They Don't Play Stickball in Milwaukee (3 page)

Johnny and I had earlier agreed that we would not waste our energies speculating about Zak. We were both sure that Jeffrey's news would be taxing enough without us helping it along any. A few minutes before my brother's scheduled arrival, MacClough put Patsy Cline on the juke and began rumbling around under the bar out of my sight. He only ever played Patsy when he was thinking about lost loves or absent friends. That was the thing about her voice, it just ached. And she always sounded as if she knew the next hurt was never more than a breath away.

Johnny reappeared. He put two glasses on the bar next to as fine a crystal bottle as I had every seen. It was nearly empty. Still, he poured two amber fingers full in each glass and waited for Patsy to finish her lament.

“Amen, Patsy. Amen.” He bowed his head. “Klein! Get your flat Jewish ass over to this bar.”

“What?”

“Do you know what this is?” MacClough pointed at the decanter as I came his way.

“Holy shit!” I could be so articulate. “That's the Napoleon brandy your father—”

“—pinched from the dead bootlegger. That's right, Klein. You remember. But I bet you a fin you don't remember the bootlegger's name.”

“Izzy Three Legs Weinstein,” I said without missing a beat.

Raising his glass: “Screw ya, ya Christ-killer. To your dad!”

“I hate brandy.”

“It's the only proper way to send a man to meet his god.”

“You say the same thing when they polish the plaque on the lighthouse: ‘It's the only proper way to celebrate the cleaning of the plaque'.”

“Klein!”

“John, I just can't,” I was serious now. “There's hardly another drink left in that bottle. You shouldn't waste it on me. It's part of your family.”

“So are you, you idiot. Drink.”

“To Harry Klein!” I knocked it back. “Feh.”

“Feh?”

“All due respect to family heirlooms, French emperors, and deceased bootleggers, but I can't stand the stuff.”

“Fuckin' neanderthal,” he chided and slapped a five-dollar bill on the bar. “Here's the fin I owe you.”

I folded it up and slipped it into my jacket pocket next to the black skullcap from the funeral home. I don't know why, but I hadn't showered or changed clothes since getting off the plane that morning. The tops of my shoes were still powered with souvenir dirt from the grave site. When I looked up from my shoes, the crystal decanter and brandy glasses were gone. In their stead were a Black and Tan and a double of Old Bushmills.

I went for my pint: “To Three Legs and five dollars!”

Jeff walked in at precisely the wrong time.

“If you're this convivial on the day we bury your father and discover your nephew is missing, you must be a scream on good days.”

“You've got it all wrong, counselor,” MacClough jumped to my defense.

“No, Mr. MacClough, I have it all right. I know my little brother.”

“Get to the point, Jeffrey,” I said. “What about Zak?”

He tossed a manila folder on the bar. MacClough grabbed it and skimmed through it as Jeffrey spoke.

“Zak didn't call home the week before February break. We weren't particularly alarmed. He's nearly as irresponsible as his Uncle Dylan used to be.”

“Fuck you, Jeff. Just fuck—”

MacClough threw his Bushmills past my ear. It landed the hard way on the cobbles of the old fireplace. The flying glass got our attention.

“Either start acting more like brothers and less like a married couple or get the fuck out of me pub. Got it Klein?”

“Got it.”

“Counselor?” MacClough asked.

“Understood.”

“Go on then with what you've got to say, counselor.”

“Even when he didn't show at home the Friday evening of his break week, Tess and I weren't worried. It wouldn't have been the first time.”

“Yeah,” MacClough smirked. “I got that impression.”

“But by late that Sunday,” Jeff continued, “I was concerned. Tess too. To allay her fears I told her that Zak and I had a falling out over his schoolwork and that by not showing he was just acting out.”

“I take it your wife had no problem believing you.”

“No problem at all, Mr. MacClough. In the meantime, I called around to his friends and roommates. No one seemed to know anything. I made some discreet inquiries through a close business associate who is a well-connected alum of Riversborough.”

“Zak goes to Riversborough College,” I said for no good reason. “Upstate, by the Canadian border.”

“I figured that out, Klein.” Turning to Jeff: “Any help?”

“None,” my brother sighed. “The next morning I went to the Castle-on-Hudson Police and reported Zak missing.”

“No ransom notes? No threatening phone calls?”

“I sort of wish there were,” Jeff said. “Then I'd have something to hold onto. I had to tell Tess eventually, but Zaks's younger brother Lindsay doesn't know.”

“He knows,” I said. “Maybe not all the details, but he knows. How's Tess holding up?”

“She's the strongest person I ever met. Until this thing with Dad, she barely showed any cracks. When the police came up empty, I hired Hench Security. That's a copy of their case file to date.”

“Hench?” I puzzled.

“They're good,” MacClough assured me. “All ex-FBI and ATF agents. They're also supposed to have a few cybergeeks from the NSA on the payroll. But I thought their forte was industrial security, not missing persons.”

“So far, your assessment is correct. They've interviewed everyone but Lee Harvey Oswald's wife and gotten no further than the Castle-on-Hudson police.”

“Have you called the papers?” I wondered.

“No press, for chrissakes! No press!”

“So,” John wanted to know, “what is it exactly that you expect me and your brother to do that the cops and the Mission Impossible crew can't?”

“Though thankfully retired from fraud investigation, my brother Dylan isn't an amateur and will know how to stay out of your way. On the other hand, he loves Zak and won't be inclined to let you take chances with my son's life that a law enforcement agency or security firm might be willing to risk. He and Zak also share a certain unspoken affinity, a sixth sense for what the other is thinking.”

“That's right,” I said, “it takes one fuck-up to know another.”

“Shut up, Klein,” MacClough scolded. “Keep going, counselor.”

“I've always resented Zak and Dylan's closeness, but now maybe some good can come of it. If Zak is close by, my brother will know it.”

MacClough wasn't buying it. “That's a good case for your brother's involvement, but where do I fit in with the Klein family psychic network?”

“I've been checking up on you, Dectective.”

“Retired.”

Jeffrey ignored that. “I've also been reading your personnel file from the NYPD.”

“That's confidential!” Johnny screamed, red in the face, veins popping out of his neck.

“Come on, detective. Don't play dumb. In a city like New York, nothing is confidential, nothing is off-limits, especially to people like me. You know that.”

“Yeah,” MacClough said, pouring himself a double, “I know. It sucks, but I know.”

“Yes, I should think after the Hernandez case you'd be well acquainted with the vagaries and benefits of the system.”

“All right, counselor, you made your point.” MacClough downed his drink in one gulp. “Leave the file. Your brother and me will be up to see the Castle-on-Hudson PD tomorrow morning. Do me a favor, don't let ‘em know we're coming. If they're like most cops, they resent the shit out of people who they think expect special treatment. The fact that you're a lawyer also works against you.”

“It's in your hands,” Jeffrey smiled, just briefly. He couldn't help celebrating a victory even if his son's life was in danger. “I won't insult you by offering payment now, but I've transferred $25,000 into Dylan's bank account for your use. I don't care what you do with it. You don't have to account for it. If you require more, you'll get more within a minute of the phone call. All I want is Zak back safely.”

“You know, counselor,” John said, “I would have helped just on Dylan's behalf. Why bring Hernandez into it?”

“When it comes to motivation, Detective, I believe in overkill. Good night.” He took a step to go, then stopped and looked me in the eye. “I've already made excuses for your absence at
shivah
.”

“Oh yeah?” I was incredulous. “What did you tell them?”

“That you sold your screenplay and had to go back to L.A. Maybe when Zak's home, you will go back.”

“I doubt it, but let's find Zak first.”

Jeffrey was gone. And before I got the name Hernandez out of my mouth, MacClough shooed me out of the Scupper. I had to change. I had to shower. I had to get some rest, he said. We had a long day ahead of us. He had to read through the file. He had to find someone to cover for him at the bar. He had a thousand things to do before tomorrow.

By the time my wet hair landed on my pillow for the first time in a month, I had almost forgotten about Hernandez. Almost.

Lovesong Lane

We were two hours and three cups of coffee into the trip, just crossing the Tappan Zee, when MacClough began giving instructions. I was to do most of the talking, at least in the beginning. I was just a concerned uncle who had asked an old friend along for the long ride. Johnny would pick his spot and take over, but I was always to stand between him and the investigating detective. John threw the Hench Security file on my lap and told me to look through it. I did.

MacClough was right, Hench was thorough. Not only did the file contain verbatim transcripts of all their interviews, bios, and background material on the interviewees, but there was a copy of the Castle-on-Hudson Police Department report and bios of the investigating officers. It was all so precise and the binding wasn't bad either. Unfortunately, neither Hench nor the police nor any of Zak's friends had any idea of his whereabouts or, if they had, they weren't saying.

“So,” Johnny broke the quiet a few minutes out of town, “how you holding up?”

“Like a straw man.”

“Then we'll have to keep you outta the wind.”

“Last night, my brother mentioned the Hernan—”

“You know,” he cut me off, “last night after you left, I couldn't help thinking about the last time I saw my old man. He was in the hospital and he whispers in my ear to get rid of the nurse. When I do, he pulls out two cans of Rheingold from under his damned pillow.”

“No shit! What'd'ydo?”

“I laid into him good.”

“Why, because he wasn't allowed to drink?”

“No, Klein, because the beer was warm. We never shared much, me and the old man, but at least we shared that Rheingold.”

After a pause, I said: “You know my brother's not telling us everything.”

“I know. I just can't figure out what he's holding back or why. When he got so determined about no press involvement, I knew something wasn't kosher. We're here!”

Castle-on-Hudson had once been the exclusive enclave of old moneyed families whose names read like the passenger manifest from the
Mayflower.
These days, the locals were more apt to be descended from peasants that sailed across the Atlantic in steerage. The most recent arrivals, however, tended to migrate on 747s owned by Air India or All Nippon Air. Still, the majority of lots were zoned for a minimum of two acres and handyman specials went for about half a million.

The police station was an old stone building that looked like a set piece from
MacBeth.
The police department itself was the typically schizophrenic kind of force you find in wealthy communities. The uniformed officers tended to be young, obedient muscle-heads who liked to write tickets and carry 9 mms. Armed meter maids, MacClough called them. The detectives were a whole ‘nother story. They were mostly retired big city detectives. Some just missed the job. Some were looking for a second pension. They were well paid and happy not have to deal with the bureaucratic bull-shit big city departments serve up in large portions. If MacClough were inclined, he'd have been an ideal candidate.

No one seemed to pay us much mind as we walked through the front doors. There was a flurry of activity in the station house. Packs of uniformed officers ran up and down the twin spiral staircases that stood to either side of the main desk. To our right, three stony-faced state troopers studied a local map. To our left, a small horde of media types waited impatiently outside the police chiefs door.

“What's going on?” I asked Johnny. “I mean, I've never been in here before, but I can't imagine that Castle-on-Hudson usually attracts much press. And what are the state troopers doing?”

“I don't—” he cut himself off as we approached the main desk. “See the black band across the sergeant's badge?”

“Dead cop?”

“Dead cop, probably murdered. The press doesn't turn out for kidney failure.” He crossed himself. “Let's just do what we came here to do. You remember the detective's name, right?”

“Caliparri, retired member of the Detective Bureau of the Newark, New Jersey Police Department.”

“Good.”

The desk sergeant didn't exactly snap to attention when we approached. That was fine with me. It gave me more time to study the soft lines of her face and imagine how her pulled-back auburn hair might fall against her lightly freckled skin. When she looked up, the corners of her full lips smiled politely, but the corners of her eyes smiled not at all. Eyes shot with blood are never easy to look at. The blue shine of her eyes made the contrast even harder to take.

“How can I help you gentlemen?” she asked, her voice cracking slightly.