The Big Dig (4 page)

Here it comes,
I thought, and suddenly I knew with cool certainty why the bastard had hired me. Because I used to be with a guy named Sam Gianelli.
Used to
. And the Gianelli name is so identified with the Boston mob that the fact that my lover—ex-lover—Sam Gianelli, youngest son of mob underboss Anthony Gianelli, has
never
been a player, never been a North End soldier, is something nobody, but nobody believes.

“You could maybe just keep your ears open,” Eddie muttered.

I punched the button to cut the connection, took a deep breath, drank a glass of cold water. Then I went back to my living-room office and enthusiastically accepted Dana Endicott's case. If Eddie hadn't pissed me off I might not have taken it. But I figured it this way: He didn't tell me everything when he hired me. Okay. So I wouldn't tell him everything, either. And a little high-priced moonlighting would go a long way toward dispelling my anger. I've never been a Mafia moll and I don't like being taken for one.

The missing woman and I
had something in common: We both worked two jobs. Veronica James did days at a sort of pet camp, nights at a bar-restaurant combo called Raquela's. By the time I'd finished quizzing Dana Endicott, filling twenty-eight pages with facts and queries, it was past seven, and my rumbling stomach influenced my decision to start the search with Veronica's night job. Raquela's served food.

Dana had been late for a dinner engagement, so my first impulse—to examine the tenant's room—hadn't panned out. Another time, she assured me, signing a very substantial check as a retainer. I had her card; I should call and schedule an appointment.

Arthur Goldman, the lawyer, still at his desk, verified that Dana Endicott was indeed a client and a good one, too. Her parents had been clients, before they'd moved to New York, and her grandparents, he believed, had been clients of his mentor at the firm. In other words, the check wouldn't bounce. I filled out a deposit slip, stopped at the bank on my way to dinner.

Not only are missing persons cases more my speed than construction fraud, smoke-filled bars are more my idea of places to investigate than early-morning building sites. Raquela's was long and narrow, dimly lit, with a mahogany bar slicing it narrower, running the length of the room. Leather swivel bar stools with high backs sprouted from the wooden floor on metal poles. I chose a seat toward the rear, where I could keep an eye on the tables reflected in the long mirror behind the bar.

I'd never visited the place as a customer. Too much of a pickup joint, with its trendy waterfront location. Wrong kind of sound, piped-in Sinatra and swing instead of live blues. I inhaled secondhand smoke and sipped overpriced beer. The clientele, mostly white, with lots of lawyers, to judge by the conservative suits, looked well-off, pleasantly buzzed on a mix of alcohol and affluence. I checked out the dating couples at the small tables, marvelling at the age differential, the youthfulness, feigned or otherwise, of the women as opposed to the men. I wondered how many of the ladies hailed from nearby colleges, how many had been ordered from escort services the way you'd order a lamb chop off the menu. One large group, more male than female, at a corner booth had the weary cheerfulness of an after-office drinks session that had stretched into dinner and more drinks. I marked a couple of women on bar stools as pros, trolling for out-of-town conventioneers. I thought maybe I'd booked one of them when I was a cop. Same narrow eyes, but the brassy wig gave her a different look. I was glad I'd dressed down. Slacks and sweater, minimal gold jewelry. I didn't want to be mistaken for a pro.

The only TV was a small one over the bar, tuned to CNN. Not enough screens to attract a sports crowd. I found myself wondering if Sam Gianelli ever strolled over from his Charles River Park apartment. Not that I was actually hoping he'd walk in and give me the kind of lazy smile that tingled up my backbone. It was simply that he'd be good cover; a date is always good cover. Couples fit in a bar, blend into the background. A single at a bar is either interested in losing that designation or in getting quietly and thoroughly drunk.

I have considerable bar experience. My ex and I hung at a series of Irish pubs, but I expanded my repertoire after he left. For a while, I barhopped with a vengeance, picking up a different man each night, bringing him home. I was lucky, I insisted on protection, and I got over it. And then there was Sam and I haven't gotten over him, although I haven't seen him in some time. I can still dial his number from memory, but damned if I wanted to do it in response to a business query from Eddie Conklin. I ordered another beer, tugged at a strand of my wrong-colored hair.

You can divide missing persons cases into categories. Start with the absentminded frequent flyer who forgets to tell the wife about the conference in Dubuque. Then consider missing stockholders and no-show heirs, usually sought by attorneys rather than anxious family members. Those are bread-and-butter cases for PIs like me. I also handle adoptees searching for birth parents and birth parents searching for a long-surrendered child. The common denominator in the above is that the missing person has no idea they're classified AWOL. They take no evasive action.

Those who intentionally disappear make for dicier trade. Loan skips spend and run, and professional skip tracers make a good living tracking them through the bureaucratic labyrinths of banks and utility companies. Teenage runaways are another special group; I keep an updated list of runaway shelters and hotlines to help track them. Custodial kidnappings turn small children into divorce-settlement pawns. Those who disappear intentionally are harder to find; they live on alert, change their names, alter their habits.

The missing woman, Veronica, Veejay, didn't fit neatly into any of my categories. On the face of it, she'd gone off voluntarily. On the other hand, she'd left her dog.

My cat is an independent operator. He goes his way; I go mine. As long as the water dish is full and an occasional can of Fancy Feast appears, T.C.'s fine, and I strongly suspect he could fend for himself if I forgot all about him. According to Dana Endicott, Tandy, Veronica's Norwegian elkhound, required both vigorous walking and elaborate grooming. I sipped beer, hardly noticing its taste.

I'd called area hospitals before leaving the house, not that I thought I'd locate Veronica that way, since amnesiacs with no identification only inhabit the world of daytime soaps, but because I knew I'd feel dumb if I ignored the possibility and she turned up in a coma at the General. I'd also dialed the morgue, because I'm thorough and because I know a guy who works there. No 5'6", thin, dark-haired woman was lying unidentified in an emergency room or unclaimed in a refrigerated drawer.

The beer slid down easily. The waiters wore unisex uniforms of tight black jeans, white tees—the women's version low-cut—small white aprons with pockets for checks and change. They seemed efficient, except for one who looked increasingly desperate as the night wore on. I tagged her as Veronica's replacement.

The bartender, in his fifties, with a narrow, lined face, wore a neatly trimmed beard. None of his motions seemed hurried, but he got things done with such lack of fuss and quick economical movements that if he quit, they'd have to hire two to replace him. The regulars called him Carl, and enough of them asked how business was that I decided he wouldn't quit since he was probably an owner. When I ordered my next round, I asked whether Veronica would be in later. Veejay.

“You a friend?”

“Friend of a friend.”

“Tell your friend to tell Veejay she better gimme a call. I don't hear from her, she's toast. I mean, what am I supposed to do, run the bar
and
wait the tables?”

“Heidi here?” It was a name Dana had tossed out. Sometimes Veejay mentioned her.

“Heidi's always here.”

She wasn't your typical Heidi. No tall strapping blonde with crisscrossed braids, yodeling away in lederhosen. Small, dark, and the only characteristic she shared with the girls' book heroine I remembered was rosy cheeks. Carl pointed her out and I watched her work until I knew which tables she served. When a couple paid up and left, I took their place.

The menu, as trendy as the location, featured Chilean sea bass and Tuscan steak, neither of which I felt like eating, not even on a rich client's dime. I ordered a burger, which they offered with my choice of cheese, although Velveeta was not an option. Heidi asked if anyone was going to join me and I said I'd hoped Veejay would, but she hadn't shown up.

“You okay on the beer?”

When it came, the burger was big and meaty and unhealthy and I loved it. A pile of fried onion rings mounded the plate. I requested ketchup, and when Heidi wound her way back through the closely spaced tables, I said, “Veejay talked about you.”

“Say anything nasty?”

“No.”

“Okay, then.”

“You know when she's due in?”

She shrugged. “Overdue is what she is.”

“If you've got a minute, I'll buy you a beer.”

Her lips formed a smile. “Why not?”

The “minute” didn't come for forty-five, by which time I'd eaten every onion ring, greasy and salty. I'd watched the shifting traffic patterns at the bar, and I knew that the man at the table behind me was contemplating a fishing trip with his wife's best friend, and pooh-poohing the buddy who warned him his wife would surely find out. I was wondering how long the buddy would hold out before informing the wife when Heidi yanked a chair and sank into it, flexing her booted feet.

I could have told the truth, that I'd been hired to find Veejay, but the beers were buzzing through my bloodstream, and it seemed easier to continue my tale of casual friendship. We traded “Do you know so-and-so's” before I returned to my pal's no-show status.

“Soon as she walks in, Carl's gonna fire Elvira's ass.” Heidi spoke with a satisfaction that boded ill for Elvira.

“Did Veejay work Friday night? I could have made a mistake; maybe she said to meet her Friday.”

“She wasn't here. Grabbed the whole weekend, trading shifts and begging, which pissed Carl off plenty. He sure hates to see anybody get a weekend.”

“Why?”

“Maybe 'cause he hasn't had one since the flood. And then when she didn't show Monday, well, that seemed to prove his point. Elvira's covering, but she can't keep orders straight worth a damn. I mean, look at her tables; everybody glaring.”

Heidi didn't know how Veejay had heard about the waitressing job. She thought she'd worked there maybe a year, maybe a little less. Kept to herself, didn't have any real friends on the staff. The longer we spoke, the more obvious it became; while the two women may have talked, they hadn't shared secrets. Heidi knew more about Veejay's dog than she did about her friends.

“She like waitressing?” I asked.

“Hey, what she likes is what we all like. The money. Prices aren't exactly cheap, and the tips are good. Conventioneers, lawyers showing off for their clients. These guys don't stiff you. Even the lunch business is good.”

“Veejay work lunch?”

“Nah. Carl's always trying to land her full-time, but she likes that dog stuff she does. If they paid more, she'd quit here fast enough.”

“Maybe the dog place gave her a raise.”

“She's not some dimwit just wouldn't show up. She'd tell Carl.”
Veejay isn't the type to disappear with no notice.
It was good to have Dana Endicott's opinion seconded.

“I can't figure it,” I agreed. “Unless she met a new guy.” I nodded in the direction of a waiter with a well-muscled build and pale gold hair.

“Walter? No way. Strictly off-limits. Married and religious both. Definitely not.”

“One of the others?”

“Well, we got old Carl, and gorgeous Walter, and two Freds, tall and short. And Marty.” She seemed to consider the possibilities with relish before shaking her head.

“A customer?” I asked.

“No way.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Guys don't hit on the help?”

“Oh, yeah, you think when you get this job, yeah, boy, lots of guys, lots of hits, but who looks at the waitress, huh? The winners come in with heavy dates, and they're so focused they can't even remember who took their order. The rowdies, the guys looking to get drunk, who wants 'em? Veejay had this bunch Thursday night, thought we'd have to call the cops.”

“Regulars?”

“Carl showed 'em the door. Didn't need cops.”

When I wondered aloud whether Veejay had known the rowdies, Heidi said she didn't think so, hurriedly thanked me for the drink, and said she had to get back on the job. I glanced in the mirror to see if Carl had given her a signal. The brassy-haired woman was no longer seated at a bar stool, but if she paid Carl a percentage, she might have tipped him about my former occupation. Not much goes on in a joint that a good bartender doesn't notice.

I stayed at the table till the check came, watching the waiters do their semi-invisible dance, wondering if there existed a more anonymous occupation in the world than waiting tables. Several of the help had the hopeful air of college students, part-timers on their way to better things. A couple, including Elvira, had the desperate demeanor of people who needed the job, maybe kids at home, a spouse in jail. Heidi had a strong Townie accent, but seemed smart enough. Was this the best gig she could land? Did she see it as more glamorous, less restricting than an office job?

The hostess wore stiletto heels and a glittery top—evidence, my little sister would think, that she had a
great
job. Paolina's mother, Marta, would encourage that belief. Meet men, wear sexy clothes, what more could you want?
I met a man in a bar.
How many times I'd heard those words, preface to some dismal tale, while booking some sad-eyed woman.
I met a man in a bar.

I paid the check, tipping big and sliding one of my cards, the kind that don't say PI, in with the cash. Then I made my way back to the bar, where Carl seemed neither suspicious nor talkative. I slipped him a card as well, told him to tell Veejay I was sorry I'd missed her; she should give me a call. I asked about Thursday night's rowdies, but he barely reacted, and what did it matter? Even if they'd waited outside till closing time, harrassed Veejay in some way, it wouldn't be significant. My client had seen her tenant on Friday, alive and well. And Veejay hadn't waited tables Friday night.

If she'd come here Friday night, if the rowdies had been waiting … Well, at least I'd have an idea, a place to start. There are places in the harbor where stolen cars go to die, and every once in a while, when the cops pop the trunk, a body's inside. But Veejay had left Beacon Street driving Dana Endicott's Jeep. She wouldn't bring a car down here, not when she worked two jobs and could walk or take the T, save twenty bucks in parking fees.