Souvenir (29 page)

“Jesus Christ.”

“Senator Flanagan was not happy about it. The Mayor was spitting bullets.”

“How could Chris be so stupid?”

“Listen, Clay,” Bob said, leaning across the desk, lowering his voice. “Some things don’t add up.”

“Like what?”

“Setting aside the brilliant stupidity of it, things fell into place pretty neatly. We get a call at about 8:30, saying some kids are hotrodding up and down North Colony, laying rubber, stuff like that. We send a patrol car out, and while he’s on his way, another call comes in, this time with the license plate. No name, dispatcher wasn’t even sure if it was the same person.”

“What are you getting at, Bob?” Clay didn’t dare let any hope leak into his heart. It was too fine a thread to risk it breaking. He held his breath, waiting for Bob to answer.

“I don’t know, it was just awful neat. The Mayor and Flanagan go in for dinner at 7:00, we get a call at 8:30, another at 8:45, and we pick up the kids twenty minutes later. Neat.”

“Wait a minute,” Clay said, trying to clear his mind of the anguish and confusion flooding his thoughts. “Wait, who was Chris with, which kids? Was one of them Tony?”

“Yeah,” said Bob, picking up a sheet of paper. Two cousins, Italian kids. Vincent Agostino and Anthony DePaoli. Neither have been in real trouble before, but close to it…”

“Say that name again?”

“Agostino or DePaoli?”

DePaoli. Alphonse DePaoli, Mr. Fironeza had said. Al. So who was Tony, his kid brother?

“Yeah, I remember Tony, don’t know the other kid. Sorry.” Clay stared out the window, not wanting Bob to read his face. It was time to find out, time to see if he could not only keep a secret, but lie flat-out and make it stick.

“Does Chris hang around with these guys much?” Bob asked.

“Tony, all the time. I think he started school in town this year, and Chris has been following him around everywhere. The other kid I don’t know. Tony got a new car the other day, they were driving around after work.”

“I’ll look into that,” Bob said, writing something down in his notebook.

“You think they were set up?”

“I don’t know,” said Bob, shaking his head. “I just wish every auto theft got wrapped up this easy.”

“Why take the word of those two against Chris’?” Clay asked. He had his own idea, but he wanted to hear what Bob thought.

“Have to. He was at the wheel, first off. The other two kids had the same story, even admitted they knew it was a stolen car, but they swore Chris picked them up and was at the wheel the whole time.”

“And you believe them?”

“Me? I just work for the Chief of Police, who works for the Mayor, who was very happy to inform Grant Flanagan that they’d recovered his Riviera and apprehended the thief. Therefore, they are believed. Like I said, neat.”

“Flanagan’s pressing charges?” Again, Clay knew the answer.

“Oh yeah, he demanded it. The Mayor suggested he let it slide, probably to keep the bad publicity down, but Senator Flanagan is worried about the corruption of youth by hoodlums and gangs. We heard the whole speech. He wants an example set.”

Clay could almost see the wheels turning. Tony moves into town and befriends Chris. Probably Al started watching him then, maybe late summer. Like Mr. Fiorenza said, they’d watch and gather information. Then make their first move, beating up Petey and taking the route. Then the subtle appeal to Clay in the parking lot, followed up by the pay-off. Play ball, or your kid goes to Cheshire. The State Reform School was located south on Route 10 in Cheshire, so everyone scolded their kids by telling them they might end up in Cheshire one day. If you went crazy, then you were going to Middletown, where the insane asylum was. Maybe he’d end up in Middletown, Chris in Cheshire, and Addy who the hell knows where.

He knew how it would play out. If he went over to Al, suddenly Tony and his pal would change their story, confess they had stolen the car, probably say Chris didn’t even know it was stolen. If the DePaoli family were really connected, then Grant Flanagan might even decide it was time to show mercy to the younger generation. He could solve Chris’ problem, but he’d end up in the middle of a gang war and lose Addy to boot.

“Clay?”

“What? Oh yeah, sorry. Trying to sort things out. Is there anything you can do?”

“I’ll look into the new car angle. Maybe it was boosted. You know anything else about Tony DePaoli?”

“I think he’s been suspended from school, something about a knife,” Clay said, with the ease of someone who’s lying by telling part of what he knows, and withholding the rest. A little truth makes the lie go down easy. “Can I ask you a hypothetical question?”

“About what?”

“About what could make this all go away,” Clay said.

“You mean some proof that showed Chris didn’t steal the car?”

“Maybe,” Clay said, shrugging. “Or maybe something else more important, something that trumped a missing car.”

“You know something that trumps Grant Theft Auto?” Bob sat up, his eyes boring into Clay’s. The policeman’s face.

“You haven’t said I could ask you a hypothetical question yet.”

“Listen, Clay, the department isn’t going to get all excited over numbers, hypothetically speaking. Penny-ante stuff.”

“I’m not talking penny-ante. Hypothetically.”

“Listen, I don’t give a crap about the numbers. If a guy in a candy store, or hypothetically, a bar, takes a few slips, then no big deal. No one wants to bother shop owners over a few bucks. The publicity would kill us anyway, there’s too many places—so I hear. So forget it, it’s noble and all, but forget it.”

“Does the name Fiorenza mean anything to you? Guy out of Hartford?” Clay watched for Bob’s reaction. Sympathetic exasperation dropped from his expression, and his face went blank. He pulled back on his chair.

“I’m going to tell you once, right now, between friends. If you know anything about a major crime, anything more than jaywalking or betting on the numbers at a Mom and Pop corner store, you let me know right now. Got it?”

“I got it. It was only an idle question.”

“Nothing you want to tell me about?” Bob asked.

“No, nothing,” Clay said, truthfully, since there was nothing he wanted to tell Bob. He stood up. “Can I see Chris now?”

“Yeah. I’ll bring him out, then you sign some papers downstairs. I’ll release him into your custody.” Bob grabbed a stack of papers from the desk and stood. He faced Clay and waited a few heartbeats before turning away and unlocked the cellblock door. Clay waited for his son.

The two of them left the police station in silence. While Clay signed forms for the desk sergeant, Chris had stood off to the side, eyes glued to the linoleum. He wore his blue Platt High School jacket over a white tee shirt and blue jeans. Clay could see him at the wheel of the car, arm out the window, accelerator floored. James Dean out for a spin.

The walked out past the lights at the entrance and waited to cross the street. Late Friday night traffic was steady, still plenty of places to go and things to do, if you hadn’t just been released from jail.

“Well?” Clay said, not looking at Chris.

“Those guys are lying,” Chris said, a mutter more than a statement. His eyes were still down, and he wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Clay wondered if he’d been crying. “Really.”

“I know,” Clay said. “I believe you.”

A police car passed them one way, then a white station wagon the other way. Traffic thinned, and then there were no more cars. They stood side-by-side, toes up on the uneven curb containing the slate sidewalk.

“You do?” Chris’ voice shook with emotion. He hadn’t expected the sudden agreement.

“Yeah. I believe what you said was true. What I can’t believe is why you got into the goddamn car in the first place.” As he spoke, Clay’s voice went from soft to grim. By the time he got to goddamn, his teeth were gritted hard.

“I dunno,” Chris said, with a shrug of his thin shoulders. “It was a boss car. At first—” 
“A what car?”

“Boss. It was totally gear. A really nice car, Dad.”

“I get it. Now tell me what happened.”

“Shouldn’t we cross—”  
“No,” Clay said. “Tell me.”

“Okay,” said Chris, drawing out the word. He took a breath and began. “At first, Tony said his uncle loaned it to him. He had to get it back by ten, and did I want to drive around until then. I said sure, and I got in.”

“Who else was there?”

“Vince, he’s Tony’s cousin, he lives in New Haven. I seen him a few times before, but I don’t know him.”

“Vince a little older than Tony?”

“Yeah, he’s nineteen. How’d you know?”

“Never mind. Then what happened?”

“I saw he didn’t have a key.”

“Then you knew it was stolen?”

“Yeah, and I said so. They said they took it from some guy and if they had it back by ten he’d never know. Tony said they’d hot-wired it.”

“Why didn’t you get out?”

Chris didn’t answer. He kicked the curb with his sneaker and looked up and down the street. Clay waited. He felt cold in the cool night air, and rolled his sleeves down. Chris had his jacket open. Clay knew he wouldn’t button it up if it were below zero outside

“Why didn’t you get out?”

“It was exciting,” Chris said, with a note of surprise, as if he hadn’t thought of that before. “I didn’t want them calling me chicken either, but it was something special, something more exciting than I ever felt.”

Clay turned and looked at his son. He knew it was an honest answer. He knew Chris was at the age when excitement overruled good judgment, and when that happened, honesty was about all you could hope for.

“What was jail like?”

“It wasn’t exciting,” Chris said, looking up and daring a smile at his father. Then he looked back down into the gutter. “I was scared. I was scared when they pulled us over, but when Tony and Vince said I stole the car, I didn’t know what was going to happen.” Chris’ voice caught in his throat, and he took a breath and wiped his nose again. “Am I going to have to go to Cheshire?”

“Don’t worry, Chris,” Clay said as he put his arm around his son’s shoulder and pulled him into his side. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

Chris turned his head onto his father’s shoulder, burying it in the thin white cotton of his shirt. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he said, and Clay felt the tears soak through the thin material. The street was quiet now, the only sounds the rumble of traffic on Main Street. Clay heard a flutter, a flapping sound, and looked up to see a small shape fly over their heads. One, then another.

“Look,” he said to Chris, nudging his head with his shoulder and pointing up. “Bats.” Chris rubbed his eyes and looked up.

“Where? Oh yeah, lookit!”

They stood at the curb, necks craned up, watching a parade of bats fly over their heads, silhouetted against the starry sky, swooping under the gable window of an old three-story house across the street.

“Geez,” said Chris, “there must be a hundred in there. Think the people who live there know?”

“Probably,” said Clay. “Bats always roost in the same place, always come back to it. They don’t forget where home is.”

They stayed a while longer, and as the flight of bats thinned out, Clay felt hopeful for the first time in a long time. Maybe that would be the difference, if Chris always knew where home was, no matter how far he strayed. Maybe the sins would stop with him.

“Let’s go,” said Clay, and they stepped off the curb, his hand still on Chris’ shoulder.

All the lights in the house were on, and as soon as he pulled into the driveway, Addy was out the front door, her long bathrobe flapping as she ran down the front steps. Chris was barely out of the car before she had a hold of him.

“Chris, are you all right?”

“Mom, I’m sorry—”

“Are you all right?” Addy asked again, her voice rising. Chris looked anxiously around as the neighbor’s front porch light flicked on.

“Yeah. I’m fine.” Addy stood there, biting her lower lip to keep it from quivering. Clay could see the lines in her face, the reddened eyes, her stress and worry. She reached up and clenched her bathrobe at the neck, as if she’d suddenly felt the late night chill. Her eyes widened, her head shook, and in a flash her other hand came up and slapped Chris on the cheek, the slap as loud as a bullwhip in the empty air.

Chris stood with one hand still on the car door, stunned. He put the other hand to his face, to feel where he’d been slapped. Addy raised her hands to her face, a gasp escaping her lips as she saw the red welt on Chris’ cheek. Chris stood silently, waiting for what would come next. Addy looked at Clay, eyes still wide, on the verge of a scream or a sob.

Chris looked to Clay too, shocked at the switch in what he had expected from each parent. Clay nodded his head slightly, towards Addy, guiding Chris with his eyes to his mother. Chris seemed to understand, and as he went towards her, Addy grabbed him in a hug, crying in relief, sadness and joy. Clay put his arm around both of them.

“Let’s go in,” he said, and guided them up the front steps and inside the house.