No Stone Unturned (11 page)

East Main Street was the hub of New Holland’s barrio, if ever a barrio existed north of Spanish Harlem. Though counting barely thirty thousand souls, New Holland boasted a broad ethnic mix of English, Irish, Italian, and Polish. The Diaspora had cast a few Jewish families into New Holland’s soup, and there was a smattering of Germanic names in the phonebook as well. Believe it or not, no Dutch. The Puerto Ricans were the last group to arrive on the shores of the Mohawk and, as such, enjoyed the distinction of low man on the totem pole.

Hawk Street ran about three hundred yards north and south, from East Main Street to the train tracks near the river. It had always been a working-class neighborhood, adjacent to the mills, railroad, and river. Even so, Hawk Street and the East End had seen better days. Clutter and disrepair marked the street like tar on a rag. The gray clapboard houses stood leaning, orphaned elders left to expire in a cold, miserable corner of a forsaken town. The street had the look of a neglected graveyard, and, if not for the parked cars, you’d think you’d stumbled into Hell’s own vestibule.

I rapped on the door marked number 2, and flecks of cracking paint fell to the warped boards of the porch under my feet.

“What you want?” asked the man who answered the door. He was of medium height and weight, with wavy dark hair, a leathery face, and sharp, black eyes.

“My name is Ellie Stone. I’m a reporter for the
New Holland Republic
.” I knew I was unwanted. “I’m looking for . . .”

“I know why you’re here,” he said, joining me on the porch, closing the door behind him. He was wearing gray-green work clothes. The name “Miguelito” was stitched in cursive into a white oval tag on the right breast pocket of his shirt. “What you want with Julio?” he asked.

“Just some information,” I said, stepping back.

“Don’t know where he is.”

“Listen,” I said, steeling myself. “The sheriff is looking for him; you know that.” The man did nothing to confirm or deny my statement. “I don’t believe Julio had anything to do with this murder, but as long as he remains in hiding, people will assume he did. And that could be dangerous when he finally turns up. And he will turn up; they always do. So why don’t you get word to him to talk to me now? I can present his side of the story in the paper. I won’t give him away.”

“Don’t know where he is,” repeated the man, staring coldly into my eyes.

“Just tell him what I said. The press has the right to protect its sources.”

That wasn’t exactly true. To be precise, the press had the right to go to jail for refusing to divulge its sources.

“Here’s my number,” I said, holding out a scrap of paper. “In case you see him.”

The man took the number from me but said nothing. I could feel his eyes on my back as I returned to my car. When I reached my Belvedere, I looked up to see at least two dozen eyes watching me from neighboring porches. I climbed in behind the wheel and eased away from the curb.

My next stop was a phone booth on the corner of East Main and Broome. The dial was sticky with some brownish substance, and the receiver was no prize either, but it worked. It didn’t matter anyway; there was still no answer at Ginny’s number in Boston.

A few blocks away, on the north bank of the Mohawk, straddling the Cayunda, stood some of the old knitting mills—monuments to an era gone by. Only a few shops remained, among them was Fowler’s Mill, where Pukey Boyle sewed fingers into gloves forty hours a week. The foreman wasn’t pleased to have a reporter asking for one of his workers, and he told me so.

“He’s working, girlie,” he said, leaving me on the wrong side of the gate. “You can cool your heels till he breaks for lunch.”

I waited outside, resisting the cold by drinking coffee and chatting with the sandwich truck guy, Manny.

“Do you know a fellow named Boyle?” I asked him. “Pukey Boyle?”

“What’s he look like?” asked Manny.

I gave him what little description I had: a young greaser who smokes.

“There’s gotta be fifty guys like that work here,” he said, sticking a slice of bologna between two slices of Freihofer’s bread. “I ain’t got nothing to say to the young guys, anyways. Bunch of jerks, mostly. The older Joes are okay. Had good jobs till the mills packed up and left. They’re stuck here ’cause they got families and mortgages, and this is what they done their whole life. The young ones are just losers. Smart folks know there’s no future left in New Holland.”

My father would have tipped Manny and slapped him on the back for that last remark.

Finally, when the noon whistle blew, a herd of working men spilled out of the gates and headed our way. As they reached the truck, I began asking for Pukey. A fat man with a two-day beard told me he’d be along soon. A second worker said he didn’t know no Pukey Boyle, but he’d like to know me better. I edged away. As more men passed, I encountered indifference, wolfish leers, and outright hostility, but no Pukey Boyle. Then, after about twenty minutes, a tall, muscular young man with hair combed into a DA at least a couple of years out of style sidled up to me.

“You looking for me?” he asked, leaning against the fender of an old Ford behind me. He took a bite from his sandwich.

“Are you Pukey Boyle?” I asked, turning to look at him straight on. He was big, at least ten inches taller than I.

“Who are you, anyway?” he asked, squinting in my direction.

“Ellie Stone,” I said, and my voice cracked. “I work at the paper. Can I ask you a few questions?”

“What about?”

Was he kidding? Surely he knew about Jordan Shaw’s death; it was the biggest news in years. In fact, it was the only news in years, and she was a former girlfriend of his.

“I wanted to ask you about Jordan Shaw.”

“What about her?”

“She’s dead,” I said, realizing that, indeed, Pukey Boyle lived under a rock.

“What?” He pushed himself off the fender and spat out a mouthful of his sandwich. It looked like egg salad.

“She was murdered Friday night.”

He threw what was left of his sandwich to the blacktop and swore out loud. Then he laughed. Laughed!

“And people always said I’d get her into trouble. What happened anyway?”

“Someone broke her neck. Don’t you read the papers?”

“You a comedian?” he said, towering over me. He wasn’t laughing.

I took a step back, and he chuckled.

“Don’t sweat it, baby,” he said, easing himself back onto the fender. “So tell me what happened.”

“I take it you haven’t seen her recently,” I said, a little short of breath. He was intimidating.

“Not in two, two and a half years. And that was just running into her at Tedesco’s Grill.”

“Do you have any idea who would want to kill her?”

“What, are you writing a book?”

“No, just an article for the paper. Now, about my question.”

Again Pukey chuckled, more to himself this time. “I’d bet any guy she ever went out with would be tempted to. CTs have a way of pissing guys off, know what I mean?”

“
CTs
?” I asked.

“Cockteasers. Sorry, I was trying to be polite.”

I nodded. “I see. Have you ever been to the Mohawk Motel?”

“Is that an invitation?” He was looking me up and down without compunction.

“Where were you Friday night?” I asked, ignoring him. “Say, about eleven?”

Pukey stared at me with a quizzical smile, as if amused by my effrontery. He shook his head but gave no answer. He undressed me with his eyes one more time—I surely blushed—then he pushed off the car and trudged back to the mill. I watched him go, breathing more easily now that he’d left, and returned the favor of a thorough undressing.

Manny gave me a knowing look. “What’d I tell you? Jerks.”

I phoned Judge Shaw from the booth at the bottom of Vrooman Avenue, on East Main Street. I half wished he would offer me lunch, but he never did. His tone remained cool and distant, despite the empathy I felt for him after our meeting. Perhaps he was reluctant to repeat the agonizing interview of the night before, or maybe he didn’t want to feel close to me. Whatever it was, he stayed on script.

I described the difficulty I was having tracking down Ginny in Boston. He gave me her home address—109 Dudley Street in Brookline, near the reservoir—and her parents’ phone number. I told him of the progress I’d made that day, and he listened patiently, painfully too, indicating his understanding from time to time with a soft grunt.

“How did you find out about Mr. Boyle,” he asked when I had finished.

“I’ve been nosing around,” I said, thinking “
Mr.
Boyle” a waste of formality on a man who called himself “Pukey.”

“And what was your opinion of him?”

“A little rough around the edges,” I said cagily, picturing his broad shoulders and handsome face. I didn’t mention his mane of thick, shiny hair, though I remembered it. “He seemed genuinely surprised to hear the news. I didn’t take him to be clever enough to pull off a convincing act, but you never know.”

“Was there anything else about him that struck you?”

“He wasn’t exactly broken up by the news, if you’ll excuse my saying so.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” said the judge with a sniff. “He cursed me—and Jordan, incidentally—two years ago when I sentenced him to county jail for sixty days.”

I choked into the phone. “You sent Pukey Boyle to jail?”

Perhaps I’d dismissed Pukey’s involvement too quickly. According to Judge Shaw, he had been arrested for instigating a barroom brawl. The judge, who, at the time, was on the municipal-court bench, sentenced Pukey to thirty days and had only one regret: that he couldn’t lock him away longer. At sentencing, Pukey uttered a few choice words for the judge and his daughter, though she’d had nothing to do with the matter. Indeed, she was in Boston at the time, unaware that Pukey had even been arrested. Mr. Boyle’s outburst earned him thirty days more in the slammer for contempt.

I knew I’d have to talk to Pukey again, and the prospect intrigued me, despite the doubt in my mind. If Pukey was guilty, I’d prefer to meet him with Frank Olney’s large self at my side. But if he was innocent, well . . . I can take care of myself. In the meantime I’d have to be content just to have a look under his car. First I had to find it.