December Boys Part 17

"Why's that?"

"You don't seem to notice."

"I'm not blind, Nicki. Just married. There's a difference."

Then it hit me. Jenny had told me I could see my son tomorrow. Which would soon be today, buried beneath a nor'easter with no exit off the mountain. My head was too far up my a.s.s to hear about the blizzard-I possessed a strange, unfortunate ability to compartmentalize-but Jenny would've known about the storm. I felt a gully in my gut a mile wide when I realized my wife didn't want me anywhere near my child.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

NO ONE SPOKE much at Charlie's. Following fifteen coffees at the Olympic, racing to get ahead of the storm, we'd been so geared up. For what? A big crash. We had no business kicking over stones. Where was the crime, anyway? A judge who favored punishment over rehabilitation? Businessmen who liked to make money? Prime real estate used to build stuff on? If there were impropriety-if incriminating evidence existed anywhere in that hodgepodge collection of loose-leaf-none of us were qualified to lead the charge.

Fisher attempted to broach the subject at one point, outlining a plan of action, and I told him to shut the f.u.c.k up. I said it hotter than I intended. I was in a mood. Mixing whiskey and beer is never a good idea. Not that it stopped me. I knew I was losing her, could feel the pangs in my heart, ties being cut without a word, the rest of the night a blur. I kept drinking. Conversation dried up after that.

Next morning, the plows were back out, roads cleared. Nicki drove me back to my place. Final acc.u.mulation tallies fell well below doomsday predictions. A foot, tops. In other words, a typical Wednesday.

Nicki was ten years younger than the rest of us but she owned a much nicer ride. Funny, most girls I knew her age were slobs when it came to their cars. The floors of Nicki's Jetta were freshly vacuumed, cupholders wiped clean, interior sterile and unlived in, like Grandma's place with the plastic still on the furniture. Of course that meant I couldn't smoke. Nerves on edge, the ride took forever. I rested my head against the cold gla.s.s and pretended to sleep to avoid the threat of talking.

Dropping my keys on the counter, I sifted through the day's mail I'd brought in with me from the foyer. Credit card bills. Gas bills. Water bills. A flyer begging for donations with pictures of kids looking a h.e.l.luva lot happier than me. I flipped the pile to the table with the rest of the c.r.a.p that would now be my problem.

I switched on the TV. Just for the background noise and color. I stood at the window. No cars idled down the block. I wondered if that car from yesterday had been there to watch me at all. Could've been a husband and wife letting the engine warm before an exciting date night on the town, dinner and a movie, in bed by ten. At least the snow was pretty. For as much as I b.i.t.c.hed about the weather up here, I couldn't imagine living in a place like Florida or California, where the sun shines all the time. I needed these quiet moments. This was the part of winter I enjoyed. The fresh snowfall, everything pristine, untainted. Give it a few hours and all this prettiness would be gone, trampled on by dirty boots, tires spitting mud, rendering white powder brown and ugly. For now, though, the world remained perfect.

My cell buzzed. Any thought my wife might have the decency to check in pa.s.sed when I didn't recognize the number.

"Mr. Porter?" The voice apprehensive, small.

"Yeah, this is Jay Porter. Who's this?"

I heard a hand cupping the receiver. "This is Seth Shaw. I found your business card on our porch."

That weird little kid from last night. He sounded so timid, I felt bad even asking his name. I'd seen his old man, who I a.s.sumed beat the s.h.i.t out of him.

"How can I help you, Seth?" I realized, for some reason, I was whispering too.

"It's about my sister, Wendy." The boxy connection made me picture the boy crouched in a closet. "We got a lot of money after she went away."

I walked into the kitchen and grabbed my cigarettes. "Who got money?" I couldn't find a lighter so I used the stove.

"My dad and me. To fix the house. A lot of money."

I'd seen the house. Additions like that didn't come cheap.

"How old are you, Seth?"

"Fifteen." And then before I could respond, he added, "I'm small for my age. There's a problem with my spine. I'm a regular person. I'm not stupid."

"Didn't say you were. Do you talk to your sister?"

"Not in person. Used to get letters all the time saying how awful it was inside there. Haven't gotten any letters in a while. Wendy has been in North River for a long time. You know she's not my real sister, right?"

"I don't know anything about your family, Seth, other than Wendy got in trouble for making a website."

"Her mom married my dad. Like when I was three. I've known her my whole life. My stepmom died when I was seven. My dad never liked Wendy. But she's my best friend. My sister didn't do anything wrong. She wasn't bullying anyone. She was trying to protect someone from being bullied."

I wished I could reach over the line and hug this kid; he sounded so wounded. I wanted to help his sister, too-that's why I'd gone out there in the first place. But if I suspected kickbacks and fraud, the knowledge didn't suddenly grant me superpowers to fix the mess. I lacked any smoking gun. Seth was a lot smarter than I gave him credit for.

"Mr. Porter, they pay to keep my sister locked up."

"Who pays?"

"I'm not sure. But I saw the man who brought the check to the house. I'd skipped school that day and was downstairs in the bas.e.m.e.nt. My father drives trucks. He's out of work. He didn't know I was home. A man came to our door. I climbed on the couch and could see them on the porch through the cellar slots. I saw the man give Dad a bag. Heard him say, 'Good luck with the repairs.'"

"When was this?"

"Like eight months ago? Contractors started showing up right after that. I asked my dad how we could afford all the repairs. We'd barely been able to keep the bank away since my stepmom died. My father said he'd applied for a government program that helps people like us who don't have a lot of money get their houses fixed. You didn't see our house before, Mr. Porter. It was falling apart."

"Do you know when he applied for the program?"

"My dad said before he met Linda. That was my stepmom's name."

"So, over ten years ago?"

"Yeah."

"But you see didn't a penny until they locked Wendy up? You don't know the name of the man who brought the money? Maybe you found his business card lying in the snow, too?"

"He didn't drop a card. He was driving a construction truck."

"Didn't say 'Lombardi' on the side, by any chance?"

"No. Began with a 'T.' Red letters."

"Did you see anything else?"

"No. Just the logo on the side of the truck as he was pulling out."

"Okay, Seth," I said, "Thanks for calling. I'll do what I can-"

"Oh, and the driver had a tattoo. On his neck."

"A tattoo? On his neck? Thought you said you didn't see anything else?"

"It was a pretty big tattoo."

"You remember what kind of tattoo?"

"One of those Jewish stars."

Charlie wasn't picking up, and the number I had for Fisher was out of service. Which showed how often I talked to the guy. I called Nicki. Got her voice mail. I was anxious to share the news. Even if I wasn't sure what the news meant.

I remembered that first day driving around looking for the Olisky house, taking a wrong turn and stumbling across the abandoned construction site with old Lombardi equipment rusting in ditches. That's where I'd seen the name before. On the guard shack on the way out. Toma.s.si. Red lettering and logo. At the time, I'd a.s.sumed vendor, on-site management, security of some sort. A quick Google search yielded Toma.s.si as the largest construction outfit in Ma.s.sachusetts, one of New England's oldest. Big fish gobbled up smaller fish all the time. This had to be the construction truck Seth saw. The more distressing factor was the Star of David neck tattoo, which could only belong to one man: Erik Bowman, Adam Lombardi's old head of security, with whom I'd had a run-in last year when he broke into my place searching for the hard drive my brother had stolen. Made sense a guy like Bowman would land another job in the same field. Except Bowman was no ordinary security guard. He was a former motorcycle g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ger who beat, intimidated, and murdered, a thug with no conscience. In addition to knocking me out cold, I was pretty sure he'd killed my brother's junkie pal, Pete. Not that I could prove it. Now he was delivering hush money to keep a girl locked up in North River? Which made sense if he were still working for Adam. But he wasn't.

My cell vibrated. I took the call without a glance, expecting Nicki or Charlie, still buzzing over the implications of Bowman's involvement.

"Are you okay?" my wife asked. "You sound out of breath."

I didn't bother with the truth, that my lungs were working overtime funding a two-pack-a-day habit. "Running to catch the phone," I lied.

"You picked up on the first ring."

"Must be a delay on your end." I knew how stupid that sounded.

"Yeah," she said, either not buying my excuse or not caring. "I didn't know if you were still planning on coming up to see Aiden today?"

When she mentioned my son, I remembered her offer coming on the eve of a nor'easter. "Thanks for the invite, by the way. Great time to plan a trip. Last night was supposed to be the storm of the decade."

"I forgot you were getting slammed down there. I heard it was a false alarm though, no?"

"You forgot?"

"Yeah, Jay. I forgot. Same as you did, apparently."

"They close the mountain roads out of Ashton, you know that."

"Except you don't live in Ashton anymore."

"I was there last night."

"How am I supposed to know that?"

"Or maybe you didn't want me coming up to see Aiden in the first place."

"I'm over two hours away. The storm wasn't going to hit us up here."

"So, what? Now Burlington's your hometown?"

"Think whatever you'd like," my wife said. "Are you coming to see your son today or not? I need to know so I can plan my day-"

"It's wonderful you're trying to fit my relationship with our child into 'your day.'"

"You said you wanted to see Aiden. I'm trying to set that up. You were complaining yesterday that I was keeping him from you."

"You are! By being three hours away in f.u.c.king Burlington."

"Okay, Jay, I'm hanging up now. Call me when you are ready to see Aiden."

"When I'm ready?"

"Yes. When you are ready to see your son, call me."

"I'm ready now. But I can't control the f.u.c.king sky. If my son was home, like he should be, I could see him now!"

"Are you sure about that?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Even if we were there, you'd be getting drunk in the garage with your sc.r.a.pbook, brooding over your dead brother, which is how you spend all your free time. Ignoring me. Ignoring Aiden. Chasing ghosts."

"That's a rotten thing to say."

"Sorry," Jenny said, "you're right. Call me later. After the storm's cleared. We'll set something up."

"It's already pa.s.sed. The worst of it is out to sea."

Jenny groaned. I could hear the frustration. I didn't blame her. I was sick of dealing with me.

My wife took a deep breath. "Let's start again. Would you like to see your son today?"

"Yes."

"What time is good for you?"

"What time is good for you?"

"What time is it now?"

"Like ten thirty. I think."

"I have a few errands to run," Jenny said. "Why don't you plan on getting here later in the afternoon. You can take Aiden to dinner. Spend a few hours together."

We hung up without saying goodbye.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.