Blunt Darts

the market.
     
    The meat exchange is nestled in a noisy bunch of hangarlike buildings just off the Southeast Expressway on the southern outskirts of Boston. It was nearly 10:00 by my watch, which meant that the man I wanted to see had been on the job for five hours already. I parked the rental and walked into the biggest of the structures. I was struck by the cool, nearly overpowering atmosphere of fresh but dead animal meat. I turned two interior corners before I saw AI raising his cleaver.
    AI Bufone is five-five in height and three-five in width. When he picks up a meat cleaver, it looks like an old-fashioned straight razor in comparison to his hands. He sports three navy tattoos from the South Pacific on his right arm and a few wispy black hairs in a clump at the top of his forehead. He looked up and saw me.
    “John, boy, whaddaya say?”
    “Not much, Al. Yourself?”
    “No complaints.” He whacked twice with the cleaver. “Rose and me hit the doggies Monday. Missed the double by a nose, but we did awright otherwise. Hey,” he said, hefting a veal leg, “can you use some?”
    “No, thanks, Al. Could use some information, though.”
    Al set down the veal leg and wiped his hand on his apron as he looked around carefully.
    “B and E or hijack?” he asked softly.
    “Neither,” I replied, reflexively looking around too. Some people don’t like other people talking to insurance investigators about certain transactions. “I’m looking for a fourteen-year-old boy.”
    Al laughed. “I heard you went out on your own. Where’s the kid from?”
    “Meade.”
    Al laughed harder.
    “Oh, yeah, sure John-boy. He’s in the fuckin’ back room sweepin’ scraps. This was the first place his guidance counselor referred him.”
    “He’s a runaway, Al. I thought he might try to cop a ride from here to the Berkshires on one of the trucks.” I showed him Stephen’s photo.
    “Nah,” said Al. “I’ve never seen him before.”
    As I drew the photo back, he said, “Wait a minute.“ He looked at it again. “Y’know, there was a kid here, mebbe two weeks ago. But he looked older than fourteen. He also had blondish hair, y’know. But his eyes looked like that kid’s eyes. Sorta deep ‘n’ sad, y'know.”
    I felt hope rising.
    “Did you talk to him?”
    “No. I remember Vinnie sayin’ somethin’ about the kid writin’ an article for his school paper on somethin’.”
    “Where’s Vinnie?”
    “I haven’t seen him today. But I’m pretty sure Sammy DiLeo talked to the kid too. Sammy just got in from Pittsfield a half hour ago.”
    Pittsfield, the major city in the Berkshires. “Where can I find Sammy?”
    AI gestured toward the loading docks. “He should be checkin’ on the load he’s takin’. Probably Dock Two.”
    “Thanks, Al.” I started walking.
    “Oh, John-boy. Mind Sammy now. He’s kind of a weaselly bastard.”
    “Thanks,” I repeated, and kept walking.
    Dock Two was off by itself, a large overhead garage door that opened to the sunshine. As I approached it, I could see two men arguing in the open mouth of the back of a refrigerated trailer truck. The air grew warmer and the smell of meat less striking as I moved toward the truck.
    “Sammy, you goddamn thief, I’m not fuckin’ short and you know it. Every case on that invoice is in this fuckin’ truck.”
    “Look, George, either you reduce the fuckin’ bottom line on this invoice or I make you unload this fuckin’ truck and recount on your fuckin’ time.” George was getting redder and redder, shaking his clipboard like a war shield.
    “Every time you do this, Sammy. Every fuckin’ time.”
    “Refigure or unload,” said Sammy with a smirk.
    George turned and stomped away. “I’m gettin’ Al.“
    “Al can’t change the union contract, George,“ smiled Sammy as George passed me. Sammy reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys as I approached him.
    “Shouldn’t you wait for Al?” I said.
    Sammy gave me the defender-against-invader look. “Who the fuck are you?”
    “John Cuddy,” I said. “I’m looking for a young boy.”
    Sammy sneered. “Whasamatter, wife got lockjaw?” I decided where I was going to hit him, but not when. “I’m a private detective.” I showed him Stephen’s picture. “His hair would have been blonder,” said.
    As Sammy looked at the picture, a faint flush spread up to his neck, then faded. “Nah, never seen him. I gotta go.” He half-turned and fumbled with his