He walked past the window, not looking in. There was a narrow pathway floored with brown pine needles. He closed his eyes for a moment because he knew he could follow it with his eyes closed. For the first time in a very long time, he wanted a drink so badly he would have taken it had he had it. His hand reflexively patted the pocket of his jacket where his flask used to be.
Eyes closed, he stood still and listened to the night: rustles, wind sighing against trees, cold silence. He opened his eyes and moved on. He didn't need the drink anymore, and now the pathway opened to a field of cleared trees and low, cropped grass with a dome in the middle of it.
He saw the glow of red light in the slit on top of the dome, heard faint music. Someone was humming along with the music. He looked up; the stars were achingly beautiful, the gentle slope of the clearing making them visible nearly down to the horizon. Asterisms, he thought again. The Big Dipper was sunk low now, only its handle visible.
He opened the corrugated metal door of the dome gently, but it made a typical grinding noise nevertheless and his brother turned from the eyepiece of the telescope and looked at him. He stared through the dim red light for a moment and then he smiled.
"Jack," he said.
"Hello, Tom." He stood by the door, feeling awkward, then stepped in and closed it behind him. It growled again, and then the silence of the night closed in.
"What—" his brother began, but Paine cut him off softly.
"Just in the neighborhood, Tom."
"Sure, sit down."
There was a curved bench along the perimeter of the dome, and Paine went to it and sat, moving a book of charts out of the way. There was a bag of pretzels there, and he reached in, taking one.
"Something wrong?" his brother asked.
"Just felt like coming here," he answered.
Rachmaninoff was being played on the radio, and he flinched. The piece ended, and the announcer's muffled voice came on. He looked up at the speakers mounted high on the walls of the dome. Tom and he and his father had mounted them one Saturday after picking them up on sale at Radio Shack.
"Haven't been up here in a long time, Tom."
"I know. I almost called you a few times . . ."
"I'm sorry, Tommy."
His brother shrugged.
Paine said, "I'm just sorry it took so long."
His brother stared at an eyepiece case flipped open on the end of the bench, and Paine looked out through the slit where a line of bright and faint stars made a zigzag.
"You know . . ." Tom began.
"What?"
"I was just going to say that the place is still half yours."
"It’s all yours now, Tom."
His brother shrugged. "If you ever. . ."
Paine got up. "Look, Tommy, I think maybe coming up here was a mistake."
"Bullshit."
There was anger in his brother’s voice. He knew it would come and it came. Tommy glared at him, something from deep inside freeing itself to fly into his face and mouth and eyes. "That’s bullshit, Jack. You came up here because you wanted to, so don’t hand me any shit and run away again with your tail between your legs." He held his tongue, blood rising to his face. "There were times I hated your guts. The way you left me to deal with everything." He was unable to stop. "You acted like a fucking baby back then, leaving me like that. You think it was easy for me? I know what happened to you – but I never fucking figured out what happened to me."
Paine was on his feet. His hands were trembling. Then suddenly his arms were out, and his brother fell into them. He held his brother, and his brother held him. Something washed out of the two of them, and it was a long time before they parted.
"Jesus, Jack," his brother said.
"It’s okay . . ."
"I thought all of it got buried, a long time ago, but . . ."
"I know, Tommy. You just gave me what I came here for."
There was a different kind of silence between them. Paine sat back down on the bench, and then his eyes went to the telescope, and he said, "How's the Big Eye doing these days?"
"Had the mirror resurfaced about a year ago," his brother said. "It's as good as it ever was."
Paine got up but didn't take a step. "God, that old bastard set us up all right," he said. He was staring at one corner of the dome, looking for something on the wall that wasn't there anymore, a picture of two boys and a man, all smiling.
"Come and take a look," his brother said.
He walked to the long white tube and stood before the high end, putting his eyes to the slim tube plugging out. He covered his other eye with his hand, keeping the eye open. He saw nothing for a few seconds, and then his retina was filled with a blanket of bright pinpoints with a hard glowing core. It was like looking at a crown of perfect diamonds. It was Ml3, the Hercules cluster of stars, one of the most beautiful things in the sky. In a moment he was lost in it, floating into the spill of diamonds, his eyes drinking them in, his mind the mind of an eight-year-old, seeing this magnificent object for the first time.
He stood away from the telescope. "It still works."
"Why don't we close it up," Tommy said.
They capped the telescope and closed the slit. Tom gathered all the charts into a pile and turned off the red light. "I'll make coffee," he said. They closed the door of the dome, latching it with a piece of wood, and Tommy led the way back through the woods to the house. He pulled open the back door and they entered the kitchen. There was a potbellied stove in one corner, giving off faint heat. Tommy threw a couple of small logs into it. Soon its grill gave off a steady orange glow and they sat at the kitchen table while a pan of water began to boil.
"It occurs to me," Tommy said when the coffee was in their mugs, "that something must have happened to you, something else, to get you up here."
"Ginny's leaving me."
"That's news?" his brother said, and then he said,
"Sorry. You mean really gone."
"Yeah."
"You want it to happen?"
"I don't know."
"Want me to tell you something, Jack?"
"Haven't you told me enough already tonight?" A trace of a smile came across Paine's face.
"I'll tell you, anyway. She was always a shit."
"I don't know about that."
His brother shrugged, and they drank their coffee.
Through the windows, the night wore away, toward daybreak.
Tommy said, "She never stood by you. Not when you really needed it. She just didn't have what it takes to really stand by you."
"I don't know if I blame her for it."
His brother shrugged again.
After a while Tommy said, "I meant what I said about this place being yours when you want it. The key's in that hollowed stump we made when we were kids."
Paine nodded, looking out the window at the pink of dawn. "I've got to be leaving soon."
"Could be a good day," Tommy said quietly.
"Could be."
EIGHT
He got back down to Yonkers just before noon. His stomach was starting to grumble so he pulled off the Saw Mill Parkway, drove awhile and found a diner he knew. If he followed the road it was on, and went south, he would, after two hundred blocks, find himself in the middle of Times Square.
He ate, then drove north again and made a few turns and then he pulled up in front of Bravura Enterprises. It was a stuccoed flat-fronted building, the kind that might have been anything before it was Bravura Enterprises—a bowling alley, chemical lab, furniture outlet. The sign looked a few years old, undented metal but pigeon-spotted in places and beginning to fade.
He was surprised to find how nice the offices inside were—whoever had gutted the building had done a good job. The reception area, except for the lack of windows, might have been on the fiftieth floor of any office building on Park Avenue. The secretary also looked New York City, not the usual polyester you found in the suburbs. She had red hair that looked real. Her brass nameplate said "
Mary Wagner." She smiled and told him no, he couldn't see Mr. Paterna.
Paine, returning her smile, said, "Tell Mr. Paterna that Gloria Fulman sent me."
She turned and spoke into her intercom, then swiveled back with the same liquid smile and eyes.
"He'll see you in five minutes, Mr. Paine."
After exactly five minutes he was ushered down a short, carpeted hallway into Les Paterna's office. This was nicely done also. There was some taste in evidence here, not the kind that you buy package-made from some cheesy interior decorator, but the kind that a man would execute after thinking for years and years about the way he'd really like to have things.
Paine sat down. Paterna sat down on the other side of his desk. He was a little older than his photo, early fifties. He made a steeple with his hands, a gesture which made Paine immediately dislike him.
"What can I do for you?"
Paine flipped the photo of Paterna across the desk at him, then took it back. He noticed that Paterna's nails were manicured.
"That's a picture of me," Paterna said. "It was taken about five years ago, at the Grumbach estate. So?"
Paine showed him the other two photographs. "Know these people?"
"No, I don't," Paterna said. "Is there anything specific you want to know, Mr. Paine?"
"Will you tell me how long you knew Morris Grumbach?"
"We met at a party seven or eight years ago."
"Remember whose party it was?"
"No, I don't."
"Did you work for him long?"
"With him, Mr. Paine. Morris and I were partners. He needed some help, and I needed some help, so we decided to make a go of it together."
"Why did you split?"
Paterna didn't blink. "We stopped needing each other."
"Was it amicable?"
"I'd have to admit that it was more my idea than Morris's. But he got over it. I'd say we were friends again by the end."
"Friends?"
Paterna smiled. "Friendly."
Paine showed him the other three photographs. For the faintest moment he thought something registered on Paterna's face.
Paterna handed the photographs back. "I don't know any of these people."
"Do you remember anything about the two younger Grumbach girls?"
Paterna drew a cigarette case out, took a short cigarette from it, didn't offer Paine one. "They were nice girls. I was over there a lot for a while. The youngest had emotional problems, but she was a nice girl." He lit the cigarette. "I was sorry to hear she killed herself."
Paine asked, "Did you call Gloria Fulman just before you let me in here?"
Paterna's eyes stared at him.
"I hope she spoke well of me," Paine said.
Paterna replied, "Is there anything else you wanted to know?"
"How's business?" Paine asked, getting up.
Paterna smiled, showing shark's teeth. "Better than yours."
Paine saw the handgun in the window of the car across the street a half second before he heard the shot. Something automatic took over his body and he dropped to the sidewalk. He heard a second shot strike overhead behind him. He crawled forward and heard another one hit the cement in front of him. A pebble of concrete flicked against his cheek.
As he reached a parked car he heard a gunned engine. He stood cautiously. The blue tail of a sedan was disappearing around a corner and then the world was quiet again.
He got into his car and drove four blocks, waited in a shopping center parking lot and then drove slowly back. He parked fifty yards from Bravura Enterprises. A half hour went by and then a blue Chrysler nosed onto the Street and passed him, pulling into an empty spot a few cars ahead. There was a driver, and a man in back on the driver's side. They got out and walked up the block to the Bravura Building and went in.
The afternoon wore on. Paine turned on the car radio, low, and waited. His stomach began to growl but he ignored it. A bank of clouds came over and it looked for a time as though it would rain. The clouds broke up, letting in blue patches of sky again, and then the sky began to get dark.
At five o'clock there was a flurry of activity in front of the building. Fifteen or twenty people came out, got into various cars and drove away. Paine turned off the radio. Another ten minutes went by and then Les Paterna came out with Mary Wagner. They stopped in the doorway, and Paterna took her by the arm. He tried to kiss her but she pushed him away. Paine heard Paterna laugh, and she said something and walked away. Paterna got into the Mercedes in front of the building and drove off.
A few minutes later the two men from the blue Chrysler came out of the building. One of them got into a red Toyota, and the other walked toward the Chrysler, got in and pulled out.
Paine started his engine and followed the Chrysler, keeping well back. He got on the Saw Mill Parkway, then got onto the Taconic Parkway. He stayed on this till he got off in Croton and drove to a small house. Paine parked across the street and watched him collect his mail and go in. The mailbox said "Hartman." He saw the light go on in the front room, then saw his shadow pass by it.
It began to rain. That bank of clouds had found its way back and decided to do its business.
Paine got out of the car and went up the walk. He knocked on the door, hiding his face in his coat collar as if the rain was bothering him. The door opened.
"Mr. Hartman?" he said. "I'm here about your paperboy."
Hartman stood with his unbuttoned shirt pulled out of his pants and a beer in his hand. He had the screen door half open before he tried to pull it closed again. Paine pulled the door open and threw his weight inside, hitting Hartman in the midsection and sending him back against a stairway leading to the second floor. Hartman dropped his beer and put his hands up, but he was slow and not very good. Paine hit him once in the face and once in the stomach. He groaned and leaned back against the stairs but then he found strength and tried a weak punch at Paine's head. It missed, and Paine punched him not too hard in the groin and that was it for his resistance.
Paine pulled him by his shirt into the living room. There was only one light on; the rest of the house looked dark except for the kitchen. Paine pushed him into a square overstuffed chair and pulled up a matching chair. There was a sofa made in the same cheap square style, and a coffee table that looked like it came with the package deal. Hartman was bent over, trying to breathe.
"I didn't hit you that hard," Paine said, pushing him back up into a sitting position. Hartman looked at him as though he had hit him plenty hard.
"Where's your jacket?" Paine asked. Hartman pointed weakly to the kitchen. Paine found the jacket thrown over a straight-backed chair. He went through the pockets but found nothing. When he came back into the living room Hartman was sitting up on his own but still looked hurt. "The other joker has the gun?" Paine asked. When Hartman said nothing Paine went over to him and balled his fist under his eyes.
"You don't tell me, I hit you in the hangers again," he said. "I used to be a cop but I'm not anymore, so I can do whatever I want to fuckheads like you and not much will happen to me."
Hartman looked surly but said, when Paine cocked his fist back playfully, "He's got the gun."
"What's his name?"
Hartman took a few breaths and then said, "Childs."
"Does he have a record?"
"Couple of years."
"What about you?"
Hartman stared at the floor. "Same."
"How long have you worked for Paterna?"
"A while."
"I don't give a shit about you," Paine said, "or about your friend, but I don't like being shot at. Not even if it's for fun. Answer the next question carefully. Do you know anything about Morris Grumbach?"
Staring at the floor, Hartman shook his head. "No."
"You never heard Les Paterna mention him?"
"I just work for Paterna. He tells me and Childs what to do. Most of the time I don't do anything. Today was the first time he ever really asked me to do something."
/> Paine felt like hitting him again. "Is that why you enjoyed it so much?"
Hartman was silent.
"I don't want to see your fucking face again," Paine said. "And I don't want to see your friend's face. Tell him that if I see either of you around me I'll break both your backs. You can tell Paterna that, if you want to. If you're aching to be bad boys again forget it, because you're the kind of scumbags that'll never get it right."
He went to the front hallway and looked at the spreading stain on the rug and the can lying edgewise, empty.
"Sorry about the beer," he said.
NINE
When his key was halfway in the lock he heard voices inside his apartment. He put the key all the way in and slowly turned it, then pushed the door open an inch at a time. The voices were not in the front room but somewhere in the back. Lights were on all over the place. He left the door open behind him.
He heard Ginny's voice. It went high and she was laughing. He walked into the front room and saw that the bedroom door was closed. Two coats, a man's and a woman's, were on the floor where they had missed the arm of a chair. Next to the chair was a paper bag filled with folded paper bags.
Ginny laughed, and then a man laughed. His voice was low-pitched. He laughed some more and then he said something that Paine couldn't hear. Ginny laughed again. Then there were other sounds and Ginny stopped laughing.
Paine heard her moan. The man's voice became more insistent behind the door and then Ginny was breathing loud and hard.
Paine stood frozen. He heard his own bed move, heard the creaks he heard every night when he went to sleep in it. Ginny gasped, the man grunted and then Ginny began to make little "ah" sounds in her throat. They came one after another. Paine felt numb, but despite this he began to count in his head. He counted past twenty. When he got to twenty-five Ginny's panting broke suddenly. She gave a low, strangled, painful sound in her throat. The man stopped grunting. Paine heard him say distinctly, "Are you all right?" He was still breathing heavily. Paine heard his wife begin to whimper; he could almost see her eyes now, the hunted look that was in them, seeking a way out, any way out—
Cold Night (Jack Paine Mysteries) Page 4