He Sees You When You're Sleeping

Sterling arrived back at the restaurant and was not surprised to see Nor getting out of her car in the parking lot. They must know about the fire already, he thought as he broke into a trot.

He followed Nor inside and up to Billy’s apartment, which encompassed the entire second floor of the building. Dennis was already there, and Billy had made coffee.

“Sean is on his way over,” Nor told Billy. She had no make-up on. Her hair was loosely caught up in a comb, but long tendrils were slipping around her neck and face. She was wearing a light blue sweat suit and a pair of sneakers.

Billy had on rumpled blue jeans, a wrinkled denim shirt, and old moccasins. His eyes looked tired, and he needed a shave.

Dennis was wearing a gray Madison Village sweatshirt over well-worn corduroy pants.

“Sean said it’s important that he talk to us right away,” Nor said as Billy poured coffee into mugs, and the three of them went to the table in the dining room.

From the chair he selected, Sterling could see into the living room. Billy’s place was a comfortable bachelor pad, slightly untidy, with sneakers under the coffee table and a pile of newspapers on top of it. The couch and chairs were basically nondescript but looked inviting.

It was clear that Billy worked on his music in the living room. There were a couple of guitars propped up against the piano, and sheet music was scattered on the couch.

As at Nor’s home, many of the homemade ornaments on the Christmas tree looked as though they had Marissa’s touch.

The ringing of the doorbell indicated that Sean O’Brien had arrived. Billy buzzed him in and waited as he climbed the stairs.

O’Brien’s expression was grave. He nodded when Billy offered coffee, joined them at the table, and told them about the fire.

“How bad is it?” Nor asked.

“About as bad as it gets,” O’Brien said. “Hans Kramer is in the hospital. He’s had a pretty severe heart attack, but he should make it.”

Nor inhaled sharply. “Oh, no.”

“His place burned to the ground,” O’Brien continued. “There’s absolutely nothing left. It was one expert job.”

“It was definitely set?” Nor asked flatly, already knowing the answer.

“Yes, it was.”

“What happens now?” Billy asked.

“The FBI will be here soon. They need to take statements from you. Your testimony directly implicates the Badgetts. When Kramer is well enough, we’ll get his statement. Then the feds will go for an indictment. Since you overheard Junior’s order to torch the warehouse, it looks like this time there will finally be a solid case against them. But I warn you, it’s absolutely imperative that no one knows you two are witnesses.”

Billy and Nor exchanged glances. “I think we both understand,” Billy said.

“I certainly do,” Dennis said grimly.

Sterling shook his head. The lawyer, he thought. The Badgetts’ lawyer, Charlie Santoli. He saw Billy and Nor coming out of the office. Do the Badgetts know that yet?

On Monday morning at 7:30, Charlie Santoli went downstairs to the kitchen of his home in Little Neck, Long Island. His wife, Marge, was already there preparing breakfast.

Hands on her hips, a worried frown on her face, she took a good look at him. “You look like you’ve been up for a week, Charlie,” she said bluntly.

Charlie raised his hand. “Marge, don’t start. I’m okay.”

Marge was an attractive, generously sized woman with short brown hair, a shade she preserved by regular visits to the local beauty salon. For years she had kept a standing appointment every Saturday for a wash, set, and manicure. Every fourth Saturday she had a seaweed facial and a color job.

Marge never allowed circumstances to quiet her lively tongue. She had a reputation for conducting conversations with fellow patrons of the salon while sitting under the dryer. Of course this meant that she had to shout to be heard, but, as Charlie had learned, Marge was born with her Irish ancestors’ gift of gab. Nothing stood in the way of her having both the first and the last word.

Now she continued to scrutinize her husband, studying his face, taking in the lines of fatigue around his eyes, the tightness of his lips, the faint quiver of a muscle in his cheek, and then began a familiar refrain. “You look terrible, and it’s all because those two are driving you crazy.”

A buzzer went off. Marge turned, and with her mittened hand, removed a tray of freshly baked corn muffins from the oven. “Did you get any sleep at all last night?”

Did I? Charlie wondered. His head was aching, his stomach was knotted and churning. He shrugged his answer.

Yesterday evening, when he arrived home at nine o’clock, Marge had pounced on him for details about the party, but he had begged off. “Marge, give me time to get over it.”

Mercifully she had done just that, helped by the fact that a vintage Christmas movie she’d always loved was about to start on an obscure cable station. A box of tissues next to the couch, a cup of tea on the table in front of her, Marge had cheerfully prepared herself for a good cry.

Immensely relieved to have a reprieve, Charlie fixed a strong scotch and buried himself in the Sunday papers.

It had nearly killed Marge to miss the Badgett party, especially with the delicious prospect of seeing Mama Badgett on satellite television. What kept her away was a long-planned, late-afternoon, holiday reunion of her classmates from St. Mary’s Academy. As chairperson of the event, she had chosen the date for it and therefore simply could not miss it. As Charlie had pointed out, she was hoist on her own petard.

Now Marge put a muffin on a plate and placed it in front of him. “Don’t stand there,” she said. “Sit down and eat like a normal human being.”

It was useless to protest. Charlie dutifully pulled out the chair as she poured him a cup of coffee. His vitamins were already lined up next to a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

If only he could call up the Badgetts and tell them he wasn’t ever going to walk into their home or office again. If only he could just sit here in this cozy kitchen with Marge and have a peaceful breakfast without ever having to think about the brothers again.

Marge poured her own coffee and slathered jam on a muffin. “Now tell me,” she ordered. “What happened at the party? The way you dragged yourself in last night, it must have been awful. Didn’t the satellite hookup work?”

“Unfortunately, it came through loud and clear.”

Her eyes widened. “What do you mean, ‘unfortunately?’ ”

“Mama Heddy-Anna was plastered.” Charlie relayed the rest of the story, omitting nothing and finishing with a vivid description of Mama Heddy-Anna thumbing her nose at the North Shore social set.

Frustrated, Marge thumped the table with her clenched fist. “I can’t believe I missed that. Why do I only go with you to the boring parties? And to think I was the one who said Thanksgiving weekend was a bad time to have our reunion. What did I ever do to deserve this?”

Charlie sipped the last of his coffee. “I wish I had missed it! Those two are going to be in one foul mood today.” It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that it was now obvious to everyone present at the party that the Badgett brothers had not been back to Wallonia since they left it, and to relate to her Mama’s own words, “How much bad you do, you can’t come visit your mama?”

Charlie had never had the courage to tell Marge that it was only after he was in too deep to get out that he had learned the full extent of the situation in Wallonia. Junior and Eddie had been sentenced, in absentia, to life imprisonment there, for a host of crimes Charlie didn’t even want to think about. They could never go back, and he could never get away from them.

With something akin to despair, he got up, kissed the top of Marge’s head, went to the closet, put on his overcoat, picked up his briefcase, and left.

The Badgett office building where Charlie worked was in Rosewood, about fifteen minutes