Ben’s voice drifted away as his gaze shifted out across the lawn. Shadows cast by the nearby streetlight cut across the dew-covered grass, looking like thick, black velvet.
“You feel what?” Kathy spoke softly, but there was an edge in her voice. “You feel guilty about what you did? What you didn’t do? What is it?”
Ben turned to her. With the lights on inside the house shining behind her, it was difficult to see her features. Strands of her hair glowed like silver spider webs in the halo of light surrounding her head.
“I know you have every reason to be angry, but I —”
“I’m not angry with you,” Kathy said, her voice modulating. “I’m really not. I’m married now, and I love my daughter, and I’m —”
“Our daughter,” Ben said. “And her name’s Amanda.”
“Amanda,” Ben echoed.
“And as far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing between us, Ben.” She heaved a heavy sigh and looked distracted, but her voice was strong when she continued. “I don’t mean to be cruel or anything, Ben, but all you were was the … the sperm donor.”
Her matter of fact tone took Ben aback. Here he had been wracked with guilt for essentially stranding her with a child. Even if, at first, she had felt pain and resented him, she had obviously moved on, making the best of what life had given her.
“And are you happy?” he asked, his voice low, serious.
Kathy hesitated for a moment. He thought she was holding back something, but then he realized she was straining to hear inside the house if the baby had awakened and was crying.
“I don’t think ‘happy’ has anything to do with it,” she finally said. “This is my life. This is the hand I’ve been dealt, and I’m making the best of it I can.”
“Kathy …” he began, but he had no idea how to express what he was thinking without making an ass of himself. Maybe there was too much to say, and not enough words to say it in, but whatever it was, it was obviously too late.
After an awkward moment of silence, Kathy glanced at her wristwatch and said, “It’s after midnight. Dwight’ll be home soon, and I don’t want him to see —”
“Can I ask you one favor?”
Kathy hesitated again, then nodded and said, “What?”
He sucked in a lungful of air and tilted his head back to look at the star-sprinkled sky as he struggled to focus his thoughts.
“My mom’s over to Grave’s Edge.”
“Harbor’s Edge.” Kathy nodded. “Yeah … I heard.”
“She’s not doing so well, and I was wondering if you’d … you know, go over to visit her sometime and maybe bring the baby — bring Amanda along so she can see her.”
Kathy didn’t reply immediately, and Ben thought he might be asking too much of her, but he wasn’t going to back down now.
“You don’t have to — She doesn’t have to know Amanda’s her granddaughter or anything.” He laughed a tight laugh even as it felt as though someone was reaching down inside his chest and squeezing his heart. “Hell, even if you told her, she’d forget it three seconds later, but I — Even if she doesn’t know it, I’d like her to see her granddaughter … just once.”
Kathy was silent for a long time. When the headlights of a car coming down the street illuminated the yard, he was certain it was Horse Lips, and he’d be busted; but the car passed by and didn’t stop.
“Will you?” He was ashamed of the note of desperation in his voice.
“Yeah,” Kathy said. “Okay … I’ll do that.”
“Thanks,” Ben replied. He moved forward as if to hug or kiss her. “You have no idea —”
“Would you please leave now?” Kathy said, peering down the road as if expecting to see her husband’s headlights approaching.
Ben stepped back and exhaled, feeling some kind of weight lift off his shoulders. He slid his hand into his jeans pocket and grabbed his car keys. Then, without another word, he walked to his car, got in, and drove away.
Chapter Thirteen
Storm Warnings
The Local was almost deserted an hour before last call. After trying — without much success — to deal with all of the bullshit back home, Wally had decided to drop by for a few. The weather forecast was for rain tomorrow, heavy at times, so Wally knew it would be all right to tie one on tonight if he wanted to. He would nurse the demons by sleeping late tomorrow morning.
He hadn’t intended to talk business, but then Tony Gillette came in and sat down at a corner table with his goon du jour, a guy from New Jersey named Marcus Zimmerman, who — Wally had heard — was “spending the summer” in The Cove … no doubt because there was some heat on him in New Jersey.
“What’s up, Capt’n?” Gillette called out with a wave of the hand when he saw Wally sitting at his usual perch at the bar. His face was flushed, and he had a wider than usual grin plastered on it.
Wally looked over at him and nodded a silent greeting, raising his forefinger to his nose as if flicking something away.
“Com’on over and lemme buy you a drink,” Gillette said. “Whadda yah drinkin’?”
Wally had already had his quota of bullshit for the day and didn’t need any more … not after that shit storm back at the house between his sons. Gillette was pretty near the last person in the world he wanted to see.
Still, a free beer was a free beer.
“Shipyard,” Wally said as he got up from his stool and sauntered over to the table. He hooked the bottoms rungs of a chair with his foot and pulled it out, then sat down with an exasperated sigh.
Shantelle came over with the glass of beer and placed it in front of Wally. She made a point of letting her hip brush up against Wally’s shoulder, and he looked up at her with a devilish grin. He’d banged her a couple of times after hours, but it was nothing serious — just a chance to get some young trim. Tonight, though, she was coming on stronger than usual, flirting like she wanted him. After banging Bunny for a few nights, he was thinking he might oblige Shantelle for a change of pace.
Once Shantelle had sashayed back to the bar, Wally clasped the beer glass in his beefy hand, raised it to his lips, and drained close to half of it in several loud gulps.
“Ahh,” he said, smacking his lips and wiping a collar of foam from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Like Ben Franklin said. ‘Beer’s proof God loves us and wants us to be happy.’”
“Franklin said that?” Gillette said, raising his single eyebrow.
“Indeed he did.” Wally belched as he hooked a thumb into his belt loop and eased back in his chair.
Zimmerman was sitting to Gillette’s right, absolutely silent and unmoving, and situated to keep an eye on both doors to the bar, front and back. He didn’t even have a drink in front of him.
How can you trust a man who doesn’t drink? Wally wondered. Then again, how can you trust a slime bucket like Gillette?
Gillette took a drink, then cleared his throat and leaned close to Wally.
“I don’t wanna ruin your night out, Capt’n, but I been hearin’ things.”
Wally sniffed.
“Things? Like what things?”
Gillette shifted his eyes from side to side, a perfect parody of a suspicious spy in an old-fashioned movie. Wally expected him to say: The walls have ears.
“I hear there’s a new DEA guy around town. Guy named Lincoln something or other. Word is, he’s gonna bust balls.”
Wally snorted with laughter, shook his head, and then took another gulp of beer.
“I’d say you have more to worry about than I do,” he said. “But now that you mention it, you got a couple of fuckwads working for you who are shit for brains.”
“You mean French Fry and Chuckles?”
Wally tossed his head back and finished off what remained of his beer. Without turning around, he raised his hand, signaling for another.
“You see this guy put away the beer?” Gillette said, leaning close to Zimmerman and nudging his arm. “Drinks like a goddamned pirate, he d
oes.”
“’N you drink like a goddamned pussy,” Wally said. “You sure that ain’t white wine you’re sipping?”
“Bud Lite.”
Wally sniffed and said, “Fuck that shit. That’s what I piss out. You should drink real beer.” He couldn’t stop himself and, reaching over the table to slap Zimmerman on the shoulder, he added, “And you should drink … something … anything to loosen up. Come on, man. Ease up.”
Zimmerman shot him a thin half-smile that make it look like it hurt him to smile, but Wally ignored him when Shantelle came back to the table with his beer and slid it in front of him. She grabbed his empty and, once again, brushed her hips against his shoulder, harder than the last time. All Wally could think was — Damn … Looks like I’m gonna have to oblige her.
Gillette was still bristling at the insult, but he didn’t say or do anything. Wally noticed how the man’s knuckles went bone-white as he squeezed his beer glass, but that was the extent of it. Gillette didn’t really have the balls the start something. Not here and now, anyway. He was your typical small-town hood who, at the core, was as insecure as a four year old. When he needed something done, he’d have someone like Zimmerman handle it … outside … in the dark … no witnesses.
“Anyways,” Gillette said, “Richie says you had some unkind words about French Fry and Chuckles.”
“I said neither one of ’em could find his own bunghole without a GPS, and even then I wonder.”
Wally sipped his fresh beer and then, lowering his glass to the table, stared silently at Gillette until the man began to squirm uncomfortably.
“You know damn well what’s gonna happen eventually,” Wally said. “Those two fuckups will do something bone-headed and get caught. And the feds will threaten to throw ’em in jail unless they give someone up. And that someone who’s next in line is you.”
He didn’t need to add that, faced with prison, Gillette would fold like a fifty-cent lawn chair and give up his boss until it worked its way up to Richie.
“Why wouldn’t the feds come down on you?” Gillette asked, beaming proudly, like he had thought of something no one else ever had.
“They already have,” Wally said simply. He let it hang out there, enjoying the confused expression on Gillette’s face while he drank some more of his beer.
“The fuck,” Gillette said after a moment.
Zimmerman still hadn’t said a word. He barely blinked his eyes. Wally chuckled to himself, thinking he might have to hold a mirror under the man’s nose to see if he was breathing, but he was beginning to think this guy was a hard-ass who might have some chops.
“Coast Guard hauled me over t’other night when I was headin’ out to The Nephews for a pickup.”
“Oh, yeah. I heard about that,” Gillette said, “But that’s just the goddamned Coast Guard. I’m talking about a serious mother-fucking DEA … the feds.”
“What, you think the Coast Guard is a bunch of fuckin’ Boy Scouts?”
“Yeah … well, what’s more —” Gillette folded his hands in front of him, embracing his beer glass as he leaned across the table toward Wally, lowering his voice. “Word is they got a guy on the inside … someone local.”
“And who might that be?” Wally asked.
The truth was, he could just about give a flying fuck. The feds had been trying for years to stop or at least make a dent in the drugs coming into The Cove. Even when they made a bust or two, even when a couple of fall guys went off to Warren, it didn’t stop diddle.
“I ain’t sure yet. I’m just saying … things ain’t looking good.”
“Look,” Wally said, trying without much luck to suppress the sarcasm in his voice. “You wanna get your undies in a bunch, go ahead. ’S no sweat off my ass. I do what I do. I get caught? Which ain’t too fucking likely. I take my rap.”
“I hear it might be your son-in-law, Tom,” Gillette said, his voice so low Wally strained to hear him. He was in the process of raising his beer glass, but he stopped and, lowering his glass to the table, stared at Gillette.
“That wet end?” He caught himself before he spat on the floor. “Christ, if I’d ’a known the bar was bringing in comedy acts these days, I’d ’a brung a date.” He paused, but only for a second. “You actually are gonna worry about Tommy Marshall posing some kinda threat? Jesus, I’d worry more about getting crabs from the crapper seat here.”
Gillette regarded him with a cool, steady stare. Zimmerman still hadn’t even blinked.
“That ain’t too fuckin’ likely,” Wally said. “Marshall wouldn’t know what to do if a bale of weed sat on his face and did the Hoochie-Coochie.”
Gillette frowned and shook his head.
“I’m not sure I get what you mean there, Capt’n.”
“The Hoochie-Coochie. It’s an old stripper routine.”
Gillette looked confused, like he knew Wally was making fun of him personally, but he couldn’t figure out how.
“Look … All’s I’m saying is, he’s married to your daughter, so he may know what you’re up to. My advice is — keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn’t end up fucking over anyone close to him. No one likes a snitch.”
Wally would have been an idiot not to catch the implied threat to Tom — and himself — but he dismissed it. As far as he was concerned — especially after the way Tom had treated his daughter — he didn’t give a rat’s fart what might or might not happen to Tom Marshall. If he was squealing on locals to the feds, then fuck him. He deserved whatever happened to him.
“Your problem ain’t Tom Marshall,” Wally said. “It’s those mo-rons you got working for you. That’s who I’d worry about if I was you. I guarantee, by the end of the summer, both a’ them fools will be in jail and singing to the prosecutor.”
“You ain’t telling me how to run my business, are you?” Gillette asked, glowering.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good. ’Cause if you think you can tell me how to run my fucking business, you better think again.”
Wally said nothing as he sipped his beer.
“I’m giving you a heads up, is all,” Gillette said. “Keep an eye on that cocksucker.”
Wally slammed his empty down on the table hard enough to put a half-moon dent in the wood. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he saw his buddies, Horse Lips along with Travis “Beaver” McCutcheon and Danny “Preacher” Clayborn slumped over the bar.
“I gotta go see some friends,” he said belching as he stood up, pushing the chair back with his legs. “Thanks for the brewski.”
“No problem,” Gillette said touching his forehead with the tip of his forefinger.
“Nice talkin’ to you, too,” Wally said as he clapped Zimmerman hard enough on the shoulder to knock him forward. Zimmerman still didn’t blink. Wally was beginning to think the man had a medical condition.
With that, he sauntered over to the bar. Shantelle already had another one poured and placed it in front of him. He couldn’t ignore how she brushed the back of his hand with the tips of her fingernails as she pulled her hand away. When they made eye contact, Wally knew what he’d be doing after last call.
It was late. Past midnight. As usual, Pete had been down at The Local, but for some reason — it didn’t take much brainpower to figure out why — the last thing he felt like doing was tying one on with his buddies, so he had come home long before last call, feeling barely buzzed.
He clumped up the stairs and walked down the hall, past the closed door to Louise’s bedroom to the narrow room under the eaves that, once again, he was sharing with Ben. When he flipped the switch for the overhead light, a warm glow flooded the room like a coating of yellow paint. He grimaced as he looked around, taking it all in.
Just like fuckin’ old times, he thought as a bitter taste filled the back of his mouth.
That afternoon, Ben had moved all of his stuff into the room to give Louise back her room. It wasn’t much, but it was stacked up on the left side of the room by the window
… the side that used to be — that always had been — Ben’s. He had dragged his old bed and mattress down from the attic and set it up where it had always been. Two desert-tan duffel bags stuck out from underneath the edge of the bed, which was neatly made, the corners tucked in with military precision, the pillow smooth and centered at the head. A handful of books — suspense thrillers by Preston and Childs, James Rollins, Clive Cussler and one by Dean Koontz — were stacked on the bedside table beside the old reading lamp with the red metal shade. All of Ben’s other possessions were carefully arranged on the bureau and the floor at the foot of the bed. Without even looking, Pete knew Ben’s clothes would be hanging in the closet or folded neatly away in the dresser.
At least his years in the military had cured Ben of his youthful sloppiness.
But not Pete.
Like when they were kids, his side of the room was a jumble of dirty clothes, CD’s — mostly Heavy Metal groups like AC/DC and Metallica — “stroke” magazines, dirty plates and glasses, beer bottles, crumpled food wrappers, and an unmade bed. The sheets and blanket were knotted together and hanging off the edge of the bed onto the floor. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d changed the bedding, but what did it matter? Dirty sheets didn’t bother him, and with Ben in the room now, it wasn’t like he’d be getting any pussy up here for a while.
Pete kicked off his boots, banging them against the wall, and flopped down onto his bed. He sighed as he flung his arm across his face and covered his eyes.
“I can’t get away from you, can I, you son-of-a-bitch,” he whispered to the empty room. “No matter what I do, I’m always gonna be your goddamned little brother.”
Squeezing his eyes shut so tightly faint explosions of light streaked across his vision, he started to ruminate on his all too familiar list of resentments.
When they were kids growing up, Ben had always gotten the first and the best. His parents made a show and talked a good game about being fair, but in everything, Pete felt as though he’d been cheated.
And even if his folks had been fair, there was always school. Every goddamned one of his teachers from grammar school through high school had reacted to his low-level work the same way … by shaking their heads and saying, “Well, Peter, you certainly aren’t half the scholar your brother is, now, are you?”
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