“That I ought to quit while I’m ahead.”
“After you find the Japanese girl.”
“That wouldn’t be quitting while I was ahead.”
“Just try not to get killed,” she said. “I’m starting to enjoy it over here. All sorts of interesting people always dropping by.”
After a decent wait I went outside with Eddie to look around. All clear. The sky was blue-black and salted with stars. The air was dry but still warm from the early autumn day. We walked out to the street and looked for overembellished SUVs and loopy minivans. Marve was probably gone for now, but I knew I wasn’t done with him. Guys like him often display obsessive determination as a stand-in for genuine courage.
The aftershock of adrenaline release was zinging around my nerves again, which helped lift the dreary weight of the past. Con Globe had consumed the central core of my life, the vital arc from young adult into middle age. I’d been gone for years and still didn’t know how I felt about the whole thing. I preferred to concentrate on the present. The immediate present and then maybe a few hours ahead of that. This strategy was now threatened by the arrangement with Donovan and its by-products, like Honest Boy Ackerman, Marve Judson and disturbing photographs of Iku Kinjo.
I’d been living with a long list of feelings in need of repression, in particular disappointment and regret. Now here I was experiencing both. I looked back at my cottage, lit stem to stern. I could just make out the top of Amanda’s head bent over a book. An improvised riff of elevating emotion rose in a flourish around my disconcerted heart. It had come late to me, and was hardly a sure thing, but there it was. Heart and home all in one place, in plain view. Who knew.
I whistled for Eddie, who heeded the call, and we strolled slowly back home. I fingered the hard barrel of the .45 automatic and set aside further deliberation. I tucked it all into one of the few empty corners of my brain, stuffing it into a deep cabinet and slamming shut the door, a housekeeping chore at which I’ve proven myself particularly adept.
EIGHT
I THINK I UNDERSTAND why certain people feel powerful when they point a gun at somebody. People who otherwise feel powerless and afraid. Having been on the receiving end of that a few times, I can attest to its effectiveness, at least for impressing an opponent—or victim. Though personally, I don’t think flashing a gun around is anything to be particularly proud of.
So I’ve made a practice of staying as far away from guns as possible. Which is why I brought Marve Judson’s .45 over to Joe Sullivan, who I knew would be at his desk at the Hampton Bays HQ just after the crack of dawn.
Before I could give him the gun I had to get past Janet Orlovsky, the station’s first line of defense. I’d have shot her if she hadn’t been sitting behind a bulletproof sliding window.
Officer Orlovsky had never thought much of me, even before I’d given her a reason. As more reasons piled up, her attitude dug in.
“Can I help you?” she asked, wanting to do nothing of the kind.
“Is Joe here?”
“State your business.”
“Christ, Janet, do we have to do this every time?”
“Your name?”
“It’s still Sam Acquillo.”
“Do you have an appointment?” she asked.
“Sullivan doesn’t make appointments.”
“Then you can’t see him. Not without an appointment.”
“Don’t try that on me. I read the same book.”
“I can give you the number of our public information officer. If you call him and leave a message, he’ll call you back if he can help you.”
She started to write his number on a small note pad.
“I’ve got his cell phone number,” I said.
She looked up.
“Who?”
“Sullivan’s. And his home phone. And the phone at the desk he’s sitting at right now. I can call him and say you won’t let me in.”
I held up my own cell phone.
“You can’t use cell phones in here,” she said, using her pen to point at a bulletin board on the other side of the room. It was straining under the weight of public notices, wanted posters, charity appeals and desperate cries for help. And maybe a sign that said no cell phones in the reception area.
“Why the hell not?”
She just looked at me, hoping I’d start down that road. The one ending with her whistling for the boys in the back to come out with night sticks.
I smiled.
“I guess it interferes with secret police frequencies.”
She just kept looking.
“Thanks for your help,” I said and went outside and called Sullivan on his cell phone.
“Hey Sam, where are you?”
“On the lawn outside HQ. You gotta get me past Cerberus.”
“I thought Orlovsky was at the desk.”
“Just come out and get me, will you?”
I tried to look cool and laid-back while I waited for him to come out. The sky was wearing its regular morning mist. The September air in the Hamptons was a lot better than the August air, though not quite what you got in October. As that thought crossed my mind a huge flock of Canada geese crossed noisily overhead, getting a head start on the run south. Elongated shadows cast by the rising sun rippled across the fresh-cut grass. I thought of Eddie’s usual response, eyes fixed on the sky as he ran random circles hoping to magically coax one of the foolish birds to swoop closer to earth, to come within the arc of an energetic leap.
“Nice day,” said Sullivan, striding toward me. “What’s up?”
“I’ve got something for you,” I said. “And now that I think of it, it’s better to give it to you out here.”
He glowered his wary cop glower.
“What are you talking about?”
I put my hands on my head.
“Right hand jacket pocket,” I said.
He moved closer and patted my side, then drew out the gun.
“Orlovsky probably saved my life. If I’d pulled this inside half the squad room would still be shooting.”
“What’s with you and the automatics?” he asked.
“Same source, more or less,” I said, lowering my arms. “Corporate security. Honest Boy’s boss, to be exact.”
I handed him the clip before he had a chance to check for it. He slapped it in and out of the gun, racked the slide and ran through all the other stuff guys did with guns when they knew what to do with them.
“You’re going to explain this to me,” he said, not a request. “Over here.”
I followed him to a beat-up, greyed-out picnic table used more for smoke breaks than picnics.
He listened carefully as I told him about Marve Judson’s visit. He didn’t know whether to be angry or relieved that I hadn’t called him like I’d done with Honest Boy Ackerman. More likely the latter. Inconvenience aside, he’d had enough legal ambiguity.
“What the hell is going on?” he asked.
A question I never get used to asking myself.
“What do you think?”
“Me?” he said. “How would I know?”
