ONE

Middle of the night, Florida, June 1976

It doesn’t take long to wake up when there’s a gun in your face. You feel something cold on your cheek, you open your eyes, and just like that: Good morning, Mr Moscowitz.

The shadow on my bed, the one holding the pistol, was well dressed. I could tell that. Nice fedora, sharp Windsor in the tie, smelled like witch hazel.

‘You’re Foggy Moscowitz,’ he whispered.

‘Who?’ I mumbled. ‘No.’

‘Show me your hands,’ he said politely.

‘You think I sleep with a gun under the sheets?’ I asked him.

He didn’t move a muscle. I showed him my hands.

‘Now.’ He sighed. ‘How much to find my kid?’

I blinked. I glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was four in the morning.

‘I’m sitting up now,’ I told him, ‘and I’m going to rub my eyes. Then I’m going to explain to you what Child Protective Services means. So, take the gun out of my face and get off my bed, or shoot me so I can go back to sleep. Your choice.’

He hesitated, but he stood up. The gun didn’t disappear, but he lowered it.

As foretold, I sat up and rubbed my eyes. ‘I am,’ I began, ‘through no fault of my own, the one and only guy in this part of Florida who is employed by the state under Public Law 93–247, the Child Abuse Prevention and Treatment Act. This means I could help find your kid, gratis. But I won’t.’

‘You won’t?’ The gun came up again.

‘Because you woke me up out of a very nice dream about my Aunt Shayna’s brisket, which I miss very much, and because you did it while you were pointing a gun at my face. I realize that my face is not that much to look at, but it’s the only one I’ve got. I’d like to keep it intact.’

He nodded. ‘You object to my manners.’

‘I do,’ I told him. ‘Now I’m going to turn on my lamp to see who’s in my bedroom.’

I reached for the lamp, but I did it slowly, so he’d know there wasn’t any funny business afoot. The light popped on, the room was buttery, the guy was thin as a skeleton. His skin was grey, and his eyes were the saddest song you ever heard, times ten. It was a melody I’d only listened to, thank God. Never sang it myself. But I had sympathy.

‘Tell me about the kid.’ I sighed.

‘She’s eleven,’ he said, but it sounded like a sob.

‘Your daughter?’

He nodded but couldn’t seem to muster a voice.

‘How long has she been missing?’

‘I’m not sure.’

I tried not to react in a negative manner, because a person who breaks into your house in the middle of the night, with a gun, is not someone you want to aggravate. But ‘not sure’ wasn’t much of an answer from an anxious father.

I rubbed my eyes again. ‘You’ll excuse my asking, but how is it you’re uncertain how long she’s been gone?’

‘Oh, I been in the joint.’ That’s what started the tears. Not a flood, but still: silver in the corner of the eyes. ‘Her ma passed away, and the State took the kid. I tracked her all over Florida. All the way to this little town, whatever it is.’

‘It’s Fry’s Bay, Florida,’ I told him.

‘Not your home town,’ he said. ‘You got a Brooklyn accent.’

‘Right the first time,’ I agreed. ‘Park Slope – in the old days.’

He gave another very heavy sigh. ‘I’m glad you’re not one of these redneck types I been running into with Florida law enforcement.’

‘First you point a gun,’ I said. ‘Now you insult me. I’m not a cop – of any sort. I have to tell you, you don’t exactly make it easy to be on your side.’

I got out of bed, slipped on some pants and stifled a yawn. ‘Kitchen,’ I suggested. ‘Coffee.’

He nodded and away we went. I started a kettle for the French press and then sat down at the kitchen table. It was new. The old one had blood on it.

‘OK,’ I said to him. ‘Start at the beginning. What’s the kid’s name?’

He stared. ‘Usually they ask me what my name is.’

I said, ‘Take this the right way: I don’t care about you. I might care about the kid, if you tell me a little more about her.’

He closed his eyes. ‘Her name is Etta. After Etta James. She looks like a Raphael cherub. Blonde. Maybe a little on the chubby side, but you know: baby fat. And smart as a whip. Skipped two grades. Gets the brains from her mother, but she’s tough like me.’

‘First,’ I began, ‘it’s impressive that you know Renaissance paintings. But second, I was hoping for something a little less romantic. Like a photo. Or where you saw her last. Or a last name to go with Etta.’

He sniffed and opened his eyes. ‘Right. Etta Roan. Age eleven. About four foot five. Blonde hair, brown eyes, maybe seventy pounds. She was with her ma until fall of ’75. That’s when the wife died. Had the cancer. Etta was put into the system in Lake City, but I couldn’t get very far with that office. Ex-cons and child welfare don’t mix, it turns out.’

‘Especially if you approach them the same way you did me,’ I said.

‘Are you going to help me or not?’

‘Still not sure.’ I leaned forward. ‘What brought you to me?’

‘Saw your name in the papers,’ he said. ‘You broke up some kind of human traffic ring; got a mother back to her kids. Local hero type of story. Also, you don’t miss a name like Foggy Moscowitz. I asked around. You got a rep.’

‘And you couldn’t just come to my office in the morning?’

‘I been patient,’ he told me. ‘I’m not patient any more.’

I studied the guy’s face. He’d been through the ringer. Crazy hair, dark circles under the eyes, suit like a bartender’s rag. And he still had the gun in his hand.

The kettle went off and I got up. Filled the French press and stood there watching it.

See, the trick for a guy with a gun is to keep quiet. Especially if he’s a guy at the end of his rope like this one was. You let him stew in his thoughts. Eventually he’ll start talking. Or he’ll shoot you. But usually it’s the talking.

I waited five minutes. I pushed the plunger down on the press. It sounded very loud in the silence of the kitchen. I got out two mugs and poured.

‘Sugar?’ I asked.

He shook his head. I brought him a mug and sat down. He sipped.

‘Good coffee,’ he said softly.

‘Are you going to tell me what’s really going on?’ I asked. ‘Because you broke into my apartment in the middle of the night and your story doesn’t quite ring true.’

He set down his mug and sat back. ‘All right,’ he said after a minute. ‘Maybe I’m in a little trouble.’

‘You’re on the run.’

He nodded. ‘I’ve got to find Etta. I’m her father. She needs me.’

Sounded more like he needed her.

But there was something in his eyes. I couldn’t look away. And I couldn’t say no.

‘Take a couple of hours on the sofa,’ I told him, ‘while I finish my dream about my aunt’s cooking. And in the morning, bright and early, we’ll go into my office and I’ll make some calls. We’ll find out who has Etta.’

‘It’s not going to be that simple,’ he protested. ‘You don’t think I tried to find out who has her?’

‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But you’re not a local hero. With a funny name.’

He didn’t want to, but he cracked a smile. A little one.

‘I could use a couple of Zs,’ he admitted.

And the gun went away at last.

‘OK,’ I said, and finished my coffee.

‘You’re not going to rat me out, are you?’ It was a tired question, not a worried question.

‘I’m with Child Protective Services,’ I told him. ‘What do I know about escaped convicts?’

He smiled. ‘More than you’d like to, that’s my guess. But I’m too worn out. I’m going to trust you, which shows you how stupid I am.’

I got up. ‘I’m letting a con with a gun sleep on my sofa. Who’s the one with questionable judgment? You want a blanket?’

‘In Florida in the middle of September? I want an ice bag.’

I smiled. ‘You’d be surprised how cold it can get here.’

‘I think my internal thermostat broke down.’ He yawned. ‘I was always either too cold or too hot. Now I don’t care. Now all I want to do is find Etta and go away someplace nice. Like Montreal.’

That was it. I went back to the bedroom and fell asleep in under five. I don’t have any idea what Mr Roan did. Maybe he dreamed about Montreal. Maybe he stayed awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering where his Etta was.

All I know is that when I woke up at eight the next morning, he was gone.

TWO

I figured on an easy day. In the office by nine a.m., a little paperwork and then a long lunch starting at eleven. Check back in at the office by two, and then down to Mary’s Shallow Grave by five, in time for happy hour.

The office was a second-floor cell. Peeling paint, moldy smell, letters missing from the sign. My chair squeaked like a train trying to stop, and you couldn’t see the top of the desk from all the manila folders. I did my best to make order, but chaos was boss.

By 10:03 I’d decided that Mr Roan was a ghost or a dream or some otherwise negligible apparition. Then, for no apparent reason, at 10:37 I picked up the phone. I had to look up the number for Lake City Family Services. I got a gravel-throated civil servant on the phone.

‘Child and Family Services, Bannon speaking,’ she rumbled.

‘Moscowitz over in Fry’s Bay,’ I told her. ‘Looking for placement information on an Etta Roan, should be eleven years old, mother deceased, father incarcerated. You placed her in foster care, don’t know when.’

‘Not me,’ Bannon said. ‘I just got here. From Tampa.’

‘Still,’ I said.

‘Yeah.’ She lowered the phone from her face and hollered. ‘Etta Roan. Who did her? It’s that Jew from over at Fry’s Bay, the famous one. He’s looking.’

There was a long silence in which I reflected on the dubious nature of being a notorious Jew. Until a man’s voice startled me.

‘Mr Moscowitz,’ he said in a very lush tone. ‘May one inquire as to the nature of your interest in the aforementioned subject?’

‘Certainly,’ I assured him. ‘A relative traced her to Fry’s Bay and asked me about her. I have no record, so I’ve been calling around.’

It was mostly true.

‘Ah,’ he said.

There was a shuffling of papers, and then he began humming. At first, I didn’t recognize the tune, but then it turned out to be a song from the radio called ‘You Sexy Thing’. He was humming the part that talked about believing in miracles.

I took the phone away from my ear. I hated that song.

After a second, he stopped very abruptly.

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Oh, dear.’

‘What is it?’ I asked him.

‘It’s this one. I’d almost forgotten.’

I waited, but it turned out that he wasn’t prepared to offer me anything more without a little prompting.

‘Right,’ I said. ‘So, where is she?’

‘I’m not really supposed to—’ he began.

‘Me neither,’ I interrupted. ‘But you wouldn’t believe what my desk looks like, and I’d like to say goodbye to at least one folder today.’

‘The reason it’s difficult,’ he went on, voice lowered, ‘is that the child in question is not in foster care. She’s been adopted. Our file is closed. And, um, you know how they are about adoptions right here in Lake City.’

I could hear him wink over the phone. So, she was still in Lake City.

‘I know,’ I told him. ‘I can just imagine what the adoptive family would say if they found out you gave out their name.’

‘Mr and Mrs Lambert? Oh, they’d be very unhappy.’

I smiled. ‘OK, you have to tell me your name, now,’ I said to the guy, ‘because I think you’re my new best friend.’

‘It’s Elvin, Mr Moscowitz. Elvin Bradley.’ He sipped a fussy breath. ‘Perhaps if you ever find yourself in Lake City, we might enjoy a cocktail or two.’

‘We might, indeed. And it’s Foggy, OK?’

‘You are famous, you know. Like Mrs Bannon said. You’ve been in the papers a lot.’

‘Fools names and fools faces, Elvin.’

‘Nevertheless.’ He paused. ‘Even Etta Roan knows your name. I may have mentioned you to her.’

‘What? Why?’

He whispered. ‘There was something not right about that adoption. I could tell that the child was in trouble. I didn’t like it. So, I told her she should try to get in touch with you if she ever needed help.’

‘Me?’

‘Guess you don’t realize how famous you are,’ he whispered, ‘for helping kids.’

And then I heard Mrs Bannon say something to him and he shut up.

‘Next time I’m in Lake City, Elvin,’ I promised, ‘it’s cocktails on me.’

He actually giggled, and I hung up.

So, that was easy. Etta Roan was in Lake City. Half an hour’s worth of research told me that there were five Lamberts in Lake City; three were listed as Mr and Mrs, which wasn’t a sure thing, by any means. But it was a place to start.

I reached for the phone, picked up the receiver, and set it down. Three times.

This wasn’t a phone-call thing. It was an in-person thing. I just didn’t want to spend two hours driving to Lake City, and another three knocking on doors and getting yelled at.

But I knew that’s what I had to do.

So. Up from the desk, down to the street, and into my car, the world’s saddest ride.

I know some people would try to tell you that a raven-black ’57 Thunderbird is only one among a parade of fine automobiles. But for my money, it was the T-Bird. Not that I actually spent money on it. It was the last car I boosted in my previous incarnation as Brooklyn’s finest Jewish car thief. Sure, that was a select club, but I was supreme. Right up until the moment I climbed into the driver’s seat of a car with a crib in the back. A baby crib. I was halfway down the street when the nipper started squawking. And two seconds later, the mother came running after the car, screaming to high heaven.

Long story short: I got arrested; I escaped (in my T-Bird) all the way to Fry’s Bay, Florida. Through no fault of my own, I ended up as the guy from Child Protective Services, a new crew in tangential law enforcement. I took care of kids.

Anybody could see the obvious Freudian motivations. I was protecting children from people who might do them harm. People like me.

But I digress. There I was, in my Thunderbird, sailing out of town on a Tuesday morning, top down, aimed in the general direction of Lake City. For the first hour I got a college station that played jazz, so that was lucky. But after a while it was all that country crap. Both songs: the happy one, and the sad one. You know: the former involved a girl in a pickup truck, the latter dealt with drunken loss and mother. Over and over again.

I was in Lake City by lunchtime.

The first Mr and Mrs Lambert were in their eighties. She was in a wheelchair and he was very hard of hearing. They never got past the idea that I was trying to sell them something. I even showed them my badge, which was very official looking. Their response was that they couldn’t afford tickets to the Policeman’s Ball.

The second house was empty. No curtains, no furniture, no dust: neat and clean as a pin.

The last one on my list was a couple from Cuba. Loud, funny, kind. And they had filled up the house, a two-bedroom job, with plenty of kids of their own. They thought it was hilarious, the idea of adopting a little blonde cherub.

So, feeling ill-used by fate, I opted for a small diner I’d seen close to the second house, the vacant one. It had a lot of signs in the window. One told me that Elvis Presley was coming to the Colosseum in Jacksonville, but the one that caught my eye said ‘Authentic Deli Sandwiches’.

I should have known better. The place inside was a vinyl and Formica number. Three people at the bar, another ten in various booths. Seashell pink and aquamarine blue – too bright; smelled like clams.

I ordered the chopped liver on rye. My expectations were low, but still a little generous for what came next. The rye was whole wheat, the livers were chicken, and there was mayonnaise involved. Plus, no pickle. I was still staring at it when the waitress came over to fill my water glass.

‘It don’t get no better,’ she told me. ‘No matter how long you say grace.’

‘You think I’m praying over this sorry excuse for a lunch?’ I asked her.

‘I take you for the religious type, yes.’

I looked up. She was in her late forties, greying hair, sagging eyes; a waitress uniform that looked as tired as she did. The pin on her apron said ‘Madge’.

‘Madge,’ I began, ‘I take you for a keen observer of life around this neighborhood.’

She set the pitcher of water down on my table. ‘I keep to myself.’ But that phrase ended with an upward inflection, the kind that expected you to continue the conversation.

‘There’s a vacant house down the block, number 212,’ I said. ‘My friends the Lamberts used to live there, but they seem to be gone now. Any idea where?’

‘Lamberts?’ She shook her head. ‘Don’t know no Lamberts.’

It was worth a shot.

‘Maybe just the check, then,’ I told her.

‘No pie?’ She was surprised. ‘We don’t get much call for that sammich you ordered, but our pie has got enthusiastic fans.’

‘Enthusiasm for pie is a subjective thing.’

‘Key lime,’ she murmured enticingly. ‘But hurry up. We about to close.’

And I succumbed. Key lime pie was a delight unknown to me before I came to Florida. It was tart, it was sweet, and at this particular diner, it was vaguely green. It was also gone in about thirty seconds.

‘Told you,’ said my friend as she slipped the check under my plate.

Maybe it was the sugar rush, or maybe it was desperation – I sometimes get those two confused. But whatever it was, I had the idea to ask Madge an odd question.

‘The people I’m looking for had a daughter,’ I said, reaching for my wallet so I could pay her. ‘Looked like a little cherub, blonde hair, about eleven years old.’

‘Etta!’ Madge said instantly. ‘Sweetest kid in five states. You didn’t say it was her family you’s looking for?’

‘So, you know