Black Night Falling

by Rod Reynolds

  *

  I made it to the redbrick church in time for the end of Coughlin’s speech. The crowd was huge, swelled by folks who wanted the chance to see the conquering hero, spilling over the grounds and onto the sidewalk. Coughlin rounded out his speech with customary vigour, waving his fedora as he soaked up the applause.

  I waited off to the side of the wooden platform they’d erected for him. He climbed down the steps and shook hands with dozens of well-wishers, playing up his injury. I noticed he was shadowed from a distance now by a heavy who looked like he’d come right from a job minding the doors of one of the casinos.

  Coughlin looked up and saw me through what was left of the crowd. He made eye contact, then quickly glanced at his minder, who moved to be by his side. I held up my hands to signify I was no threat, masking my anger with a half-smile. When the crowd thinned out, the two men made their way towards me.

  Coughlin took in my outfit. ‘Taken to wearing clothes from the goodwill box, son?’

  ‘Still alive to wear them, at least. That must be a disappointment.’

  He cocked his head. ‘I don’t know what you mean by that comment.’

  ‘You sent me to die.’ I eyeballed the bodyguard, watching for him to make a move, looked back at Coughlin when he kept his station. ‘And then you had the gall to tell me to keep quiet about it. Make threats about my wife.’

  Coughlin closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘You’re delusional. We have nothing more to say to one another.’

  ‘Consider one thing: how’d it work out for Tindall when he brought my wife into it?’

  ‘I don’t know what your grievance is, son, but I think it would be best if you left town presently. Go enjoy some of that California sunshine I hear so much about.’ He started to move off.

  I stepped in front of him. ‘Don’t worry about me, I’m gone. I’ve done all my talking.’

  ‘I heard. Except a little birdie tells me it didn’t amount to much for our mutual friend in the prosecutor’s office.’

  Should have figured he’d have a snitch within the state police too. Didn’t matter now. ‘Masters is determined to get you by the book. Not everyone works that way.’

  ‘If you’re threatening me, you can save your breath.’

  ‘I’m not threatening you. It’s your associates I’d be worried about.’ I scratched my chin with my thumb. ‘I know exactly what Tindall was involved in, and it’s my guess you’re angling to replace him. Ben Siegel’s been coming here for years, and before that it was Lucky Luciano. They weren’t coming here on vacation – they were coming to check up on their investment. On behalf of the boys in New York and Chicago who own this town. They sent Tindall down here to oversee their operation years ago. That must have hurt your pride – having to answer to another man in your own town. No wonder you hated him. How d’you think they’d react if they knew you ratted out Bill Tindall to Masters, huh?’

  He adjusted his sling.

  ‘Took me a while to put it together, but it’s amazing what a few days of thinking time does for the mind.’ I knocked on my skull with my knuckle. ‘No one else knew about the ambush at the Viceroy, so I figured out pretty quick it had to be you tipped Masters off. I just couldn’t come up with why. And then I kicked myself for being so dumb. It’s the same why it always is – money and power. You set me up for Tindall to kill, and then you double-crossed him, figuring Masters would catch him red-handed – or kill him. How long have you been waiting for him to make a misstep like that – years? You just waiting to pounce.’ I stepped closer. ‘You’re slick, I’ll say that for you.’

  ‘This is poppycock.’ He tried to blow it off, but a laugh died in his throat before it could reach his mouth.

  ‘I’m leaving for Los Angeles right now. I get the first sniff of you or your hoods coming near me and my wife, and I’ll drop the dime on you to Siegel’s outfit.’ He opened his mouth to say something, saliva stringing across the gap. I spoke first. ‘And in case you think you can get me before I squeal, I’ve already mailed a detailed statement about everything you did to three attorneys, and when I get back, I might just run to a couple more to make an even five. If my wife or me so much as miss a bus because of you, they go straight to Siegel’s lawyers.’

  He stepped back, his eyes pinpricks in his face now.

  ‘I’m not finished. There’s one more thing I want you to do for me: drop out of the mayoral race. Do it by the time I get back to California. Those are the terms of my silence.’

  I turned and walked away, every fibre in my body tensed and shaking. From somewhere in the distance, I swore I heard Jimmy Robinson say, ‘I would’ve killed him, New York.’

  Chapter Forty

  When I stepped off the bus and saw Lizzie, it felt like I shed a second skin – one of fear and violence and darkness. Part of me couldn’t believe I was the same man had left in the first place.

  She looked drawn and I could tell she’d been skipping meals. It brought home to me the ordeal she’d been through, and a fresh wave of anger came over me – and guilt. She threw her arms around me and buried her face in my neck, and I begged the fates not to take me away from her again.

  *

  I finally stayed true to the promise I’d made to myself and, over the course of several days, told her everything. She’d figured out the fire at her old house in Texarkana was no accident; when I explained to her what led to it, and the measures I’d put in place to protect us, she seemed reassured. If her dispassion about losing the Texarkana house was a front, it never cracked.

  It got tough when I told her about Layfield. There was little comfort for her in learning the identity of her sister’s killer; she’d moved from mourning to remembrance, and giving a face and a name to the shadow she’d banished only brought it all back again. I told her I’d had the chance to kill him and that I couldn’t bring myself to do it. And that he’d saved my life.

  Telling her that last part was the hardest. I was scared she’d be repulsed by the thought of me being in his debt. As it was, she cut me off mid-sentence. ‘You came home. That’s the only thing that matters to me.’

  *

  I called Sam Masters the day after I got back. He skipped a greeting and got right into it.

  ‘Teddy Coughlin dropped out of the mayoral race yesterday. Can you believe it?’

  ‘No kidding.’

  ‘At the eleventh goddamn hour, the son of a bitch drops out. Gave a magnanimous speech about how his injuries were more serious than first thought and he didn’t feel he could govern to the fullest extent of his capacity.’ He was jubilant, but the frustration in his voice was evident.

  ‘Your man will walk it now. Can’t you be happy at that?’

  ‘We could have beaten him. Twenty years and we finally had him beat. He robbed us of that.’

  ‘You’ll get over it.’

  ‘Maybe. I’m not letting it lie, though. I’m bringing a charge against him for misuse of public funds. If not, I’ll try a charge of bribing public officials or voter fraud. I’ll get him one way or another.’

  I smiled at the thought – Coughlin finally brought low for something so prosaic.

  ‘Harlan Layfield is to be posthumously charged with the murders of Jeannie Runnels, Elizabeth Prescott and the Tucker brothers, as well as Jimmy Robinson. I thought you’d want to know.’

  ‘Appreciate you telling me. What about Geneve Kolkhorst?’

  There was a pause. ‘I don’t have the evidence for that. I’ll see to it her file remains open, but the best I can do is have it changed from suicide to unsolved.’

  I thought about what it meant for the families that were left behind; closure for Robinson’s sister and Sid Hansen, no such thing for Heinrich Kolkhorst and his wife. I didn’t like the thought of him being left wondering, and I resolved to tell him the truth.

  ‘How’s your wife faring?’ he said.

  ‘She’s bearing up. She’s a fighter.’

  ‘No doubt.’ He was quiet again, and
I could tell he was edging towards something. ‘You feel like telling me what really happened at Teddy Coughlin’s house that night?’

  ‘Take care of yourself, Sam.’

  *

  We never moved back into the bungalow. The men who’d come for Lizzie had ransacked it again, a ploy to help convince me they’d managed to take her. Twice in a week was too much for anyone to bear; it wasn’t ours any more. We stayed in Acheson’s guesthouse for a night and then we hit the road, taking Route 1 up the coast. I told Lizzie it was a vacation, but I had it in my mind that it was best to blow town a while.

  I wrote the articles I’d promised Acheson and called them in as we travelled north. They were more fiction than truth. Not because I made things up, but because of all the parts I left out: a murderous cop killing with impunity in a town bought and paid for by mobsters on the other side of the country. Acheson knew what I was doing and tacitly approved; the reality of the cosy relationship between gangsters and elected officials in Hot Springs had too many parallels to the situation in Los Angeles for comfort. He wanted the story I pitched him – feel-good pieces about a band of GIs who came home from the war and saved their home town in the name of democracy. It didn’t escape me that my reporting was just the same as what had happened after Texarkana, another patchwork of lies told to protect the square Johns from a truth they didn’t want to hear. It shocked me how easily I agreed to play my part.

  At every stop, Lizzie and I took long walks on the beach, our way of easing back into the shared life we’d started together. We talked about our future, and it was nice to be troubled only by everyday problems – finding someplace to live when we got back to LA, buying another car. We even edged towards a conversation about starting a family.

  But as the days went by, I could sense there was something troubling her. I remembered the way she’d cut me off when I told her about Layfield and I wondered if I’d been right all along – if that truth had festered and now turned septic. One evening, sitting on Pismo Beach, watching the breakers wash up the sand, I asked her about it.

  ‘It’s not that. I told you, I don’t care about what happened. You did what you had to.’

  I held her hand tighter. ‘Tell me.’

  She stared at the horizon, where the sun was fading into the water. ‘I can’t keep from thinking about everything. After the burglary, I swore I wouldn’t let them chase me from my home – not again. But they did, and next thing I knew I was on my own in a dirty motel room not knowing if you were dead or alive. We ran all the way to the ocean and couldn’t get free of it. Now we’re running again. What happens when we’ve got nowhere left to run to?’

  ‘We’re not running. Teddy Coughlin’s a busted flush – he’ll have Masters all over his business for the rest of his life. And besides, we’re protected. It’s over.’

  ‘Benjamin Siegel’s still out there. Men like him never go away. The ones that can always find some other lowlife to pick up a knife or a gun in their name.’

  I turned to look at her and I noticed she’d got some colour back in her skin and she looked healthy again. ‘Siegel won’t care a damn about us now Tindall’s dead. He has no need to come after us. We’re insignificant.’

  Empty words. Even as I said it, I was bracing for the comeback I had no answer to: So when can we go home?

  She looked at me. Her pupils were shrunken and hard from the light in a way I’d never seen them before. Half her face was in shadow. A reminder that even the brightest sunset was only the herald of night falling.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank more people than I can list here, but in particular:

  My agents, Kate Burke and Diane Banks, for all their encouragement, support and input into the book.

  My editor, Angus Cargill, whose insight and advice improved the manuscript in so many ways.

  The team at Faber – in particular Sophie Portas and Katie Hall – for their dedication to getting my book into as many hands as possible.

  To all the bloggers and reviewers who took an interest in my writing, and in particular Liz Barnsley, whose enthusiasm for The Dark Inside spurred so many to read it.

  To Anne and Alex Wise, and Kim and Guy White, for their phenomenal efforts in spreading the word overseas.

  To all my fellow writers who’ve offered kind words about my work, especially Anya Lipska, Stav Sherez, Eva Dolan, Chris Ewan, Gilly Macmillan, Sarah Ward, Tim Baker, Martyn Waites, Helen Giltrow, David Young and Steph Broadribb.

  To my friends who’ve been so generous in helping spread the word – Oliver Wheatley, Steve O’Meara, Matthew Wilkinson, Darren Sital-Singh, John Maloney, Tim Caira and Emma Callaghan.

  To James Hancock and Nick Thompson – sorry about last time!

  And to my family, for always believing.

  About the Author

  After a successful career in advertising, working as a media buyer, Rod Reynolds took City University’s two-year MA in crime writing, where he started The Dark Inside, his first Charlie Yates mystery. He lives in London with his wife and two daughters.

  by the same author

  The Dark Inside

  First published in 2016

  by Faber & Faber Ltd

  Bloomsbury House

  74–77 Great Russell Street

  London WC1B 3DA

  This ebook edition first published in 2016

  All rights reserved

  © Rod Reynolds, 2016

  Cover design by Faber

  Cover images © Felix Stensson/Alamy; Alpha C/Shutterstock

  Epigraph: lines from Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil, translated by Helen Zimmern (New York: 1917) with minor emendations

  The right of Rod Reynolds to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly

  ISBN 978–0–571–32322–7