He didn’t want the phone to ring.
He’d had no intention of putting the receiver to his ear when the phone rang that first time. He simply figured that the noise would stop if he picked up, after which he could set the toy aside and ask his mom to figure out the problem in the morning, or just get rid of the phone – although he was concerned that this might precipitate, on his mom’s part, an effort at a more organized reduction of his collection, and Daniel was reluctant to encourage such a project. He decided he might be better off detaching the receiver and leaving well enough alone.
But when he held the receiver to his ear he heard not the zookeeper but falling rain, and buried somewhere within it, like a signal fighting through static, the voice of a woman.
hello? said the woman. hello?
Daniel dropped the receiver and scuttled backward to his bed, but he could still hear the voice.
can you hear me?
He could have gone to his mom, but he was as much intrigued as frightened. An unexpected man on the other end of the phone would simply have been disturbing, but this – this was odd, and there was something in the voice that was almost familiar to him.
Daniel picked up the receiver again.
‘Hello?’
The woman’s voice seemed to catch, as though she were trying to keep from crying.
is that you?
‘Who is this?’
what did they name you?
He wasn’t sure whether or not to answer. Any conversation would certainly fall into the category of talking to strangers, which his mom always made clear to him was very bad, although this was a stranger on the other end of the phone, which wasn’t as bad as speaking to someone in person, and a woman, which was less troublesome again.
‘Daniel,’ he said.
The woman repeated his name, over and over, savoring it like candy.
it’s lovely to be speaking to you at last
Daniel wasn’t sure that he felt the same way, but he’d come this far, so …
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
my name, said the woman, is karis
22
Parker met Moxie Castin at the Bayou Kitchen on Deering Avenue. Moxie was enjoying the morning sunshine at the big window table, which was usually reserved for larger parties, but since the lawyer virtually constituted a larger party all on his own, an exception had been made for him. Parker noticed that this seemed to happen a lot where Moxie was concerned: rules were discreetly bent to accommodate him, perhaps because he refused even to acknowledge, never mind obey, most of them. This meant that the only options for those involved in their creation were either to dispense with the rules entirely, which could potentially lead to anarchy; attempt to impose them on Moxie, which would definitely lead to sorrow and despair; or decide that the rules shouldn’t apply to Moxie, which was generally the most sensible course of action. Most businesses in Portland figured it was probably better to keep Moxie sweet. Everybody would need a lawyer at some point, and better to have Moxie Castin on your side than the other guy’s. And if Moxie did happen to be on the other guy’s side, Moxie might go easier on you if you hadn’t crossed him in the past.
Moxie was wearing a powder-blue suit, and a necktie so vibrant it was almost a cry for help. He was drinking coffee and reading the Press Herald, although copies of The Boston Globe, The New York Times, and The Washington Post were also stacked beside him. If newspapers eventually vanished entirely, it wouldn’t be Moxie’s fault. He and Parker had that much in common.
‘I already ordered for you,’ he said, as Parker took a seat across from him.
‘How did you know what I wanted?’
‘What does it matter? Everything’s good here.’
Parker had to concede that Moxie was correct, but still, a man liked to be consulted.
Moxie turned a page of his paper.
‘Take a look in the bag, see what I scored at Pinecone and Chickadee,’ he instructed.
Pinecone+Chickadee was a gift store of more than usual eccentricity down on Free Street. One of its paper bags lay on the bench seat by Moxie. Parker examined the contents while coffee was poured for him. He tried to find the right words for what he saw, but they wouldn’t come, so he settled for a simple declaration of fact.
‘They’re Heroes of the Torah drinking glasses,’ he said.
‘Uh-huh.’
They were four in total, each decorated in blue with a portrait of one of the heroes in question: A. Hildenseimer, Yitzchak Spector, R. Elizer Goldberg, and S. Y. Rabinovitch. Parker had no idea why these men might be considered heroic in Torah circles. All he could say for certain was that the glasses weren’t necessarily improved by their visages.
‘I didn’t know you were Jewish,’ said Parker.
‘It never came up, and I’m only kind of Jewish. I’m Jewish-ish. Anyway, you don’t have to be Jewish to appreciate these bad boys.’
He appeared to be entirely serious.
‘Well,’ said Parker, ‘they’re quite a find.’
Swap ’em with your friends advised a line under each portrait.
‘Seems you can swap them,’ said Parker.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I guess if you have doubles, you can exchange one, like baseball cards, or go for a Torah MVP. You know, like swapping a John Wasdin for a Manny Ramirez.’
‘Why would anyone pick up two of the same glass?’
‘Moxie, in this case I don’t know why anyone would pick up one of the same glass.’
Moxie returned his purchases to the bag in what Parker could only have described as an aggrieved manner.
‘You sadden me,’ said Moxie.
Their breakfasts arrived. Moxie had settled on Smokin’ Caterpillar omelets for both of them: three spicy eggs, hash, grilled onions, Swiss, with toast and a side of homies. The Bayou Kitchen deemed itself to have failed its customers if they could see their plates under all the food.
‘Eat up,’ said Moxie. ‘You’re getting thin.’
Moxie, by contrast, remained a big man yet somehow contrived to run half marathons and not die. Either he was a medical miracle, or God was afraid to call him in case of litigation.
Moxie filled his mouth with hash and egg, and tapped a knife on a page of the Press Herald. It was a short article indicating that the police still had no leads on the immolation of an expensive truck on the waterfront the previous weekend.
‘You happen to hear that someone blew up Billy Ocean’s truck in a parking lot off Commercial?’ asked Moxie.
‘Billy Ocean the singer?’
‘Funny. You think the “Caribbean Queen” guy drives around in a Chevy tricked up with the rebel flag? No, Billy Ocean, Bobby Ocean’s son.’
Bobby Ocean’s real name was Robert Stonehurst, but everyone knew him as Bobby Ocean because he kept an office down by the Portland Ocean Terminal, and was deeply invested in various enterprises connected to boat ownership, fishing, tourism, restaurants, real estate, and any other way of turning a buck while still being able to look out his window at Casco Bay. Bobby was smart, but his son was reputedly dumber than a stump.
‘Is this a matter of concern to you?’ Parker asked.
‘Only because Bobby Ocean turned up at my office yesterday. Said he figured the truck business for an act of terrorism, but didn’t trust the Portland PD to do anything about it. He wanted me to hire someone on his behalf to investigate the crime.’
‘Did he suggest a motive?’
‘Bobby suspects it was an assault on his son’s First Amendment rights, and on patriotism in general, owing to Billy’s desire to celebrate certain aspects of his white Anglo-Saxon heritage, such as displaying the flag of the Confederacy.’
‘In Maine.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Because where else would he choose to display it?’
‘Exactly.’
‘And why did Bobby Ocean come to you?’
‘Because we’re both GOP donors. We sat at the same table at a fund-raising dinner before Christmas. He complained about the soup. Bobby Ocean gives the party a bad name.’