Where Night Stops

by Douglas Light

  “Frogman. Pockmark. What is this, a video game? Cousin, whoever it was, they’re pissed off,” he said. “So. Austin. Good town, right?”

  I struggled to swallow. “Beautiful. Hot. I can definitely see why it’s the honeymoon capital of America,” I said, not having a clue where that came from.

  “Really, the honeymoon capital? Didn’t know that.” He dragged hard on his cigarette while motioning for me to turn left at the stop sign. “Thing is, cousin, that’s the reason that guy was here, why you—why we—were attacked. Austin. You must have fucked something up.” He reached over, poked me in the temple with his index finger. “I mean, aside from the obvious. Anything you want to share, cousin?”

  I shook my head.

  “I’ll let you in on a little secret: as with most everything, the problem rests with the translation. You know that when they translated the original text from ancient Greek, they went with the word ‘betray’ when the literal meaning of the word was ‘handing over.’ There is a different word for ‘betrayed.’ They have vastly different meanings.”

  “What are you talking about?” My throat ached dully and I was having a hard time swallowing. The smoke wasn’t helping.

  “Judas. The Bible. The crucifixion. The whole basis of Christianity. Christ wasn’t betrayed. He was handed over.” He pointed the glowing end of his cigarette at me. “Do you know what akrasia means? It’s Greek, too.”

  “No.”

  “Unfortunately, I’ve forgotten what it means,” he said.

  Frogman, the attack, Higgles appearing minutes later with a battered face. The truth settled in my mind. Decked in green, Higgles had come after me, run off, stripped, then returned to finish the job. I glanced over at him. He still had both his hands. Meaning…I didn’t know. Higgles wasn’t Frogman.

  The problem rests with the translation.

  Just how fucked was I? Was I driving toward my own grave? So much for respect and gratitude. Sure, Higgles and I weren’t equal partners, but I’d always thought he had my back, at least a little bit. Maybe I was no more than a means to an end for him, a disposable delivery boy—like my guy in Austin.

  A briny goo dripped into my throat. Kill Higgles, the thought came, before he kills you.

  Glancing over, I saw he didn’t have his seat belt on. “Where are we going?” I asked again, my foot falling hard to the accelerator. I kept a sharp eye for a tree, a pole, or a parked car. Now was the time to sever our relationship. Get up a good speed and slam the car into something that’d launch my erstwhile partner through the windshield. Slam into something he wouldn’t walk away from.

  “You know,” he said, “your paranoia isn’t a bad thing.”

  “What makes you think I’m paranoid?” I said, paranoid. The car edged to forty, then forty-five miles per hour.

  Higgles coughed up a laugh. “Cousin, you need a hobby, something to fill your spare time. Take up Facebook or knitting or something. Find an outlet for your pent-up energy.” He turned on the radio, then turned it off. “Personally,” he said, “I collect calling cards.”

  The car hit fifty. I blew through a stop sign without a flinch from Higgles.

  “I said ‘calling cards,’ cousin,” he repeated.

  “Stop with the fucking ‘cousin’ bit,” I said. “And who uses calling cards anymore?”

  The lampposts ticked past alongside the road. I edged the car to sixty miles per hour. A straight-on impact, or an angled passenger’s sideswipe? Which was best?

  “Boy, this car’s got speed for a hybrid,” Higgles said as we powered through another intersection. “Poor people use them. Calling cards, I mean.” He pulled out his wallet, showed me some cards. “Prepaid minutes. The ones for the Middle East and Africa are fantastic.” He shuffled the cards. “Big Black Daddy. Allah Way Home. Pootie Ring. Who the fuck comes up with these names?” He pointed to the Sweet Dog Diner. “Turn in up there.”

  My foot slacked off the gas, hit the brake firmly, forcing the car to decelerate. Higgles hand pressed hard against the dashboard, keeping him from slamming into the windshield. “Jesus, cousin, this isn’t NASCAR.”

  I rolled into the parking lot. “What are we doing?” I turn off the engine.

  “Getting something to eat,” he said, reaching over to pull the keys from the ignition.

  Was this my last meal? Did he plan on letting me fill my belly before killing me, or was he really just taking me out for pancakes and sausage?

  I followed Higgles from the car.

  “No,” he said. “You wait. Join me in seven minutes.” He held up an open hand and two fingers on the other. “Seven minutes, got it? Not a second before.”

  I sat back down, massaged my tender throat. The dashboard clock read 7:04 a.m. I glanced into the backseat, expecting to find the green ski mask, gloves, and shirt. Nothing. Just the package. Maybe Higgles was right. Maybe I was paranoid. My worry broke like a fever, exiting my body with a shiver. Maybe I’d been wrong. Even though he was an asshole, maybe Higgles wasn’t out to get me.

  Through the diner’s plate glass window, I saw my partner take a booth near the back. I saw him order. I saw his food delivered a few minutes later.

  At 7:11 a.m., I headed in.

  I slid into the booth. Toast, a coffee, scrambled eggs. It looked good.

  “You have to remember,” Higgles said, “we’re magicians. We’re in the art of making something appear one way when it really is another.” He pulled a clipping from his back pocket and handed it to me. “Read it.”

  It was an article from the Austin Chronicle, dated two days prior, when I was to have been in Austin. The story showcased a magician and his tricks of making large objects—elephants, cars, a radio tower—disappear. The reporter himself had witnessed a house vanish from the middle of a barren field. There was nothing around for miles. The audience had been granted the opportunity to tour the house, touch the walls, see that it was real. Solid. A place a family once lived in.

  Then, as complete night took hold, the visitors were directed to bleachers some thirty yards from the front of the house itself. Klieg lights drilled the brick house, illuminating it brightly for everyone to see. The magician said his words, made his motions. The white-blue beams on the house went dark and a long curtain was drawn before the bleachers, the field an impromptu stage. The moonless night stood black. Five minutes, ten. The crowd sat patiently in the dark silence, our intrepid reporter among them.

  Finally, the magician boomed an incantation, and an explosion of light shocked the audience’s eyes. The curtain dropped.

  There was a collective gasp.

  The spotlights cut the night, beaming without a break.

  Nothing.

  The house was gone. No sign of it. Just empty fields. A stunned audience. Then deafening applause.

  Higgles tapped the table. “I have a hunch that you went off script on the Austin deal. And by going off script, you pulled the curtain too soon. You fucked up our magic trick.” He slid from the booth, stood. “Someone rather nasty must have noticed. Now they’re trying to pull a magic trick of their own and make you disappear.”

  Disappeared as in dead, buried in some scrubland outside of town, never to be found. “So what should I do?” I fought to steady my breathe.

  Higgles picked up the butter knife, eyed his blurry reflection. “Relocate.” He pointed the knife at me. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” he said, then tossed the knife on the table. It clattered to a standstill. “Eat hearty.” He made his way to the door. “And don’t forget to tip the waitress.”

  Through the glass, I watch him climb in the Prius and pull away.

  I picked up the coffee Higgles had ordered for me and took a sip. It tasted like hot ocean, briny and foul. Chasing it with water made it worse. Higgles had spiked that with salt, too.

  I studied the eggs, the toast, t
he hash browns, afraid of what he might have done to them.

  I should have wrecked the car. I should have killed him when I had the chance.

  ◉ ◉ ◉

  It was simply slight of hand on a large scale. The house didn’t disappear.

  The bleachers were set on dolly tracks, slowly, imperceptibly, swiveling the audience so that the house, when “revealed” would be out of their sightline. While the breathless crowded stared at an empty field, the house stood off to the side, alone, empty and hidden by the dark.

  Chapter 51

  I was out. For good. No more Higgles, no more hiding or worrying about Pockmark, no more Kam Manning or strangers trying to kill me.

  I booked a flight to New York. Sarah would be my salvation. I knew that if I got her back, everything would somehow be okay. We’d broken on a bad note, but I’d make it up. All I need was the chance.

  It took me a day to find her. She’d moved from her old place on the Lower East Side up to Inwood. Upper State Manhattan. The top tip of the island. Quiet. Leafy. Residential. She’d made the first step on the journey toward the suburbs and her life of more, the life she felt she deserved.

  I could get used to the normal life, I kept telling myself. Get a dull job at a movie theater or some magazine, have dinner parties with people I didn’t particularly like, shop at Ikea, even endure holiday visits to Sarah’s folks. I’d murdered men. There was no way domesticity was more difficult.

  I staked out her place, waiting for the right moment. Tuesday she got home late, after eleven, looking exhausted. Not the best time. Wednesday she didn’t come home at all. Thursday evening she popped out of the subway station just after six, smiling. She headed into her building. The light to her place flicked on. The fourth floor, front of the building.

  Now was my chance.

  I waited half an hour. Then I waited more. I was nervous, didn’t know what I’d say to her, or how she’d react to me just showing up.

  Play the long game, I told myself. I doubt she’d let me in. And even if she did, there was no way she’d fall lovingly into my arms the moment she saw me. Just be cool. It’d take time. Tonight was the reintroduction. Tomorrow, the rebuilding of the relationship.

  I stood at her building’s door for five minutes, working up the courage. When I finally rang, the door buzzed open instantly. Not a word over the intercom. It was like she was expecting me, knew I was coming.

  I pushed in, pausing just inside the door to tamp down my jitters. It’s only Sarah, I kept telling myself. A known element. Someone I had a bond with.

  A voice stabbed me from behind. “Thanks, bro.” Some guy slid in the building before the door closed. He bounded past.

  Irritation lit through me. “Hey, you live here?”

  “Seems like it.” He took the stairs two at a time. “I’m here enough.”

  I followed, my eyes boring a hole through the back of his blond head.

  Second floor then third, he plowed ahead.

  I should have gotten Sarah something, I thought, climbing. Flowers or candy. But no, no gifts. Not tonight. Too cheap, sentimental. A gift tonight would be a sure sign of guilt, a confession that I was in the wrong. Not a strong way to rekindle a relationship.

  Nearly the fourth floor, my feet stalled. The blond guy was knocking on a door. Six apartments per floor, a one in thirty-six chance.

  No fucking way, I thought, glancing around the banister.

  He stood waiting.

  When the door swung open, my soul curdled. There she stood. Sarah. Pretty, smiling, and welcoming. The guy kissed her twice, said something that made her laugh, and then stepped in.

  The door clicked shut.

  Sarah was gone, had moved on. Of course she did, I thought. Of course.

  Outside, the spring breeze was raw. I walked the length of the island, down Broadway from 218th Street to Battery City Park. Not once did I see a telephone pole. In Manhattan, all the lines are buried, the voices traveling through the dark, cold earth.

  Chapter 52

  I settled in New York City, out in the Bronx just off the Major Deegan Expressway, and took to reading women’s magazines—Cosmo, Elle, Marie Claire, and Seventeen. My dream of normalcy, of being with Sarah, had been ambushed, gravely wounded. I had nothing. I had to start fresh, anew.

  Except I still had Higgles. He texted, Book 8. George Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia.

  One thing—one of the many things—I learned reading the women’s magazines was that breaking free of an abusive relationship was tough. Nearly impossible. We can’t do the hard work needed because we can’t get past our own lies. We keep telling ourselves “this time will be different.” It’s not. It’ll never be.

  Every article advised the same thing: cut all ties with the abuser. No contact at all.

  Love is a strong bond. Trauma is even stronger.

  I bought a ticket to Spain.

  Landing in Barcelona, I jumped on a train that clattered southeast along the coastline, per Higgles’ instruction.

  This time would be different, I told myself. This time I’m in control.

  I met him in a wine bar in Alicante, Spain.

  Nestled on a narrow street no car could manage, the tavern had the feel of a sea-warped schooner that’d been upended on the rocks. Timber beams, plank flooring, and oil lamps. The place smelled of baby powder and bacon grease, a smell that was oddly comforting.

  Higgles sat waiting in the dim interior, holding camp at a corner table. My mind stormed with questions. I wanted to know what happened to the package I’d spiked and just how worried I should be. But Austin was over, forgotten. Higgles had turned the calendar’s page. He was already into the next month.

  Over a carafe of bad wine that grew better the more we drank, he said, “Montreal will be a curious one. It’s not for a few months, so you have time to hone your fighting skills. You’ll want to bring a knife along for the meet.”

  “Knife-fighting skills? Hell, Higgles, what are you sending me into?”

  “A job.”

  “You’re expecting I’ll have trouble?”

  “I know you will.” He picked at a plate of sliced ham and olives. “Guaranteed.”

  “I’m not up for killing.” Except for you. The strength of my anger surprised me.

  “I’m not asking you to kill anyone”—he paused—“else. In fact, I hope you don’t. Just cut the guy a bit. On the arm or something. You’d be amazed at how far a little blood can go.”

  I finished my glass of wine, leaned back in my chair. The smart thing to do would be to trail Higgles to his hotel room, strangle him in his sleep. Or lure him up to the Santa Barbara Castle that towered over the town and shove him off a parapet. Or invite him on a picnic at the beach then drown him as he swam.

  I stood and pushed the chair to the table. “You still haven’t covered me for Austin.” It was pulling teeth to get him to pay for jobs these days. “Until then, I’m not doing anything for you.”

  The word “Austin” triggered him. Higgles face mottled grapefruit red. I’d never seen him enraged before and I felt a spark of fear. No matter the situation, his temperament seemed to rise to only annoyed. But now he was trembling with anger.

  He forced out three hard breaths and the color in his face slowly drained. He held his hands up to the air. Peace. “I was just getting to that. Sit,” he said, nodding at the chair.

  Stay or go?

  “I’ve got your money.”

  “Let’s see it.”

  “Not until you sit.”

  I settled back down.

  “Now, we’ve done supremely well together, yes?” Higgles fixed me with his gaze. “Aside from those times, that is.”

  “We’ve done okay.”

  He studied his fingernails, bit at one. “I’ve never really given you a thorough job review, have I?”<
br />
  “It’s not really that type of job.” I poured the last of the carafe into my glass, downed it quickly. “We don’t exactly have an HR department or play Secret Santa at the holiday party.”

  Higgles’ face creased in confusion. “Well, I just want you to know, you’re appreciated.” He flagged the waiter for another carafe of wine, more tapas. “I want you to know that I’d be greatly indebted to you if you did the Montreal gig.”

  He appreciated me? The bastard was stringing me along. “You’re already greatly indebted to me.” I got up. “So unless you start flashing the money you owe me and get yourself un-indebted, we have nothing more to say.”

  Higgles stood up, too, came around the table and grabbed my arm. He threw a number at me. A big number. More than four times what he owed me for the Austin trip. “In euros,” he said. “It’s yours, free and clear.”

  I sat. “You mean a bonus on top of what you owe me.”

  He liked that term. “Yes. Exactly. A bonus. For all the good work you’ve done.”

  “And the catch?”

  He made a face, wounded. “‘Catch’ has such an offensive connotation to it. I like to think of it as a prerequisite.”

  “Then what’s the ‘prerequisite’ for the bonus?”

  The new carafe came, another plate of ham and olives. “The Montreal gig.” Higgles topped our glasses. “Think of it as one of those signing bonus, like in baseball.”

  It was a lot of money. I could travel the world for a year or buy a small house in Iowa kind of money. “I say yes to Montreal, you hand me the cash?”

  He nodded.

  “You’ve got the money on you?”

  “Not physically,” he said, “but it’s here. In Alicante.” He tilted his chair back, leaning against the wall. “So, are we in agreement?”

  He’s fucking with me. I’d end up agreeing and walking out with nothing. “Not until I have five thousand euros in my hand. A signing bonus to the signing bonus.”