– ¦ I picked up a bucket of chicken at the Kentucky Fried on Brighton Avenue in Allston, once again bemoaning the passing of the franchise that had been diagonally across from my apartment on Charles Street. I wrestled the rental into a parallel parking space with six inches to spare front and back.
The red light on my telephone tape machine was lit, but I decided it could wait until after dinner. I washed the chicken down with two Molson Golden Ales and settled into an easy chair with one of Robert B. Parker's Spenser novels. I had read four pages when a telephone in the novel began ringing. Memory jogged, I put the book down, walked to my telephone machine, and replayed the short message. I replayed it several times. The muffled voice on the other end said only the same one word each time: "Remember."
The chicken parts in my stomach made an effort to reassemble themselves. I had another Molson's to calm them down.
I tried Val's number every half hour up to and including 11:30. I know, because I could recall seeing Johnny Carson's monologue but drew a blank on his guests. I stretched stiffly in the easy chair. The clock on the mantel said 4:15. I went to bed, resetting my clock radio for 6:15. I awakened to Deep Purple's classic "Smoke on the Water" on WCOZ (whose motto is "Kick-ass rock and roll"). I splashed some water in my face and called Valerie.
It rang four times before I got a sleepy "Hullo."
"Val, it's John Cuddy."
"Oh, hi, John. I must have over-hey, it's only six-thirty!"
"Yeah, I'm sorry, but I might be on to something."
"Oh, really?" she said, in my mind's eye sitting up in bed and pushing her hair back. "What is it?"
"Remember when we were on the beach, with those guys playing football?"
"Hmph. I'1l never forget it."
"I asked you about what transportation Stephen might use, and you said you couldn't think of any."
"Right."
"How about the Berkshires?"
"The Berkshires? The mountains or the region in general?"
"Either. Whatever. Did Stephen ever talk with you about the Berkshires?"
She paused. "No, not that I can think of. Why the Berkshires?"
"Well, a couple of things. Someone saw him looking at a magazine with an article on them. He also spent time in a mental institution out there, so he might know a little more about that area and therefore head that way."
"Stephen was so interested in so many things, but I can't think of anything-Wait a minute! He did do a social studies paper once about how… oh, what was it? Meat, that's right, meat! He had written it for another teacher, but was proud of it so he wanted me to see it. It involved how meat went from somewhere in Boston all over the state by truck. I'm pretty sure part of it dealt with the Berkshires."
"Kind of thin. But I think I know where to start."
"Oh, John, will you still be able to come for dinner tonight?"
"It depends."
"On what?"
I debated a lie. "I'll be there," I said.
"Terrific. Seven o'clock?"
"You bet."
She giggled. "See you then."
"Bye-bye."
I hung up and checked the clock. This would be the busy time down at the meat exchange and I wanted to get there when the boys had a little time to talk, so I did a long-for-me six miles to run off the chicken and the Molsons, trying not to think about the voice on the tape, which I knew but could never prove was Blakey's. I had breakfast and decided on a T-shirt and Levis for the trip to the market.
The meat exchange is nestled in a noisy bunch of hangarlike buildings just off the Southeast Expressway on the southern outskirts of Boston. It was nearly 10:00 by my watch, which meant that the man I wanted to see had been on the job for five hours already. I parked the rental and walked into the biggest of the structures. I was struck by the cool, nearly overpowering atmosphere of fresh but dead animal meat. I turned two interior comers before I saw Al raising his cleaver.
Al Bufone is five-five in height and three-five in width. When he picks up a meat cleaver, it looks like an old-fashioned straight razor in comparison to his hands. He sports three navy tattoos from the South Pacific on his right arm and a few wispy black hairs in a clump at the top of his forehead. He looked up and saw me.
"John, boy, whaddaya say?"
"Not much, Al. Yourself?"
"No complaints." He whacked twice with the cleaver. "Rose and me hit the doggies Monday. Missed the double by a nose, but we did awright otherwise. Hey," he said, hefting a veal leg, "can you use some?"
"No, thanks, Al. Could use some information, though."
Al set down the veal leg and wiped his hand on his apron as he looked around carefully.
"B and E or hijack?" he asked softly.
"Neither," I replied, reflexively looking around too. Some people don't like other people talking to insurance investigators about certain transactions. "I'm looking for a fourteen-year-old boy."
Al laughed. "I heard you went out on your own. Where's the kid from?"
"Meade."
Al laughed harder.
"Oh, yeah, sure John-boy. He's in the fuckin' back room sweepin' scraps. This was the first place his guidance counselor referred him."
"He's a runaway, Al. I thought he might try to cop a ride from here to the Berkshires on one ofthe trucks." I showed him Stephen's photo.
"Nah," said Al. "I've never seen him before."
As I drew the photo back, he said, "Wait a minute."
He looked at it again. "Y'know, there was a kid here, mebbe two weeks ago. But he looked older than fourteen. He also had blondish hair, y'know. But his eyes looked like that kid's eyes. Sorta deep 'n' sad, y'know."
I felt hope rising.
"Did you talk to him?"
"No. I remember Vinnie sayin' somethin' about the kid writin' an article for his school paper on somethin'."
"Where's Vinnie?"
"I haven't seen him today. But I'm pretty sure Sammy DiLeo talked to the kid too. Sammy just got in from Pittsfield a half hour ago."
Pittsfield, the major city in the Berkshires. "Where can I find Sammy?"
Al gestured toward the loading docks. "He should be checkin' on the load he's takin'. Probably Dock Two."
"Thanks, Al." I started walking.
"Oh, John-boy. Mind Sammy now. He's kind of a weaselly bastard."
"Thanks," I repeated, and kept walking.
Dock Two was off by itself, a large overhead garage door that opened to the sunshine. As I approached it, I could see two men arguing in the open mouth of the back of a refrigerated trailer truck. The air grew warmer and the smell of meat less striking as I moved toward the truck.
"Sammy, you goddamn thief, I'm not fuckin' short and you know it. Every case on that invoice is in this fuckin' truck."
"Look, George, either you reduce the fuckin' bottom line on this invoice or I make you unload this fuckin' truck and recount on your fuckin' time."
George was getting redder and redder, shaking his clipboard like a war shield.
"Every time you do this, Sammy. Every fuckin' time."
"Refigure or unload," said Sammy with a smirk. George turned and stomped away. "I'm gettin' Al."
"Al can't change the union contract, George," smiled Sammy as George passed me. Sammy reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys as I approached him.
"Shouldn't you wait for Al?" I said.
Sammy gave me the defender-against-invader look. "Who the fuck are you?"
"John Cuddy," I said. "I'm looking for a young boy."
Sammy sneered. "Whasamatter, wife got lockjaw?"
I decided where I was going to hit him, but not when. "I'm a private detective." I showed him Stephen's picture. "His hair would have been blonder," I said.
As Sammy looked at the picture, a faint flush spread up to his neck, then faded. "Nah, never seen him. I gotta go." He half-turned and fumbled with his keys.
"I'm told you and the boy had a talk two weeks ago."
He turned back and tried to stare me down. "Oh, yeah? Who says?"
"A man you'd best not suggest is a liar."
He blinked. "Fuck you. I gotta go."
I caught his arm and spun him into some stacked crates nearby. His momentum led him to sit down awkwardly and heavily on one of them.
"The boy is missing. You're the last one to see him. How does a morals charge strike you?"
"You haven't got shit. Whaddaya mean morals charge? You caIlin' me a fag?" He flexed for me.
"No, but I'm suggesting the boy might be gay. Where do you suppose that leaves you?"
Sammy thought about that and didn't like his position. "I thought his hair looked a little funny."
"What happened?"
"Look, man, nothin' happened. Just nothin'. He asked me for a lift to the mountains so he could go on some kinda reportin' trip. He had a backpack and everything?
"Where in the mountains?"
"Granville. It's a little town way northwest, maybe four miles off the Pike, Lee exit."
"Where did you drop him off?"
"About a half mile before Granville Center."
"If he was going on a reporting trip, why didn't he ride all the way into town?"
Sammy sneered again. "He didn't fuckin' say."
I leaned over. "Sammy, I think you tried to shake him down."
Sammy swung a left at me as he rose. His left was a little slower than it should have been. I deflected it and him to my left with my left palm and gave him a moderate cupped-hand dig in the back, near his left kidney. He sagged down, doubled over.
"What did you try to charge him for the lift, Sammy?"
"Jesus… I think you ruptured… somethin'!"
"Sammy, answer my question! How much?"
"Twenny bucks. I saw… he had plenty… when he paid… one of the tolls."
"He paid up, did he?"
"Yeah, yeah."
I lifted his chin up gently. "Sammy, I don't believe you. And I don't think the cops will either."
"Awright, awright. He didn't pay. But I didn't make him… He just hopped out and… ran."
"With a pack he outdistanced you? Do you figure your kidney needs a little more massage, Sammy?"
"No, no. He… ah, listen, man-you gotta keep this quiet. Around here, I'd be laughed at. I'd be-"
"Come on, Sammy."
"Okay, okay. He had a piece."
"A piece?"
"A gun, man. A long thing like outta Star Wars. He fuckin' went into his pack for the twenny and come out with the piece. I thought the fuckin' little screwy was gonna shoot me. I backed off, and he took off across a field."
I straightened up. "Thanks, Sammy. You've been a swell guy and a great panelist."
As I walked away I heard the telltale click. I wheeled around as Sammy was coming off the crate with a big clasp knife open for business. His face was still contorted in pain, but a vengeful determination shone through.
The booming voice behind me interrupted our little melodrama. "Sammy, you drop the knife or it's the last piece of anything your fingers'll ever go 'round."
I glanced over my shoulder at Al with his cleaver hanging at his side and a somewhat calmer George next to him.
Sammy didn't close the knife, but he visibly stood down. I walked toward Al and thanked him.
"I told ya he was a weaselly bastard," replied Al as I passed on my way out.