Over the last two hours the horizon had begun to shift from azure to a thinly banded crimson-purple, the skies darkening to an array of intense, moody color. The darkness hadn't blown in yet but hovered at a distance, eager to descend. Briar nodded to it, wagged his chin in that direction, calling the storm closer.
Second week of October, beginning of the off-season, and the island was already catching the brunt of an untimely freeze. The tourists did nothing but bitch about their rotten vacations, and the Manhattan traffic had turned south to Atlantic City, Charlottesville, and on down to Lauderdale.
Il Mare Sanguinante lay like a shipwrecked schooner on the east end of Fire Island. The Ganooch was set up just off Sailor's Haven, far enough from the predominately gay community of Cherry Grove to keep his skin on, but still close enough to allow his homophobia to thrive. The town had slowly transformed over the past few decades from weather-whipped crumbling shacks and storefronts to quaint little summer shops, boutiques, and restaurants.
The breeze kicked up billows of dust, and tendrils of sand swirled across the drive. The Mare's parking lot was dappled with salt-encrusted cars: family vans, Chevy Blazers, S-10 trucks, and a couple of Lincoln Continentals for the old guys still trying to hold on to some kind of class. But really, considering all the swag around, nobody driving anything with any real flash to it.
Briar stepped into Ganooch's place and a burst of wind broke across his back as if the world were giving him an extra push.
"Hell, we're closed!" Socco Merullo shouted from the bar, leaning against the cash register and giving Briar the full death-stare. It didn't take much to set a maniac off. His voice was already full of resentment and murder. "Private party tonight!"
Briar scanned the room and saw three couples having drinks, a family with four kids under ten all sharing a pizza in front of the bay windows, the clouds over the rising breakers beginning to blacken.
Socco sneered, but Briar didn't get paranoid. He realized he was being singled out because he was alone, and Socco didn't want to serve him at the bar because he didn't really know how to work the cash register. The other men sipping beer were all running tabs that would be settled from their earnings as they watched the 49ers getting their asses handed to them by the Broncos.
The Ganooch and his crew sat at a table past the far end of the bar, picking at plates of calamari and antipasto, drinking home-pressed wine. He thought he was cute calling the pub Il Mare Sanguinante—the bloody sea—bearing in mind how many bodies he personally dropped out beyond the reef, where his sins would be hidden in the deep blue.
Ernesto "Popgun" Fusilli, who never used anything bigger than a .22, remained at Ganooch's right hand, pressing a thin slice of Genoa salami between his fish lips. He liked to get up close to a guy and put two in his face—pop, pop—then walk off before the poor bastard even had time to hit the ground.
Briar's dad used to tell him about this place. Twenty-five, thirty years back it was men only, an old country Sicilian tap house reeking of olive oil, where the wiseguys would party with whores and do a little gambling in the back. They still did. The Feds had trouble bugging the spot because of the noise from the tide and shifting sand. In the mid-80s, the Ganooch turned it into a strip club but the Fire Island Ladies Coalition gave him such hell that he had to convert again, make it a family restaurant with mechanical mice playing guitars, lots of video games, balloons, while he ran heroin out the back door. Now it was a local tavern, a touch less upscale than neighboring bistros and cafes but still elegant enough.
"Missed the last ferry back," Briar said.
Socco could sound killing-enraged without showing a hint of anger in his heavy face, all stony angles and planes. "You think I give a damn? Sleep on the beach then. Hire a boat. Get a hotel room. Move it, I said we're closed."
You sometimes just had to smile when people ran to type. When life fell into its comfortable, familiar patterns. Briar let out a chuckle and dropped a hundred bucks on the bar, sat down. Socco would either have to make a play or just steal the money, pour him a couple of beers.
From the Ganooch's table, Richie Merullo said, "It's a celebration, Socco, relax and make friends. Serve him."
Briar had never been this close to Richie Merullo in person before but he'd seen lots of pictures. Newspapers, the Net, documentaries, and true crime bestsellers with Richie wearing Armani and smirking on the cover. It shocked Briar to see how little the prick had changed over the last fifteen years. The party this afternoon was because Richie had beaten another racketeering indictment. At least the Feds kept busy while they were reaching for straws.
The Ganooch—Paul Ganucci—had been in the hospital twice over the last six months for minor strokes. Briar couldn't see any after-effects whatsoever. No drooping lip, no slurring of speech. Ganooch was telling a joke about a Sicilian sailor, a rabbi, and a fat woman with a mole on her chin. Briar came in too late on it and didn't understand the punch-line. The crew laughed their asses off and pounded on the table.
Popgun pushed away a plate of prosciutto, cleared the space in front of him and hunkered further into his chair. It gave Briar a good view of the man. Early sixties with indignant eyes and murky features that looked like they'd been spread out with a trowel. His nose and jaw had been broken so many times it seemed his face was full of packed sand. The wrinkles ran deep as gutters, twining into his jowls, corkscrewing all over. Short and compact, almost as wide as he was tall, Popgun's hands were so small and ivory they should've belonged to a nine-year-old girl.
They said Pop never spoke. Word was he'd had his throat partially slit in a street fight when he was a kid and half his vocal chords were sliced through, made his voice high-pitched. So he didn't talk. Briar checked but couldn't see a scar from here.
Rain came down in a soft drizzle but picked up quickly, slapping at the reinforced glass and bursting into rivulets. The ocean roiled and grew white-capped, erupting and spewing, and he searched the water for faces he might know.
None there just yet.
Briar eased himself into a seat at the bar and ordered a Dewar's and Coke, took a pull and stared out the window at the bayside deck, where his father used to take him fishing down the inlet.
All right, he'd managed to swing a drink or two but he still had to make a big enough play to keep from getting kicked out, and it had to have just enough style but not too much.
You couldn't tell with this crew who might get insulted by what. They'd been whacking each other as long as they'd been putting hits out on the other families.
He glanced up at the game and said, "Anybody taking some action?"
"You're a little late," Socco said. He nudged one of his soldiers and said, "Look at this one, walks in with five minutes left to go in the third quarter and wants to lay down a bet."
Briar pulled out a money clip holding twenty-seven hundred dollars and tossed it to Socco. "On the 'Niners."
"You're fucked in the head, kid."
"You don't want it?"
"Hey, you got scarola like this to throw around, I'll take it."
"Sure."
Socco jutted forward, still trying to feel Briar out, see what sort of bullshit he was up to. He spoke softly, pausing for effect, reeling it out slow.
"But if you fuck around with me...I'll put your head through that back mirror, understand?" The blunt sag in his face appeared to swim around that fiery squint. He gave that homicidal gaze to everyone, mouth smoothed into a bloodless line but with his tongue swirling around in there, probing back teeth. Briar had been around just enough the past year that Socco sort of recognized him. "You, you're with the mason's union, right?"
"Did a couple of jobs for you on the North Shore."
"The Stanley development."
"That's right." Briar stuck his hand out. Socco took it and put an extra couple of foot-pounds of pressure into the shake, wanting to bust knuckles.
"So where the hell did you get money like this? And why are you throwing it away?"
"Your sister? Who's she?"
Now, here's where it happens. "A cheerleader. She screws the offensive line and knows when they'll rally. She gives blowjobs in the locker room at half-time. It gives them new incentive."
Socco let loose with laughter and the others at the bar did the same. "Incentive, ha! Look at this one."
Okay, so he'd made it this far.
The wind blasted the rain so hard that the water flattened against the glass and began to soak in at the seams around the windows. The couples left one by one before it got too bad, and finally the family with four kids departed as well.
Briar was alone in there with the men responsible for the murder of Bethie.
Clouds railed and moved furiously, mushrooming, closing in. There was blood in the tide, all right...washing up the beach inch by inch.
Briar gave a sidelong glance and realized he'd screwed up and somehow gotten onto Richie's radar. Christ, the guy had instincts sharp as an animal's. Richie kept staring without expression, occasionally sipping scotch and nodding to the others, but never taking his eyes off the bar. Briar had heard that Richie Merullo had a damn near photographic memory.
Had he seen Briar around a little too much? Did Briar resemble his sister just enough to press the right buttons? Good. The night was moving along.
His hackles rose and threads of sweat worked through his hair, the headache starting to clatter against the back of his skull. Briar looked down into his drink and a woman's hand rose from the liquid.
Her index finger, tipped with a well-polished nail, beckoned him forward. Briar raised the glass, leaned in a little closer, and she ran her finger in a slow outline around his lips, pressed down on the tip of his tongue.
One of the whores from the back room doubled as a waitress. Socco sent her over to bring Briar a fresh drink.
"You okay?" she said.
"Hm?"
"Your face is all wet. You been crying?"
"No."
"$7.50 for the Dewars."
He had ten bucks left in his pocket and laid it out in front of her. Briar was about to stand up, get the show rolling, when another gust struck above trying to get his attention. The front door opened, and he could see why Bethie was so agitated out there, shrieking in the convulsing turmoil.
A damn-near drowned family walked into Il Mare, all of them shuddering violently, wet sand clawing at their feet...parents using their vinyl sweat jackets like umbrellas, covering up the two kids, all of them completely drenched.
Father, maybe 35, wearing fashionable feather-weight glasses with the fat raindrops clinging, dressed in those long shorts or short pants—whatever the hell they were called—like he was trying to squeeze out the last few minutes of summer even though it was October and hurricane season.
Mom, harried and fuming, her make-up washed off and the soaked frizzy hair wrapped atop her head like a rat's-nest turban, left knee bleeding where she must've scraped it against the boardwalk railing while making a run to shelter.
Six-year-old girl, oblivious but happy the way she should be, doing her own thing and sort of dancing and singing to herself, enjoying the funky weather, holding onto a soaked rag doll that dripped on the floor in a steady stream.
The boy, around ten or so, shaggy-headed with cutie-pie looks that would have the girls cat-fighting over him by tenth grade, gazing from one face to another and knowing straight off that something wasn't right. Another one with a finely honed intuition. His eyes settled on Briar but the kid kept a solid control on himself, uncertain but not frightened as he tried to figure out what was circling the place, moving just out of sight.
The father smiled tentatively as the crew stared at him, Socco really throwing every inch of his hard-on personality into it.
"I'm sorry," the dad said, "but we, uhm, we missed the ferry."
"The hell's the matter with you people," Socco said. "Don't any of you have a goddamn watch?"
"We—"
"Grab a water taxi, somebody might still be running."
"Out there? No, imposs—"
"There must be a hundred hotels up the beach. Go, live a little. They got free cable."
"You don't realize how awful it is outside."
"Sure, I do. All you've got to do is go another half-mile down the road."
"We can't, we'll never make it."
"Hey, buddy, don't give me any shit."
"You can't see three feet in front of your face!"
Socco was about to let loose but stopped himself and checked the Ganooch. The table was getting more rowdy, the crew really knocking back the wine. Maybe they wanted to move the rest of the party out into the main room, get the hookers to do their thing up on the bar.
But the Ganooch said, "What, I gotta tell you what to do, Socco? Show a little hospitality, for Christ's sake. Give them some coffee, hot cocoa, whatever they want—and get a few towels—"
The waitress cracked gum and sighed, pissy because the other girls working in the back were with the high rollers, getting c-note tips for ten minutes of action on their knees, and here she was serving Dewars and running to get hot chocolate.
She did as she was told—brought out a tray of drinks, a couple of beach towels, but never sat the family. They stood in the foyer just inside the front door, drying off while the hinges rattled and the rafters groaned.
Fourth quarter, the game was swinging around. 49ers scored, nailed the extra point, Broncos fumbled, 'Niners recovered and scored again, all within a minute and a half. Still a way to go but the tide was turning. Socco looked down the length of the bar at Briar and tried to broil him in his seat. He hissed, "That sister of yours really knows how to inspire these lame fucks."
"She's got talent."
"You know how much you'll pull in from me if they beat the spread?"
"Just under fifteen grand."
Socco didn't like that number or the grin on Briar's face while he said it. He stomped his way over but stopped short, staring over at the children, the father sipping from a steaming cup.
"Look at this one," Socco said, "he takes the cocoa and leaves the cappuccino for his kid."
"I like it," the girl said, "all the foam. But it needs cinnamon."
"We ain't got no cinnamon. Besides, that's not how you're supposed to drink it."
"It's good."
"Ah, whattyou know?"
There was a scratching under Briar's feet, somebody trying to claw their way up through the sand and concrete. His pulse picked up speed and throbbed painfully, a black vein in his neck ticking like mad.
"Mom...?"
"Yes, honey."
"My coffee..." She sounded older than she was, her tiny voice filled with wonder and potential, reminding him again of his sister. Everything did. The girl's inflection trembled a bit, as the doll kept dripping in time with Briar's heartbeat. "My coffee just touched me."
"What?"
"The cup, it—" She was having a hard time catching her breath too, maybe caught between laughing and letting loose with a sob, and Briar didn't blame her. It was pretty weird the first time it happened to you.
Mom just went, "Uh huh..." but Briar could see the finger streak of foam on the girl's cheek.
A nervous electron cloudburst, static intensity in the air picking up strength, with the reek of burning ozone wafting past. The lightning inside.
Briar swallowed a grunt and trembled as he hit a new energy ring, quivering with the hairs standing out on his arms, sucking air through his teeth in tune with the driving waves of a roaring, bone-crushing ocean.
Sometimes, he thought.
Jesus, sometimes the love that promotes rage gives way to the fury. He could still sense Bethie and feel her in the depths of his memory, twisting and writhing there, but he no longer remembered her with any clarity. A handful of images would occasionally surface, some distant and vague emotions, but nothing with any heft.
Eventually, his sorrow
should have lightened. He should've continued on with his life as his parents and brothers had done. He could have compartmentalized his pain and gone forward to find the right woman, the perfect job, the goddamn picket fence. Any of it.
But there are questions you can ponder for too long, until the chemistry in your brain begins to circle and pick up speed, and it grows into a whirlpool that draws down all your other thoughts into it.
Elizabeth Briar—she'd just turned nineteen back then when the easy cash of the Tender Trap lured her into topless dancing. She got together enough of a stake to move out of the house and into an apartment she shared with one of the other strippers.
The Feds fucked up and played it all wrong, as usual. Richie Merullo had frustrated them at every turn so they had to go after penny ante shit. Raided the Trap and found a little coke, and it turned out that Bethie's roommate was four months underage. Feds played it up and really tried to skewer Richie with it, never bothering to put the girls or anybody else under protective custody, never even mentioning the possibility of trouble to them. Hell, Bethie kept on dancing, going to work every night, totally unaware that the cops were running the game as stupidly as they were.
Until the morning when Bethie and the roommate were both taken out—pop, pop, two in the eyes for each of them. Later on that day the cokehead bouncer got a double-tap to the face as well. Richie was like that. Any troubles, no matter how small, and you just make them disappear.
And there it was—Bethie dead at nineteen because nobody double-checked her friend's fake ID, and a barrel-chested schmuck with a 20-inch neck wasn't smart enough to figure out a better hiding place for his stash than under the bar behind the bottle of JD. The girls never would've testified, but Richie never took chances, always went to sleep at night without any heartburn. Besides, Popgun liked his work, and you apparently had to turn him loose every now and again or he'd start to mope.
Sometimes.
The misery takes over and becomes everything that matters—the watching and waiting, the hundreds of hours of research and investigation, completely on your own in the darkness, until your silky hatred becomes all you know. It's where you're at home, it's the sweet water you draw from the well.
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