Gin Palace 02 - The Bone Orchard

by Judson, Daniel

  He hesitated, straining to breathe. Finally he lifted his feet one at a time. His knees came to his chin. He was wearing black dress shoes, Oxfords.

  “Untie the laces, then tie them together tight, in a knot,” I said.

  He did what I told him. I watched him as he worked. The belt around his neck meant he couldn’t look down without cutting into his breathing, but I didn’t care. He gagged and took shallow, panicky breaths.

  A distended artery crossed down his forehead like a slash of lightening. Even in the dark I could see that his face had reddened significantly.

  When the laces were knotted together I moved across the back seat and out the door. I got into the driver’s seat and removed my belt from around my waist and bound his hands together by the wrists. His eyes were on me but I didn’t care if he saw my face. When I was done I sat and looked at him for a moment, then turned on the interior light and leaned across the seat till we were face to face. The distended vein in his forehead looked ready to burst. He strained to look at me from the corner of his eye.

  “Remember me?” I said.

  He said nothing. His strained breathing was the only sound around. After a moment of this foolishness I flipped off the overhead dome light and sat back behind the wheel and cranked the ignition till the engine caught.

  I switched on the headlights and saw in their long beams a swirling of white flakes. The storm I had been sensing all day was here. I could imagine the bulk of it still to the west, past Peconic Bay, past the Pine Barrens, past Queens, pouring heavy and silent onto Manhattan.

  We rode the back roads toward Southampton. I kept my eye out for cops when I wasn’t glancing over at the limper. He kept perfectly still, watching the road ahead, his breathing short and measured, his eyes bulged. Fear was sobering him up fast.

  It was still a good hour and a half till dawn, till we lost the cover of dark. In the village of North Sea I stopped at a deli and dialed Frank’s beeper number from a pay phone outside. All the glass in the booth had been smashed in and the cold night air flowed through it, carrying snow. The air seemed colder with all that metal around. On the floor of the booth was a pile of bits of broken glass that looked in the dark like diamonds. But they crushed into powder beneath the toe of my sneaker.

  When I heard the tone I punched in the number of the pay phone. Then I hung up and waited. I watched the man strapped to the headrest in the passenger seat of the warm LTD. I looked at nothing but him, or the shape of him, which was all that was visible in the dark. I could barely feel the earth beneath me; I could barely feel anything but the wind that moved through the booth and the snow that touched my face. I think if I had looked at my own reflection then I would not have recognized much of what I saw. I was glad it was dark.

  Five minutes went by and then the phone rang. I picked it up on the second ring. I could hear what I always heard when I spoke to Frank on the phone: the hiss of a pay phone connection. He was probably at the one near Cameron Street in the village, by the camera shop. His house wasn’t far from there.

  “I’ve got it,” I said. “Where do you want to take delivery?”

  “Road D, off Dune Road.”

  “When?”

  “How soon can you get there?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  I drove around the village to avoid being seen. I passed the hospital and then followed Gin Lane till it became Dune Road. Here is where the road changed from a coastal road to a peninsula that ran for a little over a mile and separated Shinnecock Bay from the Atlantic Ocean. Across the bay to my right was the Shinnecock Indian reservation and, in the low hills above it, Southampton College. To my left were the dunes and the fantastic homes built upon them. Beyond the dunes was the beach and the Atlantic. I could hear the sound of the surf, faint like a whisper over the engine and through the closed windows.

  It was a dark, inky morning, made even more so by the heavy storm clouds. There were no streetlights on Dune Road. The snow was falling heavier now, in straighter lines. I wondered if inland it had begun to accumulate. Here by the ocean fallen snow never lasted long enough to amount to anything.

  I turned left into Road D, which was really just a hundred-foot-long parking lot cut into the tall beach grass. Frank’s Seville was the only car there, and he was waiting beside it when I parked.

  He was dressed for the weather in a heavy black leather coat and black gloves. His pants and shoes were black as well. He moved quickly toward the LTD and, upon reaching it, reached out and yanked the door open.

  The interior light came on. In Frank’s fist was his .45 semiautomatic Colt. He leaned in across the man with the limp and with one sudden, violent motion smashed the dome with the butt of the gun. The light blinked out fast. For a second I wasn’t sure what to expect.

  Frank’s moves were certain and swift, like those of a man on a mission, or caught up in an obsession. He leaned back out of the LTD then and pressed the muzzle of the pistol hard against the head of the man.

  Frank wasn’t here to play games, and he wanted everyone present to know it.

  “We’re taking you for a walk,” he said. “Do you understand?”

  The man nodded once, his eyes straining to see Frank. Strands of wet hair were matted to his forehead. Frank held the gun steady and said to me, “Undo him.”

  I leaned in and undid the belts and cut the laces of his shoes with my knife. Free of the noose, the man leaned forward, his body relaxing, and drew in deep breaths. Frank allowed him little time to enjoy his freedom. He pulled the man out roughly, dragging him by the collar of his overcoat, spilling him onto the pavement. I heard then for the first time the familiar sound of heavy waves breaking over the shore. I had heard that sound most every day of my young life, a steady hiss spilling over the sill of my bedroom window. That house sat not far for here, but it was, now and always, the last thing on my mind.

  “Get up,” Frank ordered, his hand still on the man’s collar.

  I walked around the car to them. Frank pulled till the man scrambled to his feet. I watched but did nothing. It was Frank’s show now. I had done my part and was free to go. But something, maybe a sense of dread, made me want to stay.

  The man with the limp looked at Frank, then at me, then back at Frank. He was almost too drunk to stand. I don’t think he knew anymore where he was.

  “Toward the water,” Frank ordered. He stood behind the man, the gun pressed into the base of his skull. With his left hand on the man’s collar, Frank steered him off the narrow lot and onto the sand and between two dunes. The man fell more than once, and each time he did Frank would yank him back up to his feet.

  There was frost on the surface of the sand, but it was broken through easily, and once you broke through it you sank heel and toe deep into the softness. I walked behind Frank, careful to step in his footsteps, hoping to hide my presence. My gut told me not to be here but I continued to follow him. The snow was falling heavy and fast, swirling crazily. It was a squall, blinding and chaotic. Cold shards hit my open eyes, caused a quick chill, and then melted. I blinked continuously and tucked my chin into my chest. It did little good.

  I followed Frank into this storm, between the two dunes, and stopped at an overturned boat and waited as they continued down the beach to the water’s edge. It was high tide, a frigid mist in the air.

  The man went to the water’s edge and stood facing the turbulent Atlantic, his back to Frank. Frank took a few steps back and aimed his .45 square at the back of the man’s head. Even from this distance and through the wild snow I could see the man’s eyes shifting frantically. Always the question, “What did I do?” I knew this question well: I had asked it with wild eyes just before a bullet tore into my shoulder a few years ago. The half-dollar-size wound itched now, just as it always did before and during snow and rain.

  I watched from the safe distance of a hundred feet and kept still on that overturned boat and said nothing. I watched what I could see of th
e side of the man’s face, hoping to see something to hate. All I saw was a man afraid for his life.

  I could not hear Frank speak over the sound of the ocean. Occasionally I heard the sound of a raised voice, but no words. The man with the limp held both his hands high in the air and Frank remained behind him by a few paces, the .45 aimed at the back of the man’s head. They were discussing something now. I heard curses, mainly from Frank. Things seemed to be reaching a pitch, and then Frank took several fast steps forward and placed the muzzle of the gun against the man’s head and, with his left hand, shoved the man toward the water.

  The man stopped, refused to move, and then Frank shoved him again. I saw Frank cock the .45. The man seemed aware of this, hesitated, then proceeded to wade into the heavy surf.

  I didn’t move from the overturned boat, just sat there and watched. Again, it was Frank’s show and had nothing to do with me. This was as far as I agreed to come.

  The man took several steps forward, then was hit by a wave and stumbled and fell into the water. He struggled to keep his head up but to no avail. Frank yelled at him again and the man got to his feet and paused. He embraced his torso with his arms to keep warm and began to turn his head back to look at Frank. Frank fired the .45 once, into the ocean, and the man turned forward again.

  I stood up from the boat then. The gunshot was a momentary crack in the broad night sky, and then it was gone, swallowed up by the sound of the incoming waves.

  Frank yelled at the man again and the man started forward, wading in up to his waist. He got past the waves and stood chest deep in freezing water.

  I had no idea what Frank was doing. I stayed by the overturned boat and called, “Frank,” but he didn’t hear me. I just didn’t see how a man dead from exposure could help Augie any, so I started down the beach toward Frank. He was calling something to the man but I couldn’t hear what it was. I could see though that Frank was caught up in something almost wild.

  “Frank.”

  He acknowledged me but did not take his eyes off the man in the ocean. “Stay out of this, Mac.”

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “I’m finding out the name of the man who hired him.”

  “Looks to me like you’re drowning him.”

  “He didn’t want to talk.”

  “Maybe he didn’t know.”

  “I don’t think he’ll die to keep that secret.”

  “Put the gun down, Frank.”

  “Stay out of this, Mac. You’ve done your bit, now go home.”

  “Not like this, Frank.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t let you do this. Put down the gun.” I called to the man in the water. “Get out. C’mon, get out.”

  He didn’t take his eyes off of Frank. He was chest deep in the icy water, battered by relentless waves, but still he was unwilling to move.

  “Frank, he doesn’t know anything. Let him out.”

  “Stay out of it, Mac.”

  “Put the gun down, Frank.”

  “Stay the fuck out of it.”

  “You can’t do this, Frank.”

  Frank called to the man, “Who hired you?”

  The man could not answer. He could barely remain above the water. He slipped under once and came up again immediately. He was coughing, hacking seawater out of his lungs.

  “You can’t do this, Frank.”

  “Stay out of it, Mac.”

  “If he drowns, whatever he might know goes with him.”

  “He knows. He’ll tell us.”

  “Frank, I’m telling you for the last time, put the gun down.”

  “This is Augie’s life, MacManus. Don’t you want to save Augie’s life?”

  “Not like this.”

  “You piece-of-shit pussy. I had you pegged from the start. You’re a loser, MacManus. You’re the worst kind of loser. You’re not willing to do what it takes. You’re a pussy and you’d rather fuck Augie’s daughter than keep him out of jail – “

  He was facing me then, his mouth twisted with anger and rage. The first thing I threw was a head butt, smashing his nose. I leapt forward and clung to him and raked my thumbnails across his eyes, which he had instinctively closed. After that I went straight for the .45 in his right hand. I grabbed the barrel and peeled the gun from his grip, securing it in my left hand. With my right I slapped him in the balls and he dropped to the ground. I released the clip from the .45 and tossed it down the beach. I ejected the chambered round and threw it in the opposite direction. Then I dropped the empty .45 into the sand by my feet and ran to the edge of the water.

  I ran into the ocean. The water that splashed up stung my face, but that was the least of it. I grabbed the man and held him to me as I walked back on rubbery legs toward the shore.

  The waves pushed us forward, and we collapsed side by side on our backs on the sand. My clothes were soaked again, brutal cold pressing against every part of my body. The man with the limp was hacking and puking. After a moment he looked over at me. There was sand on his face and he could barely breathe. He was only slightly more sober now. Neither of us said anything. Then he pulled himself up, took one more look at me, then limped across the beach, toward the dunes beyond which lay Road D. He moved desperately, as quickly as the sand and his limp and his hardening clothes would allow. He moved without once looking back.

  I lay in silence for a while. I started to count the sound of the waves and then lost count. I was freezing, but it was all so familiar now. After a while Frank was standing over me, aiming a gun at me, another gun, a .380 Llama, his back-up. I was more tired than I thought I should be. The man with the limp had gotten up and fled, so why was I still sprawled out and panting? I looked up at Frank. His nose was bleeding and his eyes were inflamed from where I had raked them. It must have taken him a while to get to his feet. He was breathing hard. I didn’t need to look close at his face to know how pissed he was.

  “You more than anybody should know better than to cross me,” he said. You could tell by the way he spoke that he had taken one in the groin. There was a grunt after every word, as if he ran suddenly short of breath. That knowledge brought me a degree of comfort. Not many people slap Frank Gannon in the balls, one way or the other, and live to tell about it.

  “What’s going on, Frank?” I said between gasps. Nothing of what I had seen tonight had made sense. Nothing I had seen since the accident had made sense.

  “You let our only lead go,” MacManus. “You’ve washed Augie’s chances right down the gutter. You’re his friend, at least he thinks you are. I’ll let you have the pleasure of telling him.”

  “He wouldn’t have let that man drown. He wouldn’t want it like that, either.”

  “An innocent girl drowning in a pond is one thing. Your enemy is another. That man was your enemy. And now that he knows we’re after him, there’s no way he’s going to let us find him again. Right down the fucking gutter.”

  Frank holstered the .380, then picked up his sand-encrusted .45. He put that in the pocket of his leather coat, then started to walk away.

  “I’d offer you a ride, but my seats are leather.”

  “Call Eddie,” I said. “Please.”

  “You’ll find your way home. You always do.”

  “I’ll die out here, Frank.”

  Frank stopped. “Call the cops.”

  “Don’t be a prick, Frank.”

  “Maybe your friend will come back.”

  “I’ll do a job for you. Whatever you want. Just get me someplace warm.”

  “You’re a fuck up, MacManus. I used to think you were just unlucky. Now I see just how hard you work at failure.” He reached into his pocket and tossed a coin into the sand.

  “There’s a pay phone in the lot. You can call whomever you want from there. If it works, that is. If not, maybe some of your former neighbors’ll take pity on you and take you in.” He looked me over. “You might want to get a haircut first.”

  He was gone then. I knew I didn’
t have time. I felt through the sand with aching fingers and found the coin, then pulled myself up and started toward the dune. I made it by sheer will between the two dunes onto Road D. Both the LTD and the Seville were long gone. I was alone in a stretch of nowhere. The pay phone was by the road. It felt as if my ear shattered when I put it to the earpiece. I didn’t want to risk Eddie being out on a fare, and I didn’t want to have to explain to Augie or Tina what had happened. There was only one other person I could think to call. I dialed the number with reluctance.

  He answered on the fourth ring, his voice groggy.

  “George, it’s Mac,” I said. “I need your help.”

  I got three hours’ sleep and woke with a headache. My clothes lying on the floor just inside my door had thawed and were still wet and covered with sand. I placed them on the radiator to dry. The snow had long since stopped and there was little accumulation to speak of along Elm Street. As I slowly awoke it became clear to me that the abuse and sleeplessness were beginning to take their toll on me. I rose slowly, like a mountain. Before breakfast I called Eddie and had him take me to my car in Sag Harbor. We didn’t talk much the entire trip out, except for when he wished me a Happy Thanksgiving. I had no idea up till then what day it was. When I got my bearings I wished him one, too, and said nothing more. I thought about dinner at Augie’s around one. I had no clue what I would say to him about the man with the limp.

  On my way home in my LeMans I stopped and got the East Hampton paper. East Hampton was a half hour drive from Southampton, but for good money, I’d take that risk. Back in my apartment I took my Spyderco knife out of my pocket and tossed it into the top drawer of a bureau. Then I sat in my chair at my living room window and drank cold tea and searched those want ads for jobs. There was nothing for me; I knew there wouldn’t be, not at this time of the year. I’ve lived out here all my life, and spent the last ten years hiding as best I could from the heart of things, hiding in these crowded rooms of mine two floors above an out-of-the-way bar. I lived here in my precious self-exile, trying to matter as little as possible whenever possible. It was the life I’ve chosen, miserable and empty and, I had determined a long time ago, all I deserved.