The Unquiet

He saw me as he took his place in the queue. I nodded to him, then walked slowly down Portland Street. After a few minutes, I heard footsteps approaching from behind, and Tween fell into step beside me. He was in his late forties and dressed cleanly, if shabbily, in yellow sneakers, jeans, two sweaters, and an overcoat with a vent that had split halfway up his back. His reddish brown hair was unevenly cut; people in Tween’s position didn’t waste their money on barbers. He lived rent-free in a one-room basement off Forest Avenue thanks to an absentee landlord who relied on Tween to keep an eye on his more unruly tenants, and to feed the building’s resident cat.

“Breakfast?” I said.

“Only if it’s Bintliff ’s,” he replied. “I hear they do a wicked good lobster eggs Benedict.”

“You do have a taste for the finer things in life,” I said.

“I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth.”

“Yeah, but you stole it from the kid in the next cradle.”

To their credit, nobody in Bintliff ’s gave us a second glance. We were seated in a booth upstairs, and Tween ordered enough food to fill him up for a day at least: fruit and OJ to begin, followed by toast, the lobster eggs Benedict of which he’d heard so much, extra home fries, then some muffins to finish, three of which were squirreled away in the pockets of his overcoat “for my buddies,” as he explained. While we ate, we spoke about books and local news and just about anything else that came to mind, except the reason why I had brought Tween here. It was the gentlemanly way to conduct business and Tween was always a gentleman, even when he was trying to steal the sole from somebody’s shoe.

“So,” he said, as he finished a fifth coffee, “you just bring me here to enjoy the pleasure of my company?” The coffee didn’t appear to have made him jittery, or at least no more jittery than he had been to begin with. If you handed Tween a bowl of cream to hold, it would turn to butter in the time it took to wind your wristwatch. He had so much nervous energy that it was tiring to be in his immediate vicinity for too long.

“Not just that,” I replied. “I’d like you to ask around, see if you can find anyone who might have known a guy called Frank Merrick, either in Thomaston or in Supermax. He did ten years, the final two or three in the Max, then got released and sent for trial in Virginia.”

“He anything special?”

“He’s not the kind of guy you’re going to forget easily. He had a reputation as a button man.”

“Rumor or solid?”

“I’m inclined to believe what I’ve heard.”

“Where is he now?”

“He’s here.”

“Renewing old acquaintances?”

“Could be. If he is, I’d like to know the names.”

“I’ll ask around. Shouldn’t take me too long. You got some quarters so I can call you?”

I gave him my business card, the change from my pocket, and fifty dollars in tens, fives, and ones so he could buy beer and sandwiches to oil the wheels. I knew how Tween worked. He’d helped me in the past. When he found someone who could cast some light on Merrick, as I was sure he would, he would hand me back my change and a handful of receipts, and only then would he look for payment. That was the way Tween worked in his “official” capacity, operating by one simple rule: you didn’t rip off anyone who looked like they might be on your side.

Merrick called me at midday. I’d been checking for signs of him all morning, but I didn’t see him or his red car. If he was smart, he’d have changed the car, but that assumed that Eldritch and his client were still prepared to bankroll him. I’d taken all of the precautions I could in case Merrick, or someone else, was keeping an eye on my movements. I was satisfied that no one was, not that day. In addition, Jackie Garner confirmed that all was still quiet where Rebecca Clay was concerned. But Merrick was on the phone, threatening to shatter that silence.

“Time’s up,” he said.

“You ever consider that you might get further with honey than vinegar?”

“Feed a man honey, and you get his love. Feed him vinegar, and you get his attention. Helps if you grab him by the balls too, and squeeze him some.”

“That’s very profound. You learn that in jail?”

“Hope you didn’t waste all that time finding out about me, else we’re going to have us a problem.”

“I didn’t come up with much, not on you and not on Daniel Clay either. His daughter doesn’t know any more than you do, but then she told you that already. You just didn’t want to listen.”

Merrick forced air through his nose in an imitation of amusement.

“Well, that’s unfortunate. You tell missy I’m disappointed in her. Better yet, I’ll tell her myself.”

“Wait. I didn’t say that I’d found nothing.” I needed leverage, something to draw him in. “I have a copy of the police file on Daniel Clay,” I lied.

“So?”

“It mentions your daughter.”

Now Merrick was silent.

“There’s some material in it that I don’t understand. I don’t think the cops did either.”

“What is it?” His voice sounded husky, as though something had suddenly caught in his throat.

I should have felt bad about lying. I was playing on Merrick ’s feelings for his missing child. There would be consequences when he found out the truth.

“Uh-uh,” I said. “Not over the phone.”

“So what do you suggest?” he asked.

“We meet. I give you a look at the file. I’ll tell you what I’ve learned. Then you go and do what you have to do, as long as it doesn’t involve Rebecca Clay.”

“I don’t trust you. I seen those cavemen you got guarding the woman. What’s to stop you from trying to turn them loose on me? I got no problem killing them if it comes down to it, but it would kind of hinder my investigations, you might say.”

“I don’t want their blood on my hands either. We meet in a public place, you read the file, and we go our separate ways. I’m warning you, though: I’m giving you a break because of your daughter. You show up again around Rebecca Clay, and this is all going to step up a notch. I guarantee that you won’t like what happens then.”

Merrick gave a theatrical sigh. “Now that you got the pissing competition out of the way, maybe you’d like to name a place.”

I told him to meet me at the Big 20 Bowling Center on Route 1. I even gave him directions. Then I started making my calls.

Tween got back to me at three o’clock that afternoon.

“I’ve found someone for you. He comes at a price.”

“Which is?”

“A ticket to tonight’s hockey game, and fifty bucks. He’ll meet you there.”

“Done.”

“Just leave his ticket for collection with my name on the envelope. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“How much do I owe you?”

“Hundred dollars sound fair?”

“It sounds fine.”

“I got some change for you too. I’ll give it to you when you pay me.”

“Has he got a name, this guy?”

“He has, but you can call him Bill.”

“Is he the nervous type?”

“He wasn’t until I mentioned Frank Merrick. I’ll see you around.”

Candlepin bowling is a New England tradition. The balls are smaller and lighter than in tenpin, and the pins are thi

The Big 20 in Scarborough had been in existence since 1950, when Mike Anton, an Albanian by birth, founded it as Maine ’s largest and most modern bowling house, and it didn’t seem to have changed much since then. I sat on a pink plastic chair, sipped a soda, and waited. It was four-thirty on a Friday afternoon, and every lane was already in use, the ages of the players ranging from teenagers to seniors. There was laughter and the smell of beer and fried food and the distinctive sound of the balls rolling along the wooden alleys. I watched two old guys who barely spoke ten words to each other close in on 200 each, and when they failed to break the double century one of them expressed his disappointment in a single “Ayuh.” I sat in silence, the only lone male among groups of men and women, knowing that I was about to cross a line with Merrick.