Sometimes at Night

by Ben Sanders

Benny said, ‘Oh, finally. Here we go. It’s like a whole different screen and menu and shit. You can actually select the place, though. It’s got like its own icon on the map.’

  Chris said, ‘Put it on mute, will you? I don’t want to keep hearing that stupid voice all the time.’

  Marshall said, ‘Is this a local abduction, or are you taking me across state lines, make it federal?’

  He took the punch on his cheek, the blow knocking his head sideways against the door, making his ears ring. Hot copper taste in his mouth. Blood dripping off his bottom lip: one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi …

  ‘Yeah, nothing to say now, huh?’ Leaning closer. ‘Shut. The fuck. Up.’

  ‘Chris, dude, don’t fuck him up too bad. I don’t want the car getting messed up.’

  ‘You shut up, too. Eyes on the road. We get pulled over, you’re getting a dead cop in your trunk.’

  ‘Man, just chill …’

  ‘All right, quiet. I’m calling him.’

  Him would be Frank Cifaretti. Broken-tooth Frank from the bagel shop, looking for payback from last night.

  He heard Chris say, ‘Yeah, it’s me. We picked him up on that street.’

  Pause.

  Then: ‘I don’t know. Just walking. It was pretty easy. He’s with us now. You want to talk to him?’ Chuckling to himself. ‘All right. We’ll call you when we get up there.’

  Up there.

  The bagel shop was south, downtown. He wondered where they were taking him. Upstate, maybe, or over to Jersey. Somewhere unpopulated, quiet enough for score-settling and burials. He let his breath out gently, trying to stay relaxed, focused.

  Chris’s voice went softer, faux-sympathetic. ‘You doing OK there? I heard a great big sigh.’

  ‘I told you I get motion-sick.’

  ‘Yeah, well. Keep doing the breathing. You’ll be OK.’

  ‘Whatever. Not my car.’

  ‘You keep your head down, too. You understand? You put your head up, I’m going to put one through you.’

  ‘How’d you find me?’

  ‘Be quiet.’

  Marshall said, ‘Did Frank find a dentist? His teeth didn’t look too good.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re going to find out all about it. Hush, now. Just like we talked about.’

  Marshall said, ‘You remember he asked me about money? Asked what I took from Tony Asaro?’

  Nothing.

  Marshall said, ‘He was right. I took about a quarter mil, three hundred thousand. But if you want it, you’re heading in the wrong direction.’

  Quiet.

  Then: ‘Get it when you’re dead, won’t we?’

  ‘Yeah. Except you’ll have to share. Because I’m going to tell Frank about it when I see him. Or do you think he’ll let you have it? Bonus payment for not getting pulled over by a state trooper?’

  ‘Shut the fuck up.’

  Marshall said, ‘If we’re heading over to Jersey, you’re better to go up FDR Drive, take the George Washington Bridge. Brooklyn-Battery’s a toll road. They’ll have cameras.’

  A long moment of soft road noise.

  Then Benny said, ‘Shit, sorry, I can’t work this thing while I’m driving …’

  He felt them brake, swing to the curb, and Chris, dangerously convivial, said, ‘What I don’t get, how’s a man, how’s someone get to be your age, thirty-four years old, you don’t learn to drive without a GPS? Have some pride in the knowledge of where you live, Jesus Christ …’

  Marshall said, ‘So we are going to Jersey?’

  He took the punch on his cheek again, the force of it putting him against the door, and then Chris had a hand in his hair, gun jammed in the back of his neck.

  ‘Shut up, or I swear I’m gonna drill you right here.’

  ‘Dude, please don’t fuck him up too bad, not in the car. I’m trying to keep it nice.’

  Chris right in close to him now: breath in his ear, a whiff of body odor. ‘How’s that help the motion sickness? You feel better?’

  Marshall spat blood. Lights from passing traffic flitting in the edge of his vision, strange shapes and flashes, ringing in his ears. He said, ‘You killed anyone before, or is this a first?’

  Chris said, ‘This guy, honestly …’ Faded off into a laugh that sounded forced, and now they were moving again, Benny stepping on it hard, making up for the delay.

  Marshall said, ‘You’re going to think about it. You’re going to think about me all the time. You’ll be doing something completely innocent, eating dinner, watching TV with a beer, feel like life’s pretty good, and you’ll remember the guy you drove out to New Jersey so he could be killed. And you’ll wonder if maybe that was a bad idea. I’ll be off in sweet nowhere, and you’ll be living with it.’

  A brief spell of quiet, and Marshall thought maybe he had some traction. He was trying to time his next remark, line it up for maximum impact, and then the hand in his hair gripped even tighter, and his head was yanked backward, the gun still jammed in his neck.

  ‘You think it’ll be sweet, huh? Why you trying to talk us out of it then?’

  ‘It’s the getting there I’m worried about.’ Voice sounding weird with his throat stretched, thin and croaky.

  ‘Shut up. Listen. All right?’

  Spit flecks hitting his cheek.

  Benny said, ‘Chris …’

  Chris said, ‘You are not a guy. You are not a guy I’ll think about and go, “Oh gee.” You are a job. You’re a fucking job, and all I’m going to think about, I’m going to be relieved and thankful it went off without a hitch. OK?’

  ‘Chris, honestly, I’m trying to keep it real nice. If there’s like a mess or anything you have to wipe it up real fast. If you leave it, it soaks in the leather …’

  Chris, still right in his ear: ‘Yeah, you’re getting the hang of it now. Nice and quiet. Good for you, too, keeping your head down. Slows the aging process, better blood flow. Pops out all your wrinkles.’ He laughed. ‘Always want to be looking fresh.’

  He almost went another round with him, tell him again about the money, try to get it in his head that murder was a bad idea. Or blow on the ember that was already taking hold. But he didn’t want to get hit again. Better to let the pressure drop. He probed his cheek with his tongue. Torn-up and bloody, but it wasn’t free-flowing. No point trying to qualify for sutures. Although, there was no telling how much time he had. It seemed they were Jersey-bound, but that could mean some old warehouse over on the riverfront, or rural country out west. Which would be how far? Thirty, forty miles. So maybe forty, fifty minutes’ drive, this time of night.

  The road acoustics changed: lighter, more echoic, and he knew they were on the Brooklyn Bridge. He kept his head down, obeying Chris’s edict, felt himself tilting with the curve as they came down off the ramp onto FDR Drive.

  He said, ‘I wasn’t kidding about being motion-sick.’

  Benny said, ‘Maybe we should find somewhere to let him spew.’

  ‘All right. Everyone shut up.’

  Marshall said, ‘It’s smoked glass. No one’s going to see if I sit up.’

  ‘You want to get hit again? Huh?’

  ‘Can you crack the window a little?’

  ‘I’ll crack your fucking head a little.’

  It was like trying to coax someone out on a tightrope, a little bit at a time: gently, gently by the hand. Balance and timing. Lead him out over the drop, and then let him go.

  The car stayed quiet for a few minutes, smooth progress up the east side of Manhattan, and this time it was Benny who spoke: ‘Chris, honestly, if I can’t get this thing clean, Lynette’ll flip …’

  Chris said nothing.

  Benny said, ‘I’m gonna give him some air. Just an inch.’

  Chris said nothing.

  Marshall heard the window mechanism, discreet and precise and subdued. He sat slowly upright, leaned back in his seat, his face in the chilly flutter of night air coming through the gap.

  Benny said, ‘We gotta drive a
ll the way back again, remember? No good if he spews, and we have to ride with the smell all the way home. The blood … you always feel sick on blood, you know?’

  Chris said, ‘I’ll ride with Frank. Doesn’t bother me.’

  He had his back to the door again, gun in close by his hip and aimed at Marshall. That sleepy-eyed look on his face.

  ‘I’m watching you, pal. Don’t think you can go taking liberties now.’

  Marshall made a show of breathing deep, taking in a cleansing dose of night air.

  ‘I’m just sitting here trying to keep the man’s car clean.’

  ‘Right. If that’s all you want to do, we’ll get on just fine.’

  They went up Harlem River Drive, brick project buildings over to the left beyond the southbound traffic lanes, Yankee Stadium somewhere over to his right. His best hope now was to somehow make them stop the car, but they were less likely to do that in a built-up area. More chance of being noticed, more chance of a friendly traffic cop pulling up to check all’s OK.

  He slid lower in his seat, trying to take the pressure off his cuffed wrists. The steel was biting in against the bone. He slid left a little, and beyond the edge of the front passenger seat the GPS screen was visible on the vehicle’s dashboard: a street map at an oblique view, a white chevron on a blue line showing their progress on the recommended route. Thirty-two miles to go. Which meant thirty or forty more minutes, Marshall guessed.

  He couldn’t see the intended destination, but it was a westward trajectory. He said, ‘Funnily enough, being punched in the head didn’t make me feel any better.’

  Nothing.

  Marshall said, ‘In fact, I think I might be a little worse.’

  ‘You’ll be just fine, pal. Don’t you worry. Frank’ll know how to cure you.’

  He seemed to think that was pretty funny.

  Marshall said, ‘All right. I’m going to be sick whether we stop or not.’

  ‘Chris, we should … I’ll pull over and let him do some spring cleaning.’

  Chris didn’t answer. Marshall closed his eyes, did a few deep nose-breaths, like trying to sooth some ferocious gut turmoil.

  Chris said, ‘Guys throw up all the time, don’t worry about it. Especially this kind of situation. All you have to do, just make sure you don’t throw up on me. Keep all the good stuff to yourself.’

  Marshall didn’t answer. He did a couple more deep breaths, releasing each one audibly, and with purse-lipped caution, wanting Benny worried about the condition of his vehicle. They crossed the Hudson up at the George Washington Bridge, just as he’d suggested, and Benny’s GPS directed them onto Route 4, a northwesterly bearing, New Jersey suburbia going past to either side of them.

  Benny said, ‘It’s actually pretty good. There’s like a yes-or-no setting for if you want to drive on toll roads.’ He looked at Chris in the mirror. ‘I told it no. That’s why it’s not taking us on the Pike.’

  Chris said, ‘You’re a genius.’

  Marshall watched the night going by. He knew he couldn’t make a move yet. Too much traffic to risk letting him out of the car. He breathed through his teeth, squeezed his eyes shut, giving them his best impression of a man trying not to lose his stomach.

  ‘Don’t you spew in my car, man. Don’t do it.’

  Chris said, ‘I don’t think the odds are good, Benny. I think he’s going to do it.’

  Benny said, ‘You keep it together, I’ll put a good word in with Frank.’

  Chris laughed. ‘Yeah, he’ll go easy, leave a couple teeth in.’

  Thinner traffic now. Fewer lights going by in the opposite lane. Benny drove faster on the quieter road, the rotor-like flutter in Marshall’s open window gaining tempo.

  Marshall said, ‘I got a jigsaw puzzle I’m working on.’

  Chris said, ‘Yeah? Good for you.’

  ‘Jackson Pollock.’ He tried for what he hoped looked like an apprehensive smile. ‘Any chance I’m going to finish it?’

  Chris said, ‘Don’t ask me hard questions.’ Then he said, ‘Who’s Jackson Pollock?’

  Benny said, ‘He’s that guy, they have him in the Met – no, in MoMA. Or whatever the place is, they have the helicopter hanging where you go up the stairs.’

  Chris said, ‘MoMA.’

  ‘Right, yeah. We went with Lynette’s aunt. He’s the guy, he does paintings, they sort of look like random spatter, you know? Like it’s happened by accident, but he’s done it that way on purpose.’ He worked on the thought for another half-mile or so, nodding as he built up his theories, and said, ‘It’s all sort of balanced and planned out, which is cool. You look at it, you might see a little area and think it’s just scribble or it’s nothing, but it’s actually doing something for the bigger picture. You know? He’s done everything for a reason.’

  Marshall said, ‘Yeah.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The challenge was keeping his attention on the here-and-now, concentrate purely on what he needed to do. But he kept being taken on these little mental detours, a helpless observer of the fact that if he’d played things differently, he’d still be in Jordan’s apartment, in her bed: at or near the zenith of modern urban comfort. He wasn’t sure if it was an evolutionary flaw, the fact he was in this much peril and still being distracted by what might’ve been, or if there was some existential benefit to unconscious musing: remind him every so often of what was at stake, and thereby encourage survival.

  He watched his window. Route 4 became Route 208. Beyond the highway’s shelterbelt of trees, he caught glimpses of suburbia, low and undistinguished, everything homogenized by nighttime. Small, bright nodes of commerce at the highway interchanges. Motels and gas stations and diners. Businesses catering to the long-hauler.

  At Franklin Lakes, Route 208 turned into Interstate 287, easing them westward. They stayed on it for a mile or so, and then Benny took an offramp, curling them under the highway and into a northbound sideroad.

  Nine miles to go, according to the GPS.

  Forest country. Headlights flashed past southbound, one pair and then another, and then they were alone, tunneling into a darkness that felt total and uncharted, the SUV like some wayward satellite, hurtling without end.

  Eight miles.

  Eight minutes, Marshall guessed.

  Close enough, they might decide there was no point stopping.

  So do it now or don’t bother.

  He slumped against his door. Nothing ahead except the empty road, the dashed centerline a steady Morse Code through the spill of headlights and the carriageway seeming to hover on shadow, ditches running parallel to either side. He jerked upright, wild-eyed and panicked, as if overcome by something hideous, and he saw in Benny’s backward glance an expression of equal horror: the horror of knowing that something bad was going to happen to his car.

  ‘No, no, no. The window, the window—’

  The glass was coming down, more than enough room now to stick his head out of the car.

  But he didn’t.

  He retched and convulsed, leaned forward, and released the mouthful of bloody spit he’d been building for the past twenty minutes. The wet slap of contact with the floor was clear and unmistakable, even above Benny’s shouting – ‘Shit, no, no, no, no, no’ – and he fell hard against the seat in front of him as they braked, the SUV coming to a halt on the right-hand shoulder, fishtail and smoke and a squeal.

  ‘Get him out, get him out, get him out—’

  Marshall swayed, summoned a shocked look, as if gut contents were on the rise once more, and Benny shouted again for him to use the window. Marshall collapsed forward, made a gagging noise that was barely audible amidst Chris and Benny’s shouting:

  ‘You didn’t want to stop, you get him out. Get him out of my car, or you fucking tell Lynette—’

  ‘We’re almost there, just drive—’

  ‘Dude, get him out of my car.’

  ‘Motherfucker—’

  ‘Fuck you—’

  ‘Fuck you�
��’

  He heard Chris’s door open and then slam as he jumped out, and Marshall knew he had five or six seconds to get this right. He rose as best he could in the confines of the cabin, standing hunchbacked with his head and shoulders crushed to the roof, tortuously awkward with his hands cuffed behind him. He heard Benny say, ‘Hey, get down – sit down,’ not seeing it yet.

  Chris was coming around the back of the car, grit-crunch of footsteps, three seconds maybe from opening Marshall’s door. With a desperate off-balance lurch, he got his right foot and then the left up on the seat cushion. He stumbled briefly, head and torso flat against the roof, turned to face the open window like some strange and wingless bird: legs a shaky A-frame, cuffed hands cocked oddly behind him like a stump of tailfeather.

  Benny seemed to get it now, realizing that such urgent and decisive motion was not commensurate with a state of limp and feeble nausea. He shouted again for Marshall to get down, and then called for Chris to wait.

  But it was all happening too fast, and with Chris no doubt running hot from the argument, the shout probably sounded like one more pejorative, rather than a warning. He was right there now, standing by the rear tire, and Marshall heard the thunk of the outside handle, and then the door began to open.

  Marshall crouched lower and stepped forward, saw the surprise come into the man’s face at the unexpected scene: Benny looking panicked back across his shoulder, and Marshall up on the seat.

  Chris had the gun in his right hand, but aimed at the ground – arm lowered to accommodate the swing of the door. His instincts were fine: he brought the weapon up as he stepped back, trying to give himself more space as he lined up a target, but Marshall was already in motion, scything with his left leg, a swing-kick on a wide, savage radius.

  It was a clumsy move: poor stance, poor visibility, poor balance, but the one redeeming factor was the open window, giving him a broader sweep, rotational momentum he wouldn’t have otherwise achieved. He caught Chris on the point of the chin with the instep of his boot, and saw his jaw shunt back a full three inches. The gun was still thirty degrees below level, and the shock of impact made him squeeze off a round, the scene glimpse-lit by the flash, roadside trees in black and yellow.