Marigolds, 17,18,19

17

It was raining when I parted the heavy drapes the next morning. I like Manhattan in the rain. The thick gray light, shadows chased away and yet shadows everywhere, lends a film noir quality that suits this city as no other.

Rain only appears to fall straight when seen from the ground. From twenty-six floors up the paths and arcs of the droplets are random, tumbling. They scrum and dart and collide. Some drops seem to fall faster than others and some never reach the ground. Some cleanse and some sully. Some puddle while some seem to seek and soak the unslickered. A simple shower is anything but from twenty-six floors up.

A closing hotel room door has a unique sound. One slammed behind me at the Beekman right at checkout time. I felt rested but aimless. The dark clouds had moved to the east, out over Long Island and the Sound, I figured.

Fishman and McClain told me they would stay in touch, although I figured it more Pilsner-driven courtesy than anything else. Though I had no client, no legitimate interest, I made the same promise to them.

The same guy manned the booth at the parking garage. He was dressed as he had been yesterday except today he chose a New York Jets, Jets, Jets beret to complete his ensemble. There was a still-moist accumulation of cream cheese at the sides of his mouth and the remains of a bagel sitting on an open phone book to his right.

I wondered if I were on a hidden camera show when he asked me if I had enjoyed my stay. It seemed he was not as attuned to my dishevelment as I was to his.

“Yes. It was lovely. Thanks for asking.”

“Yeah? Well…whatever the fuck…”

18

“…and that’s what I know.” I switched the cell phone from my right ear to my left.

“Holy shit, Finn.”

“Holy shit indeed.”

“Where does that leave you?”

“I don’t know, I guess I’m out of it.” The connection between the rest stop tourist information center in southern Connecticut and Johnna’s Spartan though tasteful office in Springfield, Massachusetts was clear even as the thunder rolled to the south. I had been right about the direction of the storm clouds.

“So you’re going home?” Johnna asked.

“Un huh. There’s this legendary pizza place in New Haven called Pepe’s, I think. I might give it a try. If I can find it.”

“If you can get anywhere near it.”

“Even at lunch? Have you been there?”

“Yup, there and to Sally’s, too. They’re both amazing. Right up there with Regina’s. Listen, Finn, I have to go. I have someone here with whom I need to meet.”

“Sure, I’ll call you tonight. Nice use of the objective case, too, by the way.”

As I clicked off an image of Mislava/Mary Frances/Ivana from yesterday morning rose above the atmospheric fireworks that seemed to be approaching from the southwest. My appetite dried up. Pepe’s and Sally’s would have to wait.

An hour and some later I was in Rhode Island, in the southern suburbs of Providence. My phone rang.

“Frank McClain here. Want to hear about Niko Matulich?”

“Sure.”

“Their people at the UN never heard of him, but the guy at their consulate had. Niko was a businessman living in New York. His specialty seemed to be finding jobs for Croats who came to the tri-state area. The consulate used his services informally. They’d just give out his name and number to Croats looking for work. The guy at the consulate…”

“Frank, may I ask the guy’s name?”
“Ah, Franjo Salata’s his name…” I wrote it down as McClain spelled it. “…said Niko’s been doing that since before his, Franjo’s, posting to New York. He‘d met him at functions and parties but didn’t really know him.”

“Interesting. May I make a suggestion?” I interpreted the quiet as a yes.

“If you haven’t yet, could you fax Niko’s picture up to Bevilaqua? If no one is acknowledging Ivana’s, whichever one she was, and Mislava’s deaths as having a connection to either the mission or the consulate…

“We don’t now that for sure yet.”

“Still, it was somebody from New York claimed that body up in Boston, right? Maybe it was Niko.”

“Yeah, all right. What the hell, it’s worth a shot, I guess. Sending it up there might nudge Bevilaqua towards calling us back down here. He hasn’t yet.”

“How’d the Staten Island detectives make out?”

“Nothing special. Niko lived there, alone it seems, in a shitty little house close to the Verrazano Narrows Bridge.”

“Frank, thanks for doing this. I know you could have…”

“Yeah, yeah. Stay in touch O’Keefe."

19

The phone was quiet for the rest of the drive. It was quiet because I had turned it off. I stopped in Providence for gas and coffee. My head was awash in details I didn’t need. I wasn’t sure why I cared about them.

I decided sorting the information might be of some value. My imagination produced for its own edification a “plinko board.” At the bottom were categories such as I know, I don’t know, I think but can’t prove, might be important and need to know. I imagined dropping each manageable, bite-sized piece of information at my disposal into the maze from the top. Each disk-shaped chunk would bounce off the nails, redirecting itself any number of times before nestling into one of the spots at the bottom. Thus: order from chaos. Yeah, right.

I had to be road weary, or terribly distracted, or suffering from a brain-wasting disease if I thought this plinko strategy was going to produce anything meaningful. Man. I’d be home soon and was glad for it.

My mailbox contained nothing of consequence. I tossed it all with my keys and wallet next to the phone and blinking answering machine on the table beneath the intercom. The first message was from Michael – I was going to have to recount what happened for Michael – asking if I needed a ride to Waltham for tonight’s Cucarachas’ game.

“So, then, you’ll call me back by five if you do…”

It was already too late to reply. Baseball is therapeutic. I needed therapeutic. I put on my Kook’s uniform and was off to Waltham.