A Cool Breeze on the Underground (3 page)

4

At forty, ethan Kitteredge looked younger than Neal thought he would. A lock of ash blond hair fell over his forehead and the pale blue eyes that peered from behind his wire-rim glasses. He was about five ten, Neal guessed, and weighed maybe one seventy, one seventy-five. The body under the gray banker’s suit was trim: tennis or handball.

Then Neal quit playing Sherlock Holmes, because The Man was reaching out his hand and smiling.

“You must be Mr. Carey,” he said. His handshake was firm and quick: nothing to prove.

“And you’re Mr. Kitteredge.” Witty, Neal, he thought. Great first impression.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Kitteredge said. “How is your graduate work coming?”

“I’m missing an exam as we speak. Otherwise, it’s going great, thanks.”

Graham found something fascinating on the floor to stare at. Levine stared at Neal and shook his head.

“Yes, I chatted with Professor Boskin about it,” Kitteredge said. If he was bugged, he didn’t show it. “He mumbled something about giving you an Incomplete.”

“That was nice of you to do, Mr. Kitteredge, but I like to finish what I start.”

“Just so. Gentlemen, please sit down. Coffee, tea?” Three wooden chairs had been placed in an arc facing Kitteredge’s desk. Levine sat down on the right, Graham on the left. Neal plunked himself down in the remaining chair. The center of attention.

Kitteredge stepped to a silver coffee service. Neal noticed he moved in the awkward manner produced by generations of New England breeding—stops and starts which imply that any choice of motion is merely a necessary evil, that the real virtue is to remain still. Nevertheless, he managed to pour four cups of coffee and serve them around.

This took a while, and Neal used the quiet moments to study the office, which was pure bank, pure Kitteredge. The twentieth century had yet to intrude its vulgarities. Sunlight shone a soft, filtered amber on a room ruled by mahogany and oak. Glass-enclosed bookshelves lining the walls housed leather-bound sets of Dickens, Emerson, Thoreau, and, of course, Melville. Bowditch’s
Navigation
held a prominent spot, flanked by various obscure whaling memoirs and sailing treatises. Wooden models of old China clippers completed the decor. These were the vessels that had carried Kitteredge tea, Kitteredge guns, Kitteredge opium, and Kitteredge slaves across the oceans, and Neal imagined that the profits from these voyages still rested beneath his feet in Kitteredge vaults.

One modern memento held the pride of place. An exquisite scale model of the sloop
Haridan
sat on the glossy polished oak of Ethan’s desk. Some skilled craftsman had faithfully rendered the boat’s sleek structure and clean lines. Ethan spent every free moment on
Haridan,
sailing Narragansett Bay, Long Island Sound, and the open Atlantic. He often docked on Block Island, where he kept a summer home. For Ethan Kitteredge, responsible banker, responsible husband, responsible father,
Haridan
meant rare and precious moments of heady freedom.

The coffee successfully served, Kitteredge took his seat behind his desk and pulled a file from the top center drawer. He looked at the file for a moment, shook his head, and handed it across the desk to Neal. Then he sat back in his chair and pressed his fingers together in “This is the church, this is the steeple” fashion.

Kitteredge talked like he walked. “Some … uh … old family friends have a bit of a … problem, and we have offered our … services … to assist them in finding a resolution.”

He smiled, as if to suggest that disorderly people were amusing, weren’t they, and a bit of a bother, but they are our friends, and we must do our best. He paused for a moment to allow Neal to open the file.

“Senator John Chase comes from a prominent Rhode Island family,” said Kitteredge. “The family name has undoubtedly been an asset … in his political progress, but I hasten to add that the Senator is a talented, intelligent, and … ah … energetic man.”

Okay.

Kitteredge Continued: “The Senator sits on several important committees, where his performance has attracted … national attention, from the press as well as party professionals. Despite the somewhat distasteful fact that John is a Democrat … we support him in his ambitions.”

Money in the bank.

“The probable Democratic nominee will need to look northward for a running mate. Ah … emissaries have already been sent.”

Kitteredge paused to allow the import of this last statement to sink in.

It didn’t.

So what? Neal thought. Despite the somewhat distasteful fact that I’m going to vote for whatever Democrat is running, what’s all this have to do with me?

“There is, however, a problem.”

Which is where I come in.

“The problem is Allie.”

Neal turned a few pages of the file and saw a picture of a teenaged girl. She had shiny blond hair and blue eyes and looked as if she belonged on a magazine cover.

Kitteredge stared at the model of
Haridan
as he said, “Actually, Alison always has been the problem.”

He seemed lost in his thoughts, or in some more happy memory on board his boat.

Neal said, “But specifically now?”

“Allie has run away.”

Yeah, okay, so we’ll go get her. But there was something else going on here, Neal sensed. Things were a little too tense. He looked at Graham and didn’t see a clue. He looked at Ed, but Ed wouldn’t look back.

“Any idea where?” Neal finally asked.

“She was last seen in London,” Ed said. “A former schoolmate saw her there over a spring-break trip. He tried to speak to her, but she ran away from him. It’s all there in your file.”

Neal looked it over. This schoolmate, a Scott Mackensen, had seen her about three weeks ago. “What do the British cops say?”

Kitteredge stared harder at the boat. “No police, Mr. Carey.”

This time, Ed did look at Neal—hard. Neal buried his face in the file, then asked, “Alison is seventeen years old?”

Nobody answered.

Neal looked through the file some more. “A seventeen-year-old girl has been gone for over three months and nobody has called the police?”

Another few seconds of silence and Kitteredge would actually will himself onto the model boat: a tiny model captain on a toy boat.

Levine said, “The Senator was reluctant to risk publicity.” Less reluctant to risk his daughter.

“Does the Senator like his daughter?” Neal asked.

“Not particularly.”

This came from Kitteredge, who continued: “Nevertheless, he wants her back. By August.”

He wants her back. Not right away, not tomorrow morning, but by August. Let me see, what happens in August? It gets hot and muggy, the Yankee pitching falls apart … oh, yeah. The Democrats have a convention.

“I trust you will not be offended, Mr. Carey, when I say that sometimes a … situation … arises that requires a blend of the … common … and the sophisticated. When someone
is
needed whose education has occurred as much … in the street … as well as in the classroom. This is just such a case. You are just such a person.”

Except I don’t want to do it. God, how much I don’t want to do it. Not after the Halperin kid. Please, no more teenage runaways. Never again after the Halperin kid.

Levine frowned as he said, “You’re going to go to London, find Alison Chase, and bring her back in time for the Democratic convention.”

No I’m not.

“What happens if Chase doesn’t get nominated, Ed? You want me to throw the kid back?”

“Your fine sense of moral indignation will not be required, Mr. Carey.”

“I’m not the man for this job, Mr. Kitteredge.”

“The Halperin … tragedy … was an aberration, Mr. Carey. It could have happened to anyone.”

“But it happened to me.”

“It wasn’t your fault, son.”

“Then why have I been on the shelf since it happened?”

Kitteredge’s hand traced the sleek bow of
Haridan.
“The … hiatus … was for your benefit, not Friends’,”

Well, then, it worked. After the drinking, and the insomnia, and the nightmares had gone on for a while, I found Diane. And school again. And now I don’t want to come back.

“For once, I agree with Carey, Mr. Kitteredge,” said Ed. “He’s wrong for this one.”

“I’m sorry to pull you out of your classes, but your adviser understands,” Kitteredge said. “He’s a friend of the family.”

So that’s it, Neal thought. You bought me; you own me.

“I’m sorry, Neal, but this assignment is important … vital.”

Neal closed the file and put it in his lap. He knew a dismissal line when he heard one. “I’ll need to talk to the Senator and Mrs. Chase as soon as possible.”

Because the first place to start looking for a runaway, he knew, is at home.

“This is a case for the New York Rangers,” Neal said to Graham out on the sidewalk.

“It stinks on ice, all right. But there it is, son. You gotta pay rent.”

They were following Levine they knew not where, and he was pacing out in front of them.

“Just because she was in London three goddamn weeks ago doesn’t mean she’s there now. A kid with her money could be anywhere in the world. And even if she is in London, there are what, twelve, thirteen million people there with her? The odds on finding her are—”

“Shitty. I know.”

Levine led them into a parking garage.

Neal kept at it. “So what’s the point?”

“The point is … it’s your job. You do your best, you take the money, you forget about it.”

“Cold.”

“Hey.”

They were walking up the ramps. What does Ed have against elevators? Graham asked himself.

“And why do they all of a sudden want their kid back? Why now, why not three months ago when she first took off?”

“Talk to them.”

They were on the third level, the orange one, when Ed turned around.

“White Porsche. Guy’s name is Rich Lombardi,” he said to Neal. “He’s Chase’s aide. He’ll brief you, take you to the Chases’.”

Graham tried to look serious. Neal didn’t bother. “What’s all this ‘Mission Impossible’ crap, Ed?”

“Professionalism.”

“Right.”

“Everything you need to know is in the file.”

“Got Allie’s London address in it?”

“Fuck you.”

“I’ll need some prep time in the States.”

“For what?”

“For trying to find out a little about this kid. For talking to the boy who saw her. Little shit like that.”

“Read the file. I already talked to him.”

“So go get her then.”

“You don’t have a lot of time on this thing.”

“No kidding.”

“So get going.”

Graham put his heavy rubber arm around Neal’s neck and pulled him a few feet away. “You know Billy Connor, the alderman? You know how much he takes in under the table? Think about how much a vice president hauls in. Don’t fuck around with this one, son. See you back in the city.”

“Take it easy, Dad.”

Neal had taken about five steps away from them when he heard Ed’s cheerful voice.

“Hey, Neal, try to bring this one back alive, okay?!”

The guy in the driver’s seat of the white Porsche was reading the Providence
Journal
when Neal tapped on the window. He looked about thirty. Thick, wavy black hair tamed by cutting it short. Brown eyes. Pressed jeans, red sweater, and running shoes. White socks. He seemed confident and comfortable and was probably the kind of a guy who looked in the mirror and said, “Confident and comfortable.”

The guy smiled broadly as he rolled the window down. “You’re Neal Carey, right?”

“And if you know I’m Neal Carey, that makes you Rich Lombardi.”

“Hey, we’re both right.”

Neal stepped away from the door so Lombardi could get out. Lombardi shook Neal’s hand as if he could pump money out of it,

“I have to tell you we’re really glad you’re on board, Neal.”

Have to
tell me?

He took Neal’s shoulder bag and slung it into the backseat. “Hop in.”

Neal hopped in. In fact, he sunk into the deep upholstery of the bucket seat. If Chase’s gofer drives a Porsche …

“We hear you’re the best.”

“Hey, Rich?”

“Yeah, Neal?”

“Want to do me a favor?”

“Hey, you’re doing us one, right?”

“Quit stroking me.”

“You got it.” He started the car, took a perfunctory glance in the rearview mirror, and backed out of the slot. “I mean, the way we hear it, if you’d been at the Watergate, Nixon would still be President.”

“Good thing I wasn’t there, then.”

“Hey, you got that right.”

Hey.

“Where are we going, Rich?”

“Newport. You ever been?”

“No.”

Lombardi wheeled the car into the light traffic. He made a few semi-legal maneuvers through the narrow downtown streets and then hit the entrance ramp onto I-95. If he was worried about cops, his foot sure wasn’t.

“We’ll take the scenic route,” he said.

The scenic route took them across two bridges that spanned Narragansett Bay. Sailboats danced on the blue water.

“Welcome to Newport,” Lombardi said. He turned down Farewell Street, which ran alongside a cemetery, and drove on past the quaint houses that had stood since before the Revolution. The island town of Newport had seen many lives, having been a pirate haven, a fishing port, and a home for whalers and sea traders. Widows’ walks and carved wooden pineapples attested to the maritime tradition. The captains’ wives would stroll the widows’ walks, scanning the horizon for the sight of a sail that might be bearing their husbands home. These stalwarts, once home, and not having been with their mates in maybe two years, would place a pineapple on the front steps when they were ready to leave the bedroom and receive visitors. Eventually, the carved pineapple became a symbol of hospitality. Or fertility. Or sexual satiation.

There was actually zoning in certain parts of old Newport that would demand the houses be painted only in colors available in Colonial times. The BMWs could be any color, though.

Around the turn of the twentieth century, Newport became a playground for the old and new rich, whose mansions lined Bellevue Avenue and the Cliff Walk and were just “summer homes.” These cottages, each about the size of Versailles, were inhabited by their owners for about seven weeks in the short Rhode Island summer. They survived the bitter, windswept winters, the corrosive salt air, and the autumn hurricanes, only to succumb to the mundane but lethal assault of the graduated income tax. Most of the larger places had become museums or junior colleges. Few survived intact. One of the few was the Chase home.