Colin Harrison - The Finder

He had reached to within ten feet of the drain and could even feel a weak draft of air from it. But the pipe was now clogged with vines. He took one last look around before retreating. What was this? A wet wad of shitty napkins with some kind of writing on them. He stuffed them in his jacket. Time to go. The pipe was too tight to turn around in, so he dutifully shimmied backward, feet first, until he reached the larger storm pipe, and there he could pull himself into a cannonball position, rotate, then shimmy face forward as the pipe fell in elevation before him. Downhill went much faster. He pulled himself through the U cut in the screen, then lay in the grass a moment, next to the tools he'd left there, apprehending how much human excrement he had caked on his knees, thighs, stomach, chest, forearms, and gloves. It was on his mask, cheeks, and forehead.

Things could be worse.

Back at the house, he removed the items from his pockets, set them on the back porch, then stripped to his underwear, left his clothes and shoes outside, and went into the house. After showering and pulling on clean clothes, he placed the items in a pan of warm water, rinsing off the shit and mud that adhered to them. With a bit of soap, the sock proved to be white, with ROBERT PETROCELLI JR. hand-lettered in indelible ink on the sole. The napkins were all cocktail napkins, the kind found at better restaurants. They were printed Jeannie amp; Bill's Wedding and, below that, Sammy's. A wedding reception. The paper with numbers on it was a credit card receipt issued to one Flora Silverman. Another piece of paper proved to be the soggy business card of one Fareed Gelfman, a sales associate at a used car emporium in the Bronx. On the reverse was written "Call me at home" and then a cell number. The last piece of paper was crumpled around a wad of chewing gum. The paper was so saturated that to pull on it would tear it. This Ray took to the kitchen. He put the wadded-up piece of paper on a plate and set the plate in the microwave. Ten seconds was probably enough to loosen it. When the timer went off he removed the plate and set it on the table, where he gently pulled the edges of the paper and found a photograph of a skinny white man with dozens of ear piercings performing fellatio on an obese black man. Very interesting, except that it was useless to him and he crumpled the paper and threw it in the trash.

The other pieces of information might tell him something. He made a big cup of coffee, then got out his father's old street maps of Brooklyn and Queens. Both were served by the municipal sewerage system, but to the east, as the two boroughs met Nassau County and building lot sizes got larger, making the transition from dense row housing to the classic suburban grid, some houses and businesses still used septic tanks. He looked up Robert Petrocelli and found one listed in Ozone Park, Queens. He marked the Petrocelli address. Then he looked up Flora Silverman in Queens and Brooklyn. There was no listing. But the place of business on her credit card receipt was a sushi restaurant in midtown Manhattan. The sewage certainly hadn't been picked up in midtown Manhattan. She'd crumpled up the receipt and thrown it into a toilet in Queens or Brooklyn. Not much to go on. He looked up the name on the next piece of paper: Sammy's Catering and Music Hall, We Do-Wop Weddings, Anniversaries, Bar Mitzvahs, Birthdays. This address was a mere nine blocks from the Petrocellis, also in Queens. My shitty information is pretty good, he thought.

He dialed Sammy's and spoke to the receptionist. "Hi," he said. "I'm new to the neighborhood and I saw you do a big business."

"We're always busy," came the reply. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, actually I'm wondering if you can recommend a sewage service."

"This some kind of joke? It's eight o'clock at night!"

"No, no joke. I saw you had a truck out there maybe a week ago and I can't remember the name on the side and figured if you used a service it would be-"

"We mostly use Victorious," said the voice. "Sometimes Town Septic. I can't remember who it was last week. It's a big truck, that's all I can tell you."

"Thanks," said Ray.

Next he dialed Fareed Gelfman.

"Yo," came a voice with rap music in the background.

"I'm trying to reach Fareed Gelfman."

"He's in the hospital."

"What?" said Ray.

"Yeah, some dude went upside his head, beat him down bad."

"Why?"

"Oh, you know Fareed, man. He's alway poppin' on the women. Seems he gave his business card with his cell number on it to some girl who had a boyfriend and the dude went apeshit on him."

"Where'd she live?"

"With her boyfriend. Queens, Brooklyn, some shit like that."

"Thanks." Ray hung up. He dialed the Petrocelli number. A little girl answered.

"May I please speak to your mother or father?"

"Wait a minute."

"Yes?" came the voice of a busy woman in her forties.

"Mrs. Petrocelli, I'm calling from Town Septic."

"Yes? So late?"

"I'm wondering if you would consider using our services."

"We always use Victorious. Says Vic's on the side of the truck. Annie, go wash your face."

"I realize that, but I hope you'll consider our services."

"Vic's has same-day pump-out. We have pipe problems in the basement, and with all the kids, it clogs up."

"I see."

"We been using them for years. Also, Richie plays on my husband's softball team. Annie, you're a mess."

"Richie?"

"The driver for Vic's."

He sipped his coffee. "I see."

"So I'm sure your prices are like competitive and all, but we're not interested." She hung up.

Crawl around in some shit and you learn some things, he thought. He went back to his father's phone books. There were eight Vic's in Queens, but none were sewage operations. Brooklyn had twelve businesses with the name Vic, including barbershops and deli and pizza places, and one of them was Victorious Sewerage, located in Marine Park-not exactly close to the service addresses in Queens.

He dialed the household he'd called earlier.

"Hello?" came the voice of an exasperated mother. "What is it?"

"Hi, I called from Town Septic, earlier."

"I thought we were done."

"I'm just calling to clarify. You use Victorious Sewerage in Brooklyn?"

"Something like that. They got trucks all over out here. I have no idea if it's Brooklyn. Now please don't call again, I got kids to put to bed."

He hung up.

"I want the report," came a voice from the living room.

He found his father lying back staring at the ceiling.

"I crawled in, found some stuff. They suggest a Brooklyn company called Victorious Sewerage."

"Local?"

Ray told him about the map and phone calls. "Maybe I should tell Pete Blake."

His father waved a disgusted hand. "He'll figure it out sooner or later. Plus, you don't know much, anyway."

"I know the shit probably came from pipes or septic tanks cleaned by this Victorious operation."

"You go there tomorrow, ask questions, find this Richie guy."

"Just walk in?"

"Yeah, just walk in, Ray. Find him, follow him. Exactly what I would have done."

Ray studied his father. This was the face my mother kissed as a nineteen-year-old, he thought, this was the face that had walked the beat, voted for Nixon in '72, with most of America, then been glad when he resigned, who had questioned hundreds of suspects, heard every line of bullshit and weaseling, was an awkward dancer and a moderate drinker, a man who often visited his wife's grave, took a little fold-out chair and battery radio with him, sat there an hour listening to the Yankees game, his hand on the tombstone.

"Dad, you need a shave."

His father grunted. "You drinking coffee?"

"Yes."

"Gimme some of that. Haven't had coffee in-"