Souvenir (40 page)

“Yeah, go ahead.” Chris took a sip of his coffee, set the cup down, and looked into his father’s eyes. “Tell me.”

“I feel like somebody threw a ball of string down a big hill, and it’s been unraveling for a long time, Clay said, closing his eyes. “I can see it, the center of the ball, ahead of me. The bottom of the hill, too. When it gets there, it’s over. No more motion, no more energy, just the end of the string, all played out.”

“Life is a piece of string?” Chris raised an eyebrow, then smiled, as if humoring his father.

“No. Life is what you do while the string is unraveling. There’s a difference.”

“Okay, I can understand that,” Chris said.

“No you can’t. Wait thirty more years, then it might make sense.” Clay felt irritated, first with Chris and then with himself. He wished he could explain himself to his son. But then again, there were things about himself he was still learning. If it took him a lifetime, why expect Chris to understand a story about a piece of string?

“So, this is all about getting here before the string unravels?” Chris said, his tone neutral and open, as if he knew he’d said the wrong thing before.

“I thought so. Now I think it’s about getting home.”

“You sure you feel okay, Dad?”

“I feel like crap, but I’m still alive, I’m with my son, and we found a good diner. I’ll settle for that. I never expected egg in my beer.” Clay watched the quizzical look on Chris’ face and laughed. Maybe it was good not to explain everything. The waitress brought their plates.

“I haven’t heard that since my granddaddy died,” she said, in a soft southern accent. She looked to be in her early forties, and had the stocky, settled look of a woman who worked on her feet all day and didn’t get to put them up much at home. “Saw him drink one once, and once was enough for me. More coffee, honey?”

“You bet,” said Clay. “He live a long life, your granddaddy?”

“Would have, I think, if he didn’t lose an eye and an arm in the war,” she said. “Your war, I’d guess,” nodding at Clay. “Took a lot out of him, my granny used to say. He was in the Merchant Marine. How ’bout you, hon?”

“Army.”

“Well, happy you stopped by. I’ll go put on a fresh pot, be right back,” she said, patting the table as she left. They ate in silence for a few minutes, and she returned with a pot of coffee. Clay looked at her nametag.

“Your name is Cheryl,” he said.

“Sure is, honey.”

“I used to have a place, a tavern. Waitress there was named Cheryl, too. Haven’t thought about her in years. Thanks,” Clay said, as she poured a refill. “Wonder where she is now, if she’s still alive?”

“Wherever she is, I hope she’s off her feet,” Cheryl said. “You boys need anything else, you holler.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Chris said, nodding.

“Looks like you taught your boy some manners,” Cheryl said, giving Clay a wink as she left. He knew compliments were part of the show, what a good waitress did to insure a good tip. But he also knew when they were lines and when they were genuine, and he knew he’d be leaving some extra green when they left.

“Cheryl,” Chris said. “We never heard where she ended up after the fire, did we?”

“Nope,” said Clay, setting down his fork. “She said something about Florida, but that was it. Brick kept in touch, sent Christmas cards from Vermont every year, but it’s been a long time since we last got one.”

“You know what I always wondered about?”

“What?” Clay knew, but he wasn’t going to be the one to bring it up.

“The money.”

“What money?”

Clay had never told Chris about the cash from the numbers bets, but he knew that Chris had access to all the old files on the case, and that he must’ve let his curiosity take him there.

“Dad, I know about Fiorenza’s cash, the betting receipts. The task force estimated that Fiorenza was missing ten to fifteen thousand. He’d been ramping up his operation, taking in more and more.”

“What do you think happened to it?”

“I think you know, and I know Bob thought the same thing. But we never talked about it.”

“Why ask now?” Clay was curious. He remembered that as Chris grew older, he’d had questions about the things Al DePaoli had said that day, but Clay had evaded them, put him off, something he’d become skilled at. After Chris had joined the force, they’d never spoken about it again.

“I didn’t want to take sides. I knew you and Bob had been friends, and that this thing came between you. He helped me out, but never asked me anything about the money, or anything else about that day. So I just kept quiet. And when you two reconciled, there didn’t seem to be any point. I didn’t want to bring up a sore subject.”

“But now you do.”

“Bob’s gone. It’s just you and me now. Fiorenza died in prison. People don’t even remember there was a numbers racket anymore. I’m curious.”

“Twelve-six,” Clay said.

“What?”

“The task force thought it was between ten and fifteen thousand. It was twelve thousand, six hundred and change. They were close.”

“Jesus, Dad, that was some money back in ’64. What’d you do with it?”

Clay smiled. He felt a gleeful pride in revealing another secret. He’d been so tight-lipped for so many years, and now here he was sharing his secrets as if they were nothing, gumdrops to be shared with children. He almost wished he had more. “I gave two thousand to Cheryl, three to Brick. He’d been with me longer, but they both took numbers bets at the bar. It was only fair, since I’d burned them both out of a job.”

“So DePaoli was after the money?”

“Yes, but mostly he was after me. He wanted me to leave Fiorenza and work for him. I wanted out, completely, but I was in the middle of a turf war. There was no way out, until DePaoli went too far. Then the state task force picked up Fiorenza, and all of a sudden the whole numbers game is gone. Anybody left standing knew it wasn’t worth starting up again, that the state was going to legalize it sooner or later.”

“Where did you keep it, the seven thousand you had left?”

“Remember the white azalea bush by the garage? Half went under it, and half in the hole in the back yard I dug it up from. I did that the morning we cleaned the Tavern, and DePaoli showed up.”

“You knew he was coming!” Chris said. “Holy Christ!”

Cheryl walked up to them, about to speak. She looked at their faces, poured coffee for both, and left without a word.

“I was between a rock and a hard place, Chris. Two killers each wanted a piece of me, more than I could give. But the real reason was, your mother would’ve left me if I didn’t quit. So I had to find a way out.”

Clay sipped his coffee, glancing up at Chris’ face as he did. Remembering the covered windows, tarp on the floor, noise outside in the street. He could see all those memories play across his son’s face too. He felt the shock of Al surprising him in the Tavern, the certainty of failure and death staring him in the face. Then, Al dancing in the flames, the shooting and screams like a battleground. He heard Chris talking, and shook off the memories, focusing on what he was saying to him. 
“That’s why you got me out of there. But he showed up early, right? Got the drop on you?”

“Yes. He was a pro at that kind of thing. I’d done my fighting with a different kind of enemy. If you hadn’t snooped around and found that .45—”

“Mom was going to leave you?”

“Yes, she was. She’d given me an ultimatum that very week. I couldn’t bear to lose both of you.” Clay raised both palms upward, the loss too immense to describe. Chris sat back, studying his father. Clay could see the wrinkles move across his forehead. “I’m sorry, Chris, sorry about it all. If I’d known—”

“You know, Dad, it’s funny. That was the day I decided to be a cop. For better or worse, I stuck with that decision. It feels better knowing all that happened because you were protecting your family, trying to keep us together.”

“But if I never—”

“However it started isn’t important. How it ended is. It ended with all of us together and alive. It could’ve ended worse. A lot worse.” They sat looking at each other, twirling their coffee cups on their saucers.

“One thing, Chris,” Clay said, softly, as if he were reluctant to break into the silence that graced them. “Your mother never knew about the money.”

“How could she not know?”

“Things were different back then. Husbands didn’t always tell their wives how much they made. We had insurance money after the fire, and when we rebuilt, I used the cash along the way, to stretch things. You know how contractors are. A lot was done under the table. By the time we opened Addy’s Place, the cash was all gone, but it was the kind of neighborhood restaurant your mother had always wanted. A small bar up front, full kitchen out back, tables with tablecloths and real place settings. She helped out, and we did fine for ourselves.”

So fine, that when they sold the business and property years later, they’d made a tidy sum. The name changed, and the restaurant flourished for a while, until the decay of the city reached the neighborhood. It closed one day, and ironically the empty building burned one night. Arson or accident, all that was left was a cleared corner lot.

“This is between us, Dad. As long as we’re confessing, I’ve got something to tell you.”

“What could that be?” Clay was worried. Chris didn’t have much of a life outside the state police, and he couldn’t think what kind of secret he’d have.

“The .45 automatic, remember you tried to get it back?”

“Yeah. They said it was evidence in a major investigation, probably never be released.” The Meriden police had taken the weapon from Clay as soon as they arrived on the scene, and it had been turned over to the state task force.

“I have it.”

“Why’d they release it to you? How come—”

“Hold on, Dad. I didn’t say they released it. I took it, from the evidence locker.”

“Son of a bitch!” Clay’s mouth dropped open, then changed into a smile. “Son of a bitch.” His right hand trembled, and he hid it in his lap.

“I found that thing when I was thirteen. I noticed you once checking that floorboard, and I was curious. I used to take it out and look at it every now and then. I wondered why you kept it hid, what the story was.”

“Your mother made me take it out of the house. I told her I threw it away.”

“But you couldn’t.”

“No. Why didn’t you ever tell me? Oh, wait a minute. Bob, right?”

“Yeah. I didn’t want to take a chance on him finding out I had it. I thought I’d just keep it safe. Then, there never seemed to be a good time to give it to you, to bring it up again. I clean and oil it every now and then, keep it wrapped in a chamois.”

“I used to clean it once a year, like clockwork.” The odor of gun oil rose in his nostrils, pungent, powerful and evocative. He’d missed the ritual, alone in the storeroom, lifting up the floorboard and feeling the leather holster, knowing that it had been touched by Big Ned and the other guys. Their hands had laid on it, and the hands of their enemies too, and that made it even more sacred, his souvenir, a link to the past. He could still see the German they’d found it on, looking past him, up at the green trees and gray clouds, right before he shot him. What had the German been thinking about in those last moments? Did he face death with no regrets? He thought of that German often, not because he regretted shooting him, but precisely because he didn’t. He saw those eyes, lifted up to the skies, while his hand shook even more, hidden at his side, and for the first time realized the German had stood up to dying easier than he had to killing him, and that perhaps that had been some preparation to what had come next.

“You all set, boys?” Cheryl asked, looking at their plates. “I’ll get these out of your way. More coffee?” Chris nodded no and Clay covered his cup with his hand. She smiled and left quickly, balancing dishes on her arm. She knew when to leave the customers alone.

“I took good care of it, Dad. You want it back?”

“No. I want you to have it.”

“You sure?”

“Yep. That, and everything in the cigar box.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. Do you know what souvenir means?”

“Sure. Something you bring home from a trip.”

“It’s from an old French word,” he said, as if Chris’s answer wasn’t worth comment. “It means remembrance. Not a tee shirt or an embroidered pillow. Remembrance.”

“Okay,” Chris said, unaccustomed to so much information and so many words from his father. He was wary, uncertain what to say, as if the wrong thing might cause him to retreat into single syllables.

“Red, Tuck, Shorty, Big Ned, Little Ned, me, and that other guy,” he continued, counting off seven men on his bony fingers.

“That’s who’s in the photo,” Chris said, mentally counting off the faces in his mind, nodding his head in agreement. “But who’s the other guy? What’s his name? Is he the guy who lived around here? Is he still alive?”

His father didn’t answer, his moment of talkativeness slipping away as he stared at his reflection in the window.