Now what?

My brain started buzzing again, settling for the umpteenth time on Natalie’s father. He was the key here. Who, I wondered, could possibly shine some light on what happened to him? The answer was fairly obvious: Natalie’s mom.

I considered calling Julie Pottham and asking her if I could speak to her mother, but again that felt like a complete waste of time. I headed to the local library and signed in to use the Internet. I searched for Sylvia Avery. The address listed was Julie Pottham’s in Ramsey, New Jersey. I leaned back for a second and considered that. I brought up the Yellow Pages website and asked for all assisted-living facilities in the Ramsey area. Three came up. I called them and asked to speak to Sylvia Avery. All three said that they had no “resident” (they all used that term) with that name. I headed back to the computer and spread out the search to Bergen County, New Jersey. Too many came up. I brought up the map and started calling the ones closest to Ramsey. On the sixth call, the operator at Hyde Park Assisted Living said, “Sylvia? I believe she’s doing crafts with Louise. Would you like to leave a message?”

Crafts with Louise. Like she was a child at summer camp. “No, I’ll call back, thanks. Do you have visiting hours?”

“We prefer that guests come between eight A.M. and eight P.M.”

“Thank you.”

I hung up. I checked the Hyde Park Assisted Living website. They had a daily schedule online. Crafts with Louise was listed. According to the itinerary, Scrabble Club was next, followed by Armchair Travel Social—I had no idea what that meant—and then Baking Memories. Tomorrow, there would be a three-hour outing to the Paramus Park Mall, but today, nope, everything was in house. Good.

I headed over to the rent-a-car dealership and asked for a midsize. I got a Ford Fusion. I had to use a credit card, but that couldn’t be helped. Time for another road trip—this time to visit Natalie’s mother. I wasn’t too worried about her not being there when I arrived. Residents in assisted living rarely take unscheduled trips. If by some chance she did, it would be brief. I could wait. I had nowhere else to go anyway. Who knows? Maybe another delightful evening with Mabel at the Fair Motel was in the cards.

When I had just hit Route 95, my mind immediately went to my ride on this very road just . . . wow, it’d been yesterday. I thought about that. I pulled over and took out my iPhone. I turned it on. There were e-mails and phone calls. I noticed three from Shanta. I ignored them. I brought up the web and did a quick Google search for Danny Zuker. There was a famous one working in Hollywood who dominated the hits. I tried putting in the name and the word mobster. Nothing. I brought up the forum for gangster enthusiasts. There was nothing on Danny Zuker.

Now what?

I could be spelling the name wrong. I tried Zucker and Zooker and Zoocker. Nothing significant. The exit toward Flushing was nearby. It would be a detour but not a horrible one. I decided to take a chance. I pulled off and found Francis Lewis Boulevard. The Global Garden mega-nursery and garden shop, the place where I had smacked Edward around, was open. I thought about those punches. I had always prided myself on being a rule follower, and I had self-justified my violence of yesterday by claiming that I was rescuing that kid, but the truth was, I didn’t have to punch Edward in the nose. I needed information. I broke laws to get it. One could easily rationalize what I had done. The case for obtaining that information while giving Edward a touch of comeuppance was certainly compelling.

But more to the point—and this was something I would need to explore when I had the time—I wondered whether part of me enjoyed it. Did I really need to punch Edward to get the information? Not really. There were other ways. And awful as it was to even let the thought enter my head, hadn’t a small part of me taken some pleasure in Otto’s death? In my classes, I often talk about the importance of primitive instincts in philosophy and political theory. Did I think I was immune? Maybe the rules that I cherish aren’t there to protect others so much as they’re there to protect us from ourselves.

In his class on Early Political Thought, Malcolm Hume loved to explore the fine lines. I had balked at such talk. There is right. There is wrong.

So which side of the line was I on now?

I parked near the front, passed a big sale on “Perennials and Pottery,” and headed inside. The store was huge. The pungent odor of mulch filled the air. I started toward the left, circled through fresh flowers, shrubbery, home accessories, patio furniture, soil, peat moss—whatever that was. My eyes checked out everyone with the bright green worker’s apron. It took about five minutes, but I found the kid, interestingly enough, working in the fertilizer section.

There was a bandage on his nose. His eyes were black. He still wore the Brooklyn Nets baseball cap with the brim facing back. He was helping a customer, loading bags of fertilizer into a cart. The customer was telling him something. The kid nodded with enthusiasm. He had an earring. The hair that peeked out from under the cap looked streaky blond, probably something out of a bottle. The kid worked hard, smiling the entire time, making sure all the customer’s needs were being met. I was impressed.

I moved so that I was standing behind him and waited. I tried to figure out an angle of approach so that the kid couldn’t make a run for it. When he finished with this current customer, he immediately started looking for someone else to help. I moved up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.

He turned, the smile at the ready. “Can I . . . ?”

He stopped when he saw my face. I was ready for him to break into a sprint. I wasn’t sure what I’d do about it. I was close enough to grab him if he tried, but that would draw the wrong kind of attention. I braced myself and waited for his reaction.

“Dude!” He threw his arms around me, pulling me in tight for a hug. I had not expected that, but I went with it. “Thank you, man. Thank you so much.”

“Um, you’re welcome.”

“Oh man, you’re my hero, you know that? Edward is such a dickweed. Picks on me because he knows I ain’t that tough. Thanks, man. Thanks a lot.”

I said he was welcome again.

“So what’s your deal?” he asked. “You ain’t a cop. I know that. So are you, like, I don’t know, a superhero or something?”

“Superhero?”

“I mean, you hang out and rescue people and stuff. And then you ask about his MM contact?” His face suddenly darkened. “Man, I hope you got a whole Avengers group behind you or something if you’re gonna take him on.”

“That’s what I wanted to ask you,” I said.

“Oh?”

“Edward works for a guy named Danny Zuker, right?”

“You know it.”

“Who is Danny Zuker?”

“Sickest dude ever. He’d kill a puppy because it got in his way. You can’t believe the psycho-crazy in that guy. He makes Edward pee in his pants. For real.”

Terrific. “Who does Danny work for?”

The kid took half a step back. “You don’t know?”

“No. That’s why I’m here.”

“For real?”

“Yes?”

“I was joking, dude—about you being a superhero. I figured, hey, you saw me getting the crap beaten out of me and, I don’t know, you’re a big dude and you hate bullies and stuff. That wasn’t it?”

“No. I need some information.”

“I hope one of your superpowers is that you’re bulletproof. If you mess with those guys . . .”

“I’ll be careful,” I said.

“I don’t want you to get hurt or nothing, just because you did me a solid, you know?”

“I know,” I said, trying my best competent professorial tone. “Just tell me what you know.”

The kid shrugged. “Eddie is my bookie. That’s all. I’m behind, and he enjoys hurting people. But he’s small-time. Like I said, he works for Danny Z. Danny’s way high up in MM.”