Nodding heads. Charadee flips over my map and jots down some notes. She has a large looping script that is much prettier than mine.
She murmurs some questions in what I assume is French to her companions. Various French replies produce more scrawled notes. In the end, Charadee divides my paper into three sections. The first contains numbers, the second contains names, and below the midway line dividing the page are a whole mess of names and numbers.
She walks me through it: the bus schedule, which I’d recognized; the names of her “boys” at the center, who can help me out; and a list of the best restaurants.
“Skinny girl like you needs to eat,” Charadee provides as explanation. In a culture that prides itself on curves, I must look particularly pathetic. Honestly, I’ve been begging God for breasts since the day I turned thirteen. Any time now.
I thank her sincerely. High fives to all.
There’s a chime as a car pulls up to the drive-thru. They return to their stations and I head once more for the door, armed with coffee and my new and improved local guide.
* * *
—
I get on and off the right bus. It makes me smile so brightly even the bus driver, a stoic Black man who appears to be somewhere between old and ancient, grins back. I smile larger and he shakes his head. “You take care of yourself, you hear,” he says, and the fact I got him to speak feels like my second triumph of the day.
Forget Detective Lotham. Maybe I’m growing on the entire population of Mattapan.
My heady sense of success lasts until I make it to the front of the vast rec center complex. Again, much larger than I expected, and given the surrounding park, tennis courts, and running paths, nothing like I imagined. Sure, the rec center looks slightly tired and stooped, a giant metal hangar that had probably been very impressive in its heyday, and appears in need of a good power-washing and paint job. But the size, the access to the outdoors—I’ve visited plenty of neighborhoods with less.
Of course, I can’t figure out how to get in. If what my new AA bud Charlie said was true, the center’s hours would be mostly after school, evenings, and weekends. Which probably explains the locked front doors. However, a taped sign advises deliveries around back.
I’m a delivery. Of sorts.
I wander around the massive building. This close, I can see the pitting in the metal side panels, more signs of age. I’d guess the faded blue structure was built in the seventies or eighties. Maybe some government initiative to provide more opportunities for inner-city youths. I wouldn’t mind having these paths to run on. Or basketball courts or soccer fields. They are all empty now, but I’d guess around three in the afternoon, this place really comes alive.
I discover a side door, give it a tug. No luck. Keep on walking, all the way behind the building now. A second set of double doors, twin to the first. This time when I pull, the tinted glass door gives way. I step inside the cool, shadowed depths, seeking signs of human life.
There’s a check-in counter directly across from me. When I get closer, I see bins with various kinds of sporting equipment stacked behind it, locked behind metal grates. So this is where the kids check out the goods before heading out into the vast green park.
I follow the shadowed corridor deeper into the building. Given the lack of overhead lights and the deep hush broken only by the sound of my tennis shoes on concrete, the whole place is slightly ominous. Outside was filled with promise, but as for the inside . . . I spent a few days in county lockup once, and this makes me think of that. I wonder if the kids feel the same.
I walk past double doors leading to an indoor gym, but both are locked. Next up, I spy what appears to be a weight room, followed by some kind of kitchen area. Again, all shuttered tight. With the exception of the open back door, they appear to take security seriously around here. Belatedly, I realize I should’ve looked for cameras, outside as well as in. I wonder if I’m being recorded as I continue my path down the central corridor, still searching for signs of life.
Next up, a smaller gym with mats on the floor and a boxing ring in the middle. It makes me think of Detective Lotham, and I wonder if he ever came here to help out. Certainly, Officer O’Shaughnessy must know this place well, being the community liaison.
Voices. Finally. I follow the sounds to the end of the corridor, where light floods out from two separate offices.
I poke my head into the doorway on the right first, encountering two African American men, one short, one tall.
“Hi,” I say.
They stare at me.
“Are you in charge here?”
They stare at me.
I consult my notes from my new Dunkin’ Donuts friends. “Is one of you Dutch? Or maybe Antoine?”
“Dutch,” the shorter one concedes. He wears a whistle around his neck. I didn’t know that kind of thing was done anymore.
“Excellent. Charadee recommended that I talk to you about the rec center programs. I just moved into the area and would like to learn more.”
I deliver my best I’m-completely-harmless smile, then I stick out my hand. They take turns shaking it, which seems to break the ice.
“I understand you run an after-school program for local youths?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The shorter man, Dutch, confirms. His accent sounds pure Boston, no trace of immigrant anything.
“Please, call me Frankie. And you are?” I turn to the taller man, who appears roughly forty years old and has the erect bearing of a natural leader.
“Frédéric Lagudu,” the man says, with a trill of sand and sea. I gravitate toward him immediately.
“I’m a friend of the Badeau family. I understand from Ms. Violette that her niece and nephew came here often.”
“You are here about Angelique Badeau?” Frédéric asks, dark eyes narrowing.
“Yes.”
“She did not go missing here. She was back in school. That is what they say.”
“They say?”
He flushes. “What I know to be true.”
“That’s what I’ve heard, too,” I assure him. “I’m curious about the summer before school started. When Angelique and her brother, Emmanuel, were both here.”
The two men exchange glances again. I understand their natural distrust. I’m not the police, which makes me an unknown variable.
“Ms. Violette put me in touch with Officer O’Shaughnessy,” I volunteer now. “He recommended I talk with you.”
A stretch, but effective. Both men relax. O’Shaughnessy probably did help out around here, as I’d suspected. And while it might be a white lie, even if the men called O’Shaughnessy directly to check me out, I doubt he’d throw me under the bus. I’ve stirred up more activity in Angelique’s case in the past two days than the BPD did in the past two months.