December Boys

Also by Joe Clifford

The Jay Porter Novels
Lamentation

Nonseries
Wake the Undertaker

Memoir
Junkie Love

Anthologies
Choice Cuts
Trouble in the Heartland
(editor)

A JAY PORTER NOVEL

JOE CLIFFORD

Copyright © 2016 Joe Clifford

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-60809-171-3

Published in the United States of America by Oceanview Publishing
Longboat Key, Florida

www.oceanviewpub.com

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

For my sons, Holden and Jackson Kerouac

T
HANKS TO MY
lovely wife, Justine, who gave me the space, time, and feedback to make my deadline—in between giving birth to our second son. You are an amazing woman, and I am a better man for having you in my life.

Thanks to my sister Melissa and my brother Josh (I wish Mom had lived to see this), and to my other brother Jason, my inspiration for Jay Porter.

Thanks to my first line of defense, my beta readers Tom Pitts and Jimmy Soyka. Without your valuable insights, this book doesn’t get written.

Thanks to my East Coast experts on diversion programs and juvenile detention centers (Scott Hartan) and alcohol-related matters (Josh Karaczewski); and my Midwest connection for all things rock ’n’ roll (Blair Hook). Special thanks to Micah Schnabel and Two Cow Garage for use of their lyrics. Your music provided the soundtrack to this book.

Thanks to the crime writing community at large. Whether we’ve spoken at length at conferences or communicated briefly via social media, you are why I do this. I do feel the need to highlight a
few of the main offenders. David Corbett, Hilary Davidson, Todd Robinson, Brian Panowich, Benoit Lelièvre, and Lynne Barrett—in one way or another you all helped to get me started, egged me on, or kept me going. Thanks for your tireless support.

And, last, thanks to my agent, Elizabeth Kracht, for finding my
Lamentation
novels a home; and to David, Lisa, Emily, Lee, Pat and Bob, and everyone else on the Oceanview team. Your faith in me means the world. I look forward to working together for years to come.

Oh you December boys got it bad /
Songs of losers and dreamers can be such a drag /
Birthdays and graduations through a telephone /
Another son of a son of a rolling stone / . . .
Now, there’s gonna come a time when your little world’s coming apart /
’Cause this whole world is just dying to break your heart . . .

—“Jackson, Don’t You Worry,” Two Cow Garage

I
SAT IN
my idling truck outside the abandoned construction site, staring up at the towering specter of Lamentation Mountain. A cold rain fell, assaulting the roof of my ride. The thaw of spring would be here soon but for now temperatures hovered near freezing as one late-season storm rolled in after the next. Gusts picked up and whistled through the ravine. Even though I now lived on the other side of New Hampshire, I couldn’t get far enough away. The range’s black shadow hung over everything.

The rusted sign read “Property of Lombardi Construction: Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted.” Thick chains wrapped around quarry gates to keep out vandals, an unnecessary precaution. Even criminals weren’t trekking this far into the cuts to haul sixteen tons on to the back of a pickup. Someone would fetch the Bobcats and front loaders once the weather turned warmer and hardware could be wrenched free from the frozen earth, retrieved for scrap and sold. Or maybe not. The discarded metal might be worth more as a tax write-off.

I reached inside my glove compartment, bypassing Marlboros for a map.

Cold rain turned to sleet, which turned to freezing rain, icy pellets beating a steady pattern. Out the cracked windshield, which I hadn’t gotten around to getting fixed since an accident last winter, I gazed across the gravel pit and up the steep, rocky
banks of the culvert. One wrong turn and I’d ended up here. Just my luck. Perfect way to end the day.

I popped a piece of Nicorette gum through the foil, and unfurled the gas station map to find out where the hell I was. I couldn’t read the tiny intersecting street names in between the bug-eaten holes and too-many folds. I wished I’d remembered my cell. Not that it would’ve helped. Tower service this far north was spotty. And forget GPS. I knew my wife would be pissed when she couldn’t reach me, and my boss wasn’t going to be any happier since my unexpected detour had put me behind schedule. I’d wasted an entire afternoon. I had to sign off on the Olisky file today. The last thing I needed was being reminded of the worst year of my life.

I pushed the map from the console, turned off the shoulder, and steered back onto the road. Exiting the property, I passed an empty guard station. Little wooden shack buried beneath a mound of snow. I hadn’t noticed it on the way in. The shack had a newer, more recent sign affixed. Fresher rivets, shiny metal plate. All very official looking. One word in sleek red writing: Tomassi. I’d gone to school with a Louie Tomassi. Only reason the name registered at all.

With darkness descending, I was running out of time. The Oliskys lived half an hour south of Plasterville in Libby Brook, another faceless farming town tucked down meandering country roads, all of which were named some variation after Saint Thomas—Saint Thomas Place. Saint Thomas Route. Saint Thomas Way. Temps turned colder. Freezing rain bulleted the windshield. I had a brutal time deciphering signs. Out on the western front, landmarks were few and far between, occasional farmhouses cropping up in between a whole lot of nothing.

Took me over an hour to find the place. By the time I did, a
wintery slice of silver moon peeked over the tops of tall pines, glinting down the backs of ice-slicked rock. When I stepped from the cab, crisp country air stabbed my lungs. I retrieved my little briefcase that held the Olisky report and my thermos with the coffee that had long run cold.

I committed the two silos and broken-down plow in an adjacent field to memory, in case I ever had reason to come out this way again. I doubted I ever would.

I introduced myself to the skinny teenager who answered the door, explaining who I was, who I worked for, and what I was doing there. He said his name was Brian and little else. Jittery fella. Tall but lanky, wispy almost. Like one good gust and he’d be carried away on the breeze forever.

The kid craned his head past me, running the length of bowed planks on the rickety, old porch. I didn’t know what he was searching for. Nothing out there in the darkness but an Amish swing that had seen better days, a couple gallons of paint stowed beneath the seat. In the soft porch light, I could see where someone had started sanding the exterior but hadn’t finished the job.

“My mother’s not home,” Brian Olisky said.

“You mind if I ask you a few questions about the car accident?” I cinched my winter coat tighter and blew on my hands, a not-too-subtle hint for an invitation inside. It was witch-tit cold out there. When that display didn’t elicit the desired response, I stomped my feet for emphasis.

“It’s my mom’s policy.”

“I know that, Brian. But you were in the car with her.”

Like I hadn’t bothered to read who the policyholder was? The kid was sixteen years old. Who knew why he was so twitchy and anxious? He’d probably been jacking it before I showed up. The boy wasn’t biting, though, staring back at me through oversized
glasses. Damn things bigger than his head. There wasn’t much I could do. DeSouza got pissy anytime a policyholder complained about rude behavior, reminding me that, above all, “insurance is a service industry.” But I also knew my boss would crawl up my ass if I’d wasted an entire day tooling around the sticks without closing the book.

“My mom isn’t here,” Brian repeated.

“Yeah. I heard you the first time.” I flipped open the report, pretending to verify the name and address. Which was for the kid’s benefit. I knew I had the right house. Wasn’t a neighbor in either direction for miles, and he’d already told me his goddamn name. I clicked my pen, my money move. The sooner I got the information I needed, the sooner I could get on the road and get home. I hated missing my son’s bedtime. Most mornings I was out the door before Aiden woke. If I got in too late, I wouldn’t be able to see him at all. Spending more time with my son was half the reason I’d signed up for this stupid job in the first place.

“Just you and your mom living here?”

Brian shuffled his feet, antsy to be rid of me. I stared into the woodsy, rustic home, one of those old farmhouses that has been in the family for generations. No way the Oliskys could afford it otherwise. I knew the husband was out of the picture, and I’d seen Donna’s paystubs. The interior was stuffed with cheap rocking chairs no one sits in, moth-eaten afghans no one wears, folksy advice stitched on wall-hung tapestry that no one follows.

“Can you come back later?” Brian said.

I shut the folder and stowed the pen, hoping to set Brian at ease. I didn’t want to play the heavy. Standing there like some authoritative agency, I felt like Rob Turley, this guy I knew in high school who’d become our hometown’s sheriff. Before my junkie brother Chris died last year, Turley had jailed him plenty over the
years. Every time Turley would greet me in his uniform, a hitch in his step and stars on his shoulder, I could see through the act. You go from getting wasted together at reservoir parties to checking off boxes on application forms, deciding someone else’s fate. Drop the officious pretense, be a regular guy, which was what I was anyway.

“Listen, man,” I said, catching Brian’s eye. “I just have a few questions on the claim. Straightforward stuff. Five minutes, tops.” I thumbed behind me into the dark and cold. “This would be a lot easier to do inside. What do you say? Be a pal?”

The boy opened the door to let me in. Inside the mudroom, I wiped my shoes on the mat, removed my Patriots knit cap, and winced a smile. A grandfather clock stood proudly against oatmeal-colored walls, but the pendulum didn’t swing.

I began to peel off my winter coat but stopped short. The drafty farmhouse wasn’t much warmer inside. Heating these old homes wasn’t cheap. Oil could run a couple grand, easy. I checked the roof beams. I’d spent a lot of time inside ancient Colonials like this when I was working my old job in estate clearing back in Ashton. Most were built in the 1700s, and the construction business had come a long way since the Revolutionary War. Overhauling an entire heating system could drain your bank account. Best bet was shoring up leaks.