Having just been worked over myself, I had an inkling of what my brother's last minutes must have been like. It made me feel sick all over again.
Buried somewhere inside the paper pile, a phone rang. As she burrowed for it, her elbow knocked over a coffee cup, and it sent a mocha sluice flowing toward the pictures. Before I could scoop them out of the way, several were stained. Careful dabbing with a paper towel undid the damage, but I felt like taking the pictures and going home.
'What can I do to help?' I finally asked.
'Nothing. You're in law school, Mr. Mullen. We're in good shape here. Trust me.'
'All right,' I said with a sigh. What else could I say? 'I could help, though, Nadia. I'll even fetch coffee and sandwiches.'
'What happened to your face?' she finally asked. I could tell that her decision was final and that she was trying to change the subject.
'I got beat up. Quite possibly by the same people who killed Peter. Neubauer did this to me.'
'Why don't you press charges?' she asked.
I wrinkled my nose, shook my head.
'It looks like you have enough on your plate already.'
Chapter 50
SAMMY GIAMALVA was having the nightmare again, the one in which he is falling and falling, all the time bracing himself for an impact that never comes. It was the third time he'd had it in a week, so in some part of his brain, Sammy knew it was a dream.
He opened his eyes to a completely different nightmare. This one was real.
In the chair beside the bed sat a large man, with the small, mean eyes of a pig. He wore a well-cut black suit. His legs were casually crossed, as if he were a guest at a cocktail party. Instead of a drink, he held a gun, which, like his awful smile, he aimed at Sammy.
'Get up, Sammy,' the Fixer said. 'I need a haircut.'
He jabbed the muzzle hard into Sammy's throat, and nudged him down the stairs to the kitchen. Still training the gun on Sammy, the Fixer settled into the large chair facing the long mirror.
With the fingers of his free hand, he poked around in his thinning, light brown hair. 'What do you think is a good length for me, Sammy?' he asked. 'If I go real short, I look like a Nazi. I grow it longer, I look like an asshole with a comb-over.'
'Shorter is better,' Sammy tried to say, but his mouth was so dry that it sounded more like a cough.
'You don't sound so sure, Sammy.'
'I'm sure.' This time Sammy managed to get the words out. He desperately tried to size up his situation. He was remembering what had happened to Peter. Not to mention Fenton Gidley. This guy matched Fenton's description right down to the scar on his cheek.
'I guess you've already figured out I didn't come all the way out to Fag Harbor just to get a haircut.'
Sammy just nodded and began to spread out the white plastic poncho for the haircut. He was trying to come up with a plan. Anything that would keep him alive. The man with the nasty eyes was cocky. Maybe that was something to play with.
'Is it because of what happened at the Memory?' Sammy finally spoke again.
'I've already taken care of that. That was no big whup. I'm here about what happened at the beach.'
When Sammy responded with a puzzled look, the man said, 'Don't look so sad. All we want are the negatives. There's no point pretending anymore. The game's over. I win. You lose.'
The guy in his barber chair delivered these last words with an awful finality. This was worse than Sammy had thought. It wasn't about scaring him. It wasn't about the inquiry at all.
'Go ahead,' said the Fixer. 'I still need a haircut. And I'll take your advice on the length.'
Soon the man's hair was falling like a light snow on the plastic tarp spread out beneath the chair, and despite everything, Sammy fell into the calming, competent rhythm of his work. Snip and move and pull. Snip and move and pull. Forget that this guy had a gun in his hand.
A simple phrase pulsed in his head:
Sammy concentrated on his work as if his life depended on it, and when the Fixer leaned forward in his chair so Sammy could pull off his plastic poncho, he couldn't help but be impressed. 'Now I know why those rich ladies drive all the way out here.'
'One last spot,' said Sammy, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. The man chuckled, then he settled back in his chair. When he looked into the mirror, he saw Sammy's right hand blur across his chest.
Goddamnit, he couldn't believe it. Not this puny little fag. Not here – not like this. Oh, Jesus, no.
The slice of the razor was so fast and clean, the Fixer didn't know for sure if his throat had just been cut until he saw a second pink mouth flap open beneath his chin. Then, as the hairdresser reached from behind the chair and pinned his arms with a strength and fury that was the final surprise of his life, the Fixer watched the life gush out of him.
'Who's going to fix this?' were his last five words.
When Sammy released his hug, the large man slid out of the chair onto the plastic tarp on the floor. Sammy took a deep breath and tried to think this mess through. Fast. Jesus, he'd killed this guy. Nothing he could do about it now.
Once he made up his mind, he went upstairs and packed. Then he went to the garage and siphoned a couple of gallons of Exxon regular from his car. He wetted down the cottage, corner to corner. Then he tossed in a flaming Zippo.
By the time the first pumper truck arrived, that's exactly what was left of Sammy's Soul Kitchen. Zippo.
Chapter 51
I WAS WORKING UP A FEW NOTES to give Nadia Alper when I heard Mack's bellowing voice downstairs. 'Jack, come outside. Your girlfriend's here. Pretty as ever, too.'
Pauline was barely out of her car when Mack insisted she stay for dinner. About ten minutes later he announced he was abandoning us 'lovebirds' to investigate the various offerings of Montauk's more reputable vegetable stands and fishmongers. 'You
Two and a half hours later, as the sun was losing its edge, he made his triumphant return. In one hand he held the first local corn of the summer. In the other, three fat swordfish steaks.
'Sal swears on the soul of his mother that he carved these out of a three-hundred-fifty-pounder this morning,' boasted Mack.
After unloading his treasure, he cracked open three beers and joined us on the deck, where we brought him up to speed on Pauline's latest discoveries about Barry Neubauer.
After he listened to the dirt, Mack surveyed our respective strengths in food prep. Then he doled out assignments. I headed to the garage to dig up the old hibachi. He and Pauline disappeared into the kitchen.
Just having Pauline around was making everyone happy. For the first time in years, the place felt like a home instead of a dorm for lost boys.
Mack was particularly euphoric. It was as if someone had slipped him a tab of Ecstasy. Every once in a while he'd wander out from the kitchen just to stand beside me and share his affection as I poked the coals.
'I know you're dying to tell me how much you love Pauline, so why don't you get it off your chest?' I said.
'You should see her working on the salad dressing, Jackson. Madame Curie in cutoffs. I strongly urge you to marry this woman. Tonight if possible.'
