Blunt Darts

me a patronizing look. “Given the chronological proximity of the event and the onset of the condition, what else could have caused it?”
    I thanked him for his time and left.
     
     
     

     
     
    I drove into downtown Boston and parked on the fourth floor of the Government Center Garage. I walked through the new Faneuil Hall Market area. Although the renovated space opened in 1976,I grew up in old Boston, so I’ll probably always call it the new market.
    I stopped at my camera shop, where Danny promised me he’d have fifty copies of Stephen’s photo for me within an hour. I moved down State Street.
    Sturney and Perkins, Inc., was in an old, tasteful building near the waterfront. I took the elevator to the tenth floor. Sturney and Perkins occupied about half of it, the kind of offices a good, medium-sized Boston law firm would have had twenty years ago, before the glass-eyed skyscrapers opened.
    “John Francis to see Ms. DeMarco.”
    The receptionist gave me an uncertain look and dialed two digits. Her telephone had a cover on the mouthpiece, which prevented me from hearing what she said into it. She hung up.
    “I’ll take you down myself.” As we wound down a labyrinthine corridor, I thought it odd that she would leave her post. She showed me into a spacious, leather-done corner office with a harbor view. A tall, paying man who looked like an ex-navy commander stood from behind an expensive desk.
    “Mr. Cuddy, this is Nancy DeMarco. I’m Charles Perkins. What can we do for you?” he asked without extending his hand.
    Ms.DeMarco stood up. Nancy DeMarco. Medium build, Harpo hair, and late of the Massachusetts Commission Against Discrimination. Empire had had one of the worst sex-discrimination-in-promotion records in the Northeast, and Ms. DeMarco had been the one who crammed it down our throats. I’d met her once across a crowded conference-room table. Aside from an Empire stenographer, she had been the only woman present. She’d won.
    “Mr. Cuddy,” she acknowledged. I stopped at a leather chair, and we all sat down together.
    “Well,” I said, “this doesn’t seem to be my day for surprise attacks.”
    Silence from them.
    And from me, too.
    Then Perkins: “Why are you here?”
    “You must have discovered that in the process of finding out who I am.”
    “Amateurish, Mr. Cuddy, amateurish. That phone call, I mean.”
    “Look, Mr. Perkins,” I said, “let’s stop the urinating contest. Notice I avoided ‘pissing’ out of respect for your decor. You’re one of the best in Boston at what you do. You’ve been asked to find Stephen Kinnington. So have I. He appears to have run away, so there is probably no criminal element behind the disappearance, and therefore nobody to tipoff. Why don’t we share information and coordinate those efforts?”
    “Our client does not appreciate your involvement» Mr. Cuddy.”
    “Does the judge appreciate that every hour we don’t find Stephen increases the chances that we won’t find him?”
    “We will find the boy—and as soon as this conference is over, Ms. DeMarco can resume her efforts in that direction.”
    I looked over at Ms. DeMarco. She was looking at Perkins without expression.
    I rose and sidled toward the door. “Mr. Perkins, I guess I can understand why you don’t want to tell me what you know. What I can’t understand is why you don’t want to find out what I know.” I opened the door. “Amateurish, Mr. Perkins, amateurish.”
     
     
     

     
    I had a drink at Clarke’s while I waited for my photos to be finished. They were ready as Danny had promised.
    When I arrived at the apartment an hour later, the red light on my tape machine told me I’d had some calls. The first message was from Valerie. The usual you’re-a-tough-man-to-reach-but-I-forgive-you. Then there were three dial tones, meaning that whoever had called had hung up instead of leaving a message. Then there was this:
    “I don’t like leaving messages, even for a discriminating man like you. Meet me at Father’s First at eight P.M. ”
    I might have had some question about the voice, but not the “discriminating” tag. I wondered if she’d wear a disguise.
    I dialed Mrs. Kinnington’s number. Mrs. Page answered, grumbled, and told me to hang on.
    “What have you to report?” asked my client. “Precious little. Everybody but the psychiatrist is slamming doors in my face.”
    “Does that mean my son is aware of your efforts on my behalf?”
    “It does,”