Sometimes at Night

by Ben Sanders

  He paid the guy with the last of Little Marco’s cash, and stood watching the house from the sidewalk as the cab pulled away up the street. No discernable change since he’d arrived. No face at a window, no twitching blind. He walked quietly up the redbrick path, the yard sweetly garden-scented and damp with a mist just strengthening to rain. No buzzer at the front door. He knocked, and then listened to silence. He knocked again, looked around carefully in the alcove for signs of surveillance. A little buttonhole lens above the lintel. He knocked again, and tried the handle. Locked. Marshall checked the street briefly, and then went around the side of the house. The fence had a gate that accessed the rear yard. He reached over and found the latch and let himself through, closed the gate quietly behind him and walked around into the rear yard.

  There was a redbrick patio with a metal table and chairs, and an outdoor fireplace in such distressed condition it could have been the chimney of an original dwelling, since demolished. Pretty flowerbeds all along the perimeter fence, and a black plastic compost bin over in a corner.

  Renee Lewis was walking from the bin to the house. She was carrying a metal bucket, and she dropped it when she saw Marshall. She raised her hands as if to cover her mouth, but then held them at her sides. Fists clenched, as if clinging to her own composure. Jaw clenched too, and her nostrils flaring as she breathed.

  She said, ‘Do it.’ Eking it out through locked teeth. She shut her eyes. ‘Get it over with and goddamn you.’

  He saw himself for a moment as she had: tall and grim and coat-clad. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not here for that.’

  She opened her eyes. ‘Did D’Anton send you?’

  Marshall shook his head. ‘He’s looking for you, though.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m a friend of Ray Vialoux’s. I was, anyway.’

  She swallowed. She was attractive. Shortish and heavy, but with the sort of smooth and balanced features that would probably remain ageless until she hit seventy.

  Marshall said, ‘Who else is in the house?’

  She swallowed again. Throat muscles slender and precise. ‘He’s out. He’ll be home soon.’

  Meaning Langello.

  Marshall said, ‘I’m not here to hurt you. But we’re going to sit down. And you’re going to tell me everything.’

  THIRTY-TWO

  He did a little tour of the house with her, confirming they were alone, and then they sat together in the ground-floor living room: Marshall in an armchair with a view through the half-open blind to the front yard and the road, Renee Lewis opposite him in the center of a long sofa. Alone and nervous, self-consciously erect on an expanse of white leather, she looked like something captured for the purpose of study.

  Marshall said, ‘I want to be clear about what’s happening. I’m not a repo man. I’m not taking you back to your husband. I’m not here because I want to know about your personal life. I’m here because the man you hired has killed people. So I need to get the story straight. Do you understand?’

  Her hands were on her knees. She studied each in turn. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Marshall Grade.’

  ‘Are you a police officer?’

  He shook his head. ‘Just someone trying to find out what happened.’

  ‘I didn’t want anyone hurt.’

  ‘I’ve heard that a lot.’

  ‘How did you find me?’

  He told her. Dr Davin’s clinic, Langello’s mother, here.

  She said, ‘Well, let me be clear, too.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Do you know my husband?’

  ‘D’Anton Lewis?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Marshall nodded. ‘I’ve met him.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to leave him for a long time.’

  ‘Why?’

  She looked at him blankly for a second, and then laughed faintly, as if the answer was self-evident. She said, ‘Because he’s terrible.’

  ‘So you traded in a drug dealer for a mob man.’

  She took a moment to answer. He wondered if she thought the line was too uncharitable, or just too accurate.

  She said, ‘That’s a pretty heartless way to put it.’

  ‘Why. Did he say he’s changed?’

  ‘He’s retired. And he’s a good man.’

  Marshall didn’t answer. The cab driver had been right. The rain was coming down now.

  She said, ‘There’s a Bible story. Jesus comes back as judge. And his judgment … He has most contempt for the people who are neither good nor bad. There’s a certain purity in choosing one thing or the other.’

  ‘Was that how he sold it to you?’

  She was still sitting there, carefully upright.

  ‘There aren’t many people who can keep me safe. But he’s one of them.’

  ‘Did you meet him at the clinic? Dr Davin’s?’

  ‘His appointment was before mine. I was in the waiting area one day, and I saw him come out of his session. I recognized him. D’Anton had had meetings with him. But I hadn’t actually met him before. I had my appointment, and I came out, and he was still there, at reception. He’d waited for me. He said something like … two New Yorkers in Boston, why don’t we get a drink. Something like that. Something … simple.’ She smiled faintly. ‘But it worked.’

  Marshall didn’t answer, wanting her to feel the pressure of the silence.

  She said, ‘It’s funny when you know someone by reputation. And then you meet them, and see them up close, and they’re just … He was nice – he is nice. Funny, considerate. But interesting, too. Right away he was interesting.’

  ‘Why. Because he’s keeping it legal, but he still talks to hitmen now and again?’

  She looked at him.

  Marshall said, ‘You know a guy called Little Marco? Smiles a lot.’

  She said, ‘It’s from a surgery. The smile.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Michael told me. He was brain damaged as a child. Marco was. There was a problem with the birth, and he ended up with facial droop. He had surgery to fix it, cosmetic surgery to lift his mouth, but they overcorrected.’

  Marshall said, ‘It’s nice these guys talk to each other about their problems.’

  She shrugged. ‘You can sneer. Michael was … he’s turning his life around. He’s gained an awareness of himself through therapy. He’s interested in people. He asked him what had happened.’

  ‘You paid him to kill Ray Vialoux. So he wouldn’t find you.’

  She was shaking her head. ‘No. No, we didn’t. I told you, I didn’t want anyone hurt. Neither did Michael.’

  ‘The reality’s quite different. He killed Vialoux, and he killed a woman along the street from him.’

  She had her hands edgewise on her thighs as she stared down at her lap, and he thought of Vialoux on the night he was killed, making that same gesture, like he could see the whole dilemma right there in front of him.

  She said, ‘He was working for my husband. And it was imperative that he didn’t find me. He went to the clinic on Beacon Street. Vialoux, I mean. Somehow he learned that Michael and I were both patients. Or maybe someone had seen us together. I don’t know. Dr Davin called and asked if I was all right, because apparently Vialoux had told them I was missing. He’d left a card with his details, told them he was an investigator from New York. I think they were pretty concerned. Mikey called him and said he needed to stop looking, but this guy seemed to think … I don’t know. He seemed to think there could be some kind of amicable solution. But you can’t have anything amicable with D’Anton involved. I don’t think he understood that. Or, I guess maybe he did. I think maybe he realized if he didn’t find me, D’Anton wouldn’t be happy. And then it would be him who was in danger. Vialoux.’

  ‘So you got Little Marco onto him.’

  ‘No. Not in that sense. Not in the sense you mean. We … we’re here because we want a different kind of life. And …’ She closed her eyes. ‘You go out
in the yard, walk around the block, it’s a long way from what we used to be part of. We had to protect that. We need to protect all of this.’

  Marshall didn’t answer.

  ‘Mikey told him … he said he didn’t want to be following up on the guy, keeping tabs on him, seeing how close he was. He wanted this Marco guy to take care of it.’

  Marshall said, ‘That has pretty clear connotations. In your old life, at least. Maybe not in this zip code.’

  She shook her head again. ‘I heard him talk to the guy. Mikey never said kill anyone. It would defeat the whole point. We’re trying to avoid attention. He just said … he wanted this guy to keep tabs on Vialoux, or whoever D’Anton sent, stop them from trying to find me.’

  ‘And why did you think that wouldn’t be a fatal exercise?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘What made you think no one would be killed.’

  ‘I … because I told him. I told him what I just told you, that the whole point was avoiding attention. And …’ He saw her mouth start to shake. Her voice took on a warped quality. ‘I didn’t want this to happen. I didn’t want this to happen. He probably had kids, a family.’

  She sat sobbing, face in her hands. He sat there quietly, not about to offer any comfort.

  She said, ‘I had a bad feeling about the guy. From the way he looked. He was just such a strange man. Mikey had him in the kitchen, and this guy was just sitting there dead still, very straight in his chair, and just sort of blank. Even though he always had this smile, there was nothing in his face. It was just … empty somehow. And …’ She closed her eyes, shook her head again. ‘Funny the things that stay in your head. I was in the house, but I left Mikey to talk with him. I heard him ask the guy, Marco, if he wanted a drink, and Marco told him, yeah, he’d like a glass of milk.’ She shrugged. ‘Unusual I guess, but whatever. But then, it seemed like he didn’t even touch it until he was leaving. They finished talking, and he got up, and just drank the whole thing. I’m not saying …’ She shook her head. ‘I wasn’t freaked out by a guy drinking milk. I just mean the way he did everything, it seemed robotic. And it made me think … it gave me this horrible feeling that once you point him in the right direction and let him go, maybe he wouldn’t stop.’

  Marshall nodded. ‘I think that’s what’s happened.’

  She was shaking her head again, lips clamped together, tears falling. ‘I don’t know where he is and I don’t know how to stop him.’

  ‘He’s stopped. But he left an awful lot of damage.’

  She nodded. ‘I worried from the start this would happen.’ Her voice was steadier now. ‘But Mikey said it’d be all right. He said he’d been told what to do, and he’d do it. There were people in Brooklyn that were going to help him out.’

  ‘Frank Cifaretti’s guys?’

  ‘Yes. I think so. Frank.’

  She passed her tongue across her top lip, catching some tears. ‘Mikey said Vialoux had a gambling debt. They were going to use that to pressure him … you know. Basically show him that if he kept making trouble, life would be difficult.’

  Marshall nodded. ‘Life’s impossible for him now. And pretty difficult for his family, too. Without him around.’

  ‘What happened to the woman? The woman on his street.’

  Marshall thought about that for a moment. He said, ‘I think she deserved better than after-the-fact sympathy from someone who’s complicit.’

  She swallowed. ‘I …’ But she didn’t seem to have anything. After a moment, she said, ‘What was I supposed to do about him?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  She jutted her chin, spoke with her lower teeth showing. Forceful. ‘What was I supposed to do about him? About D’Anton?’

  Marshall didn’t answer.

  ‘You can’t stop someone like him. There’s no getting away. So what was I supposed to do? He gets exactly what he wants and there’s no stopping him. He’s … he’s abusive and controlling. You have no idea. So what was I meant to do about that? Other than make a deal with someone who could …’ She thought about it. ‘Fold the mirror back a little, show him what it’s really like.’

  He let that have a few seconds’ silence.

  She said, ‘And don’t say, “Go to the police.” If it’s good enough for you without them, it’s good enough for me, too.’

  Marshall said, ‘When were you last in New York?’

  ‘I don’t know the date.’ She shrugged. ‘Months ago. It would have been a Friday. I left for an appointment and just never went back.’

  ‘A witness saw you in a car with Little Marco in Brooklyn, six weeks ago.’

  She shook her head. ‘Not me. Six weeks ago, we were in Europe. Mikey said we should get away for a while. Forget about everything.’

  ‘Light the fuse and walk away, you mean.’

  She didn’t answer.

  Marshall said, ‘Did you take any photos?’

  She nodded. ‘Most days.’

  ‘Show me.’

  He followed her to the kitchen. She unplugged a smartphone from a charging station and tapped and swiped for a moment. She handed it to him. Photos of European-looking scenes, countries he’d never visited. The images were all date-categorized. There she was on London Bridge. Standing alone, and then posed with Langello in the next shot. More London, and then maybe some seaside England, and then maybe some seaside France. Marshall scrolled on. Weeks of pleasant living. He set the phone down on the counter. She didn’t move to take it. She stood with her arms folded, watching him.

  ‘What’s going to happen now?’

  Marshall shrugged. ‘Usual stuff. I tell the police. They investigate. Eventually they show up and ask you about it.’

  Her mouth was moving, but there was nothing coming out. She swallowed and tried again. ‘He wasn’t meant to kill anyone. We didn’t want him to kill anyone.’

  Marshall said, ‘Bit like playing with matches though, isn’t it? You wanted a small fire, but got a big one instead. I think plenty of people would say, I told you so.’

  He left her standing in the kitchen and went out the back door, let himself through the gate in the side yard. As he crossed the front lawn toward the street, a silver Lexus sedan swung into the driveway. A man at the wheel who he guessed was Mikey Langello. He saw Marshall, and his face went slack with dread. The Lexus skidded to a halt.

  Marshall stopped and stood there.

  Langello clambered out, awkward, trussed for a second by his seatbelt, and then fighting the door. He was a tall guy, fiftyish, plenty of meat on his shoulders and arms. Bulge of his gut tautly smooth beneath the polo shirt belted into his trousers. He kept his eyes on Marshall still standing in the middle of the lawn, and ran for the house.

  ‘Renee! Renee! … Shit.’

  But he’d left his keys in the car. He slipped on the wet grass and went down on his knee for a second, sprinted for the Lexus. By the time he’d made it back to the house with the keys, Renee Lewis had the door open.

  ‘Renee, Jesus.’

  He hugged her, pushed her back inside as he pointed at Marshall. ‘Get the fuck out of here.’

  ‘Mikey, he knows about everything.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He knows what happened.’

  Langello held her at arm’s length for a second, like trying to re-focus the picture. He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Jesus, just … get inside, will you?’

  He pulled the door shut behind her, and resumed pointing at the street. ‘You deaf or something?’

  But the dread hadn’t left his face. Marshall had expected more steel from a mob boss. Although, thinking about it, maybe it was a different kind of fear. Scared more of what Marshall represented, as opposed to Marshall personally. Scared by the fact that people could still find him. Like despite what he’d told himself, starting a clean and honest life, things had a way of coming home.

  ‘Marco didn’t stick to the brief.’

  ‘What?’

  But he could see behind the man’s
eyes it was making terrible sense to him.

  Marshall nodded at the house. ‘Did you think you were going to walk in and find her dead? Be pretty horrible, wouldn’t it? I don’t know how people even begin to cope with something like that.’

  The guy’s chest was heaving as he breathed. He still had his arm raised, aiming at the street. Tempting to kill both of them. Bring some balance to the saga. But what sense would that make? Excessive force as penance for excessive force.

  Marshall said, ‘Visit your mother. God knows why, but she misses you.’

  He walked across the yard and headed off down the pretty street, along the redbrick path and under the oak trees in the light rain.

  He caught a cab back down to South Station and bought a ticket for the three pm train to New York. Business class this time. He felt he’d earned it. His car was full of corporate-looking people with laptops and little hands-free earbuds for their phones. He waited until they were rolling, everyone focused on their Excel spreadsheets and their emails, and then he called Nevins.

  ‘How can I help you?’

  Marshall said, ‘I’m up in Boston.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘I know what happened.’

  It took an hour to lay it all out for him. Everything except his shootout in the woods last night. They’d put it together eventually. The New Jersey cops would tell NYPD they had a few of their clients in the morgue. No need to have his name attached to any of that. He ended the call, and the scene around him was unchanged. People still working away on whatever they were working on. New England blurred past. An announcement was broadcast that Chip was back on duty in the snack car. People began to come past him down the aisle, food-bound. Marshall stayed put. The landscape shadowed. Lights came on. He had his own line stuck in his head:

  I know what happened.

  A bold and certain claim. It made him comb back over what he knew. He ran through the story again, turning it over in his mind like a stone from a river. Looking at the details and blemishes. Was one strange fact just an oddity of how the thing was formed, or was it something fatal to the structure of the theory?

  People and events. Hannah Vialoux. Jordan Mora.