All in One Piece (24 page)

Here’s Stark with an exhausted Biscuit, who flops on the kitchen floor while the man gulps his sugared coffee. “It smells
like a training room in here, Cutter. Like ointment for sore muscles.”

“I went horseback riding a couple days ago.”

“The best saddle’s on a Harley. You’ll find out. Hey, what’s this—
Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook
. ‘How to Ram a Car.’ ‘How to Win a Sword Fight.’ This some kind of joke?”

“It just showed up.”

“Unannounced?”

“On my doorstep.”

He grunts, eyes narrowed to slits. “Whatever you say, Cutter. But you better keep Biscuit here with you for a while longer.”

Meaning that I need a watchdog on constant duty. As if the
Survival Handbook
doesn’t remind me. We move toward my front door. That crackling sound again. “Hey, what’s that noise?” Stark stares at the
crackling wood. “Where’d you get this?”

“It’s a gift, applewood—”

“Cutter, you got borers. Apple borers, worse than termites. You can hear them. They’ll eat your house.” He grabs the armful.
“Get this junk out of here right now. Open the door.” Stark dumps all the wood and promises to move the sofa in a few days.
He dusts his hands. “Some presents you get.”

“Some givers. Stark, does the name Helping Hand mean anything to you?”

“A charity?”

“A business. Something that Jo was into with Steven.”

“It doesn’t sound like her.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Helping Hand, you’re sure that’s it?”

“Pretty sure. You didn’t notice the name when we moved Steven’s furniture? Anything in the drawers of the blue chest?”

“No. Ask your cop friends. They got the first round of the search.”

He’s at the door. “One last thing, Stark. You took Massachusetts state history as a schoolkid, right?”

“Before I dropped out? What do you want to know—Paul Revere, the Pilgrims?”

“There was a textile strike in Lawrence. It was in 1912.”

He snorts. “Suppose, hell yes. Talk about landmarks for the working stiffs.”

“You know about it? Tell me.”

“I don’t remember details, but it was the usual crap, the mill town owners calling all the shots. They got rich. But they
went too far. They pushed the workers’ hours and cut their wages, both at the same time, talk about sweatshops. The workers
were trapped. They were immigrants from all over, you know, ‘Give me your tired, your poor.’ They had big families, nobody
spoke much English. The thing is, the workers got fed up and walked out of the mills. And stayed out. The governor called
out the militia, but the strikers held out. It was winter, cold as a witch’s ass. They stuck it out. And they won.”

“What do you mean ‘won’?”

“Higher wages, better hours.”

“And it’s a well-known event in state history?”

“In national history, Cutter. It was a big media event. Reporters came from everywhere. Workers shipped their kids out of
Lawrence for fear the militia’d shoot or bayonet them. The whole country was rooting for the mill families. It was a PR disaster
for the owners. The workers’ deal was to earn a decent living and the owners’ respect. The women were really into it. The
workers beat the owners. That’s why the nickname.”

“What nickname?”

“For respect and enough to eat—that’s why it’s named for the bread and the roses.”

“Bread? What roses?”

“The Bread and Roses Strike. It’s famous.”

Stark leaves, but I’m frozen in place, staring at the pale green glass on the top shelf of my front room. QUART gleams in
the late morning light. Bread and roses, and whiskey and cabbage too. The voices I heard… they’re Lawrence mill workers,
strikers. The cabbage, it was cooking in a kitchen… a kitchen bar. The whiskey was Blanchard & Farrar, Dock Square, Boston.
In my hands—as in Jo’s—the foreign voices rise in anger and hope. The whiskey was poured, I now know for certain, in the kitchen
bar of the Damelinski family. I heard the voices of workers who came after their shifts to drink—and to commiserate and then
organize. To plan their walkout. They were fearful and hopeful, desperate, maybe drunk. The crack on the head… somebody
grabbed the empty flask as a cudgel. Does the spirit of that person linger in the perpetuity of the kitchen bar, compelled
forever to grab the flask and wield it like a weapon?

Did Steven know this Damelinski family history? It’s doubtful. Stories get lost. Family members aren’t interested. The flask
gradually becomes just an old bottle around the house. An old bottle from the Lithuanian days.

From the “Slovak” days.

Is Steven’s death connected to the 1912 Bread and Roses Strike? How? QUART seems to wink in the light, to beckon me. I refuse.
No more blows to the skull, no thanks. Enough.

I call Devaney.

“Coincidence, Reggie, you were just on my mind. It happened like this many times with your aunt. How’re you doing?”

“Okay, Frank, but here’s a question: did the police search of Steven Damelin’s things turn up a business called Helping Hand?”

“It sounds like not-for-profit.”

“But it’s a business. Or was. I think Jo was involved. I know she was.”

“She never told me about it. But I’ll check the inventory and get back to you. Anyway, Ed asked me to give you an update.”

“Maglia has found Alex Ribideau?”

“Not as yet, no. At this time, we’re talking to Luis Diaz. We brought him in. He was in a car with three other kids. They
had burglery tools and a nail gun. Just so you know.”

“What brand, Frank? What make?”

“The car?”

“The nail gun.”

“I don’t know.”

“Frank, listen to this: the business that Steven Damelin worked for… the CEO’s wife’s family makes nail guns.”

“Reggie, that’s a stretch.”

“It’s a lead.”

“Reggie, consider the logic. If we arrest a guy in a Mustang, do we question Mr. and Mrs. Ford? No, we do not. You’re stressing
yourself.”

“You think Luis killed Steven?”

“Maybe he went to Damelin’s apartment the night of the murder. Ed’s working on it. Whatever you’re up to, Reggie, it sounds
far-fetched. Ease off.”

Ease? Do I tell about the
Survival Handbook
just when he thinks I’m already half daft? Do I remind him that a car ran me down on my own street the day before Steven
was murdered? “I’m planning a memorial sevice, Frank. I’m gathering a list of invitees and plan to contact a young woman who’ll
sing. I’ll spend the afternoon on the invitations. I’ll brew a pot of tea.”

“Good, Reggie. That sounds real good. You take care.”

It’s after 5:00 p.m. when I reach the Apollo Club. There’s no sign of Matt Kitchel. Today’s bartender is round-faced, his
brass-yellow hair slicked and gleaming. He knows nothing of Matt’s schedule. The after-work crowd gathers. A threesome in
jerseys at the bar subtly barricade themselves as I take a stool at this end, decline today’s special, metropolitans, and
order a glass of merlot, water on the side.

Fifteen minutes pass, twenty. At 5:30, a second bartender comes on. More customers arrive, men with cut abs and six-pack muscles.
The salsa volume is up, the cocktail shaker in overdrive. “Refill?”

“No thanks. Could you check Matt Kitchel’s schedule? Please.”

“Don’t know a thing about it. Sorry.”

The tables are filling, and the booths too. This could be a long evening. Although the stools on either side of me stay empty.
No one wants to sit beside the sole female in the club, the Typhoid Mary of the Apollo Club. Here’s a thought: the longer
I sit, the bigger the drag on the club revenue. “Excuse me, but if Matt’s available, I’ll be in that second booth. I’m taking
my drink to the second booth… that one big empty booth? He can find me there. I’ll be waiting.”

Minutes later, Matt Kitchel bursts through a back door near the waterfall and half lunges into the booth across from me. “I’m
trying to run a business here. People need to sit down. What do you want this time?”

“I’m in charge of the memorial service for Steven Damelin. It’ll be at All Souls Church a few days before Veterans Day. Here,
let me—” I take out an invitation, which he puts aside without a glance. “Mr. Kitchel… Matt… could you provide a
list of names of Steven’s friends?”

“Look, lady—”

“It’s Reggie. Reggie Cutter.”

“Ms. Cutter, maybe you need a hearing test. You didn’t listen last time, so here’s the message: the Apollo Club isn’t interested
in giving out lists of names. Not for Steve’s furniture, not for a memorial service. Anyway, who’s behind it? Not his scummy
family.”

“It’s an occasion for friends, and his coworkers surely care. Andrew Vogler of Corsair Financial told me—”

“Corsair Fraudancial. You heard me.
Fraud
ancial.”

“You’re accusing the firm of—”

“Accusing nobody of nothing. It was one hell of a party for a while. Weekends in Vegas, coke, and Beemers. You didn’t know?
One New Year’s, they all went to Rio. It was fun for all the boys and girls, but the party had to end. No bang, big whimper.
Corsair’s a bucket shop. Look it up.”

“Investments pose risks—”

“How pious. Put you on the
Wall Street
channel.” He scowls. “Lady, you come into my club with your memorial plans, you better know who’s singing the hymns.”

“Matt, my aunt was in business with Steven. I need to know more about it—Helping Hand. Did Steven talk about Helping Hand?”

He gazes at the room. There’s laughter and music and a good time being had by all. “Steve wanted to go out on his own.”

“To leave Corsair?”

“To check the box that says ‘self-employed.’”

“But you never heard of Helping Hand?”

He shakes his head. “I gotta go.”

“Matt, one last thing. There’s a dancer named Alex Ribideau. He was Steven’s partner, as I’m sure you know. You probably know
the police are looking for him. I met him.”

“Good for you.”

“Maybe Alex knows about the Helping Hand business. He’s disappeared.”

“So they say.” He stands and leans over me. “You found Steve’s body, right?”

“That’s right.”

“And where were you the night he died, Miss Reggie?”

“I was in my apartment.”

“What did you hear that night?”

“Nothing. A few sounds. The walls are thick.”

“But the police aren’t closing in on you, are they?” He leans close to my face. “How would you feel if a cop car sat outside
your dance studio at all hours of the day and night? How would you like to see cops at your apartment round the clock?”

“Me? I’d feel safer.”

His bark-laugh is all sarcasm. “Well, it’s relative, isn’t it?”

“You still think the Latino boy—Luis—killed Steven?”

“You bet I do. But a gay passion murder sells. The cops get promoted, the DA runs for attorney general and governor. Isn’t
that how it goes? I gotta get back to work. Have a nice memorial service.”

I’m walking alone toward the club door as voices fall silent. Of course, it’s the woman, the alien female, and my mind a jumble.
But head up, Reggie. Let them stare.

But the quiet, I realize, is not for me but two uniformed police. It’s not gender but blues, a man and woman making their
way down the bar.

“—haven’t seen him.”

“No.”

“Afraid not.”

Heads are shaking.

The female cop’s voice is stern. “We understand he may frequent this club.”

They’re talking to the slick-haired bartender. They show a photograph.

“—haven’t seen him.”

I’m by the door.

“Haven’t seen him this week.”

“Last month.”

I hear the words “missing… for questioning… looking for” and see the photograph flash as I myself am asked.

“No.” I shake my head. “Haven’t seen him.”

I exit the Apollo Club with sinking heart. The cops have shown me a photograph of Alex Ribideau.

B
ack home, with Biscuit fed and walked, I grab a yogurt, open my laptop, take a deep breath, and type in “Corsair Financial.”

Its logo, a white stallion, rears against a drapery of royal blue and gold, and the home page shows Leonard in profile in
a bespoke suit. He’s holding a portfolio and tortoiseshell readers and stands like a pillar of financial wisdom by a window
overlooking Boston Harbor. The words “Investment, Security, Estate Planning” ripple across the bottom.

Color portrait photos of brokers and analysts appear under “Corsair’s Expert Professionals.” Here’s Drew, a young “Rock of
Gibralter.” And Steven too, his face friendly but gaze piercing, as if scanning the sea for galleons full of ingots. Either
the webmaster hasn’t updated the site, or no one can bear to face the task of removing the murdered analyst. What about his
clients? Drew said they were parceled out to others. Including him? Corsair promises the utmost in financial services. “Professional
care of our clients, our sacred trust.”

But “trust” means fines and court judgments. A few clicks verify Matt Kitchel’s scathing words. Corsair has been penalized
for “hype and dump manipulation” involving the promotion of stock through false and misleading statements.

What kind of statements? The promotional manipulation of “microcap stocks” of two companies, Ferrero Electronics and Aavido
Inc., both with subpar capitalization. The fine was $1.3 million.

Question to self: what is a microcap stock?

I move on to find final judgment rendered against Defendants Leonard S. Vogler and Andrew T. Vogler of Corsair Financial last
February 5 by the Honorable Dore R. Vandevere, Judge in the United States District Court for the Eastern District of Massachusetts.

My eyes glaze at the sections and subsections of securities trust laws violated, but the judge’s words are scalding: “aiding
and abetting… knowingly and recklessly failed to properly recognize… attempt to conceal… creation of false
supporting documentation.” The parties consent to the final judgment without admitting or denying the allegations. The penalty:
$834,093. The bottom line: fraud.

Ready to shut the laptop, I try one more search: the National Association of Securities Dealers. Here’s a box marked “actions,”
meaning penalties? Click.