Reed Coleman - They Don't Play Stickball in Milwaukee

“What is it?” He was home.

“It’s Dylan, Larry.”

“Sorry about your dad.”

“How the fuck did you-”

“One hears things. I sent a basket,” he said. “Your dad always hated my guts. At least he wasn’t a phony about it and he treated my folks with respect.”

Feld’s parents had survived Auschwitz, but not at all intact. His father was a morose little man who wore long sleeves on dog days to hide as many scars as he could. His mother painted their windows black. For cruel children and their cruder parents, the Felds were easy targets for every joke and whisper.

“Thanks,” I said. “He did hate you.”

“Enough sweet talk, Dylan. You only call me when you want something.”

“Hernandez and Fazio. Hernandez is an NYPD case that could go back maybe twenty, thirty years. John MacClough had some involvement in it. Fazio is a dectective up in Castle-on-Hudson. Used to be NYPD.”

“Hernandez I’ve got to look into. If Fazio’s first name is Nick, I can give you something now.”

“Nick’s the name,” I confirmed.

“Most decorated detective to ever work Internal Affairs. Retired, detective first grad. He’s got a great rep. Even the guys he brought down respect him. Works in Castle-on-Hudson to prove to the world he’s real cop, not just another cheese eater.”

“See if Fazio and MacClough intersect at Hernandez.”

“Shit!” he hissed. “You don’t need me. You need a road map.”

“I need you, Larry. Trust me.”

“You’re the only the person I know who could say that and get away with it. Give me two days.”

When Larry clicked off the line, I began dialing my father’s number. Old habits are harder to bury than the dead.

The airport at Riversborough was the stuff of sketch comedy. Though situated just south of the Canadian border, it wasn’t exactly a major hub. It had one runway, a wind sock, and a terminal building the size of a Photomat. None of this, however, prevented the port authority from shamelessly proclaiming: “Welcome to Riversborough International Airport-The best little gateway this side of the border.” I would have hated to see the worst little gateway.

Snow and liberal arts were Riversborough’s major commodities. As I drove my rental into town, I read several bill-boards for the area ski resorts. They all, apparently, liked the copywriter for the local port authority. Their ads were equally shameless and catagorically featured the words best and little. I wasn’t great at Scrabble, but I bet I could have kicked that copywriter’s ass.

When I checked in with the local police, they gave me the same song and dance Fazio had laid on me, only in a more polite, northern New York kind of way. Zak would turn up. They were sure of it. None of them had attended the college, but they knew it was extremely competitive. And when one cop told me that Riversborough was the best little liberal arts college town in the east, I asked him if he had any relatives in advertising.

The campus was postcard pretty. The buildings were all red brick and white clapboards bordering a central quadrangle. The only bit of ostentation was the gold dome atop the library clock tower. There was no visible activity on campus and a visitor might suspect school was still in recess. But like many schools situated in snow belts, underground tunnels connected all the buildings.

I parked in the visitors’ lot and made my way around to the dorms. Though not quite as quaint as the main body of the campus, their design features were consistent with the rest of the school’s architecture. When I walked up to Zak’s door there was already someone waiting. Her nature was a mystery to me as she rested her head on her knees and hugged her blue-jeaned legs.

“How ya doing?”

She was startled. “God, you sound like Zak.”

“People say that.”

After inspecting my face, she said: “You look like him too.”

“People say he looks like me. I’m his Uncle-”

“-Dylan.” She popped up and shook my hand. “Way cool. Zak talks about you all the time. You’re the cop turned writer.”

“Something like that.” I was happy to hear her refer to Zak in the present tense. “And you are?”

“Oh, sorry. Kira, Kira Wantanabe.” She bowed slightly.

Kira Wantanabe made my heart pound. I couldn’t imagine a man whose heart wouldn’t pound at the sight of her. I let go of her hand, afraid she might feel my palm begin to moisten. We just stood there for a second, smiling awk-wardly at one another.

“Do you know where Zak is?” I finally got to the point.

“I wish I did. Like I told the cops and those other men, he just split a few days before break and I haven’t seen him since. I come up here at this time every day to see if he’s back.” She frowned.

“Are you two. .I mean. . ” Jesus, I sounded like a jerk.

“No, Uncle Dylan,” Kira smiled coyly, “we are not. Last year we were together once. We are happier as friends.” She checked her watch. “I have class.”

“Can we talk later, please?”

“Yes, I would like to speak to you. Meet me in front of the library at 7:00. Great.” She bowed again, ever so slightly.

I watched her move in silence down the hall.

I opened the door to Zak’s room with a key Jeffrey had provided. One of the advantages, some might say disadvantages, of Riversborough was that students were not required to double up. Zak had chosen to live alone. It was probably a mistake and it was probably my fault. In our talks, I used to prattle on about how living for years by myself was the best thing I had ever done. It teaches you about confronting loneliness. It teaches you about responsibility. You learn the downside of freedom. It never occured to me that he would listen. I guess I forgot to mention that I waited until after college to start down my solitary path.

When I stepped inside I noticed that Zak’s Riversborough room had the same nouveau tornado look as his room at home. Someone was searching very hard for something he was convinced my nephew possessed. And whatever this guy lacked in the way of delicacy, he more than compensated for with raw determination. I put a call in to the best little police department this side of the border.

The music remained the same, but there were variations on the lyrics. The Riversborough cops were still sure that nothing was wrong with Zak. They were sure another student had noticed Zak gone and took advantage of the situation.

MacClough wasn’t too terribly surprised by the news. He said he would have been more shocked if Zak’s dorm room had been left untouched. He made me write down some questions for Kira Wantanbe. I asked what was going on on his end. He said he was reinterviewing as many of the Castle-on-Hudson friends as he could, but that all it had gotten him so far was a couple of cups of herbal tea and several dirty looks. He had one or two more friends to check out before calling it a night. He was staying up at Jeffrey’s place. Fazio had located a safe-deposit box key at Caliparri’s house, but couldn’t be at all sure it had anything to do with Zak’s disappearance or Caliparri’s murder. Fazio was going to track down the bank and get a subpoena.

“Wait a second,” I said. “What did you and Fazio do, kiss and make up or something? How do you know so much about what he’s doing?”

“Sergeant Hurley’s been helpful.”

“How did you get to her?”

“I didn’t,” he said. “She came to me.”

“That old MacClough charm strikes again.”

“It’s not me she’s interested in, Klein. Can I help it if she’s got no taste in men?”

“Fuck you very much. Later.”

“After noon. Maybe I’ll have something.”