Reed Coleman - They Don't Play Stickball in Milwaukee

But beyond the drugs, the validity of the search, and the inherent racial baggage, there was Valencia Jones herself. As the paper pointed out in at least three instances, Valencia Jones was the daughter of the late Raman “Iceman” Jones. Until someone introduced him to the business end of a 9mm, the Iceman had controlled the heroin traffic between Stamford and Hartford, Connecticut. So, despite her exemplary scholastic record, her oft-stated desire to distance herself from her father’s heinous life, and vows of innocence, no one seemed inclined to believe her. Her mother had even encountered difficulty finding a lawyer to take the case. No doubt my friend Larry Feld was previously committed to defending Jack the Ripper’s latest devotee. Lord knows, this wasn’t Jeffrey’s kind of case.

Remembering I had to call both of them, I put the paper down. I felt sorry for Valencia Jones. I don’t know why, exactly. I just did. But I had troubles of my own. However, as a gesture to racial harmony, I did a pratfall and dropped my tray of dirty dishes all over the two groundskeepers at the next table.

“Sorry,” I said, “but this Jones trial’s got me all riled up.”

Zak’s teachers were all pleasant. Uninformative, but pleasant. I got the usual stuff about how Zak and I looked alike and sounded alike. Zak was a good student, wrote a vicious term paper, didn’t respond well to authority. None of them knew where he could have gotten to and they all missed his presence in class. His current English instructor, Professor Pewter, was all fired up about having read my novels. Overwritten, he thought, though he did rather enjoy the naughty bits. It was nice to know that my pornographic appeal crossed gender lines. It was nearly 1:00 P.M. when I headed back to my room to make some calls.

“So,” MacClough began, “anything?”

“Depends.”

“Depends on what?” He sounded down.

“Nothing on Zak unless we’re interested in glowing testimonials,” I said.

“What else?”

“What else can wait until this thing with Zak is resolved,” I said.

“That Japanese chick, huh?” He perked up a bit.

“Something like that. What’s wrong with you?”

“The safe-deposit box was a dead end as far as we’re concerned.”

“Empty,” I asked, “or full of savings bonds?”

“Neither. Just some newspaper clippings about a drug bust upstate.”

The hair stood up on the back of my neck. I was too stunned to speak.

“Klein!” MacClough shouted. “Klein, you still there?”

“This drug case recent?” I asked.

“I think so, but Fazio didn’t exactly invite me along as a witness, you know? I got my info through Hurley.”

“Did she give anything specific about the case, a name, maybe?”

“Yeah. Wait, I got it written down here somewhere.” I heard him shuffling papers. “Here we are. Valen-”

“-cia Jones.”

“Holy shit!”

“You know what I think, John?

“What?”

“I think we just found ourselves a place to start.”

I filled him in on the little I knew of the case. He already knew of Raman “Iceman” Jones. MacClough had worked a tri-state narcotics task force and Raman Jones was one of the key targets of the investigation. Maybe we were just hungry for leads, but we both agreed that the timing of Zak’s disappearance, Caliparri’s murder, and the start of the trial were too close together to be coincidental. Now we had to go find a thread that tied them all together. MacClough said he’d come up my way as soon as he could, but in the meantime he’d go thread hunting in Castle-on-Hudson. When I asked him if he wanted me to tell Jeff about our theory, Johnny said no one was going to tell Jeff anything just yet.

“Your big brother strikes me as the kinda guy that likes to stick his nose into things whether his nose belongs there or not,” MacClough explained. “Let’s find something first.”

“Agreed.”

I hung up and punched in Larry Feld’s office number. I didn’t want to give myself any time to work out the permutations of an equation that involved my nephew, a drug kingpin’s daughter, and a murdered cop. As I waited on the line, I distracted myself with fresh memories of Kira Wantanabe. Now there. I thought, there was someone with whom I’d be willing to work out any number of permutations.

Larry Feld was in court, but his secretary said that he had left some material behind for me to read. I gave her the hotel’s fax number and asked her to thank Larry for me. She said she would, but that when I got the fax I’d want to speak to Larry myself. There were things he needed to explain. That was Larry Feld’s philosophy: everything needs explaining. Nothing is ever what it seems. He would even say: “My clients don’t pay for me. They pay for my explanations.” I couldn’t wait.

All the goodwill I’d built up with Zak’s instructors in the morning had vanished with the passing of noon. The willing, smiling faces that had greeted me so eagerly earlier in the day grew sour and uneasy at the mention of Valencia Jones. Even Professor Pewter, my critic and fan, had lost his enthusiasm for my company. Some of the staff denied that anything had changed. They were just busier now. Some denied knowing who Valencia Jones was. The honest ones told me they had been warned not to discuss the case.

“Look, Mr. Klein,” one of them said, “this isn’t the real world. Our professional fates are decided in star chambers. We spend more time trying to learn whose asses to kiss and how to kiss them than on getting published. We are at the mercy of our chairman, the Dean, the Provost. Christ, it’s positively feudal. When we’ve been warned off, it’s not something to be taken lightly.”

“My fucking nephew’s missing.”

“I’d like to help,” he said, “but I don’t know anything.”

“I could just get the roster of the class Zak was in and find out if he and this Valencia Jones knew each other.”

“Please, Mr. Klein, get the roster. You have my best wishes. Then it will be the administration’s headache, not mine.”

“Thanks.” I patted him a bit too hard on the back. “I hope you get Social Security before you get tenure, you chicken-shit son of a bitch. Have a nice day.”

I figured I’d have a go with Zak’s hallmates before trying to tackle the administration. I was sure they’d be more forthcoming. I was wrong. Kitty Genovese got more help from her neighbors. At least two people on Zak’s hall slammed their doors in my face before I got to the last syllable of Valencia Jones’ name. The third wise-guy who tried that routine, the kid in the room next door to Zak’s, wasn’t quick enough on the draw. I thought he was going to soil his pants when I pushed my way in.

“I’ll call campus security!” he squealed, groping around his bookbag to produce a can of pepper spray. “I’ll use this. I will!”

“Take it easy,” I said, noticing his walls featured posters of Rush Limbaugh and Senator Joe McCarthy. “You got a thing for balding, fat, white men?”

The kid had no sense of humor and actually sprayed, but he was so nervous that the stream missed me. I slapped the can out of his hand before he got a second chance. I choked on some of the ambient mist and with my eyes beginning to tear, I just left. What good would it have done, anyway, I thought, to try and reason with an eighteen-year-old whose politics were just to the right of Vlad the Impaler. I washed my eyes out by a water fountain in the dorm lobby.

“Sir,” a man’s voice called to me, “slowly put your hands behind your head, kneel to the ground, and lie down on your belly.”

“That little asshole!” I whispered out loud.