about people. Unlike what you’re doing with me right now,” I said, in as light a way as I could.

He smiled at that.

“Touché. Which leads me to ask, if you don’t mind, why the interest in this business?”

“I also hate being stuck behind a desk. I’m not a people person, but I’m very polite.”

From there we did a little more gratuitous haggling, and eventually came up with a figure we could agree on. Though he tried to hide it, Billy looked happier and happier as things progressed.

“It’s physical work,” he said. “Just so you know. In and outta the truck, tossing donuts and sandwiches around, pouring coffee. And all the time talkin’ it up with the customers. There’re a lotta sites, and you’re competing with other trucks. You can’t be a surly asshole and go alienating people, no matter what you’re feeling at the time.”

He spent another hour sharing tricks of the trade, eventually drifting into oft-told anecdotes, which I listened to just as carefully. As a researcher, I knew this is where some of the most valuable information was revealed.

“So, Collingsworth Machine Tool and Metals Company. The security must be pretty tough,” I said.

He made a sour face.

“Tough? There’s more gold stored there than they got at Fort Knox. But once you’re in, like me, it’s no biggy.”

“So no background checks.”

He looked at me with a careful eye.

“Got a few skeletons in the closet?” he asked.

“Something like that.”

He shrugged.

“Don’t we all. No, no background checks for the roach coaches. We never get past the parking lot.”

Not long after, we settled on a time and place to make the transfer, and by then Billy had evolved beyond hostility to outright bonhomie.

“Hey, you wanna go get a drink?” he asked. “Celebrate the beginning of your new life?”

I demurred, citing an AA pledge and a commitment to early bedtime. He honored my choice.

“I respect that, man. You’re a man of integrity. Serve you well in the food truck industry.”

We parted in a fog of mutual good will.

C
HAPTER
15

I
spent most of that night working out money transfers with Evelyn, researching the various industrial plants served by “Grub On The Go,” and reading up on food truck cuisine.

I wasn’t much of a cook, always deferring to Florencia, the daughter of Chilean political refugees who were also passionate gourmets. But this didn’t look all that hard. Strategic procurement was the most important ingredient, and coffee the prime mover.

As part of the deal, Billy Romano rode with me for a few days, showing me where to park and introducing me to people. It was brisk work, but manageable. The biggest challenge was making change, greatly facilitated by the use of a calculator, which drew some faint derision from Romano. I told him with practice I’d get better, which was true, as my brain continued to rewire itself.

Once on my own, I slipped easily into a steady routine, the only hindrance being the weather, which surprised me with a series of snowstorms. It was indicative of my complete indifference to external circumstances. I recognized the mental state: back in my old life I’d often lose myself when engrossed in a project or mental exercise. In this life, I was so oblivious to the natural world that a volcano could erupt in downtown Hartford and I wouldn’t notice. I’d often wander off on a mission in my shirtsleeves, despite freezing temperatures, or find myself standing in the rain, hatless and drenched to the bone.

I had no idea what was going on in the world at large. I never read or listened to the news, never took note of an advertisement or paused on any web site with no relevance to the task at hand.

That I didn’t disappear into obsessive oblivion was owed to regular trips south to meet Natsumi for dinner. Oddly, with every encounter, the urge to reveal more and more of myself grew. As if my mind was fracturing into two parts—the reclusive and the confessional.

Natsumi’s perceptive nature was a contributor.

“You work very hard at keeping the focus of our conversations on me,” she said one evening. “What I did today, my mother’s health, what I think of the political situation. I like the attentiveness. You do it so well. But I only get the tiniest glimpses of you before you pivot away. Most adeptly, I should add.”

“My life isn’t very interesting,” I said.

“You should let me be the judge of that. And anyway, that’s what people always say when they don’t want to tell you about themselves.”

“How do you know that? You’ve met so many of these people?”

“See. That’s how you do it. It’s very tricky. But don’t feel bad. I like you anyway.”

“You do? That’s so interesting.”

“You really miss your wife,” she said, matter-of-factly. “What was her name?”

I felt something twist in my chest, a reaction to the unholy stew of grief, paranoia, guilt and regret.

“I can’t speak her name,” I said.

She reached across the table and took my hand.

“You don’t want to make something up. But you can’t tell me her real name. Because then I’ll know who you really are.”

“I’m John Oswald.”

“No, you’re not. There’s no one in Connecticut named John Oswald who looks or sounds like you.” I tried to pull my hand away, but she held her grip. “Bela Chalupnik has disappeared. The guy from security we talked to in the bar reported it to HR. Ron Irving called me into his office to ask about you. My friend told him she’d sent me Bela’s photo. She’s not my friend anymore.”

I gripped her hand back.

“What did you tell Irving?”

“That I just met you that night at the Sail Inn and never saw you again. This is why I wanted to meet up in Old Saybrook tonight. It’s why I tried to find you online.”

“Why didn’t you tell him the truth?” I asked.

“What truth? I don’t know what the truth is,” she said, somehow managing to keep accusation out of her voice. “But really, I’d rather see you than make you talk to me. It’s okay, I just don’t want you to think I’m too dumb to notice you probably aren’t who you say you are.”

“You are anything but dumb,” I said, sitting back in the seat and pushing away my meal.

“Not that I’d mind,” she said. “If you let me in a little. Women don’t like it when men don’t share.”

“You learned that in psychology class?”

“No. Our mothers teach us from birth. By the way, finals are next week. After I finish a big paper, I’ll have my degree.”

At that point I again demonstrated my skills at deflection, or more likely her willingness to be deflected, by chatting about psychology. And thus the night continued in an agreeable fashion, ending as it always did in the parking lot where I escorted her to her car. She pushed the key remote as we approached and I opened the door for her.

Before she got in, she took my head in both hands and pulled me to her face.

“Someday you need to invite me home,” she said in a near whisper. “Consider that an incentive.”

And then she drove away, leaving me with a whole different stew of conflicting emotions.

T
HE
C
OLLINGSWORTH
Machine Tool and Metals Company had been established in 1854, and was therefore well entrenched in the Hartford area, a sober place that put a high premium on longevity. Originally a large-scale smelter, they’d evolved through the years, slowly shedding their tool business and drifting into recycling, specializing in exotic metallurgy. So by the late twentieth century, they’d made the logical transition into salvaging precious metals from used electronic gear, which eventually became their sole business.

The CMT&M plant just inside the West Hartford border was not only my most lucrative stop, it was where I most wanted to spend my time. Billy Romano had been a popular attraction out in the parking lot during the four o’clock coffee and fattening treat break, so the CMT&M troops were grateful that losing Billy didn’t mean an interruption in service. With fears assuaged, I quickly developed an easy rapport. Billy was clearly happy about this, thinking that any personality clash would wreck the whole concept, a possibility he assiduously sought to avoid.

“You got a way with people,” he said to me. “This is the key to success in the food truck industry. There’s a lot of flexibility in terms of food and drink quality, but if the personal touch isn’t there, it’s not happening.”

And so after about two weeks serving sandwiches, donuts and coffee at CMT&M, I’d begun to learn people’s names and what they did at the plant. Of particular interest was a guy named Leo Dunlop, who worked as a billing manager.

“I admire that,” I told him. “Anybody who can work with numbers. Never my thing.”

“Not me,” said Leo. “Never met a number I didn’t like.”

“Plus I could never sit in the same place every day,” I went on, after pouring out his coffee. “You can tell, I’m a run around kinda guy.”

“These days you can work anywheres,” he said. “Have laptop, will travel.”

I showed no more interest, so Leo had little idea that there was nothing more interesting to me than him.