1 Runaway Man Read online

  We ordered meatball heroes and Cokes at the counter and grabbed ourselves a table. Then Chris excused himself and headed for the men’s room, pulling his cell phone from his coat pocket. No doubt reaching out to Sara, who would be on her lunch break at school, if my timing was right.

  Our sandwiches were ready when he returned. Chris insisted on paying for them, took off his coat and flopped down across from me. “Sara says you’re her favorite cousin in the whole family. The coolest of the cool.”

  “That’s my Sara.” I bit into my hero, which was huge and tasty. “Were you checking up on me or something?”

  “Had to, bro,” he said apologetically.

  I lowered my voice. “You mean because of Charles?”

  He looked at me in surprise. “You know about Charles?”

  “Totally.”

  Chris chomped on his hero, shaking his head. “I don’t get this. I’ve roomed with Bruce for two years. How come he’s never mentioned you?”

  “He compartmentalizes his life. But I don’t have to tell you that, do I?”

  “He’s a private guy,” he acknowledged. “Still hasn’t told his parents that he’s gay. He’s pretty positive they won’t be able to deal.”

  “But you’re okay with it, right?”

  “Of course. I have lots of gay friends.”

  “He’s been e-mailing me about Charles for months. I’m kind of his sounding board.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Take a wild guess.”

  Chris swallowed some of his Coke, studying me. “You’re gay, too.”

  “Doink.” I munched on my hero, not rushing the guy. That was one of the first things my dad taught me: Never seem anxious. “So where did he go? And do not tell me home to Willoughby because Sara would have said so.”

  “I can’t say, Benji. It’s nothing personal. He asked me not to tell anyone.”

  “Sure, I understand. You made a promise. I can respect that.” I ate some more of my hero and sipped my Coke. “Your parents have a place on Candlewood Lake, don’t they?”

  “Yeah, they do.”

  “Pretty quiet up there this time of year, I’m guessing.”

  “Real quiet,” he said, his eyes avoiding mine.

  “Damn, Chris, don’t ever play high stakes poker. You’ll lose your shirt, your pants.…”

  He ducked his head. “You’re right. I totally suck at the lying thing.”

  “You did okay on the phone last night with my uncle.”

  “How’d you know about that?”

  “Sara told me.”

  Chris ran a hand through his mop of hair. “I loaned Bruce my keys to the guest cottage. But no one’s supposed to know, okay?”

  “Not even Sara?”

  “Not even Sara. He’s turned off his cell. The landline’s off the hook. He just really wants some alone time to get his head straight. Charles is playing Syracuse tonight. After tomorrow morning’s shoot-around he’ll be joining Bruce up there. The team has a mandatory three-day lay off for the Gauntlet.”

  “For the what?”

  “It’s a Canterbury tradition. Began as a sadistic pop quiz in some Greek history professor’s class back in the twenties. Over the years it’s been ritualized into this campus-wide round of nut crunchers. They’re next week, and they get weighed almost as heavily as finals, so no basketball practice or any other activities. You just hit the books. Charles and Bruce will be hitting them together up at the lake.”

  “That should be nice for them. To get away, I mean.”

  “Maybe not so much,” Chris said darkly. “Bruce is thinking seriously about breaking up with him.”

  “No way! Why would he want to do that?”

  “Because he loves the guy so much. Charles lives under a microscope, bro. And now some fancy law firm is trying to contact Bruce about a quote-unquote bequest. He’s been ducking them. He thinks it means someone’s found out about them. Bruce doesn’t know who. Or how. But he’s truly terrified.”

  I let this slide on by. That’s another thing my dad taught me: Never show too much interest in what you’re interested in. “How did the two of them meet? The Beefer’s never been real clear about that.”

  “There aren’t a lot of ballers on campus. Hell, Bruce probably could have made the team if he’d wanted to. It’s not like Charles’s teammates are lottery picks. Just good suburban high school players like Bruce was. But Bruce gave it up cold turkey when he came here. His thinking was that if he didn’t have the skills to play at some basketball factory, then it was time to move on. A bit extreme if you ask me, but Bruce is all about moral absolutes.” Chris paused to wave hi to a pair of girls walking by. “The game’s still in his blood though. He shoots hoops to unwind. Charles spotted him draining jumpers by himself in the gym one night. The two of them got into it one-on-one. For real, to hear Bruce tell it. Charles putting his shoulder into him. Bruce giving it to him right back. By the time it was over they both had bloody noses. And Charles was asking him to be his sparring partner.”

  “His what?”

  “Bruce is burly. Hard to budge inside of the paint.”

  “I know this.”

  “Well, there’s an acute shortage of practice players on the team who have the heft, and the nerve, to shove Charles around. He was looking to toughen himself up. The guy’s incredibly dedicated. Bruce agreed to help and they started playing one-on-one regularly. Then going out for beers together. And then it turned into something more.”

  “Where do they usually?…”

  “At his mom’s place in the projects. Velma’s totally cool with it. She accepts Charles for who he is. And she likes Bruce a lot. The neighborhood guys think Bruce is one of his teammates and let him be. Charles is a deity there. It doesn’t occur to anyone that he might be gay. He’s just so perfect.”

  “Being gay doesn’t mean you’re imperfect.”

  “Sorry, that didn’t come out right. I just meant he’s this all-American hero, you know?”

  “And all-American heroes aren’t queer—as far as we know.” I dabbed at my mouth with a paper napkin. “You said some law firm is putting the screws to the Beefer?”

  “Trying to. He thinks someone wants him to stay far away from Charles.”

  “Like who?”

  “My best guess? Our very own Canterbury College.”

  I shook my head at him. “Don’t follow you.”

  “They took a huge financial hit when the stock market tanked. The endowment fund is still down something like 40 percent. Alumni contributions are way off, too. There was a story about it in our online newspaper just last week. The school’s had to scale back course offerings, lay off non-tenured faculty, defer scheduled building maintenance. Tough times, okay? And then along comes Charles in Charge. As much as the board of trustees sneers at athletics here at hallowed Canterbury, they’re making a fucking fortune off of the guy. Before he arrived we played our home games at Stuyvesant Field House, which seats maybe two thousand and was never even half full. Thanks to Charles we’re now filling Madison Square Garden and a lot of our games are televised. If you make it into the Final Four you’re talking millions in TV revenue. Face it, bro, Canterbury needs Charles. And they intend to milk him for all he’s worth until the day he graduates. A gay sex scandal? Really not part of their plan.”

  “So you think this law firm’s fronting for the board of trustees?”

  Chris nodded. “Something like that.”

  His theory rang truer to me than Sara’s did. A distinguished college like Canterbury was exactly the sort of twenty-four-carat client that Bates, Winslow and Seymour was accustomed to dealing with.

  Chris glanced at his watch. “I have to run to class, but I can’t throw Sara’s favorite cousin out in the snow. If you want to crash in the suite tonight you’re more than welcome.”

  “That’s incredibly nice of you, Chris, but I think I’ll catch a train out to Willoughby. Stay with my aunt and uncle for a few days.”

 
He eyed me curiously. “You get along with them?”

  “Well enough. Why are you asking?”

  “Because Bruce can’t stand his parents. Especially his father. We’re talking extreme loathing here. He once told me that his single greatest ambition in life is to grow up to be someone who his father thoroughly disapproves of.”

  “That sounds fairly damning.”

  Chris let out a laugh. “You think?”

  * * *

  “YOUR NEW GIRLFRIEND STOPPED BY,” Rita informed me dryly as I came in the office door.

  “New girlfriend?” I frowned at her. “What new girlfriend?”

  At the sound of our voices, Mom popped out of her office, her eyes twinkling at me.

  “She left you those,” Rita explained, nodding toward my desk.

  Waiting there for me on a paper plate were two slightly squished chocolate cupcakes. On one of them Call was scrawled in white icing. On the other Me.

  Mom and Rita both gazed at me expectantly, anxious for the lowdown.

  “That must have been Sonya. Did she say her name was Sonya?”

  “I believe she did say her name was Sonya,” Mom confirmed.

  “You see, Abby? I told you he met someone. He has that special glow. Look at him—he’s glowing right now.”

  “I can see it, Rita. Our little boy’s all grown up.”

  “Would you two kindly give it up? I barely even met the girl.”

  “And yet,” Mom said, “she’s bringing you cupcakes that she made with her own little hands. Who is this Sonya?”

  “The daughter of Al Posner’s nephew.”

  Mom shuddered. “I can’t stand that man. He’s a total lech. Plus he smells just like—”

  “Pickled herring, I know. Look, she stopped by B’Nai Jacob this morning with a coffee cake for the gang. We chatted for exactly one minute. She’s a kindergarten teacher. She and her kids were making cupcakes today.”

  “Hence the cupcakes,” Rita said.

  “You don’t generally see such a rack on a kindergarten teacher,” Mom said.

  Rita nodded in agreement. “Not unless you’re watching online porn. She must have had a boob job. Those girls of hers are torpedoes.”

  “Maybe she just had chicken filets stuffed inside of her bra,” Mom said.

  “No way,” Rita argued. “I could clearly make out her nipples.”

  “They’re doing wonderfully inventive things with filets now.”

  “It so happens that Sonya’s tits are real,” I interjected.

  Mom blinked at me. “And just exactly how do you know that?”

  “She told me so.”

  “She told him so, Rita.” Mom was vastly amused. “And, God knows, a young lady would never lie about such a thing to a young man who she’s just met at temple.”

  “Sonya also asked me to give you a message.…” Rita squinted down at her notepad. “She wanted to make sure you hadn’t ‘washed your hand.’ Exactly where was your hand?”

  “Sonya wrote her phone numbers on it. She wants me to call her.”

  “Hence the subtle message on the cupcakes,” Rita said. “Are you planning to?”

  “I really don’t know.” Although I’d definitely transferred her numbers from my paw to my smartphone and laptop. “What did you think of her?”

  “Pushy and nosy,” Rita sniffed. “A regular little ferret, showing up here at your workplace asking a million questions about you. And what is up with that voice?”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “Where do you live? Do you have a girlfriend? What exactly do we do here at Golden Legal Services?”

  “She’s under the impression that I’m a lawyer.”

  “Not a problem, Bunny,” Mom assured me. “We were purposely vague. And if you ask me she’s very nice. Not to mention a total knockout—even if she is related to Al Posner. I think you should call her.”

  Rita clearly didn’t. Her disdainful silence told me so.

  I said, “I’ve found Bruce Weiner, in case anyone’s interested. He’s staying at the Warfields’ weekend place on Candlewood Lake.”

  “Excellent,” Mom said brightly “I’ll call Seymour and tell him.”

  “Not so fast, Mom. Before we throw Bruce to the wolves I’d like to take a run up there and make sure he’s okay.”

  She frowned at me. “Why wouldn’t he be?”

  “Sara told me he tried to hang himself in high school. And Chris said he’s very upset about his relationship with Charles. The guy’s not answering his phone. For all we know he may have swallowed a bottle of pills.”

  “We were hired to find him, period. I’ll pass your concerns along to Seymour.”

  “Sara did me a huge solid, Mom. And she’s worried.”

  “Which I can understand. But Sara’s not our client. Seymour is. And you’ll be running a huge risk if you drive up there. He might rabbit on us.”

  “I’ll make sure he doesn’t.”

  “How, by tying him to a chair?”

  “By telling him that Sara sent me. I promised her everything would be okay. I have to make sure it is. It’s the right thing to do.”

  Mom let out a sigh. “Sometimes I wish we hadn’t raised you so well. Fine, go ahead. But call me the second you make contact so I can tell Seymour. I want to button this up tonight.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  “And don’t call me boss.”

  Rita printed me out the most direct route to the Warfield place on Candlewood Lake. I stuffed it in my daypack and took off. Left my duffel on the office floor right where it lay. Didn’t bother to change out of my SUNY–Binghamton outfit. Just got the Brougham out of the garage and took off. It was nearly 4:00 P.M. I was hoping to beat the evening rush hour traffic out of town. Thought I had beaten it, too, until I got onto the Cross Bronx and ran into a bumper-to-bumper crawlfest.

  I was sitting there at a standstill when my cell rang. It was Sara.

  “I was just going to call you, cuz. Thanks for backing my play with Chris.”

  “No big, cuz. What’s up?”

  “Bruce went to Chris’s house on Candlewood Lake. Charles is planning to join him there tomorrow.”

  “God, that sounds so romantic. But why isn’t Brucie answering his phone?”

  “That I don’t know. I can fill you in later. I’m heading up there as we speak to check it out.”

  “Benji, where are you at this very second?”

  “In da Bronx, why?”

  “You can pick me up on your way, dat’s why. I’m coming with you.”

  “That’s a big no, Sara. I can’t take you along.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Just for starters, Candlewood Lake’s in Connecticut. It’s against the law for me to transport you across state lines unless you’re accompanied by a parent or legal guardian.”

  “The age of consent is seventeen in New York. In Connecticut it’s sixteen. Try again, liar mouth.”

  “Okay, it’s like this: I’m a licensed private investigator. I’m going there on official investigative business. And you’re not coming with me, understood?”

  “Jeez, Benji, you don’t have to go all butthead on me.”

  “Sorry, you left me no choice.”

  “This is my big brother we’re talking about. Will you call me when you get there?”

  “Count on it.”

  After I rang off I reached for my iPod and inched my way along in the gathering darkness to the original Broadway cast recording of South Pacific with Mary Martin and Ezio Pinza. Took the Hutch to 684, which led me into the northern exurbs of Armonk, Mount Kisco and Croton Falls. By the time I was closing in on Brewster, I was getting bleary-eyed. I needed to stretch my legs, too. Pulled off at a big highway rest station there and went inside for a cup of what they alleged to be fresh-brewed gourmet blend coffee. I milled around the fast food court and sipped it, eyes wide open. I’d had a bad feeling ever since I’d left Manhattan. The same feeling I’d had last night
in Willoughby. I sensed I was being tailed. Not that I’d spotted anyone. But I still felt a tickle on the back of my neck. And I’ve learned to respect that tickle.

  I got back on the road. At Brewster I picked up Interstate 84, which took me over the state line into Connecticut—where I understand the age of consent is sixteen. I got off the highway at Danbury and relied on Rita’s coordinates to navigate me through the narrow, twisting back roads to Candlewood Lake. The roadsides were banked high with plowed snow. It was desolate and pitch black out. I put my high beams on and kept them on. Absolutely no one else was out on the road. For sure not on my tail.

  I couldn’t see the lake as I made my way around it. All I saw out there was blackness. Almost all of the lake houses were dark. City folk used them as summer places mostly. During the winter hardly anyone was around, particularly in the middle of the week. Just an occasional light revealed the million-dollar waterfront homes that were nestled there.

  A quaint wooden sign at the edge of the driveway marked the Warfield place on Candlewood Lake Road. It was a circular driveway that was plowed regularly. The snow banks were piled at least three feet high. But it hadn’t been plowed since yesterday. Two or three inches of fresh snow blanketed the driveway. A black Honda CR-V with New York plates was parked there under that same blanket of snow. It was Bruce’s black Honda CR-V, according to the plate numbers. Apparently, he hadn’t gone out today. I pulled in behind his car and got out.

  Lights were blazing inside of the Warfield house, which was a nice old shingled cottage that looked as if it had been added on to about six times. A glass-walled great room looked out over the frozen lake. Floodlights gleamed off of the pure white snow cover that sloped down to their dock. The snug guest cottage that Chris had lent Bruce was next to the dock. Footsteps in the snow led down to it. Lights were on inside. Wood smoke came from its stone chimney. It smelled good in the frigid country still of night.

  I tromped my way down there. The cottage’s front door was half open. I could hear the television blaring inside. Bruce was watching the Canterbury-Syracuse game. Syracuse was ahead 42-38 with less than a minute to go in the first half.