Where Night Stops

by Douglas Light

Whatever was supposedly in the pouch, Higgles wanted the full profit from its sale to the highest bidder. But there’d be a storm of fury if his employers thought for a moment he had double-crossed them. So he needed a credible story to cover its disappearance. He needed the fight with me, needed the stabbing, the blood, the witnessed, the police, and hospital report stating he’d been violently attacked, all to cover the simple fact that he had essentially robbed himself.

  Of course, whatever it was I was to steal, Higgles had kept. I’d come up empty. He got the goods and I was left literally holding the bag.

  Chapter 57

  The moment my flight touched down at JFK airport, I knew I couldn’t stay. I’d been there too long and Higgles had always found me, tracked me down no matter where I was. I was done waiting for him. Now it was my turn to hunt him down. Haven, Florida. Higgles’ PO Box. My best lead.

  I packed the books and a few items I cared to keep and I abandoned the apartment. I texted Higgles. Shipped bag to Haven FL PO. Ready to talk. It was a long shot. He already had what he wanted, had no need to go to Haven for the bag, but I had to try. Then I shipped my cell phone third-class ground to a Quizno’s in New Mexico. It seemed farfetched, but if Higgles had been tracking me through the phone, then he’d be in for a road trip.

  In Haven, I rented the apartment above a cigar store and bought a bike for seventeen dollars at a yard sale. I took to riding to the post office every morning at eight, hanging out in lobby for most of the day, and keeping an eye hard on Higgles’ PO Box, hoping to see who, if anyone, came to open it.

  Strangely, I felt safe there. Calm. A sanctuary. Nothing could harm me as long as I lingered in the hushed, marble-floored space.

  Higgles would never come himself. He’d pay some kid twenty bucks to check the mail. It’d be that kid I’d follow.

  It wasn’t much of a ploy, I knew.

  My third day staking out the box, the security guard, a wiry Cuban who wore both a belt and suspenders, strode up to me. “You got to go,” he said, lowering his voice to a rough grumble.

  I wasn’t bothering anyone, I argued.

  “You’re bothering me with your crazy eyes,” he said. “Plus, you haven’t said hi to me once in the three days you’ve been standing there.”

  “Hi,” I said, and left.

  I thought about staking out the post office from the bus stop across the street, but why? I wouldn’t be able to see who actually opened Higgles’ box. Plus, with my paranoia spiking again, I felt positive I’d be an easy target. Anyone could roll up in a car and take me out with a shot. I needed to keep in motion. And I needed a new plan.

  I took to riding my bike around town—ostensibly to locate Higgles, but really I just needed to clear my mind, plot a better attack.

  Mornings were my favorite time for a ride. The day’s light, flat and even, hadn’t yet gained its full, brutal strength. People love Florida for that light. They love it for its bright, uninterrupted sunny weather, six hundred and sixty-three miles of beaches, its warmth. I found it all oppressive. Beautiful day after beautiful day, every minute spent indoors felt wasted; every minute outdoors I felt my brain baking.

  I coasted my bike down ugly streets with calming names. Leechem, Mangrove, Coral, Kanahuatwa, Sea Pine. I pedaled lazily down Main Street, which wasn’t much to look at: a Circle K, a nail salon, a tax and law office, a few paint-peeling houses.

  The town of Haven proper was quiet, but Florida is a land of roads that connect one generation’s dream-town to the next, and near the place I rented, the old highway ripped through. It was the favorite route of cement trucks and semis, offering a quick shortcut to their construction sites or drop-offs. They’d barrel through Haven like steel rhinos, claiming full right of way.

  The intersection was unsafe. A handful of makeshift shrines and three or four crosses kept vigil alongside the highway, marking the places a life had been taken. Even with the stoplight, crossing the old highway on my bike was an act of calculation, bravery, and fast pedaling. I felt a charge of elation each time I crossed, defying death once again.

  I stumbled onto Charm’s Tavern my second week in Haven. There was no sign for the place aside from a half-dead Busch Light neon sign flickering weakly in the window, fighting the brightness of the day. I’d cruised past it before, never taking note of it.

  One cool, sunny morning, they’d propped the door open and the sweet stench of stale beer and bleach hit me as I pedaled past.

  Circling back, I chained my bike up and poked inside. Higgles might be holed up here, I told myself, knowing he wouldn’t be.

  It was about 10:00 a.m., close enough to lunchtime by my watch. Inside, three men sat silently on barstools, the hard shaft of day cutting across their cragged faces like a roller of whitewash. None were Higgles. None even acknowledged me when I entered.

  Charm’s was the type of place you went when you had some time to kill, a decade or two. I ordered a beer, then a second.

  For nearly a week, I followed that pattern, a morning bike ride that ended at Charm’s where I plotted and planned Higgles’ demise over a fistful of beers. At about 3:00 p.m., I’d climb on my bike, take my life in my hands, and bravely clip across the old highway, and then sleep through the sweltering afternoon.

  Higgles broke that pattern on Presidents’ Day.

  Returning from Charm’s, I found him sitting on my mattress. He looked worse than he had in Memphis, unshaven and mangy like he’d been hiding in a forest all winter. The stitched scar hashmarked his cheek, shining the bright color of a baby’s tongue, pink and raw-looking. Lazily, he flipped through Macao Thunder. The leather purse, which I had kept, sat on the floor next to him.

  I tried to play calm, but my blood stopped. Once again, the fucker got the jump on me.

  Higgles held up the book. “You know, I honestly thought you were yanking my chain when you said there was a Macao in Brazil.”

  Standing, he motioned at everything and nothing, like a priest consecrating a new building. “Your place needs a little something, some color or—I don’t know—curtains. This decor is pure early poverty.”

  “You’ve got what you came for, I see,” I said, nodding to the bag. “Let’s say that evens us up and call it day.”

  He kicked the bag across the room. “You know,” he said, glancing at Macao Thunder, “I’ve always wanted to be a writer. I come up with a lot of good stories.” He tossed the book on the floor, paced the room, and proceeded to tell me one.

  A soldier on leave in New York City buys some bootleg DVDs in Chinatown, three for ten dollars. He knows he shouldn’t, knows he’s only funding illicit activities. Still, the soldier wants the DVDs, so he buys them. The rest of the story, Higgles explains, is split. “Like they do in movies,” he said. One thread of the tale follows the soldier as he is deployed to hotspots in the Middle East. The other part tracks the ten dollars as it moves from hand-to-hand through the underworld of counterfeit products to where it reaches the terrorists.

  “And let me guess,” I said, my voice breaking slightly from nerves. “The soldier’s ten bucks ends up making its way to a terrorist who spends it on bullets used to kill the soldier himself.”

  Higgles beamed. “Actually, it’s a bomb,” he clarified, still pacing, “but yes. Exactly. What do you think?”

  “It’s a morbid Gift of the Magi. But how do you expect to write a novel when you can’t even read?”

  He stopped inches from me. “Just because I don’t read,” he said, his voice hard, “doesn’t mean I can’t, cousin. Or won’t.” He touched his stitched scar. “I believe you fucked me on the Montreal deal, something I don’t appreciate.”

  “‘Fucked’ has such an offensive connotation to it,” I said, fighting to hold my ground. Higgles’ breath in my face crowded me, threatening. “Can’t we just say ‘disappointed’?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You disappointed
me on the Montreal deal,” he said. “But you can make it up now.”

  “Really? How’s that?”

  “By handing it over.”

  I pointed to the bag he’d kicked across the room. “That’s all I got. But feel free to take it. It adds flair to your outfit.”

  “I’m talking about the—” He broke off, his voice sounding tired. “You didn’t sell it already, did you?”

  Was Higgles bullshitting me? It didn’t seem so. But I definitely didn’t have whatever it was. I’d rifled through the bag soon after I’d snatched it. Nothing. “I don’t have it.” The words came out of me before I’d fully thought them through.

  Higgles fingers found his scar, gently touched it. “You don’t?”

  I’d just eliminated my usefulness. Without the drive he wanted, I was no use to Higgles. “On me,” I said, clawing for leverage.

  “Where is it?”

  “Listen, I give it to you and I’m out of the game.”

  “I’m a fair sort of guy,” he said.

  I barked out a laugh.

  He glared at me evilly, spit on the floor. “I’m a fair sort of guy,” he said again, “so let’s do this fairly. Let’s go get it together, then—”

  “Can’t get it,” I said, adding, “Right now.”

  “Because?”

  I recalled it was Presidents Day. One of the barflies at Charm’s had muttered over his drink, “How’d it get to be Presidents Day again?” It was the only thing I’d ever heard him say. “It’s in a safe-deposit box. The bank’s closed for Presidents Day.”

  Higgles made a face of disgust. He couldn’t call my bluff, not yet at least. Still, my excuse didn’t really buy me time, I realized. Now we’d just have a slumber party until 9:00 a.m. the next morning, when the banks opened.

  But Higgles surprised me.

  He left.

  “Tomorrow, then,” he said, opening the front door.

  He paused at the apartment’s threshold. “We’ll meet here,” he said. “Say noontime. That’ll give you time to get to the bank, maybe do some laundry.” He snapped his finger. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll bring some sandwiches, some sodas. You bring the chips and dessert. We’ll head to the beach, picnic together. Then,” he said, savoring the words that formed, “we’ll talk about your severance package, because we’re done working together.” His scar seemed to glow as he smiled. “Sound fair?”

  Before I could answer, the door snicked shut behind him.

  Almost instantly, the door swung open again. Higgles’ head poked in. “I don’t need to tell you what will happen if you try to run, do I?”

  I shook my head.

  “Good,” he said, slowly closing the door again.

  ◉ ◉ ◉

  The federal holiday celebrated on the third Monday in February is officially called Washington’s Birthday, not Presidents Day.

  Or Presidents’ Day.

  Or even President’s Day.

  Chapter 58

  Aspirin, or acetylsalicylic acid, works on headaches by suppressing the production of prostaglandin enzyme, hormone-like messenger molecules that trigger processes in the body, including inflammation. It does that by crippling the cyclooxygenase—or COX—enzyme. Cyclooxygenase is needed for prostaglandin to synthesize.

  For nearly a hundred years, doctors and scientists didn’t know how aspirin worked. They just knew it did.

  For the longest time, I didn’t know how Higgles tracked me down. I just knew he always did.

  It was only in Haven, Florida, after Higgles’ visit, that I finally figured it out. I felt like an idiot for not realizing it long before. Picking up Macao Thunder, the book’s binding broke loose and the pages fell out. There, glued to the inside of the spine, was a tiny GPS chip. All the books where the same.

  Higgles was right. I am like a comet. I leave a trail.

  Chapter 59

  The more I thought about Higgles’ visit the more I started believing that there actually had been something in the bag, that I’d somehow lost it between the grab and checking the contents. Why else would Higgles give me a chance to produce it? Why else would he even show up here?

  I locked the door behind him and crashed on the mattress. I couldn’t think straight; my head, muzzy from the beers I’d had at Charm’s, ached with worry.

  A thick dream slowly carpeted me. I dreamt I was drowning in deep water, slipping under, choking.

  I woke gasping for air, my lungs heavy with smoke. Bounding to my feet, I looked for the flames I was sure were licking the walls. Instead I found someone sitting in the red recliner, staring at me.

  Ray-Ray. Or the ghost of Ray-Ray. Maybe I wasn’t really awake yet, a dream within a dream.

  But my intestines told me otherwise. They kicked violently, churning with a toxic mess that felt like vinegar and baking soda. It was Ray-Ray all right. He was real, sitting ten feet from me, tautly relaxed with a huge cigar clamped too casually between his lips.

  “Jesus fuck, Ray-Ray,” I said. “You’re alive.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” His voice was sharp, edged with anger. He wasn’t here for a friendly visit. A pink duffel bag emblazoned with the words Florida is for Retired Lovers sat at his feet. “You don’t seem thrilled to see me.”

  “How did you find—”

  “You know, you’ve changed,” he said, tapping ash on the floor. “Where’s that innocent, beautiful idiot I once knew?”

  I stood stock still, afraid to move. Higgles then Ray-Ray. I wasn’t a lover of mysteries, especially one’s I was tangled up in, clueless and confused. “What are you doing here? How’d you get in?”

  He motioned to the door with his left hand, or what should have been his left hand. It was gone. All that remained was a rough, red, rounded stub.

  My throat kicked off a phantom throb. New Orleans. Frogman. It’d been Ray-Ray who’d attacked me.

  “I got in the way everyone gets in,” he said, “through the front door. You really need to get better locks.” He toked on the cigar, kicked out an impressive smoke ring. “The guy downstairs says you’ve only stopped by once, then insulted him by running out the door and puking in the street.”

  “I don’t like cigars.”

  “They’re an acquired taste,” Ray-Ray conceded. He motioned at me with his stub. “Sit. You’re making me nervous.”

  I sat on the edge of the mattress opposite him, a mix of emotions surging through me. I was thrilled. I was terrified. The buried memory of him had shot to the surface, ripping through the years. In a way, I was glad to see him. Yes, he’d tried to kill me in New Orleans—or at least cause heavy damage—but maybe he could help me out of my situation. I’d missed him, though he dredged up more worry than relief. I wanted to ask what he’d been up to, where he’d been, tell him everything that had happened since our shelter days. Instead, I blurted out, “What happened to your hand?”

  He tapped more ash onto the floor, ignoring my question. “How long has it been, two years?”

  “More. Three or so.”

  He nodded, thinking through the number, then took in the room, the apartment. “Ever think about sprucing the place up a bit? Maybe getting a plant or something? Doesn’t seem much like home.”

  “I’ve only been here a few weeks,” I said. “Probably won’t be here much longer.”

  “You got that right,” he said, his voice menacing.

  I swallowed hard. “What’s that mean?”

  “Oh, before I forget.” He reached into the pink duffel bag with his good hand and pulled out a bottle of liquor, held it out to me. Gin. “Call it a housewarming gift.”

  I took the bottle, looked at the label. Randerskin Diamond. I’d never heard of it. “Not a big gin fan,” I said, “but thanks.”

  “Save it for guests.”

  “I don’t have guests.”
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  “You do today.”

  I wondered if he had seen Higgles stop by. Holding up the bottle, I said, “You want a drink?”

  Ray-Ray shook his head. “That’s a rare bottle,” he said. “Only a few hundred bottles are made annually. It’s the official liquor of the royal Nepalese family. It’s what Crown Prince Dipendra was drinking when he massacred his family.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded. “Really.”

  A silence fell between us. As I watched Ray-Ray slowly draw his cigar down, I fought the urge to pour out the past four years. I fought the urge to tell him how I’d traveled, how I’d killed.

  He wasn’t here for my stories, I could tell. But whatever he was here for wouldn’t end well.

  Finally, after some minutes, he held up his stump like he was seeing it for the first time. “I got bitten a year or so back. That’s how I lost my hand.”

  “By what, a bear?”

  “By a woman.”

  “A woman bit your hand off?”

  The question seemed to tire him, like he’d explained it all once too often. “She set her teeth into my hand, tore a chunk of flesh out. I didn’t take proper care of it. It got infected. Very infected. Doctors had to amputate.” He seemed embarrassed by the whole thing. “I came to learn that human bites are worse than a dog’s, more dangerous.” He leaned forward in his chair, extended his rounded, rough stub toward me. It looked like a piece of driftwood dipped in iodine. “I owe you an apology.”

  “For what?”

  “For all this,” he said, looking about the place. “For you being here. For the situation you’re in. I am, in a sense, responsible.”

  His stub was still extended. I realized he wanted me to shake it.

  I gingerly took the end of his arm. The skin was knotted and dry beneath my fingers. Ray-Ray reached over with his good hand, clamped down tight on my wrist. “Sorry for this,” he said, then swiftly twisted my arm upward and yanked me off balance.

  I hit the floor face first. Ray-Ray cocked my arm back painfully, rammed a knee to the middle of my back, pinning me.