[2010] The Violet Hour

by Daniel Judson

  He fell asleep, eventually, to the sound of the ticking clock and was awakened all too quickly by the sound of it ringing.

  Silencing the alarm, he sat up and looked toward Heather’s door. It was still closed, and he heard no motion or voices coming from behind it.

  Moments later, his work boots on, Cal was downstairs in the office, waiting for the owner of the Benz to show up. By half past twelve there was no sign of the man, so he called Carver. Getting no answer, he left a message. A few minutes later he pulled the work order from the file cabinet, got the owner’s number, and called him directly. A woman answered, but she wasn’t much help, would say only that the man he was looking for was out. The best she could do was take a message. Cal left one, then waited another half hour for the man to call back.

  Nothing.

  Finally, he decided to call Lebell’s cell—it was one o’clock, and Lebell should have called hours ago, like he’d promised. Not to do so wasn’t like him. There was, though, no answer. Cal left a message, saying that it looked like he had busted his hump for nothing; the owner of the Benz was a no-show, and Carver wasn’t answering his phone. He ended the message by asking Lebell to give him a call, let him know how last night went.

  When he returned upstairs, the living room and kitchen were empty, and Heather’s door was closed, her room quiet. There were dishes in the sink that hadn’t been there when Cal had left at noon, so someone had, at one point, been up. He made himself something to eat, then waited in the living room for a little while, standing at a window and looking out at Scuttlehole Road in case the owner of the Benz pulled in. Several cars approached from the west, the direction of Southampton, in the ten or fifteen minutes he stood watch, but none came even close to slowing to make the turn into the driveway.

  Eventually he picked up the phone and dialed Lebell’s cell again, got, again, his voice mail. Leaving no message this time, Cal hung up and felt, suddenly, a little lost. He didn’t know how to shake it till he decided to return to the kitchen and wash the dishes in the sink. He looked out that window as he did this, this time not for the owner of the Benz but for Lebell’s Mustang. It had finally occurred to Cal that maybe Lebell wasn’t answering because he was on his way here and needed, as he pushed his vehicle to its limits in the many bends in Scuttlehole Road, both hands on the steering wheel.

  When the dishes were done, Cal went into his bedroom. The vial of morphine was on his bureau top, along with Heather’s cell phone; his old Schott jacket was hanging on his doorknob. He grabbed the jacket, put the vial in one of the pockets, zipped it closed, then hung the jacket up in his closet, where it belonged. He realized, though, that the vial wasn’t really safe there. Should Amanda go hunting for it, this would be one of the first places she’d look. He lifted up the floorboard at the bottom of his closet, placed the vial in the fire box with his stash of cash, and slipped the floorboard back into place. Heather’s cell phone he placed in the pocket of his peacoat, making a mental note to toss the thing into some Dumpster, or into one of the sinkhole ponds on the edge of a nearby field, the next time he was out.

  Once his room was straightened up, Cal had no choice but to face the fact that there was nothing at all for him to do now. Before Heather had come into his life, he would spend his free time riding his old Triumph from village to village, taking the back roads to avoid traffic and enjoy the scenery and twists and turns—and, too, to avoid the police, since the bike wasn’t registered or insured. A stolen bike, from back in the day, when his brother would steal anything he could. The VIN numbers had long since been filed down, so Cal couldn’t register it even if he wanted to. This was his one and only bit of lawlessness, the only thing in his otherwise careful life that connected him to the Rakowski tradition—nothing less than that, in his mind. Harmless, as far as lawlessness went, yes, not at all unlike his Friday nights out with Lebell, nights of drinking and, prior to Heather’s arrival, pursuing women. But a lawlessness nonetheless.

  There wasn’t a day when Cal didn’t know, in one primal way or another, that he was a Rakowski.

  He had, he realized, grown dependent on Heather. Without her, his day seemed suddenly shapeless, unmanageable. There was nothing else with which to occupy himself, so he decided to grab some sleep—not unusual, a nap on a Saturday afternoon, so no real deviation from his routine here. He wanted to give Lebell another try, though, so he dialed his number one last time from the phone in the living room. As before, he got no answer and left no message. He returned the receiver to the cradle and was about to head to his room when he heard the sound of Heather’s bedroom door opening.

  He turned to see Amanda quietly closing the door. She was wearing her sister’s kimono but hadn’t tied it closed, had no idea, clearly, that Cal was there. Stepping toward the open bathroom door, she finally realized Cal was standing by the couch in the center of the living room. Stopping, she looked at him but made no effort at first to cover herself. She was still, he could see, in a stupor.

  “Hey,” she said.

  Cal stared for a second, couldn’t help himself, then quickly glanced away. It was then that Amanda realized the degree to which she was exposed. Reaching down, she casually pulled one side of the robe across her torso.

  “How are you feeling?” Cal said.

  “Shitty.” Her voice was soft, young, but, at the same time, worn out. “Heather told me what you did,” she said. “Thanks.”

  “No problem. Is she asleep?”

  “Yeah. We’ve both been sleeping on and off all day. Do you need the bathroom?”

  “No, I’m fine. Go ahead.” He wanted to ask her about Heather’s husband, hoping that she had some information that could help them, but it was obvious this wasn’t the time to grill her.

  “You going to be around tonight?” Amanda said.

  “Probably, yeah. Why?”

  She smiled as best she could. “I probably I owe you a blow job or something.”

  Though they were opposite in many ways, Amanda and her older half sister both derived pleasure from teasing Cal. Amanda was simply the more shocking of the two.

  Stepping into the bathroom, she closed the door.

  Cal, not really sure if he was coming or going, stood there for a moment before finally heading into his bedroom.

  It didn’t take long for his inability to get hold of Lebell to become a concern.

  Was it possible, he began to wonder, that asking questions about Carver’s business, if Lebell had actually done so, had gotten him into some kind of trouble? Could he have asked the wrong question of the wrong person?

  Wild thoughts, maybe, but anything to keep his mind off the half-naked girl and the joking promise she’d made. Dwelling on such thoughts could only lead to trouble, and Cal wasn’t interested in trouble, not even that kind.

  He dozed off now and then, looking out his window when he was awake, at the gray day beyond. Because of the overcast he couldn’t track the motion of the sun. It was never more than dusk, though, even in the middle of the afternoon. Always, shortly after waking, he’d fall back into a light sleep, dreaming brief, inconsequential dreams. It was when he awoke to find the false dusk giving way to a real one that he realized what was ahead of him.

  A night he didn’t care to repeat, one much like the night Aaron had disappeared.

  He had no desire to sit around and wait for as long as it took for bad news to find him, so he sat up, put on his Sidi boots and grabbed his peacoat, then opened his bedroom door.

  He heard voices from Heather’s room, so he paused. Uncertain whether he should interrupt, he finally knocked on her door; he needed to tell her where he was going, didn’t want to cause her any needless worry.

  Heather called to him to come in. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, wearing her kimono now. Amanda, under the blankets, was curled up on her side, Heather’s hand on her bare shoulder.

  It was clear that Amanda had been crying, that he had interrupted a serious conversation.

  “He
y,” Heather said. She glanced at his coat. “Where are you off to?”

  “I need to run an errand.”

  She nodded, gave her sister’s shoulder a reassuring rub, then stood and walked to the door. Cal backed up to let her through.

  “How is she?”

  Heather closed the door softly, remained next to it, her hand on the knob, and spoke in a whisper. “A little roughed up.”

  Cal matched Heather’s hushed tone. “Did she tell you anything?”

  “Yeah. Apparently Angstrom was the one who invited her out to the party, promised her there’d be plenty of drugs and rich men. He said if she played her cards right, she might leave with a sugar daddy. She says the last thing she remembers was getting there and being given a drink.”

  “So she didn’t know it was your husband’s party.”

  “No. And she said she never once saw him there, that it was just Angstrom and a bunch of strangers. She had no idea about what was really going on till I told her.”

  “So the whole thing was just this elaborate scheme. The party, the house, her being there—all just to draw you out.”

  “Yeah. Like fucking Gatsby. When he couldn’t find me, Ronnie must have tried to track down Amanda, the same way I did, through her friends. He must have offered to pay Angstrom if he helped get Amanda to his party.”

  “And Angstrom had your new number.”

  “Ronnie’s lucky day, yeah.”

  “So the party was what? A diversion?”

  Heather thought for a moment, uncertain whether to actually say what was on her mind now. Finally, she just came out with it.

  “He used to have orgy fantasies,” she said. Her voice was even more hushed now. “He used to like to imagine me with other men. Sometimes many men. Jealousy, I don’t know, turned him on in a big way. He said he heard about these parties. People would rent places—isolated places—invite friends, hire women. Strippers or prostitutes or whatever. He used to try to get me to go to them with him.”

  Cal’s gut tightened, hard, and he felt a lump in his throat. His mouth was suddenly dry. “Jesus.”

  “Like I’ve been telling you, Cal, he’s a sick man. Anyway, the party was probably cover.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “To get Amanda out there. I mean, if she arrived and there was nothing going on, would she have stayed? He’s not a fool, he’s not going to leave himself open for a kidnapping charge. Remember, though, his original plan was to lure me out there. Angstrom’s call was to get me to pick her up. Either the tracking device was a fallback plan they came up with when I told them I was sending someone, or Ronnie wanted to track me to where I was staying, find out who I’ve been staying with.”

  “Kind of elaborate for a cover. I mean, it could have been a regular party, you know. Not an ... orgy.”

  “Maybe Ronnie had hopes that I’d see him with all those women and get jealous and immediately want him back. He’s a narcissist, Cal. He assumes everyone feels the same way he does. People who don’t are inferior. He was never able to understand why jealousy didn’t turn me on.”

  At first Cal said nothing. He didn’t like to think of them together. In fact, though he’d never admit it, their sex life seemed a little over his head. Finally, he asked if Amanda was going to be okay. It was a quick change of subject, but who would blame him?

  “She says she’s been clean for a while, went to the party with the intention of starting up again. If she’s telling the truth, we don’t have to worry about withdrawal. But like I said, she’s roughed up. It’s been a bad year. She’s been living on the street, doing whatever it took to survive.”

  “Can I get her anything while I’m out?”

  “Where are you going?”

  There was no reason not to tell her.

  “I need to look for Lebell.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know. He was supposed to call me this morning, and I haven’t heard from him. Plus, I got this weird call last night from some woman wanting to know if I knew where he was.”

  “Maybe an irate husband finally caught up with him.”

  “Maybe. Reason enough for me to go looking for him. But he was supposed to ask certain people some questions last night, and I’m wondering now if maybe that got him into trouble.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “About Carver. If he’s doing drugs, if he’s dealing drugs. If maybe I should be looking for another job and place to live.”

  “Jesus. When it rains around here it pours, huh?”

  “I’d rather not sit around all night and wait for the phone to ring.”

  She understood, completely, and nodded once. “How long are you going to be?” she said.

  “Not long. An hour, maybe.”

  “Where’s his place?”

  “He has an apartment in Southampton, on Meeting House Lane.”

  “How are you going to get there?”

  “Take the train from Bridgehampton. The station’s only a mile from here.”

  “I was hoping to get a new cell phone tonight.”

  “I forgot.” He felt his pocket. “I have yours, by the way.”

  “You need to ditch that.”

  “I will while I’m out.”

  “The sooner, the better. I suppose I could call a cab.”

  “Do you think that’s safe?”

  “It’s just a ride into Bridgehampton and back. Anyway, I need a phone; I feel naked without one. A friend of mine owns a cab company. I can get hold of him directly. I can ask him to send a cab and not keep a record of it.”

  “You trust him?”

  She nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Are you going to take Amanda with you?”

  “I don’t think so. She’ll probably want to stay here.”

  “Tell you what, I’ll keep your phone with me, so you can reach me if you need to. When I’m on my way back here, I’ll ditch it.”

  She nodded, then said, “I wonder if he tried to call it.”

  “He might’ve. It’s off now. I can turn it on and check.”

  “No, that’s okay. I don’t want to know.”

  Cal nodded. He understood, of course.

  “I’ll be back soon,” he said.

  “Be careful.”

  “You, too.”

  He sealed up the garage as he left and studied his surroundings as he crossed Scuttlehole Road. There was, of course, nothing there to see.

  Following Mitchell Lane south to the train station, he arrived at six fifteen. Only fifteen minutes to wait for the westbound train.

  From the platform he watched the sunset, or what was left of it, just as he had the night before.

  Another mile walk south, this time from the Southampton station, and not through dusk but full night, the streetlights that lined North Main Street glowing pale white.

  There was something unusually bright about tonight, he noticed. He realized finally that it was Halloween, and all the front porches of the houses on both sides of this wide residential street were lit up for the trick-or-treaters who might still be around.

  Cal looked for some—a cluster of small, restless children being guided by an adult, a group of boisterous teens, anything—but saw no one. Strange, then, to be walking down a street so inviting and yet so utterly empty.

  He crossed into the village, which was just as bright and just as empty as North Main. All the many little shops were closed, but the restaurants were open. He passed 75 Main, glanced through its tall windows, saw a half-full bar and, for the most part, empty tables. Early still, though. He noticed that the staff—in danger of outnumbering the guests—were all dressed in costumes. Women as sexy kitty cats, geisha girls, Playboy bunnies; men as comic book superheroes, Hollywood monsters, cowboys. He recognized them all, knew most of them by name.

  He continued on till he reached the end of Main Street, crossed there, and headed east along Meeting House Lane. A narrower street, houses crowded closer together, cars parke
d along its curbs. These porches, too, were lit, but again there were no trick-or-treaters to be seen.

  It took him just a few minutes to reach Lebell’s place—the only house within sight with absolutely no lights on at all. The windows of Lebell’s second-floor apartment were dark, as were the windows of his neighbor’s apartment below. Cal remembered that Lebell’s neighbor worked nights. No need for a porch light to be left on, Cal supposed, not with the street as well lit and public as it was.

  He studied the cars parked at the curbs, eventually spotting Lebell’s Mustang GT a few spaces down from his place. That didn’t necessarily mean anything, though; Lebell often left his vehicle at home and did his Southampton pub crawl on foot. One of the advantages of living in the village.

  He stopped in front of Lebell’s place. Maybe the guy had met a woman last night and gone with her to her home, was still there. Maybe that explained his not calling or coming by.

  But maybe wasn’t good enough.

  Cal crossed the short walkway and stepped onto the small porch. He knew that Lebell left the downstairs door unlocked, so he wasn’t surprised when the knob turned freely. Opening the door, he looked up the steep stairs. He felt around on the wall for the light switch, found it, and flipped it, but nothing happened. The bulb, out the last time Cal had visited, obviously hadn’t been replaced. He found the railing and held on to it as he made his way up the narrow stairway. When he reached the top, he searched for the knob in the darkness but realized soon enough that the door was ajar.

  He pushed it gently, moving it back an inch at the most. Through the crack he saw not darkness, as in the stairwell, but a muted light—from a streetlight, he knew, spilling in through the front windows, across the living room, and into the kitchen. He knocked on the wood with his middle knuckle, said, “Hello,” but got no response. Pushing the door back even farther, he stepped inside and felt the wall for the light switch. This light, a lamp hanging from the ceiling above the small kitchen table, worked just fine.

  But Cal wasn’t at all prepared for what it showed him.