"Since the Mullens arrived in this town," continued Thomas Scanlon, "I've had many happy occasions to visit them in the house on Ditch Plains Road that Sam built. Sam Mullen had all a man could ask for — a lovely home, an even lovelier wife, an honest business, and in young Jack and Peter a pair of handsome sons who were already two of the brightest lights in our village. Peter was the town's most gifted athlete, and Jack was showing the academic promise that would eventually take him to Columbia Law.
"But then," the monsignor said, "catastrophe blind-sided the Mullens. First came the much too early death of Katherine Patricia from cancer. Last week the still unsatisfactorily explained death of Peter Mullen, a blow that unquestionably contributed to Sam's death Friday night.
"To see the hand of God in any of this is obviously beyond our limited knowledge. I only offer what I know to be true. That this life, however short, and it's almost always too short, is precious beyond measure."
Mack, Dana, and I sat in the front row. Behind the three of us, the room shared a cathartic sob — but Mack and I were dry-eyed that morning at least. To us, this wasn't divine mystery, it was murder. Whoever had killed Peter was also partly responsible for my father's heart attack, or at least his broken heart.
As the monsignor continued over his parishioners' tears, I felt the grip of my grandfather's hand on my knee. I looked into his ravaged face and bottomless Irish eyes.
"There's a couple of mysteries of this precious life," he whispered, "that you and I are going to get to the bottom of, whether God in heaven chooses to throw in with us or not."
I put my own bony Mullen hand on his and squeezed back hard enough for both of us to know that a pact had been made.
Somehow, someway, we were going to avenge Peter and my father.
Chapter 18
IF YOU THOUGHT IT WAS A NEAT TRICK squeezing a thousand full-bodied mourners into a church built for two hundred, imagine the human gridlock when the same crowd arrived on our doorstep at 18 Ditch Plains Road.
Shagwong ran the bar and Seaside Market did the food, and for six hours the entire population of Montauk wended its way through our half a dozen small rooms. I believe that every single person who ever had any contact with my father or brother in the past twenty years walked into our living room, took my hand, and looked into my eyes.
Teachers and coaches going back to kindergarten showed up and described Peter's unlimited potential at this sport or that subject. As did the merchants who had kept my father in hardware and bacon sandwiches. The politicians, of course, were out in full force. So were the firemen and cops; even Volpi and Belnap showed their faces.
Despite how badly things had panned out for the Mullens in Montauk, it was impossible not to feel enormous affection for its unpretentious residents. People give a shit about their neighbors out here.
Nevertheless, after a couple of hours, all the faces ran together. I guess that's what funerals are for — turning grief into a blur. In that way, they're diverting.
Dana finally left about seven. She's not much of a drinker, so I understood. And I appreciated that she knew I had to be there and drink with my old friends and relatives.
All my friends were there. After the bulk of the guests left, we gathered in the kitchen. Fenton, Marci, Molly, Hank, and Sammy — the same crowd that had been there for me that night at the Memory.
We had all been working on Peter's case, the situation, or whatever the hell you wanted to call it. Fenton had been lobbying hard with the Suffolk County medical examiner, an old girlfriend of his, that Peter's death not be treated like a routine drowning. I had talked to contacts at the Daily News and Newsday about possible stories, or at least coming out there to talk to somebody about what really happened that night.
"People are talking," Sammy reported about his A-list clientele. "They're starting to feel some heat at the Beach House, too. The Neubauers already canceled a party for the weekend of the fourth. Out of respect, no doubt."
We all applauded ourselves. Big deal, right, we'd gotten them to cancel a goddamned party.
Not all the news was good. Three nights before, Hank had walked into Nichols Café, where he'd been head chef since it reopened, and was fired on the spot.
"No reason or explanation," said Hank. "The manager handed me my last check and said good luck. For two days I was going nuts. Then a waitress spelled it out for me. Nichols is owned by Jimmy Taravalla, a venture capitalist worth a couple hundred million. Taravalla is tight with Neubauer. He's a frequent guest at parties. According to my friend, Neubauer called Jimmy, Jimmy called Antoinette Alois, the manager, and that was that. Hasta la vista. Put down the chalupa. Go directly to the back of the unemployment line."
"It gets scarier," Molly said. "I've been doing some asking around about the party, right. Then, the other night, somebody was following me. It was a black BMW. Tonight I saw the same car parked outside my house."
"That's so weird," Marci spoke up. "The same cretin was following me. It's creepy."
"Hang on to your privates, boys and girls," said Sammy. "The empire is starting to strike back."
It was after midnight before the last mourner gave me a last damp hug. Then it was just me and Mack in the brightly lit kitchen. I poured two whiskeys.
"To Jack and Peter," I said.
"To you and me," said Macklin. "We're all that's left."
Chapter 19
I AWOKE WITH A HANGOVER the morning after my father's funeral and wake. About eleven, I decided to go see Dana, partly to apologize for not paying enough attention to her the day before, but mostly I needed someone to talk to. I knew that her parents were still out of town; otherwise, I don't think I could have gone to the house.
What can you say about the "summer cottage" that the Neubauers had already turned down $40 million for? Is it real, or is it Manderly? I could never drive onto the property without thinking about how much Dana loved the house and the twelve acres it sits on. What's not to love? A grand Georgian-style house surrounded by apple orchards? Two glorious pools — a reflection pool for the mind, a lap pool for the body? A formal rose garden? The English-style garden? A circular drive in front of the house that looked as though it were built for vintage cars, and vintage cars only?
I rode Peter's motorcycle up close to the garage, cut the engine, and parked in an unobtrusive spot. Even though I had an open invitation to the house, I suddenly felt weird just being there. I tried to shake off the feeling, but it wouldn't shake.
I heard a splash in one of the pools.
I could see the "north pool," as the family called it, the lap pool, and suddenly I stopped walking. My stomach clutched.
Dana was climbing out of the pool and she had on a kick-ass suit that I'd told her was my personal favorite. Beads of water glistened on her skin and the black Lycra of the string bikini.
She tiptoed across the ornate, hand-painted tiles of the deck to one of several cream-and-royal-blue-striped chaise longues. She smiled as she drank in the warmth of the sun.
I couldn't believe my eyes. Propped comfortably on the chaise was none other than Frank Volpi. The sickening thing was that Frank looked none the worse for the wear and tear of his very demanding detective's job. He was as relaxed and tanned and toned as Dana was.
Dana was still smiling as she went and sat next to him on the longue. She laid her water-chilled hands on his stomach, and he playfully grabbed her wrists. He pulled her on top of him, and she covered his mouth with hers. As they kissed, all I could see was the back of her blond head and his hands untying the strings of her suit.
I wanted to look away, to get the hell out of there, but before I could actually move, the kiss ended.
Then Dana looked over Volpi's shoulder, and I was pretty sure she saw me before I skulked off to the Beemer and headed back where I belonged.
Chapter 20
I DROVE AROUND FOR A WHILE — fast, too fast for the winding, crowded side roads of eastern Long Island. I was feeling really bad now, not for mys
elf — well, hell, yeah, for myself.
By the time I got home, it was past four. The house was still a disaster from the day before. I figured I'd better clean up before Mack had to do it.
A note was stuck in the screen door. My heart sank. I grabbed the envelope and opened it.
The stationery was rose-colored and I could smell perfume all over it.
The note said — IL8400. The Memory.
That was enough. I'd gotten messages like it before.
Dana wanted me to meet her at the Memory Motel. She was waiting there now. The letters and numbers were the license plate of her Mercedes SUV. The note, the perfume — it was pure Dana.
I shouldn't have gone over to the Memory but — what can I say? — I went. Maybe deep down, I'm a hopeless sap. Or maybe I'm too romantic for my own good.
Dana was there. What was worse, she knew that I would go. She was so sure of herself. Well, maybe I could change that.
I pulled open the passenger-side door and leaned inside. The Mercedes still smelled new. It also smelled of her perfume.
"Sit down, Jack. We need to talk," she said in the softest voice. A slender, manicured hand patted the seat.
"I'm fine where I am," I said. "I'm good."
"It's not what it looked like, Jack."
I shook my head. "Sure it is, Dana. While I was riding around the past couple of hours, it all came together. I saw you and Volpi talking at my house yesterday. Then you left around seven or so. Amazingly, so did Volpi. You'll have to fill me in on the rest."
Dana somehow managed to look angry at me. "He came to our house this morning, Jack. Not last night. Said it was about the investigation, but he brought his bathing suit. That's Frank."
"So you invited him to have a swim? One thing led to another?"
Dana shook her head. "Jack, you can't believe that I'm interested in Frank Volpi."
"Dana," I said, "why were you making out with him? It's a fair question."
"Hey, Jack, let me tell you something that I learned from my father — life isn't fair. That's why he always wins. It's how the game is played. And Jack, it is a game."
"Dana —"
She waved me off, and it struck me that I had never really seen that side of her. "Let me finish. I know my timing is dreadful, but I've been thinking about this for weeks. I guess it's why I didn't come and pick you up on Friday night. Jack, I need space. I really need time to be by myself. . . . I'm going to Europe for a couple of months. I've never done that before. The European thing."
"Oh, yeah, me neither," I said. "Run away from my problems."
"Jack, don't make this any harder than it already is. It is hard for me." Then tears started to run down her cheeks. I couldn't believe that all this was happening. It almost seemed too bad to be true.
"So, Dana," I finally said, "is Volpi going to Europe with you?"
I didn't wait for an answer. I slammed her car door and walked away. I guess we had just broken up.
Chapter 21
I COULDN'T SLEEP THAT NIGHT because I couldn't stop the bad thoughts and images crashing through my head. I finally got up and cleaned the mess from my father's funeral. About five in the morning I went back to bed.
On Sunday I made the hour-and-a-half trip to the BMW dealership in Huntington. I figured Peter got financing directly from the dealer, and I hoped that if I showed up with the bike and told them what had happened, they might offer fair market value.
The only salesman in the place was a burly, ponytailed guy in his mid-thirties, and I watched him expertly direct a retired couple to a full-dress silver Tourer.
"Bags!" said the salesman, introducing himself once he'd loaded up his prospects with brochures. "Although I don't know what I can possibly do for you since you already got the prettiest, baddest, and best engineered form of automotive transportation in the world parked right out front. Believe it or not, I delivered the same sucker to a handsome kid from Montauk not six weeks ago — same midnight blue paint, same custom black Corbin seat."
I explained that it wasn't a coincidence, and Bags extended an arm and squeezed my shoulder. "That's awful. Listen, man, you'll get a lot more for it by putting an ad in the New York Times and selling it yourself."
"All I'm looking to do is pay off the loan," I told him.
Bags's eyes grew wide, and they were large to begin with.
"What loan? You don't owe a dime on that sweet-heart."
At his cluttered desk, he pulled out the paperwork from the sale. "Here we go. Peter wrote me a check for nineteen hundred dollars for the ten percent deposit," he said, showing me a copy. "He paid the rest in cash."
Although Bags may have felt that he was delivering good news, he could tell that I didn't see it that way. "Listen, if a dude walks in with the money, I'll sell him a motorcycle. I'd even sell one to a Republican if I was having a bad month," he guffawed.
The check was written on a bank six exits up the Long Island Expressway in Ronkonkoma. I knew where it was. When we were kids my father's truck broke down just outside it, and we spent half the night in a service station there. We loved the name so much, it became family lore.
Ten minutes later I was back in Ronkonkoma for the second time in my life, sitting at the desk of the Bank of New York branch manager, Darcy Hammerman. She'd been expecting to hear from me.
"Peter named you as the sole beneficiary, so the balance is yours. I might as well cut you a check now, unless you want to open an account here in Ronkonkoma. I didn't think so."
She opened a photo-album-sized checkbook and, in her careful banker's hand, filled one out. She stamped FOR DEPOSIT ONLY on the back.
Then she carefully ripped the check out of her book and slid it over to me. It was for $187,646.
I read the six numbers in disbelief. My eyes started to blink. I hadn't felt that bad since, well . . . the day before. What in hell had Peter done?
Chapter 22
I NEEDED A FRIEND TO TALK TO, and I knew where to find one. I even had an appointment.
Sammy Giamalva was nine when he matter-of-factly told my brother that he was gay. By the time he was eleven, he knew he wanted to cut hair. Probably because of that precocious self-knowledge, Sammy, despite being one of the smartest kids at East Hampton High, was never much of a student.
At fifteen, he dropped out altogether and started working at Kevin Maple's. He spent his first six months sweeping up hair. Then he got promoted to shampooing. Six months later Xavier quit in the middle of an appointment, and Kevin gave Sammy a shot at his own chair. The rest, as they say, is Hamptons hairdressing history.
But Kevin milked him dry, booking him for ten or eleven heads a day, and after a while Sammy's gratitude was replaced by resentment. Three months ago he quit and opened Sammy's Soul Kitchen in his house in Sag Harbor.
Sammy had been cutting Peter's hair for free on Sundays and, in a weak moment at the funeral, offered to grandfather me on the same sweet deal. I made an appointment on the spot, and after driving back from Ronkonkoma, I pulled into his driveway.
Sammy greeted me with a big hug, then led me to an Aeron chair facing a huge gilt mirror.
"So what did you have in mind?" Sammy asked after my rinse.
"At these rates, I'll leave it up to you. Express yourself."
Sammy set to work, falling into an easy four-beat rhythm of snip and move, pause and touch. My hair fell in clumps on the black and white tiles. I let him work in silence for several minutes before I dropped the question whose answer I'd been dreading the whole ride back.
"Was Peter a drug dealer?" I was studying Sammy in the mirror.
He didn't even look up from my coif-in-progress.
"Hell, no. He bought them."
"Well, how the hell could he end up with a new Beemer and one hundred eighty-seven thousand dollars? Can you explain that?"
Sammy stopped cutting. "Jack, just let it go. Nothing good will come from this."
"My brother was murdered. I can't let it go. I thought you w
anted to help."
Sammy gently massaged the back of my neck. "All right, Jack. Here's the truth. Peter was the hardest-working boy in show business." He cleared his throat, then spoke softly. He sounded like a father belatedly telling his kid where babies come from. "One way or another, every last one of us out here earns their keep servicing the rich. That's how it is, Jack. Well, Peter serviced them a little more literally than the rest of us."
I was starting to feel a little sick. And scared. I almost got up and left in the middle of the haircut. I loved my brother. But I wondered if I'd ever really known him.
"He got paid for sex? Is this what you're telling me?"
Sammy shrugged. "It wasn't like he had an hourly rate, Jack. But he was doing some of the richest women in the very expensive free world and doing them rather well. I thought you knew. I thought that Peter told you everything. I guess he didn't mention that one of his ladies was your potential mother-in-law, Campion Neubauer. I think another might have been Dana. But, Jack, that was before you two started going out."
Chapter 23
AFTER I LEFT SAMMY'S, I stopped at a bar called Wolfies. It's located in the same beautiful wooded part of East Hampton where Jackson Pollock used to paint and drink and drive into trees.
I ordered a black coffee and a beer and sat at the bar, thinking about my day and what to do next. I finally plucked a wrinkled scrap of paper out of my wallet and called the number on the back.
The crisp voice at the other end belonged to Dr. Jane Davis. I hadn't seen or spoken to her in ten years. But in high school we had become pretty good friends, when to everyone's amazement, this shy National Merit Scholar hooked up with my fisherman pal, Fenton Gidley.
Jane, the class valedictorian, won a full scholarship to SUNY Binghamton, then went on to Harvard Medical School. Through Fenton, I'd learned that she spent the next couple of years doing a residency in Los Angeles and running a trauma unit at an inner-city St. Louis hospital before burning out. She was now the chief pathologist for Long Island Hospital and chief medical examiner of Suffolk County.
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