Seven

I deposited the check in the BayBank machine near the Central Square Y after playing my regular volleyball match. I didn’t want to wait till the bank opened.

By nine, I was glued to my desk telephone, calling sources cultivated through the years, many of whom I met when I was a cop. A clerk at the Registry of Motor Vehicles, the regular recipient of a Christmas bottle of Johnnie Walker Red, disappointed me. He couldn’t find any cars registered in Dunrobie’s name. I took a sip of coffee laced with sugar and cream, and sighed. I’d considered the Registry my best bet.

I punched the next number, gossiped for a few minutes with an old acquaintance who works at the CORI unit of the Office for Children. Patsy Alvarez prefers Swiss chocolates to whiskey for Christmas. I learned that Dunrobie had absolutely no arrest record, not even a “driving while intoxicated,” which fit right in with his having no driver’s license.

I’d had visions of a recent “drunk and disorderly” at least. I’d been hoping to track him quickly; impress hell out of Dee, I admitted to myself.

Next phone call: The U.Mass. Alumni Office refused, like all university alumni offices, to give out an address, but I managed to wheedle the fact that they had none to withhold in Dunrobie’s case. He hadn’t graduated.

Most of the people in our crowd were U.Mass. kids, but Dee had gone to Berklee for a time, so I dialed the Berklee School of Music and spent a lot of time on hold, listening to a decent FM classical station. Dunrobie had not attended Berklee.

Ditto the New England Conservatory of Music.

Under “Labor Unions” in the Yellow Pages, I found the American Guild of Musical Artists. They had no Dunrobie as a member. I hesitated for a long minute, then hung up.

I finished the coffee. Seemed like Davey had dropped far out of sight. No driver’s license, no union card. I wondered if Dee had been serious about him trying construction work. I called two carpenter union locals. No Dunrobies.

I changed out of my sweats into khaki pants, a print shirt, and a navy linen blazer, an outfit that makes me look trustworthy and professional. Shoulder bag swinging, I hit the Bureau of Vital Statistics at the State House and struck out on Davey’s birth certificate, which would have contained all sorts of useful goodies, like his mom’s maiden name, and his date of birth. Dee and I had agreed that he was older than the rest of us, but we weren’t sure if it was two years or four years or what.

I walked from the State House to the Public Library, wishing I’d chosen more comfortable shoes, soothed by the thought that the MBTA would be even more unbearably hot than the overland route. You’d think the subways, being underground, would stay cool, but by August they’ve soaked up all the city heat and stink. Some of the cars are air-conditioned, granted, but you can never count on boarding one. I slowed when I came to Copley Square Park and stared at the homeless men seated like statues on the benches. Would I recognize Davey Dunrobie with ten hard years added, and maybe a beard and a layer of grime?

At the library, I checked telephone directories for the last twelve years, the cross-directories as well. There were no Dunrobies at all, which I found discouraging. I hadn’t expected him to be listed, but I’d had hopes of finding a brother or a cousin.

I couldn’t help myself; I looked it up. In the 1979 book: Therieux, Calvin and Carlotta. Ma Bell had gotten it wrong as usual; I’d never taken his last name. They’d printed the address correctly, half a low-rent duplex in Cambridgeport.

There was no current listing for Cal.

I breathed a sigh of relief. He and Dunrobie used to be buddies. If I’d found a listing for Cal, I’d have felt honor-bound to call, see if he knew where I might find Davey. I wondered if I’d have disguised my voice.

I asked two friendly librarians if they remembered a guy who looked like Dunrobie gone to seed, especially one who listened to a lot of music. For the first time, I thought about my junk drawer; it would have been useful to flash a photo of Dunrobie, no matter how out-of-date.

“We have a hundred guys like that,” the librarians agreed, which was no help to me. “Especially in winter. Who wouldn’t rather listen to music in a heated building than sit and shiver in the cold?”

I visited the Pine Street Inn, a shelter for the homeless, and drew a lot of blank stares. I stuffed a few bills in the donation box, and hoped none of my old friends was sleeping on a charity cot. I dropped in on the Salvation Army. I didn’t even try Alcoholics Anonymous. They’re just that: anonymous.

The Copley Square/South End area and Dee’s old place in Cambridge were the only locales I had for Dunrobie. I visited the appropriate post offices, urged harried clerks to check the records of forwarding addresses, the removal books—but nothing doing.

I saved the Central Square Post Office for last because it was closest to home. I thought about strolling the neighborhood, bumping doors, asking folks if they knew a guy who drank and played the guitar. Without a photo, it rated right up there with Dee handing out ten-spots in a South End park.

So I walked home, opened my junk drawer, and like Pandora, let the demons fly.