Thirty-Nine

I met my father for lunch at the Legal Sea Foods at Park Plaza. Every time we went there he would give me a brief tutorial about the history of Legal, from the first one opening in Inman Square in Cambridge in the 1950s, and give me the most up-to-date count on how many there were in the chain now, including one at Logan Airport.

But this one was our favorite. They still served the best seafood in town, the service was terrific. It also wasn’t too loud, even when crowded at lunchtime the way it was now. We both had chowder as an appetizer and fried clams as a main course. By the time the clams were in front of us, I had gone over as much of the conversation with Albert Antonioni the day before as I could remember.

“On a bet,” he said, “you do not want to be in the middle of this any longer.”

“I’m still not sure what this is,” I said.

“Irrelevant,” he said.

“I got into it because of Richie, and if I am in the middle of it, it’s still because of Richie.”

“Or because, and I say this with love, you are more stubborn than a tick.”

“A tick,” I said. “Really, Daddy?”

He shrugged.

“Come on,” I said. “You think Antonioni is going to kill me for being nosy?”

He gave me a long look but said nothing. But we both knew it was his way of answering my question in the affirmative.

“So you’re saying he would kill me for being nosy?” I said.

“I didn’t say that,” he said. “But clearly there is bad blood between those two old men that might be deeper than the kind you get in the Middle East.”

He picked up a fried clam and dipped it in tartar sauce and ate it.

“But maybe if I can figure this all out,” I said, “I can take everybody out of danger once and for all. Including me.”

“My stubborn, darling daughter,” he said. He grinned. “You think it’s too late for med school?”

I had stuck my yellow legal pad in my purse. I used it as a study aid and told him everything that I knew and everything I thought and everything that had happened. I told him about my conversation with Charlie Whitaker.

“This continues to be a hairball, without question,” he said.

“I can’t let somebody like Antonioni scare me off the case,” I said.

“It’s never been your case,” my father said.

“But if I do let him scare me off, what does that make me?”

“Alive,” he said.

“If Desmond thinks Albert is after him,” I said, “why hasn’t he gone after Albert?”

“Just because he hasn’t doesn’t mean he won’t.”

He had finished with his clams. I’d eaten only half of mine, if that. He looked at the pile of them still on my plate, then looked at me, raised his eyebrows.

“Have at it,” I said.

It had always been a wonder to me that for my entire life I had watched Phil Randall eat like a horse and never put on a pound. And, by his own account, he had cholesterol levels so low his doctors wanted to carry him around the room on their shoulders.

“I know this is important to you because Richie is,” my father said. “It is why I have helped you as much as I can. But it becomes more clear by the moment that the only person who still wants you in this is you.”

I started to say something. He reached across the table and patted my hand to stop me.

“Desmond would never harm you,” he said. “Likewise, I do not believe he would let anyone else harm you if he could stop it. But that does not mean he can stop this thing if it becomes a runaway train. And Albert Antonioni, from the sound of things, has issued his last warning to you.”

“You’re telling me I’m beating a dead horse here,” I said. “Right?”

My father smiled his answer, and he was the one who looked younger than springtime. And made me feel safe, even as I knew I was not.

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