Tight Lines (3 page)

“Fine. Five.”

“How will I recognize you, Mr. Coyne?”

“I’ll be wearing a lawyer’s costume, complete with attaché case. You?”

“I have a beard, sir. I look like an Arab.”

H
UNG MOON’S IS ON
Highland Avenue in West Somerville, just over the line from Cambridge. It was a favorite spot of Les Katz, a private detective friend of mine. Hung Moon’s, Les always said, had the best monosodium glutamate in Boston. Les liked the Cambodian waitresses, who shuffled around in their soft sandals and tightly wrapped saronglike dresses and, according to Les, offered services beyond the delivery of food and drink. The last time I was at Hung Moon’s was the last time I saw Les Katz alive. That was a couple of years earlier.

I arrived a few minutes before five. The large dining room was empty. I smiled at the hostess and ducked into the bar to the left of the foyer. Two beautiful Asian women wearing business suits were seated there drinking white wine. The bartender was a young Asian man with a smooth face and a wispy Ho Chi Minh beard and a classically inscrutable expression.

I climbed up on a barstool at the end opposite the two women. The bartender came over and emptied the ashtray in front of me. “Sir?” he said.

“Jack Daniel’s. Rocks.”

He nodded. In a minute he slid my drink in front of me.

I lit a cigarette and took a sip of the drink and Sherif Rahmanan appeared in the doorway. He looked at me and frowned. I reached down beside me and held up my attaché case. Rahmanan came over and sat beside me.

He was wearing chino pants and a green crewneck sweater. He had a dark beard, liberally flecked with white. The fringe of hair that half-circled his head was mostly white. I guessed he was close to sixty years old. When Mary Ellen was nineteen, this man would have been approaching fifty.

I held my hand out to him. “Professor. Thank you for coming.”

He hesitated, then took my hand briefly. He didn’t bother to grip it or shake it. “You threatened me,” he said. “I had to come.”

“You know what I want,” I said.

“And I already told you. I cannot help you.”

The bartender presented himself in front of Rahmanan. He asked for a glass of soda water.

“You know Mary Ellen,” I said. “I need to talk to her.”

“I do not know her any longer. I once did. It was many years ago. It is over. I am deeply ashamed.”

The bartender placed a glass in front of Rahmanan, who nodded absently and did not pick it up. “Look, sir,” he said to me. “My wife is, how do you say it, Americanized. Women from my country traditionally do not question the behavior of their husbands. Husbands do as they please. Women are taught to accept and serve. It is our culture. It is my culture. My wife, she is not a traditional woman. She does not think that way. I have learned that I no longer think that way, either. According to my culture, I should feel no guilt, no shame. But I felt deep shame, vast guilt. I begged her forgiveness, and she reluctantly granted it to me. We have not been the same since then. I will not subject her to any of that again.”

“I don’t want to screw up your marriage. I just want to talk to Mary Ellen.”

He paused for a long time. “This has nothing to do with me?”

“Nothing.”

“You mentioned her mother.”

“She is dying. She wants to reconcile with her daughter.”

“She has forgiven her, then? And me?”

“I don’t think forgiveness is the issue. Susan Ames couldn’t care less about you.”

“I must trust you on this.”

“You can.”

There was another hesitation. “Very well, sir. I will trust you.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I have not spoken to or seen Mary Ellen in many years. Our—our relationship—it lasted only a few months. Directly after her father died. Then she tired of me. It was easy for her, difficult for me. I had left my wife. I had three children at home then. I did not care. When Mary Ellen abandoned me, I returned to my family. It was—painful. I continued to love Mary Ellen. I tried to see her. I kept track of her, called her, watched her, followed her. She would have nothing to do with me. She threatened me.”

“Threatened?”

“She threatened to have me taken to court. For harassing her. It didn’t matter. Her threats only served to intensify my obsession.” He had been talking in a monotone, staring straight ahead. Now he swiveled on his stool and faced me. “I behaved without pride, Mr. Coyne. She was very young, very beautiful, very American. I could not believe that this young woman could be attracted to me. I was teaching an introductory international relations course at Tufts, a large lecture class, and one day this young woman came to my office, and—”

I waved my hand quickly. “Spare me,” I said. “I don’t care about this.”

He blinked at me, then nodded. “Of course,” he said. “In any case, when—when her attraction died, I could not bear it. You see, my wife and I—our marriage was arranged by our parents. I had never known love. Having never known it, I did not miss it. But when I had it, after Mary Ellen Ames seduced me, and then I lost her love, I was very depressed. I did not know how to behave. It took me many years, sir.”

“She seduced you, huh?”

“I see that you do not believe me.” He shrugged. “It does not matter. That is how it was.”

I sipped my drink. “You’re right,” I said. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I behaved badly,” he said.

I shrugged.

“I left long messages on her answering machine. I sat in my automobile in front of her building, waiting to see her come and go. I watched the place where she worked. I did this for several years after she left me.”

“Where did she live?”

“She was living in Cambridge.”

“Was?”

“As I told you, it has been many years now. She moved. I could not find her again. It was a relief. After a while I stopped trying.”

“You have neither seen nor spoken with her recently, then?”

“No. Many years.”

“How many?”

He scratched at his beard. “Seven or eight.”

“And you don’t know where she’s living?”

“No, sir. The last time I tried to reach her, she had moved, no forwarding address, no phone number listed.”

“What was she doing, the last time you were in touch with her?”

He chuckled softly. “She was a salesperson in a bookstore.”

“Why is that funny?”

“Because Mary Ellen has great wealth. She has no need to work.”

“Where is the store?”

“On Massachusetts Avenue between Harvard and Central Square. It specializes in literature of the counterculture. It is called Head Start Books. She no longer works there.” He shrugged.

“What about friends? Do you know any of her friends?”

He shook his head. “No. I never knew her friends.”

“And since she moved…?”

“I have not seen her. Seven or eight years. I have returned to my family. Mary Ellen Ames is no longer a part of my life.”

“There must be something else,” I said.

“No, sir. That is all. I have told you everything. I hope you will leave us alone now. I can help you no more.”

“I may need to get back to you.”

“Sir,” he said, “if you must do that, please call me at the school. I promise you I will return your call. Do not call my home.”

“Fair enough,” I said.

“Now I must leave,” he said.

And leave he did, without shaking my hand. I watched him go, a small, dark, slumped figure. From behind, Professor Sherif Rahmanan was a hunched old man.

I turned back to the bar and picked up my drink. The professor had not touched his glass of soda water.

W
HEN I GOT TO
my office the next morning I rechecked the Boston telephone book for Ames, Mary Ellen, and after that I pored through the various suburban directories. She was listed in none of them, which could have meant several things. She might have married and been using another name. She might not have been living in the Boston area, married or not. Or she might have an unlisted phone or have taken a new number since my directories were published.

I dialed 555-1212.

“What city, please?”

“Cambridge, Boston, I’m not sure,” I said. “Last name Ames, A-m-e-s. First name Mary Ellen.”

“Do you have an address?”

“No.”

“Just a moment.” A moment. “I have an Ames, M. E. It’s an unpublished number.”

“That’s probably her. What was the address?”

“I can’t tell you, sir.”

“Sure. Okay. Thanks.”

I hung up. Easier than I had expected. It was a simple job for Charlie McDevitt, my old Yale Law School chum and currently a prosecutor for the United States Department of Justice, Boston office. Charlie knew how to wheedle unlisted phone numbers from NYNEX. I dialed him at his place at Government Center on the other side of town.

Shirley answered. “Mr. McDevitt’s office.”

“Come away with me,” I said. “Just you and I on a tropic isle. We’ll eat papayas by day and make love by moonlight.”

She laughed. “Ah, and it’s you, Mr. Coyne.” Charlie’s secretary is a widow with seven grown and fecund children, a grandmother many times over, plump and white haired. She resembles remarkably the famous portrait of George Washington that hangs in every third-grade classroom in the country.

“How are you, sweetheart?”

“I am wonderful, Mr. Coyne. How are you?”

“I am well, dear. The grandbabies?”

“Well, Ronnie’s wife is waiting on twins.”

“And that will make—?”

“Nineteen, God love ’em all.”

“Well, congratulations,” I said. “Is Simon Legree in?”

“He told me to say no. But for you, Mr. Coyne, he is in. Sit tight.”

A minute later Charlie came onto the line. “Let’s see,” he said. “Today’s Wednesday. Not today. And not tomorrow or the next day. Maybe Saturday.”

“I wasn’t thinking of fishing,” I said. “But Saturday sounds good.”

“The Farmington?”

“I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“You got it.” He hesitated. “That wasn’t why you called?”

“I can’t account for my subconscious, God knows. But what I thought I had in mind was more mundane.”

“A favor, right?”

“Yep.”

He heaved a big phony sigh. “What this time?”

“An address and phone number.”

“You try the phone book?”

“Well, shit, Charlie.”

“Sorry. Let’s have it.”

“Mary Ellen Ames. That’s A-m-e-s. Somewhere in the 617 area code. She has an unlisted telephone, so I know she’s there.”

“This’ll cost you, pal.”

“I’ll buy you a ham and cheese sandwich Saturday. That’s it. This is a piece of cake for you.”

“I’m gonna hold out for dinner on the way home at that Mexican place in West Hartford.”

“You’re a tough guy.”

“Damn right. I’ll get back to you.”

“When?”

“You in a hurry?”

“Yes. I’ve got a client who’s dying.”

“Give me an hour.”

He actually called me back in twenty minutes. Mary Ellen Ames had a Beacon Street address, a low number that meant an expensive town house overlooking the Common. I dialed the phone number Charlie gave me.

It rang three times. Then a machine answered the phone. “This is Mary Ellen,” came a breathless voice. “I’m not here now, or maybe I just can’t come to the phone or something. But if you’ll leave me some kind of intriguing message, I’ll call you back. Wait for the old beep. Ready? Here it comes.”

The old beep was a long one. It suggested that her tape was full of messages. When it finally ended, I said, “This is Brady Coyne calling. I’m your mother’s attorney. It’s very important that we talk. Please call me as soon as you can.” I left both my office and my home number. I hoped my message was sufficiently intriguing.

I spent the rest of the morning doing the essentially sad things that keep lawyers in business—working out problems for people who don’t trust each other enough to work them out themselves, preparing them for the inevitable tragedies that befall us all sooner or later, protecting them against an untrustworthy world, negotiating bureaucracies for them, interceding with the state on their behalf.

An honest and honorable world wouldn’t need lawyers.

Susan Ames, I kept thinking, didn’t need a lawyer. But she needed a friend. I’d rather be a good friend than a good lawyer, anyway. I hoped I could persuade Mary Ellen, when I found her, to be a good daughter.

I wondered about Susan’s relationship with Terri Fiori. I guessed that Susan regarded her more as a daughter than a general factotum.

I remembered how Terri had winked at me. Susan had said she was beautiful, and I agreed. I’m a sucker for olive skin that needs no makeup and black hair and big brown eyes.

I lit a cigarette and dialed Susan’s number in Concord. Terri answered.

“General,” I said. “It’s Brady Coyne.”

“Oh. Hi, Mr. Coyne.”

“You better call me Brady.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m about to ask you out to dinner.”

She hesitated. She hesitated too long.

“Look,” I said. “I’m sorry. You weren’t wearing a ring…”

“I’m not married.”

“Yeah. A guy, though, huh?”

“No guy.”

“Well, then, how about Friday night?”

Another hesitation. Then, “I don’t think so, Brady. But thank you.”

“Well, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s flattering.” A pause. “Did you want to speak to Susan?”

“No,” I said. “I called to talk to you.”

“Oh. Well, I hope you understand.”

“I don’t. But it’s okay.”

I hung up, stubbed out my cigarette, and tried to get back to my desk work. My mind kept wandering. I hate getting shot down.

Around noon Julie buzzed me. “There’s someone here to see you,” she said.

“Send him on in.”

“You better come out,” she said.

“Whatever you say, boss.”

I got up and went out to the reception area. He was sitting on the corner of Julie’s desk. In spite of his hair, which was a little longer than I remembered it, and in spite of the little gold earring that sparkled in his left earlobe, which hadn’t been there the last time I saw him, I recognized him instantly.

“Hey, Pop,” he said.