“She met fluoxetine. And let me tell you, it was love at first swallow.”
Daphne’s bubbly take on life in the loony bin makes it sound more like F Troop than One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I actually find myself getting envious of her life, spent with colorful characters in what sounds like a stress-free environment. Maybe not entirely stress-free—when my father finally called the police to drop the charges, they told him she still faced possible criminal prosecution—but Daphne’s last conversation with Larry has her feeling confident that at least there won’t be any jail time.
I’ve just about run out of quarters when she asks me if there’s been any news about her father. I promise to call the private investigator, which I do as soon as I hang up. This conversation turns out to be a lot shorter.
“Glad you called,” says Henry Head. “Why don’t you swing by the office?”
The office is in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen. On the second floor of a storefront promising fake IDs and Live XXX, I find the door with Head Investigations stenciled on the tempered glass. There is no receptionist, just the Head-man himself, leaning back in his chair, feet on the desk. He wears a track-suit that looks more ironic than functional—Henry Head must weigh three hundred pounds. He notes my arrival, washing half a Twinkie down his throat with a Snapple. “Brunch,” he explains, gesturing toward a couch splattered with mysterious stains. “Make yourself at home.”
I play it safe, resting my ass against the armrest. A radiator clangs noisily in the corner, pushing the temperature about five degrees higher than comfortable. It really does feel like home.
“Do you have any idea how many Peter Robichauxs there are in the tristate area alone?” Head asks.
I shake my head.
“Me neither. Maybe someday with the computers and all that we’ll have some way of knowing. Until then, we got the white pages.” He holds up a weathered phone book.
My internal temperature rises to match the room. “Let me get this straight,” I say. “I just paid you five hundred dollars to skim the phone book?”
“You ever hear of Occam’s razor? The shortest distance between two points is a straight line.”
“Actually, Occam’s razor says the simplest explanation is usually the right one,” I say, drawing on my single semester of philosophy.
“No shit? Then what do you call the thing about the straight line?”
“I think that’s just ‘the thing about the straight line.’”
He holds up his palms in mock self-defense. “I never claimed to be a scholar.”
“So is Peter Robichaux in the phone book?”
“Fourteen of ’em.” Head consults a spiral-bound note-book, which is encouraging. “A couple of ’em died in the five boroughs, meaning they got death certificates in Queens. I can’t tell you how much easier it is when the guy you’re looking for has got a death certificate.”
“You think he’s dead?”
“I’m just saying it’s easier, is all. Anyway, I don’t think any of the dead Robichauxs are your Robichaux. Too young, too old, too black. You said he was a white fella, right?”
“Glad to see you were paying attention. What about the living Robichauxs?”
Head nods and refers back to his notebook. “One’s in jail upstate on a murder beef. But I don’t think it’s him on account of who he murdered, as in his whole family. Your girl’s still alive, right?”
“She is.”
“Another’s in the service… Germany. I got a call in to him. Long-distance—you’ll see when you see the bill. As for the rest… squadoosh.” Head rubs his hands together like a magician. Another ironic gesture. “By a variety of reasonings I was able to eliminate each of the rest as potential candidates.” He jams a second yellow pastry into his mouth.
“Okay, assuming that’s true, where does it leave us?”
“Like I said,” he manages in between bites, “I got a call in to Germany.” He wipes his mouth with a handkerchief. “It’s a long shot, which is why I called you here. Our investigation has reached the proverbial cross in the road.”
“You mean ‘fork.’”
“How’s that?”
“The expression. It’s ‘fork in the road.’”
Head dabs his forehead with the handkerchief. “That don’t sound right. Fork’s got three points, maybe four. We only got two options.”
“Maybe you could just tell me what they are?”
“The first is to broaden the search… police records, motor vehicles, God bless. If you want, I can drive up to Albany. That’s where they keep track of all the other dead people. In New York, anyway. If he died in Jersey or Connecticut, that’s a whole different enchilada. They got their own phone books there too. But I gotta warn you. This kind of thing could take a while.” He rubs his thumb against his fore-fingers, letting me know that “a while” is going to cost me. “I’m not sure how deep your pockets go.”
“Not very. What’s the second option?”
“The second option,” Head says, “is to do absolutely nothing.”
I take a moment to consider these options. “I can’t say I’m particularly fond of either of them,” I say.
“What can I tell you? Sometimes we got to deal with the hand how it’s played.”
We finally agree to continue the investigation for another week, enough time at least to hear back from the Peter Robichaux in Germany. I hand Henry Head another five hundred dollars and descend back into a freezing-cold rain that wouldn’t let up for a week.
11
CHRISTMAS AT THE KIRSCHENBAUMS should be a contradiction, and would be if not for Larry Kirschenbaum’s pragmatism: If his clients come in all stripes of faith, then so can he. Each year, forty or so guests are treated to a ten-foot Christmas tree and sexy caterers, usually dressed as naughty elves, serving potato latkes. This year, the menorah will be joined by a Kwanzaa kinara, a nod to a medium-famous rap artist Larry successfully defended on gun possession charges. Still, out of deference to those Irish Catholics whose need to drive inevitably collides with their passion for drink—the bread and butter of Larry’s practice—the event itself will probably always be called “Christmas at the Kirschenbaums.”
After making my regular Friday night delivery to Danny Carr, I take the train back to the Island. It’s the first time I’ve been home since I moved to the city. This time, no one’s awake to greet me. But it feels good to sleep in my old bed. When I wake up, my mother’s already in the kitchen. I sit down at the table while she makes me pancakes.
“Dad sleeping in?”
“I don’t know,” Mom says. “He didn’t come home last night.”
I’m pouring syrup on a stack of pancakes when Dad enters through the back door. He’s still wearing last night’s clothes. He kisses Mom, who’s joined me at the table, on the top of her head. “Goddamn Harvey made me sleep at the bar,” Dad says. “I told him I was fine, but you know Harv….”
“I’m sure he just wanted to be sure you were safe,” my mother says without looking at him. “Honey, would you please pass me the syrup?”
“What? You don’t believe me? Call Harv and ask him.”
“Are his phones working?” she asks.
“What do you mean, are his phones working?”
“I mean if his phones were working, then you could have called. Or called a taxi.”
“Like I need this shit first thing in the morning,” Dad growls.
Welcome home, kid. Fortunately Tana calls, giving me an excuse to go back to my room.