He stayed at the window for a moment, watched the frantic streams of rain pour down the panes. Gabrielle had said in the morning that she needed to get out and be waited on by someone instead of being the one to wait on others, to claim back just a little bit of her previous life of privilege. She had worked six days straight, really didn’t mind working just to support herself, and though it would have been nice not to leave the cottage, particularly since she didn’t have to, she had decided to opt for a little pampering. Whatever she needed, always, was fine with Bechet. He gave her what he could, was the least he could do.
With that in mind, he looked upward now. His eyes, in the time it took him to stand, had adjusted to the darkness to the point where he was able to detect, even if only barely, the weave of branches outside. A crowd of tall pine trees surrounded the cottage on all sides, shading it in the summer and winter. Beyond their branches tonight was a menacing sky, clouds as black as soot and riding low, much lower than they had been in the morning, when he and Gabrielle had turned in. Clouds that scraped the tops of the trees, Bechet knew, meant fog soon, possibly even within the hour, if the elements were right. Dangerous, particularly on the road below, which followed the sharp curve of the bay through the low-lying Shinnecock Hills. Bechet had heard—from a friend who owned a towing service and auto salvage yard—of the crashes that had taken place there over the years, the people who had been killed on that winding road. More than that, though, Gabrielle’s parents had been killed on a night like this one, she had told him that much, killed not on the road below but on another road, in another part of the country, though really that hardly mattered. How could she even hear rain or glimpse a bank of fog through a car windshield and not recall what was better forgotten? He was protective of Gabrielle, as any man would be of the woman he loved—protective, that is, as much as she allowed him to be. Though her youth had been one of comfort and ease, she was by no means spoiled or, worse, incapable. She was, in fact, in all the ways that mattered, as capable as he. His matched opposite, as it were. Still, there was within him the need to protect her. Deep, primal, compelling. There was, too, the need to protect the life they had made, were making still—a pair of refugees, as they were, from the two extremes of brutal death.
This was a night, then, to stay in, keep dry and warm and play it safe. It was all about playing it safe, in every way possible. That, and keeping the past well behind them, keeping it from snapping at their heels like some hungry beast. He wanted, standing at her window now, staring out at the turbulent night, nothing less for them than that.
From behind him then, out of the darkness, muffled, came the sound of a ringing phone.
He turned, waited for the second ring, then followed its sound to where he had dropped his clothes on the floor in the morning as Gabrielle had watched from the bed. She often admitted, freely, that it was his body—the size of his frame, the strength his build promised—that had first attracted her. A simple voyeuristic thrill, then, his undressing as she waited stretched out on her sheets. He scrambled now to find his jeans, reach into the pocket and grab hold of the phone. As heavy a sleeper as Gabrielle was, she of course wouldn’t sleep through the sound of a ringing phone in the room. He had his cell out of the pocket and in his hand by the end of the third, now unmuffled ring, flipped the lid open and looked at the number on the caller ID. The pale glow from the display was enough to light up the small room, and it took a second or two for his eyes to focus. Once they did, he recognized the number, thought first about not answering the call, letting it roll over to his voice mail. But by the time the fourth ring began, he had thought twice about ignoring it. The number was the cell phone of Bobby Falcetti, one of the men who worked for Bechet, drove one of the cabs that Bechet co-owned with his partner Eddie. For Falcetti to call Bechet meant that something was up. In weather as bad as this, knowing Falcetti the way he knew him, Bechet had a pretty good idea what that something might be.
He pressed the TALK button just as the fourth ring ended, then held the phone to his face, said in a half-whisper, “Yeah.”
He heard a rush of what sounded like distortion, realized soon enough that it was the crash of the rain on the caller’s end. Then, through it, a faint voice, “Hey, man, it’s Bobby.” Though faint, Falcetti was clearly shouting just to be heard.
“What’s going on?”
“I need your help. I went off the road.”
“You all right?”
“Yeah. A freaking dog or something ran out in front of me. I swerved, and then the next thing I knew I was nose-first in a ditch.”
“How bad is the damage?”
“I don’t think there’s much, from what I can see. I think I just need someone to pull me out. I might be able to drive away from this.”
“You drive too fast, Bobby. We talked about this. You’re driving a cab, you’re not in the smashup derby anymore.”
“I know.”
“It’s Angel’s night off, so Eddie’s working the dispatch tonight. Have him call Scarcella, tell him to send a wrecker.”
“Yeah, well, that’s the thing. I’d rather not have to deal with seeing him tonight if I don’t have to.”
“You owe him money,” Bechet said.
“Yeah.”
Falcetti was a poker player, spent his nights off sniffing around the East End for private games. Bechet had known Falcetti for years, knew him to be the kind of guy who would try anything if it could make him money—or, better, if there was a chance that it might make him rich. This is what had led Falcetti to give stock-car racing a try, at the track in Riverhead. When that didn’t pan out, Falcetti had turned to the Sunday afternoon demolition derby and figure-eight races. That wouldn’t make him rich but it was, for Falcetti, easy money, and therefore the next best thing.
Bechet had employed Falcetti back when Bechet owned a small housepainting business—Bechet, Falcetti, and a crew of six, mostly high school-and college-age kids, working fourteen-hour days all summer long, rushing from job to job, at the mercy of the weather, always seemingly just a day or two behind schedule thanks to one rainstorm or another. When he got tired of that business, decided he needed something that was more year-round, Bechet bought into Eddie’s cab company, as a full partner, and hired on Falcetti—despite his stint crashing cars and school buses in Riverhead—as a driver. Falcetti was in his late twenties now, a good-looking guy with dark curly hair and eyes the color of summer skies. He was as close to family—a little brother, specifically—as it ever got for Bechet. Depending on which week you talked to him, Falcetti was either up or down, winnings-wise, though more often than not he was down. And when he was down, it was usually far enough to make him eager to the point of desperation to find the next game, his next chance to score and get himself, to one degree or another, out of the hole.
The holy game of poker.
Of course, of all the people in town to owe money to, Paul Scarcella was, Bechet knew, the last person anyone would choose. Scarcella was a friend of Bechet’s, the very one who owned the local tow company and knew the details of every crash there had been in Southampton for the past thirty years. Scarcella also ran a repair shop out of his auto salvage yard out in the woods of Noyac, had in fact sold Bechet his decade-plus old Jeep. If Bechet was a capable man whose frame promised strength, then Scarcella was a generation beyond Bechet—capable to the point of menace, possessing a frame that more threatened violence than simply promised strength.
Bechet glanced toward Gabrielle’s bed, could see by the light coming from the cell phone display the shape of her under the blankets—a long, curving ridge running alongside the emptiness he had left on his side of the mattress. No motion, from what he could see, so maybe she had slept through the ringing phone. He maintained his half-whisper.
“We have a service contract with Scarcella, Bobby,” Bechet said. “Can’t call anyone else.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m actually not all that far from where you are, though.”
B
echet let out a long breath. “Jesus, Bobby.” He should have known that this was what Falcetti had been leading up to. He looked toward the window, saw the rain streaming down the glass. So much for staying warm and dry.
“You’ve got a winch on your Jeep, don’t you?” Falcetti said. “It’ll only take a couple of minutes.”
“Yeah, all right. Where are you?”
“Just past Atterbury Road.”
Bechet knew the place, could see it in his head. A broad curve in a relatively desolate part of Montauk Highway, less than a mile away.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Thanks, man. I’ll owe you one.”
Bechet closed the phone, the room falling instantly back into total darkness. He held the phone between his teeth as he pulled on his jeans, then stuffed it into his hip pocket. He was pulling on his T-shirt when he heard the sound of Gabrielle stirring, her feet moving between the satin sheets.
“What’s going on?” she said. Her voice was low, dreamy. Bechet instantly regretted having to leave, wished he was beside her right now.
“I’ve got to run out for a minute,” he said.
“Something wrong?”
“One of our drivers went off the road.”
“Which one?”
“Bobby.”
“He okay?”
“Yeah.”
Bechet looked toward her. The moment he had spent in the dull light of his cell phone meant his eyes would need to adjust once again to this dark. He more sensed Gabrielle there than saw her.
“What time is it?” she asked.
The clock was on the table by her bed. It was a cheap windup thing, noisy, though he hardly heard it anymore. He saw a faintly glowing dial and two hands, specks of green in the blackness.
“It’s a quarter to seven,” he said
“Christ.” She was still half-asleep, wandering, by the sound of her voice, in that no-man’s-land between unconsciousness and awakened minds. “I guess I was tired.”
Bechet had pulled on his socks, was stepping into his work boots now. He never ran in sneakers, always in work boots, an old boxer’s trick that kept him—all two hundred pounds of him—light on his feet.
Gabrielle breathed in, then out, through her nose, a long, summoning breath.
“I love it when I fall asleep and it’s dark out and I wake up and it’s dark again,” she said. “I don’t know why.”
Bechet crouched down, quickly laced his boots up, then stepped toward the bed, sat on the edge of the mattress. Gabrielle reached out for him, her hand coming out of the darkness. She touched his thick arm with the tips of her long fingers, then followed it to his shoulder, a cap of hardened flesh, moving finally toward his chest. She placed her hand flat upon it, loved the layer of the muscle there, loved more the feel of his heart beneath it, a beat per second when he was at rest, or close enough to it, close enough that she could easily keep time by it.
“Do we need anything while I’m out?” Bechet said.
“I don’t think so. How long will you be?”
“He’s just up the street. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty.”
“It’s still raining, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s so loud.”
“I’ll see you in a bit, Elle.”
He leaned forward, toward the last sound of her voice. She must have sensed him coming toward her, lifted her head off the pillow to meet him. They kissed once, then again, her hand pressing lightly on his chest.
“Drive safe,” she said.
“I will.”
He leaned back then, stood, her hand falling away, disappearing again into the darkness from which it had reached out to him. He wished he could follow it, let it lead the way down to where she lay. Fifteen minutes, he thought. Twenty, tops. He’d beat the fog, no problem, and then, once back here, they’d have the whole night ahead, no reason at all for either of them to leave, nothing to do but stay close and talk and eat, pass the time it would take for their little corner of the world to make its way to another dawn.
Downstairs, lit by the glow of the dim light above the electric stove, Bechet grabbed his fur-lined corduroy jacket, pulled it on, then headed through the door and out into the confusing night.
He had expected to spot the cab easily through his rain-washed windshield by its headlights or taillights, depending on which direction Falcetti had been heading when he went off the road. But Bechet saw nothing at all till he was actually passing the cab, only then catching sight of it outside his passenger door window by the glint of its shimmering chrome.
He pulled over, then backed up till his Jeep was alongside the darkened cab. All of the cabs in their fleet were painted flat red, not yellow. The rain and the darkness somehow served to mute the already dull color. Grabbing a flashlight from under his seat and his work gloves from the center console, Bechet climbed out into the cold downpour. He didn’t see Falcetti at first, assumed his friend was inside the cab, staying dry, but as he stepped closer to the vehicle he sensed someone moving somewhere in the surrounding darkness. He shined his light toward the motion, saw a figure leaving the shadow of the thick line of pine trees and scrub oak that bordered the far side of the shallow ditch. The figure, a man, was wearing black cargo pants, black boots, and a dark wool navy peacoat over a hooded sweatshirt, the hood pulled up against the rain. If not for his Maglite, Bechet would have not been able to distinguish the man from the darkness. The figure climbed down into the ditch, then up the opposing bank, stumbled once, regained his footing, and finally reached the roadside. He headed straight for Bechet, moving quickly.
“Hey, man, it’s me,” Falcetti called. “Thank God you’re here. I’m freaking soaked to the bone.”
Bechet kept the flashlight aimed at his friend. The hood of the sweatshirt was cinched tight, all but hiding Falcetti’s face.
“What are you doing?” Bechet said.
“Waiting for you.”
“Why over there?”
“In case a cop came by.”
Falcetti reached Bechet. Though they were only a few feet apart now, they still had to speak in raised voices to be heard over the rain.
“Is that why the headlights are out?”
“Yeah. I didn’t really want to call attention.”
Scarcella had a service contract with the town of Southampton as well, so every accident within the town limits requiring a tow automatically went to his company. The cops were, Bechet knew, strict when it came to that detail. If Falcetti had remained with his cab and the cops got there before Bechet, he would have had to deal with Scarcella tonight. Not that abandoning his cab and lurking in the shadows would have really done much to prevent that since any automobile involved in an accident that required an investigation was impounded and towed to a police holding pen at Scarcella’s salvage yard in Noyac. A crashed cab with its driver missing would certainly fall into that category. But that would at least have put off Falcetti’s having to deal with Scarcella to a later time, and it was Falcetti’s nature to put off everything he’d rather not face for as long as he could. Bechet wondered if the thrill that Falcetti got from gambling had been present in him as he waited in hiding to see whether Bechet or the police would arrive first.
“I thought the electrical system had gotten knocked out or something,” Bechet said. That would have been bad news, meant possible days lost as Scarcella searched for the problem. Electrical shorts can be elusive bastards.
“No, the lights work fine. It was a pretty soft crash. I just went off the road and then kind of slowed to a stop. I have to tell you, though, I’m a little shaky, man.”
He held out his hands, palms down, fingers together. They were trembling dramatically, as if from deep cold.
“You’re okay, though, right?” Bechet said.
“Yeah. I never lost control of a vehicle before, though. And all for a freaking dog, man. Next time I’m just going to run the thing over.”
Bechet stepped closer to his frie
nd, aimed the flashlight so the edge of the broad circle of bright white crossed Falcetti’s left eye. He turned the light away, then turned it back, crossing the left eye with it again. The pupils reacted normally, everything was as it should be. You don’t make a living taking shots to the face and not learn a thing or two about head injuries.
“I’m fine, really,” Falcetti said.
Bechet waited a moment, sizing up his friend. Falcetti seemed jittery, riled even. He was an emotional guy, always had been, compulsive, sometimes even a little manic. All part, Bechet supposed, of the gambler’s nature, the gambler’s disease.
He watched Falcetti closely for a moment more, then said, “All right, then, let’s get this done.”
Montauk Highway was one of only two main arterial roads connecting Hampton Bays and Southampton. Not a single car had passed yet, but it was only a matter of time before one did. It was only a matter of time, too, before a patrol car came by. The faster they got out of there, the better.
The Water's Edge Page 2
