Where Night Stops

by Douglas Light

  She laughed—“Careful”—then lifted her skirt to show me her knees. They were speckled black. “It is hard to get all the cinder out if you fall and cut yourself.”

  After a half hour more of walking this strange landscape, I finally asked where we were going.

  “To talk to Stefan, my new boyfriend.”

  There was nothing before us but miles of rock and crag and scrub. “He lives out here?”

  “In the next village,” she said, pointing ahead.

  There was no village in sight. “How far is it?”

  “Two or three miles, maybe. I’ve only been there a few times.” She jabbed the lava plumes with her walking stick. “Stefan is not as tall you,” she told me, “but I bet he is stronger.” Black hair, firm back, a good set of teeth. She ran through his qualities as if he was a farm animal.

  “You have a picture of him?”

  She shook her head. “I have never seen him.”

  I stopped. “How do you date a guy you’ve never seen?”

  “The same way you date any guy,” she said, powering on. “Is that hard to believe that love is not based on appearance alone?”

  “It’s a big factor.”

  “It is a wrong factor,” she said. “Relationships based on a face are like the faces themselves—they do not last. But if you know someone, really know them, well, that part never changes.”

  We ascended a tall, bare ridge and the island spread out before us, the Atlantic lofting into view. Finding a flat rock, I sat. I was out of breath.

  She clambered up to the edge of the stone to the peak, cupped a hand to her face, and let loose a piercing whistle. The sound danced out over the rocks, streaming outward the center of the island, the wind holding it aloft.

  A moment later, a reply was whistled. “That is Stefan,” she said, excited. “My boyfriend.” She whistled again, the tone and infection lifting and dropping as she fired back a reply.

  The air quieted to the sounds of the breeze, then filled again to with a whistle. “I told him about you. He says hello,” she said. “Said he will fuck you up if you try anything with me.”

  I laughed. “You’re telling me you got all that from whistling showtunes?”

  “They are not showtunes,” she said. “It is Silbo, our language.”

  “Yours and Stefan’s?”

  “My people’s. Everyone on La Gomera speaks it. It is our culture, our heritage. It is how we have communicated for hundreds of years.”

  I didn’t believe her.

  She pulled out a cell phone, handed it to me. “Text Stefan something. Just do not tell me what it is.”

  I thought a moment, then made something up. “My wife died last year,” I typed, then nodded to her.

  “Now I will ask him what you said.” She whistled to him, long and plaintive.

  A moment later, a reply sounded, pitched and long.

  The girl turned to me, motioned for me to stand.

  I stood.

  She grabbed me by my ear, pulled my face to hers, and set a kiss to my lips. She tasted of bubble gum and basil, a taste of childhood aching to end. “I am so sorry,” she said, her eyes soft. “I did not know you were a widower.”

  Chapter 54

  The day after my high school graduation, I woke in the hospital, a plastic tube snaked down my throat and my blood fighting to escape my battered body.

  A smashed left arm, a shattered right wrist, a broken knee, eight cracked ribs, and a concussion that left my eyes panda black. My face, pebbled from shards of the windshield, was a topography of scabs.

  People said I was lucky.

  I didn’t feel lucky. The pain was incredible.

  My parents were dead. Clement was dead. At the hospital, no one wanted to take the responsibility of breaking the tragic news to me. I knew, though. Their absence shimmered and fizzled through my fractured bones like damp fireworks.

  Officially, according to the sheriff’s report I eventually read, it was Clement’s fault. He was drunk. Vodka. He’d redlined his Nighthawk down Jacoby Avenue, and blown through the intersection. Either he didn’t see the stop sign or he’d just ignored it. A recommendation at best.

  My father, distracted, had wheeled our car directly into Clement’s path.

  All three had died instantly, which I guess is lucky. No suffering, no sadness of being left behind to deal with the grief.

  Clement’s parents, swollen in a rage of anguish, came to visit me in the hospital on the third day. Mr. Martin, unable to look me in the face, touched the frame of my bed like he was grounding himself for electricity then quickly left the room.

  Mrs. Martin, jaundiced with heartache, pulled a chair alongside my bed. She breathed raggedly, uneven, like her lungs had been punctured. I’d always thought Mrs. Martin a pretty woman. Now her features seemed somehow displaced; her hair had climbed her forehead and her eyes no longer held horizontal. A choking odor of turned milk and rotting fish kicked off her.

  She leaned to me, her lips close to my ear. “When I was a little girl,” she said, “I wanted to be a movie star. Everything was geared toward that goal. School plays, summer festivals, acting camps. I learned everything I had to learn, then went to LA and did everything I had to do to be a success. I did things I now wish I’d never done, things I now try to blank from my mind. And just look,” she said, her voice choked with tears. “I’m the wife of the small-town hardware store owner. I’m a mother without a child.” She sat back, then reached out and touched my neck, running her finger along the skin as if I were an object she’d never seen before. A puff of a sigh escaped her and she leaned in again, her face close to mine. “What is the lesson in all this?” she asked, her body humming with sadness. “What’s the takeaway?”

  Chapter 55

  After La Gomera, I made my way back to Europe, working up through Portugal then jetting to Paris and on to Germany before heading back in New York. Home, the world seemed to have left me behind, though nothing really changed. Vacation was over, and instead of being calmed, relaxed, and refreshed, I was even more skittish. It was a battle not to constantly check over my shoulder when out. At night, I’d wake choking on dread. The rev of a car’s engine, the slam of a door, or someone laughing sharply shot a fire poker of panic through my bowels.

  Coming back from a movie one evening, my neighbor shouldered past me in my building’s lobby. “Watch,” she said, then stopped. Wearing a soiled white jacket and pink terrycloth sweatpants with the words Deep Dish written on the ass, she was firmly on the wrong side of voluptuous. She pointed a gloved finger at me. “Your dad is some totally angry cunt.”

  “I don’t have a dad.”

  “Well, whoever that asshole is in your place.” She grabbed her shoulders, hugged herself. “I can only sleep in the evenings, you know, because of my condition? So tell him to cool it with the crashing about. Next time,” she said, heading off, “I’m calling the cops.”

  I shivered, but not from the cold. My blood pumped molten hot at the thought that someone was in my place.

  Two flights, thirty-eight steps. It took me five minutes to make the climb, my legs burning with each step. I thought of taking my shoes off, going in stealth. I wanted the edge of surprise. But then I’d have my shoes in my hand when I confronted whoever it was. The shoes stayed on.

  At my door, I put my ear to the wood and listened. Wub thub, wub thub. My pulse rang loudly through my skull.

  I fumbled the key into the lock and then, standing to the side, swung the door open. No crack of a bullet, no slash of a knife, no fist to the face. The apartment was silent, dark. Empty.

  I groped for the light, flicking it on. Everything stood exactly as I’d left it. If anyone had been there, all they did was dust lightly.

  The stew of high-alert chemicals spiking my body drained away, seeping from my pores in a rank sweat. Exhausti
on crippled me. I could barely think. A quick shower, then bed.

  Trundling into the bathroom, I undressed and was about to take a piss when the icy fingers of fear gripped my balls.

  The toilet lid was down. I never put it down.

  Someone had been here.

  Kicking open the lid, I expected to be greeted by a severed cat’s head—or something equally gruesome. What I found was a yellowed newspaper clipping taped to the inside of the lid. An obituary. The kind the family pays to have published. The photo showed a chubby, youngish man wearing a Texas Rangers baseball cap. Smiling lazily, he looked high or mildly retarded. Not a great photo, I thought, but it was probably one of his best. Pulling the clipping free, I studied the picture. I didn’t recognize the man. Then I read his obit. It was my Austin guy, the assistant manager of ReadiXpress. He’d been mowed down in a liquor store’s parking lot by a hit-and-run less than twelve hours after he’d Kam Manned for me. Was the obit a warning, a threat, or just an FYI? And from who? Higgles, I hoped. At least he was the devil I knew.

  I flushed the article, checked the lock on the front door, and then jammed a chair under the doorknob. The best weapon I could find was a foot-tall, wooden pepper mill, which I held through the night.

  Higgles texted the next day, the first I’d heard from him since Alicante. I didn’t know what to make of the message I received. Details weren’t generally his highpoint. He broad-stroked everything, kept it simple. Male, red shirt drinking wine, two p.m. or Woman, blonde, pearls, and black turtleneck, seven o’clock. This time, though, his particulars were frightfully precise. It was like he’d been sitting directly across from the mark, crafting a profile for the police. Height, weight, eye and hair color, the brand of shirt, shoes, type of suit, and even the pattern of his tie. More details than usual. He was never that specific. He even noted exactly which chair at which table at the café the man would be sitting, what he’d be eating (poutine) and drinking (Diet Coke).

  I had no idea what poutine was.

  I was to steal a bag, the unnamed prize inside.

  Enter front door, 3:00 p.m. sharp, he’d texted. Not before, not after. Three on the nose. Walk twelve paces to table, grab brown calf’s leather pouch hanging on back of contact’s chair, exit through kitchen. Meet me in Baltimore Thursday. Bring flash drive from the bag.

  First the obit and now the sudden attention to minutiae. It bothered me. Was this Higgles’ way of apologizing for nearly getting me killed in Alicante? Or was he sending me into more of the same?

  I’d skip the Montreal job. I didn’t need the cash. I was a free agent, could take or turn down a job, break out on my own. I could even set up my own shop.

  I found myself laughing. What if I out-Higglesed Higgles, stole the bag before the real thief did? Then, somehow, sold it back to him. Or to someone else. Or maybe no one at all. Maybe I’d just destroy the bag and its contents and have the private pleasure of knowing I’d gotten one over on Higgles.

  I texted him Broke foot. Can’t walk. Montreal off.

  Crawl then. Montreal is go.

  It’s all you, I texted. Best of luck.

  I expected my phone to blow up with a barrage of texts. A minute, then ten, passed. Nothing. My phone remained silent. Higgles resigned? Doubtful. I envisioned him collapsed on the floor, crippled with rage, maybe even foaming at the mouth. The image shot me with gooey glee. I’d pay for sure. I’d set myself up. But I’d also shifted the game, taken the upper hand. At least in my mind, at least for the moment.

  The why for what I did wasn’t clear to me.

  Or rather, I was too afraid to face it. It disturbed me that I liked how my blood thumped and hammered through my veins each time I stepped outside the standard. It seemed unnatural, wrong to be excited by the possibility of danger. Like I had a death wish or something. But I couldn’t help it. I liked the rush I got from uncertainty, the sharp flash of terror that shot through me when something went wrong. It made me appreciate being alive, which, ever since Clement’s and my folks’ death, I didn’t often feel.

  I booked a flight.

  Montreal. My first time. It was a beautiful city of quaint cafés, friendly people who’d smile as they passed, lively nightlife, and really good food.

  I bought a knife with a five-inch blade, not unlike the one I’d been stabbed with.

  Unlike other Kam Mans, this would be no Sunday meet and greet, no quick, friendly exchange. Higgles had made it clear that the contact wasn’t really a contact; he was a mark. It was a bash and grab. Flash the knife, punch the neck, snatch a brown leather pouch—a man-purse—and go. A poach and run. Right under Higgles’ nose.

  Mondo Et Fils, a corner café in Plateau Mont-Royal off Saint-Denis. That’s where I’d find my man.

  Approaching from the south, I scouted the scene from half a block away. The mark sat at a table near the front by the window, just as Higgles said he would. The pink page of the Financial Times he read blocked his face. Just as Higgles said it would.

  I checked the time—2:39 p.m. Higgles instructions stated to enter the front door exactly at 3:00 p.m. It’d long be over by then. I wasn’t going in on good terms. This was dangerous—or more dangerous. I was robbing this guy at knife point. The whole situation was dumb.

  I reread the text. Fuck Higgles, I thought. Fuck front door. Fuck three o’clock sharp. I was doing it on my own terms and timeframe.

  Making my way to the alley behind the café, I found the service entrance and banged on the door.

  The dishwasher opened the door, a cigarette clamped in his mouth. “Yeah?”

  “Sven thinks it’s probably a cracked cogmount gasket,” I said, pushing past him. “I’ll take a quick look-see, get it back up and running in no time.”

  “What?” He was confused. “What’s broken?”

  I strode on without answering, moved past the silver stoves, past the waiter snacking on feta cheese, past the bin of food scraps and the stacked plates, and through the swinging doors onto the café floor. 2:43 p.m. The place was empty except for the mark, whose back was to me. Looped over the chair’s back was the pouch I was after.

  Approaching quietly, I slipped behind him. First the bash, then the grab.

  I caught his jacket collar, clinched the fabric tight and yanked back as I kicked the legs of his chair out from under him.

  A startled cry. An upended table. A clatter of dishware as he crashed to the floor.

  I kicked the downed man in the ribs then seized his bag. I bolted.

  Or tried to. The stranger wrangled my leg, tying me up midstep. I met the floor face first.

  Lashing out, my heel connected with his head. I bound back to my feet, cut toward the front door.

  Then he yelled, his voice freezing me. “Stop, cousin!”

  It was Higgles.

  Turning, I eyed him on the floor. “What the fuck is this?”

  Higgles sat up and ran his hand down his food-stained front, frowning. “You ruined my shirt.” Then he laughed. “Bravo on catching me off guard.” He struggled to his feet.

  I kicked him again, knocking him back down. “What the fuck is this?”

  The café manager, now on the scene, shouted at me in mix of French and English, his voice rising in distress. “I call the police!”

  “Yes!” Higgles said, crabbing his way across the floor, away from me to him. “The police! Call the police!”

  The manager ducked into the kitchen for a phone.

  “What the fuck?” I said to Higgles.

  “Where’s the knife?” he said, back on his feet. He kept his voice low.

  It rested heavily in my pocket. “No knife.” I retreated cautiously, watching him.

  “The police! Call the police quick!” Higgles said, his head turned toward the kitchen. Then he turned to me, hissed. “I told you to bring a knife, cousin.”

  Kill
him now, my mind shouted. Kill him with the knife. “Got what I was supposed to get,” I said, holding up the bag. “I didn’t need the knife.”

  “You will,” he said, charging me.

  I caught him in the eye with an open slap. He stomped on my foot, then twisted me into a vicious headlock. “Bet you wish you had a knife now,” he said, punching me twice in the forehead.

  I dropped the bag, pulled the knife from my pocket. “I bet you wished I didn’t.” Flipping out the blade, I slashed savagely upward.

  Higgles let out the howl of a crushed cat. The headlock fell away.

  I sprang clear, grabbed the bag.

  Turning, I saw that I’d caught Higgles in the face, parting his cheek down to his jaw.

  Stunned, Higgles stared at me, his cut opening slowly. The blood spilled.

  The manager burst from the kitchen, but on spotting Higgles, the blood, the knife in my hand, he quickly retreated back to safety.

  Sirens sounded far off.

  Higgles gathered his senses, a rage taking hold. “Cousin, that’s twice you’ve surprised me today.”

  “Don’t call me cousin.” I provided him a third surprise by planting the knife tip deep in his left deltoid. The blade stuck like it was buried in a wedge of cheese.

  Higgles paled, then sat heavily on the floor.

  As I ran and ran, the pouch in hand and the crisp Canadian air burning my lungs, tears streamed down my face.

  I’d never felt so alive.

  ◉ ◉ ◉

  Poutine is cheese curds and gravy on French fries, a perfect cure for hangovers.

  Chapter 56

  At first, I didn’t understand why Higgles had done what he’d done. Why he’d demanded I stab him. Then it came to me.