When the Sun Goes Down

by Gwynne Forster

  “I hear you. I’m sailing day after tomorrow, and with almost thirteen hundred people dropping their problems on me, I won’t have time to think about Edgar. I’ll be in touch.”

  She found her town house as she’d left it. “This cathedral ceiling is great when I’m not tired,” she said to herself as she climbed the carpeted stairs to her second-floor bedroom. It occurred to her that following a week in wintry weather, the Florida heat immediately depleted her energy. After separating the clothes that would go to the cleaners and those scheduled for the laundry, she changed into a jogging suit and went out to buy milk and a few other essentials.

  “Where you headed now?” her next-door neighbor asked as she stepped out of the house. “You sure do lead an exciting life.”

  “I suppose some people would call it that, but it’s so stressful that I sometimes have to remind myself to breathe. Mrs. X can’t find her little girl, who walked away while mummy was playing the slot machine. Miss Y ordered breakfast in her room and had to wait a whole twenty minutes for it. Mr. J is furious because he can’t bring onto the ship the case of liquor he bought onshore. Some big shot doesn’t like his seating arrangements for dinner and wants to sit at the captain’s table. But the seats at the captain’s table are all taken. I could keep this up for an hour.”

  “Yeah, but it’s still glamorous to me. When are you leaving?”

  “Day after tomorrow, but I’ll be on ship from tomorrow evening. I’m not really complaining, because I love my work. Just setting the record straight.”

  She completed her shopping and as she returned home, she heard the ringing telephone, dropped the small bag of groceries on the floor, and raced to the phone. “Hello.”

  “Hi, sis. This is Edgar.”

  “I know. What’s up?” She had an eerie feeling, because Edgar never phoned her and rarely called her “sis.”

  “Look, sis. I’m really in an awfully tight spot. I need three grand, and if I don’t get it this week, I’ll be in serious trouble.”

  She sat down and took some deep breaths. “I’m not wealthy, Edgar, and my mortgage eats up over a quarter of what I make every month. If I lend you three thousand dollars and if you don’t give it back to me by the end of the month, things will be extremely difficult for me.”

  “I’ll give it back to you in two weeks. I swear it. The easiest way will be for you to give me your password.”

  She jumped up. He had to be kidding. “Edgar, I said I’d lend you the money. I did not say I’d lost my mind. I wouldn’t have given Father the password to my bank account.”

  “But I need the money now.”

  “I’ll send it to you by wire and for two weeks only. Get busy and find that will.”

  She’d never dreamed that she would speak that way to her older brother, but she suspected that he wouldn’t have sounded so frantic if he didn’t have gambling debts. She hated gambling. On every cruise, one or more passengers on the ship came to her begging for transportation home, having gambled away every cent they had. She went out and wired the money, but she had a feeling that she would never see it again.

  Two hours before the Mercury was due to sail for the Mediterranean, Shirley sat at her desk, frantically urging a messenger to get to the boat with the asthma drugs before the ship left shore. Why would a woman with an asthmatic child leave home without his medicine? It should have been the first thing she packed. She sent an officer to the gangplank to make certain that it wasn’t raised before the messenger arrived.

  “I sure hope this isn’t an omen,” she said to herself. “I don’t need problems with any more frantic mothers.” She dialed Gunther but didn’t get an answer. The routine lifeboat drills had begun, and she was about to give up hope that the messenger would arrive in time.

  She answered her phone. “Public relations, Ms. Farrell speaking.”

  “Alphonse here. I have the medicine, and I’ve just given the captain the all clear.”

  She let out a long breath of relief. “Thanks. Somebody ought to take that woman in hand. She didn’t want to give up her cruise, so she took a chance that the medicine would get here before the boat left. If it hadn’t, that child could have died. I’ll see how long it is before she comes to ask me if the medicine arrived.” She dialed Gunther again but to no effect and made a mental note to call him the following morning.

  At the moment, Gunther had to deal with his own mini-crisis. He sat on a high stool in Crosby’s Bar looking at his girlfriend. She’d had only one sip of that martini, but she was behaving as if she’d drunk two of them.

  “You don’t have to do what that lawyer says. Where’s the evidence that your father made him the executor of his estate? A year from now, he could have spent every penny your father left.”

  He pushed back his rising anger. “At the age of ten, I went to Donald Riggs to get transportation to school and lunch money when my father conveniently forgot about it. I never knew whether he charged Father for it or took it from his own pocket. I do know that if he wasn’t honest to the marrow of his bones, my father—who counted every penny twice—would not have kept him as his lawyer.”

  “How can we get married if you don’t get what’s coming to you? I want us to sell that house and build a modern place.”

  “That house belongs to Edgar and Shirley, as well as to me.”

  As if aware that she’d made a big error with that comment, she broke her gaze from his, sipped the drink, and looked back at him with slightly lowered lashes. “Honey, you know I’m always thinking about your well-being and what’s due you. I don’t concern myself with anybody else.” She pushed the glass away. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

  He assumed that by “home” she meant her apartment, and he knew what that implied.

  “I love my apartment,” she said as they entered it, “but I miss the fireplace we had at home. When we build our home, I want fireplaces in the living, family, and dining rooms.” He said nothing, because he knew the house in which she said she grew up, and, to his knowledge, it didn’t have one fireplace.

  “Have a seat in the living room,” she said, went to the kitchen and returned with a bottle of pinot grigio, two stem glasses, and a bottle opener. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  He sat there wondering when he had asked her to marry him and couldn’t recall the time. He did know that she had begun mentioning it casually and had gradually spoken of it as if they had a formal agreement. But he hadn’t made up his mind, and until he did and until he asked her in plain English and she agreed, he didn’t consider himself engaged. Minutes later, she returned wearing a red jersey jumpsuit that showed a good deal of her beautiful breasts, and in spite of himself, his mouth began to water.

  “Honey, you didn’t open the wine?” she asked in a voice tinged with petulance.

  “My mind was on other things.”

  “You’re not serious,” she said. “I’ll have to do something about that.” She handed him the bottle opener. He opened the bottle and poured wine into their glasses, all the while thinking how sweet her nipples tasted. He got only a few sips of wine before, without warning, she took his hand, put it into the bodice of her jumpsuit, and rubbed her nipples with it.

  “I’ve been thinking about this all day,” she told him, and rubbed his genitals.

  “Oh, hell!” he said, capitulating to his rising passion. He pulled one of her breasts from its confines, bent his head, and sucked it into his mouth as she began to stroke him with increasing speed and pressure.

  She tugged at his belt, unzipped him, and took him into her mouth. Then, like a satisfied cat that had her mouse, she looked up at him and grinned. “Want some more?” she asked him.

  She knew him too well, but he was damned if he’d give her the satisfaction of behaving as if she could do with him as she pleased. He lifted her as he stood, unzipped the jumpsuit, and watched her slither out of it. Then he put her on the sofa and worked her until she clawed and screamed her release, but he wouldn’t give her th
e satisfaction of knowing he enjoyed it and pulled out, flaccid and proud of it.

  “What happened there?” she asked him after she collected her wits.

  “Look,” he said. “I try to be a gentleman. You wanted it, and I did my best.”

  She tried to sit up, and he moved, accommodating her. “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said. No more, no less. Sex doesn’t solve every problem, Lissa. In fact, if there’s a problem, sex can worsen it.”

  She sat on the floor with her back against the sofa. “I didn’t know we had a problem.”

  He wasn’t going to comment on that. Brushing dirt under the rug had never made sense to him, and he tried not to engage in it. At first, he’d been practically stunned by Lissa’s directness, and, later, her wildness in bed had captivated him. But as he got to know her, he realized that, for her, the word relationship meant little more than sex and the right to make demands on one’s partner. He adjusted his clothing and faced the fact that he was not one bit pleased with himself.

  “How about I fix us some ham, eggs, and toast?” she said. “That’s about all I have in the house.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t think so. I’d better get on home.”

  “Why? Don’t I always make it nice for you? Besides, you have to make up for that trick you just pulled.”

  He didn’t have to do anything. “Slow down, Lissa. I buried my father three days ago. Remember?”

  “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry. That explains it. I don’t have my head twisted on right. If you think you have to regroup, honey, that is certainly understandable. Call me when you get home. I need to know you’re there safely.”

  “Thanks,” he said, but he didn’t promise to call her. Indeed, he was almost certain that he wouldn’t. He had to get his life straightened out. He’d been so involved with his software firm and its myriad problems that he hadn’t focused on his private life and hadn’t realized the inroads that Lissa had made in it. He wasn’t a man to allow life to happen to him, and if Lissa was counting on that, she’d better wake up.

  A month passed, and neither he, Edgar, nor Riggs had found the will. Edgar’s periodic disappearances perplexed Gunther, but he didn’t consider it appropriate to question his older brother about it. When sufficiently annoyed, Edgar neither rationed nor tempered his rage, so, to the extent feasible, Gunther tried to maintain a good relationship with him.

  Finally, after several months, he began to wonder if Edgar had discovered the will and was attempting some underhanded measure. He called Edgar. “How’s it going, Edgar? Did you get that job back? I’m beginning to wonder if Father’s estate will ever be settled.”

  “I looked for that thing till I started looking in my sleep. I got a gig in Atlantic City, and I’ve been hanging out there. The pay’s better than what you get around here, but there’re so many mobsters that by the time you pay everybody off, you’re practically broke.”

  “Sorry about that. I guess that goes along with gambling. Are you playing at the casino hotels?”

  “Where else is there to play these days? Man, I’m lucky to get work. Those clubs used to be crowded, but money’s scarce everywhere.”

  Gunther didn’t plan to comment on that. Edgar was a skilled guitarist, and if he couldn’t find work at reliable jobs, he had to be part of the problem. “How long will you be in town?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “Till Thursday. I wanted to give this joint another shot. That will’s got to be here somewhere. Father wouldn’t have put it where it would be out of his control.”

  Gunther wouldn’t dispute that logic. “Good luck. I’m fed up with it.”

  “You can afford to be. I can’t.”

  He telephoned Shirley, whom he judged to be somewhere between Sicily and Sardinia, according to her travel schedule. “How’s life at sea?” he asked when she answered.

  “This has been the best tour yet. Cross my fingers. Not a single tragedy, and we’ve been out four days.”

  “You’re getting to be a regular vagabond. I want to know something. Edgar’s acting strangely. He hasn’t asked me for money, hasn’t mentioned his debts, and his complaints about the will have recently been low-key. Did you lend him any money?”

  “Uh ... well—”

  He interrupted her. “So you did. Don’t do that again, Shirley. Did he give it back to you?”

  “No. He said he’d return it in two weeks, and it’s been three months. I don’t expect to see my three grand ever again.”

  “Three thousand dollars? Are you crazy?” He threw up his hands. “Oh, all right, all right. Let that be a lesson well learned. Where Edgar is concerned, sis, you need to stiffen your spine.”

  “I know, and that’s one thing I won’t do again. Anyway, as long as he owes me, he won’t ask.”

  “Yeah, but that’s expensive insurance. Call me when you get to Nice.”

  “Will do.”

  Edgar expelled a long breath and released a string of expletives. He couldn’t continue running home every week to look for the will, and Gunther and Shirley didn’t much care about it. He was spending more money on transportation than he could afford, and after paying off the goons for letting him do his gig undisturbed, he didn’t have enough cash left for the makings of one Mary Jane.

  Riding toward the JFK Memorial Highway, he passed a sign that read MONTGOMERY DETECTIVE AGENCY SERVING EASTERN UNITED STATES. In the blink of an eye, he made up his mind and turned back. Following the green and white instructions on a sign, he took the elevator to the fourth floor of the building, walked down the hall to suite 418, and rang the bell. In response, he heard a buzzer, opened the door, and walked into an attractive reception room. A woman of about thirty asked if she could help him.

  “I’d like to hire a detective.”

  She let her gaze travel from the top of his head to his shoes. “Please have a seat. Mr. Montgomery will be with you in a minute.”

  After a few minutes, a smooth-looking Harvard type opened the door, extended his hand for a handshake, and said, “I’m Carson Montgomery. Please, come into my office.”

  They sat down, and Montgomery’s gaze seemed to pierce him with the precision of a sharp-pointed weapon. “What can I do for you, Mr... . ?”

  “Farrell. Edgar Farrell.” He told the man what his problem was, omitting nothing but the reasons why he needed the money so desperately. “My father was mean-spirited, and he wouldn’t care if my siblings and I cut each other up over his money and property. He didn’t spend it on us when he was alive, and he’s made it as tough as he could for us to get it now. The problem, Mr. Montgomery, is my current lack of big-time funds. If you find that will, you get six percent of my share.”

  “You drive a mean bargain. Suppose your father was broke?”

  “He wasn’t, and you can check that with his lawyer, Donald Riggs. Besides, Father owned that huge house and everything in it. He was as frugal as they come.”

  Montgomery made a pyramid of his ten fingers, leaned back, and closed his eyes. “All right. I’ll look into this and call you tomorrow. What is your phone number?”

  He gave the detective his cell phone number. “If you want to locate my brother and sister, Riggs can tell you how to reach them. He also has a key to the house. I’m the only person who lives there.”

  He arrived in Atlantic City more than an hour prior to the time for his first show. He checked into the hotel, and after doing his finger exercises, he phoned Gunther.

  “You may get a call from a detective. I’m trying to hire him to find that will. I’m hoping he’ll do it for six percent of what I get.”

  “Where are you?” Edgar told him. “Is the man reliable?”

  “If you meet him, you won’t ask that question. Ask Riggs what he thinks.”

  “I definitely will. I talked with Shirley. She was between Sardinia and Sicily en route for Nice.”

  “She’d better get off that boat, find herself a man, and settle down. Thirty-two is old to start having c
hildren.”

  “Maybe. What kind of example are you setting? Thirty-six is old if you’re still single.”

  “Lay off, man. That applies to people who had empathetic fathers. Gotta go.”

  “And nobody could accuse us of that. If things turn out all right with Montgomery and he finds the will, I’ll share the cost. You pay him three percent of your take and I’ll give him three percent of mine. Okay?”

  “Right on, brother!”

  Edgar looked around his hotel room, disgusted. He could afford that little room, but only the deaf could sleep there. After a shower, he stretched out on the bed for a brief rest, got out his tuning fork, and tuned his guitar. He patted its bridge and stroked its neck.

  “As long as you’re with me, baby, I’ll never starve,” he said aloud. Then he remembered how his father hated his guitar and so despised his competence at playing that he wouldn’t allow him to play it where he could hear it. But he played and practiced in the basement and in closets and whenever he was alone in the house. The guitar became to him a symbol of defiance. During his father’s lifetime, he locked his guitar in the closet in his bedroom, and whenever he couldn’t take the instrument with him, he kept it there.

  Higher education held no interest for him. As a teenager, he took the money he made on street corners and in clubs and churches and spent it on lessons with accomplished guitarists, both classical and jazz.

  He got backstage ten minutes before time for his performance as a side man with the house band. “You’re second guitarist tonight,” Mason, the band leader, said. “Jack Vine is sitting in with us.”

  Edgar stared at the man. “Yeah? Then let him do a solo. I’m a lead guitarist, and I don’t do second. I know my shit, man, so knock it off. Vine is a bigger name, but I play circles around that dude, and he knows it. Who’s gonna play lead tomorrow night when Vine’s in Chicago, or somewhere else?” He took his usual chair and played lead guitar throughout the show. He didn’t know and didn’t care what Mason said to Vine.