Don Winslow: A Cool Breeze on the Underground

Money in the bank.

“The probable Democratic nominee will need to look northward for a running mate. Ah… emissaries have already been sent.”

Kitteredge paused to allow the import of this last statement to sink in.

It didn’t.

So what? Neal thought. Despite the somewhat distasteful fact that I’m going to vote for whatever Democrat is running, what’s all this have to do with me?

“There is, however, a problem.”

Which is where I come in.

“The problem is Allie.”

Neal turned a few pages of the file and saw a picture of a teenaged girl. She had shiny blond hair and blue eyes and looked as if she belonged on a magazine cover.

Kitteredge stared at the model of Haridan as he said, “Actually, Alison always has been the problem.”

He seemed lost in his thoughts, or in some more happy memory on board his boat.

Neal said, “But specifically now?”

“Allie has run away.”

Yeah, okay, so we’ll go get her. But there was something else going on here, Neal sensed. Things were a little too tense. He looked at Graham and didn’t see a clue. He looked at Ed, but Ed wouldn’t look back.

“Any idea where?” Neal finally asked.

“She was last seen in London,” Ed said. “A former schoolmate saw her there over a spring-break trip. He tried to speak to her, but she ran away from him. It’s all there in your file.”

Neal looked it over. This schoolmate, a Scott Mackensen, had seen her about three weeks ago. “What do the British cops say?”

Kitteredge stared harder at the boat. “No police, Mr. Carey.”

This time, Ed did look at Neal-hard. Neal buried his face in the file, then asked, “Alison is seventeen years old?”

Nobody answered.

Neal looked through the file some more. “A seventeen-year-old girl has been gone for over three months and nobody has called the police?”

Another few seconds of silence and Kitteredge would actually will himself onto the model boat: a tiny model captain on a toy boat.

Levine said, “The Senator was reluctant to risk publicity.” Less reluctant to risk his daughter.

“Does the Senator like his daughter?” Neal asked.

“Not particularly.”

This came from Kitteredge, who continued: “Nevertheless, he wants her back. By August.”

He wants her back. Not right away, not tomorrow morning, but by August. Let me see, what happens in August? It gets hot and muggy, the Yankee pitching falls apart… oh, yeah. The Democrats have a convention.

“I trust you will not be offended, Mr. Carey, when I say that sometimes a… situation… arises that requires a blend of the… common

… and the sophisticated. When someone is needed whose education has occurred as much… in the street… as well as in the classroom. This is just such a case. You are just such a person.”

Except I don’t want to do it. God, how much I don’t want to do it. Not after the Halperin kid. Please, no more teenage runaways. Never again after the Halperin kid.

Levine frowned as he said, “You’re going to go to London, find Alison Chase, and bring her back in time for the Democratic convention.”

No I’m not.

“What happens if Chase doesn’t get nominated, Ed? You want me to throw the kid back?”

“Your fine sense of moral indignation will not be required, Mr. Carey.”

“I’m not the man for this job, Mr. Kitteredge.”

“The Halperin… tragedy… was an aberration, Mr. Carey. It could have happened to anyone.”

“But it happened to me.”

“It wasn’t your fault, son.”

“Then why have I been on the shelf since it happened?”

Kitteredge’s hand traced the sleek bow of Haridan. “The… hiatus… was for your benefit, not Friends’,”

Well, then, it worked. After the drinking, and the insomnia, and the nightmares had gone on for a while, I found Diane. And school again. And now I don’t want to come back.

“For once, I agree with Carey, Mr. Kitteredge,” said Ed. “He’s wrong for this one.”

“I’m sorry to pull you out of your classes, but your adviser understands,” Kitteredge said. “He’s a friend of the family.”

So that’s it, Neal thought. You bought me; you own me.

“I’m sorry, Neal, but this assignment is important… vital.”

Neal closed the file and put it in his lap. He knew a dismissal line when he heard one. “I’ll need to talk to the Senator and Mrs. Chase as soon as possible.”

Because the first place to start looking for a runaway, he knew, is at home.

“This is a case for the New York Rangers,” Neal said to Graham out on the sidewalk.

“It stinks on ice, all right. But there it is, son. You gotta pay rent.”

They were following Levine they knew not where, and he was pacing out in front of them.

“Just because she was in London three goddamn weeks ago doesn’t mean she’s there now. A kid with her money could be anywhere in the world. And even if she is in London, there are what, twelve, thirteen million people there with her? The odds on finding her are-”

“Shitty. I know.”

Levine led them into a parking garage.

Neal kept at it. “So what’s the point?”

“The point is… it’s your job. You do your best, you take the money, you forget about it.”

“Cold.”

“Hey.”

They were walking up the ramps. What does Ed have against elevators? Graham asked himself.

“And why do they all of a sudden want their kid back? Why now, why not three months ago when she first took off?”

“Talk to them.”

They were on the third level, the orange one, when Ed turned around.

“White Porsche. Guy’s name is Rich Lombardi,” he said to Neal. “He’s Chase’s aide. He’ll brief you, take you to the Chases’.”

Graham tried to look serious. Neal didn’t bother. “What’s all this ‘Mission Impossible’ crap, Ed?”

“Professionalism.”

“Right.”

“Everything you need to know is in the file.”

“Got Allie’s London address in it?”

“Fuck you.”

“I’ll need some prep time in the States.”

“For what?”

“For trying to find out a little about this kid. For talking to the boy who saw her. Little shit like that.”

“Read the file. I already talked to him.”

“So go get her then.”

“You don’t have a lot of time on this thing.”

“No kidding.”

“So get going.”

Graham put his heavy rubber arm around Neal’s neck and pulled him a few feet away. “You know Billy Connor, the alderman? You know how much he takes in under the table? Think about how much a vice president hauls in. Don’t fuck around with this one, son. See you back in the city.”

“Take it easy, Dad.”

Neal had taken about five steps away from them when he heard Ed’s cheerful voice.

“Hey, Neal, try to bring this one back alive, okay?!”

The guy in the driver’s seat of the white Porsche was reading the Providence Journal when Neal tapped on the window. He looked about thirty. Thick, wavy black hair tamed by cutting it short. Brown eyes. Pressed jeans, red sweater, and running shoes. White socks. He seemed confident and comfortable and was probably the kind of a guy who looked in the mirror and said, “Confident and comfortable.”

The guy smiled broadly as he rolled the window down. “You’re Neal Carey, right?”

“And if you know I’m Neal Carey, that makes you Rich Lombardi.”

“Hey, we’re both right.”

Neal stepped away from the door so Lombardi could get out. Lombardi shook Neal’s hand as if he could pump money out of it,

“I have to tell you we’re really glad you’re on board, Neal.”

Have to tell me?

He took Neal’s shoulder bag and slung it into the backseat. “Hop in.”