by Walter Marks
Susannah shrugged. On a whim, she also packed the address book in her suitcase. Suddenly she felt an intense need to get out of the house.
She checked her watch. If she hurried, she could walk to the Jitney stop at Fifty-ninth and Lex and catch the 3:40, with time to stop at Hale & Hearty for soup and pick up The New Yorker to read on the trip. She left quickly and locked the door behind her. As she descended the limestone steps, she felt a sense of relief.
Ubaf Sing. A-be-deghi. Those cryptic words stuck in her brain all the way back to Montauk.
CHAPTER 17
Jericho and Katie were walking along the ocean’s edge at low tide. It was an overcast afternoon, the sky a chalky gray, and there was barely a breeze.
“Look, Daddy. What’s that seagull got in his mouth?”
“Well, I’ll be darned,” Jericho said. “It’s a bagel.”
They watched the slate-gray-and-ivory gull drop the bagel on the sand and peck at it vigorously. Sharp as the bird’s beak was, it couldn’t pierce the hard, slick crust of the bagel. The gull picked it up again, worried it in his beak, then flew off. He landed about fifty feet down the beach and once more pecked futilely—he knew the damn thing was food but he couldn’t figure out how the hell to eat it. Two more gulls arrived on the scene, followed by a raucous fish crow emitting its high nasal ca-hah. The interlopers tried to cop the bagel owner’s meal, but he fought them off with a great flapping of wings. The gull grabbed the bagel again in his beak and flew off, heading inland over the dunes with the crow in hot pursuit.
“Where do you think he’s going?” Katie asked.
“Probably to get some cream cheese.”
Jericho watched his five-year-old daughter’s face grow thoughtful for a moment and then blossom into a grin. A musical giggle followed. “Oh, Daddy!”
Jericho smiled at Katie’s response to his rather complex joke. He picked her up and hugged her with unrestrained joy. Katie didn’t know the reason for Jericho’s impulsive action, but she sure liked the hug.
He set her down and they continued their walk.
“So,” he asked, “how are you getting along with Irwin these days?”
“Fine,” the little girl answered. “He’s real nice. He drives me to play school every morning before he goes to work, and sometimes he even makes me oatmeal for breakfast. It’s dee-licious. He makes it from scratch, he doesn’t nuke it, he actually cooks it in a pot. Irwin says the secret is to stir from left to right, not right to left. Did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t,” Jericho replied cheerfully, his heart aching with jealousy.
“Daddy,” Katie said hesitantly, “would you mind if I called Irwin ‘Daddy’ too?”
That was a tough one. “Well, I guess — ”
“I don’t mean to his face. Mommy told me I’m supposed to call him Irwin, and that’s okay. But I mean, in school, when I talk about him and Mommy, I feel funny saying my Mommy and Irwin. The kids always say ‘Who’s Irwin?’ and then I think I should say, ‘My mommy’s husband,’ or ‘My stepfather,’ but that sounds weird, like he’s, y’know, my ‘wicked stepfather’? So, if I could just say daddy, I mean, just in school— ”
Jericho took a deep breath. It was always there, waiting to blindside him— the guilt, the self-reproach. He had created this situation; all he could do now was make the best of it.
“You can call him anything you like,” he said. “You and I know who your real daddy is, right?”
“Right.”
They walked on in silence. Suddenly Katie ran ahead. When Jericho caught up with her, he saw what had captured her attention. A blue crab had been washed up on shore and was flipped over on its carapace. Its snow-white abdomen was etched with the outline of what looked like the dome of the U.S. Capitol building. Its blue-tinged claws were tipped with bright vermilion, which the guy at Duryea’s fish market called “nail polish,” indicating the creature was a she-crab. Her claws flailed frantically as she attempted to turn herself over.
A woman’s voice reverberated inside Jericho’s head: “Por favor ... por favor.” It became a whimper—high-pitched, magnified many times over, then it turned into a long pitiful keen. He saw the crab’s scrabbling limbs clawing helplessly, then transmogrifying into multiple swirling images that inflamed his mind—limbs reaching out, grasping at nothing, seeking purchase in thin air. He felt the blackout coming, the darkness seeping into his brain like a malevolent ink stain.
One step too many. One step too many...
“Daddy. Daddy. What’s the matter?”
Katie’s voice burst through the impending blackness, calling Jericho back. He fought to shut out the images of desperate, spastic clawing and the high-pitched wail. He managed to force his eyes open, letting in the gray daylight.
“It’s nothing, honey,” Jericho said. “Daddy just got a speck in his eye. It’s all right now. It’s out.”
“I got scared.”
Jericho was scared, too. It was the first flashback he’d had since he viewed the drowned, disfigured woman at Sagg Main Beach. “Nothing to be scared about,” he said. “C’mere.”
He gathered his daughter to him, smelling the Johnson’s baby shampoo in her hair—a scent he remembered from when she was an infant. He held Katie tightly and she clung to him, open, vulnerable, loving. And he prayed nothing would ever come between them, especially the bad things from his past that he’d moved out to Long Island to forget.
CHAPTER 18
The morning fog was beginning to lift at East Hampton Airport. Jessie Russell was hoping for rain, but the National Weather Service had predicted a perfect beach day.
He walked across the tarmac to his airplane, tied down in its parking spot next to the maintenance hangar. There was nobody around, except for Bernie, the flight instructor, who was fueling his dual-control Beechcraft in preparation for a day of teaching nitwits how not to stall during takeoff.
Jessie approached the Super Cub, his hand in the pocket of his blue overalls. When he got to the plane, he walked around it as if doing a morning preflight. He grabbed the rudder with one hand and pulled it to check the hinges. He pulled a box cutter out of his pocket. After a furtive look around, he slashed a six-inch gash in the rudder’s fabric skin.
“Ow.”
The blade had nicked his thumb as he held the rudder. He checked his wound.
“Aah, it’s nothin’. Just a scratch.”
He blotted the cut on the bib of his overalls, put the box cutter back in his pocket, and continued around the plane.
Then he went to the office and phoned his boss.
“Mr. Grunfield, I’m sorry but I got bad news. Some birdbrain musta been taxiing on the ramp last night and nicked the rudder of the Cub pretty good. Sliced the skin about six, eight inches.”
The expected string of profanities blasted out of Stanley Grunfield’s mouth.
“It ain’t my fault, boss,” Jessie interjected. “Look, I’m sorry, but there ain’t no way she can fly. The wind’ll get in there and tear the rest of the skin right off the rudder.”
“Well, patch the sucker,” Grunfield shouted.
“That’s a tricky job. It should be done by an A&P mechanic.”
“A&P?” he said incredulously.
“Airframe and powerplant,” Jessie explained. He wanted to add ‘you ignorant asshole’, but didn’t. “Kaminicki’s licensed. He’ll be in soon and I’ll put him right on it.”
“Will you be able to go up this afternoon?”
“Negative, boss. The patch gotta be sewn on, then a couple layers of butyrate dope have to dry. Can’t be ready till tomorrow.”
“Jesus Christ, this is a weekend.”
“Look, these things happen.” Jessie said. “And if you don’t mind me sayin’, I think you should pay me for the day anyway. It’s not my f— ”
Grunfield told him to shut the fuck up or he’d shit-can him on the spot. Jessie almost challenged him to do it, but he didn’t want to burn his bridges. After all
, he’d gotten what he wanted— another day off. Plan B, part 2.
At Gurney’s Inn and Health Spa, Susannah was showering after a two-hour treatment called Six Degrees of Relaxation: Thalasso mud therapy, reflexology, scalp massage, skin exfoliation, aromatic herbal rejuvenation, and hot lava stone rub. Gretchen Silverman-Lewis had treated Susannah to the session, saying her friend deserved some relief from the stress she’d been under.
The treatment had soothed away some of Susannah’s tension, but the anxiety remained, tugging at her like an annoying child.
She wrapped herself in a towel and went down to the women’s Jacuzzi for a soak with Gretchen, who was meeting her there after a facial.
When Susannah arrived at the whirlpool area, Gretchen was there alone, immersed in the steaming, bubbling water. She wore a green flowered bathing cap, and her voluminous breasts could be seen rising and falling gently in the foamy currents.
Susannah took off her towel.
“Girlfriend,” Gretchen said, admiring her trim body. “You just made me a candidate for total-body liposuction.”
Susannah eased herself down into the tub. The steam rose up around her. “Gretchen, thank you so much,” she said. “You were right, I needed a little pampering.”
“You deserve it.”
“How was your facial?” Susannah asked.
“Good.”
“Your skin is glowing. In fact, you look radiant.”
Gretchen grinned. “That’s ‘cause I’m sitting on my favorite jet. I call him Throbbin’ Robin.”
They both laughed.
“So,” Gretchen said, “nothing new about Burt, huh?”
“No.”
“Y’know, I think you’re handling it very well,” she said. “I mean, as well as anyone could.”
“It’s not easy.”
“I understand,” Gretchen said with compassion. “I have no idea how I’d be if Arnold were suddenly ... not with me.
“You can’t know, till it happens.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Actually, there is one thing,” Susannah answered. “I met with Burt’s lawyer yesterday, and, I dunno, I don’t really trust him. I was wondering, do you think Arnold could give me some legal assistance?”
“I’m sure he’d be glad to. I’ll speak to him tonight.”
“That would be great.”
“This lawyer,” Gretchen said, “why don’t you trust him?”
“Just a feeling,” Susannah answered. “I asked him a question about Burt’s will and he was sort of evasive.”
“You think he’s not on the up and up?”
“Exactly. I’m so lucky to have a friend like you.”
“Suze. You’ll get through this,” Gretchen said. ”Oh, I wanted to ask you — do you mind if I take some pictures of the kids at your next class? Some of the parents asked me to.”
“No problem.”
Gretchen heaved herself out of the water. “I better get going. I’m meeting with the Montauk town council. Trying to pry a few bucks out of ‘em for our community theater.”
“Good luck,” Susannah said. “I think I’ll percolate here a little longer.
“Slide over a few feet. Throbbin’ Robin’ll ease your troubled mind.”
“I don’t think so, Gretch. But thanks. Thanks for everything.”
As her friend left, Susannah realized she was now living in an alternate reality, in which sincerity and deceit were conjoined. Her life had become a performance. First she was the frightened wife of a missing husband. Now she was playing a more subtle role—a woman hoping her husband was alive, yet doubting she’d ever see him again. And next? The grieving widow. After that? Who knows?
Suddenly, without thinking, she slid herself down and submerged her head in the heated, churning water. Eyes tightly shut, she heard the pounding of the whirlpool motor and felt the swirling, eddying bubbles rising up and over her, the hot wetness, the pressure, the bursting in her lungs.
This is what Burt must’ve felt, she thought. Just before his life was drowned out. Now it’s my turn. One deep inhale, my lungs will fill with water, and it’ll be over.
But the life wish took over and she pushed up to the surface, gasping.
No, she said to herself. God has another punishment in mind for me. My penalty for taking a human life is that I’ll have to lie, and lie, and lie, and lie. I will never have another honest moment for as long as I live.
When Susannah went home she checked her e-mail. There was an order confirmation from Amazon.com, six pieces of spam, and an e-mail from her New York friend, Maurizio:
Suze — Good news. I finally got into a company, Deerlake Dance. It’s small but they do great work. Google them. XXX OOO M.
Online, she read: Through their daring, athletic movement and integration of ballet and modern vocabularies, DeerLake dancers take audiences on a choreographic exploration of the infinite possibilities of movement and multimedia.
Susannah felt a pang of regret for leaving the city and giving up any chance of doing what she loved. Teaching dance was fine, but still...
On an impulse she typed Burton Cascadden into Google. Up came a link to the East Hampton Star with a news story from five years back. The headline read: MONTAUK WOMAN KILLED IN FALL. The article reported that “Carol Cascadden, age twenty-five, wife of realtor Burton Lloyd Cascadden of 67 East Dune Way, had fallen from the Ditch Plains cliffs onto the rocky beach below. Her husband said she often jogged on a path along the cliffs, because she loved the view. Police noted that the edge of the sandstone cliff had crumbled above where she fell, and surmised she had ventured too close to the edge and plummeted to her death. Investigators ruled her death an accident.”
Jesus, she thought, that hitman—what’s his name? Mort—is a real pro. Susannah pictured the terrible fate that awaited her, had she not taken action.
Maybe God won’t be so harsh with me on this. I mean, if ever a homicide was justifiable, this sure as hell was.
She was about to log off when she got an idea. Maybe Google could tell her the meaning of the perplexing entry she’d found in Burt’s address book. She typed in the words “Ubaf Sing A-be-deghi” and waited. A screen popped up saying: “Your search – Ubaf Sing A-be-deghi did not match any documents. Suggestion: Try fewer keywords.”
She tried “Ubaf” alone. Instantly she was sent to a site which read: “UBAF — Union De Banques Arabes Et Francaises Offices - Suntec Tower 2, 9 Temasek Boulevard, Singapore 038986”
The bank advertised itself as “The Perfect Environment for Cultured Private Banking”.
Whoa, she said to herself. An off-shore bank account in Singapore. That would be just like Burt. Wonder how much money he’d socked away? And what does “A-be-deghi” mean? Is it somebody’s name? Something in a foreign language? What language do they speak in Singapore?
Wikipedia told her: English, Chinese, Malaysian, and Tamil.
What the hell is Tamil?
She went to Online Translation — Tamil to English, Malaysian to English.
She entered A-be-deghi in each language, but got nothing.
Chinese to English required logographic characters rather that alphabetic script, so she couldn’t check that out.
The Internet was finished helping her.
CHAPTER 19
At seven AM every weekday morning, about fifty undocumented Latino workers congregate at Industrial Road near East Hampton airport, hoping to find jobs as day laborers. For years they had assembled daily at the East Hampton railroad station, till the town board, responding to complaints from residents that these scruffy peons were an eyesore, ordered the police to chase them off.
As citizens they would have protested, citing their Constitutional right to free assembly. But as illegal aliens, they avoided the police at all costs, even failing to report crimes against them. Fear of deportation dominated their lives.
So they’d found a less conspicuous place. Lined up in front of a junkyard fence,
they were now waiting like mendicants, hoping a Spanish-speaking contractor would choose some of them to board his truck and spend the day working on a construction site. The housing bubble having long burst, this morning only six of them were needed.
Mort drove up in a rented Buick, got out and approached the men. He wore jeans and a safari jacket and had a back pack and binoculars slung over his shoulder.
“Yo necesito un hombre!”, Mort shouted.
Immediately he was surrounded by desperate day workers, offering their services with pleas, hopeful grins, and tearful stories; every entreaty punctuated with the word “trabajo!”
Mort eyed the workers, then focused on a tall, solidly built young man, with black hair tied in a scraggly ponytail.
“Como se llama usted?”
“Jesús Castillo Cardoz...”
“Jesus!”, Mort interrupted, saying to himself — I fucking love it!
“Soy un observador de aves,” Mort said. “Necesito un asisente para el dia, para levar mi equipe. Se paga cincuente dolares.”
“Soy su hombre!” said Jesús, thrilled to be getting fifty bucks for a day of carrying this bird-watcher’s camera equipment.
“El equipo es muy pesado.”
“Soy muy fuerte,” Jesús boasted, flexing his arms.
Mort took off his backpack and handed it to his eager porter. He slung it on his back with ease.
“Vamos!” Mort said, leading the man to his car. Jesús gave a thumbs-up sign to his envious compadres, as he got into the Buick.
Camp Hero, just west of the Montauk lighthouse, is a decommissioned and abandoned military base that is now a state park. It was set up during WWII to counter the threat of invasion from Nazi submarines and possible air strikes.
Later, it reputedly played a role in a government conspiracy involving the Montauk Project and the Philadelphia Experiment—which included efforts to render an enemy warship invisible, electronic waves that could cause psychotic symptoms in anyone they struck, and teleportation: the transfer of matter from one point to another without traversing the physical space between them. Hikers who explore the site during the summer are inevitably struck by the creepy, otherworldly atmosphere of the place.
