got into a fistfight about it down at the Chevron a month or two ago. I don’t know how he got that piece of property from Henry, but he sure as hell did. Then he went and built condos all over the damn place.”
Again they shook their heads and tipped their glasses. Delaney had spent a lot of hours lying on the white sands and swimming in the clear blue water of Crescent Bay. Coveted by most everyone in town, the Bay was a prime piece of real estate located on a large expanse of undeveloped beach. The property had been in Henry’s family for generations, and Delaney wondered how Nick had gotten his hands on it.
“Last I heard, those condos are making Allegrezza a fortune.”
“Yep. They’re being snapped up by Californians. Next thing you know, we’ll be overrun by latte-sippin,‘ dope- smokin’ pantywaists.”
“Or worse-actors.”
“Nothin‘ worse then a do-gooder like Bruce Willis moving in and trying to change everything. He’s the worse thing that ever happened to Hailey. Hell, he moves up there, renovates a few buildings, then thinks he can tell everyone in the whole damn state how to vote.”
The men concurred with a mutual nod and disgruntled scoff. When the conversation turned to movie stars and action films, Delaney walked unnoticed from the room. She moved down the hall to Henry’s study and closed the pocket doors behind her. On the wall behind his massive mahogany desk, Henry’s face stared down at her. Delaney remembered when he’d had the portrait painted. She’d been thirteen, about the time she’d first attempted to exert a little independence. She’d wanted to pierce her ears. Henry had said no. It was neither the first nor certainly the last time he’d exercised his control over her. Henry had always had to have control.
Delaney sat in the huge leather chair and was surprised to see a picture of herself sitting on the desk. She recalled the day Henry had taken the photograph. It was the day her whole life had changed. She’d been seven and her mother had just married Henry. It was the day she’d walked out of a single wide on the outskirts of Las Vegas and, after a short flight, into a three-story Victorian in Truly.
The first time she’d seen the house, with its twin turrets and gabled roof, she’d thought she was moving into a palace, which meant Henry was obviously a king. The mansion was surrounded by forest on three sides, cut back to allow beautifully landscaped lawn while the backyard gently sloped toward the cool waters of Lake Mary.
Within hours, Delaney had departed poverty and landed in a storybook. Her mother was happy and Delaney felt like a princess. And on that day, sitting on the steps in a frilly white dress her mother had forced her to wear, she’d fallen in love with Henry Shaw. He was older than the other men in her mother’s life had been-nicer, too. He didn’t yell at Delaney, and he didn’t make her mother cry. He made her feel safe and secure, something she’d felt all too infrequently in her young life. He’d adopted her and he was the only father she’d ever known. For those reasons, she loved Henry and she always would.
It was also the first time she’d laid eyes on Nick Allegrezza. He’d popped out of the bushes in Henry’s yard, his gray eyes blazing hatred, his cheeks mottled with anger. He’d scared her, yet she’d been fascinated by him at the same time. Nick had been a beautiful boy, black hair, smooth tan skin, and eyes like smoke.
He’d stood in the buckbrush, his arms at his sides, stiff with rage and defiance. All that rebellious Basque and Irish blood raging within his veins. He’d looked at the two of them, then he’d spoken to Henry. Years later Delaney couldn’t remember the exact words, but she would never forget the angry sentiment.
“You make sure you steer clear of him,” Henry had said as they’d watched him turn and leave, his chin up, back straight.
It wouldn’t be the last time he would warn her to stay away from Nick, but years later, it was one warning she wished she’d listened to.
Nick shoved his legs into his Levi’s, then stood to button the fly. He glanced over his shoulder at the woman tangled in motel sheets. Her blond hair fanned about her head. Her eyes were closed, her breathing slow and easy. Gail Oliver was the daughter of a judge and the recently divorced mother of a young son. To celebrate the end of her marriage, she’d had her tummy tucked and her breasts implanted with saline. At Henry’s funeral she’d walked up to him as bold as brass and announced she wanted him to be the first to see her new body. He could tell by the look in her eyes that she’d thought he should feel flattered. He wasn’t. He’d wanted a distraction, and she’d offered it. She’d acted offended when he’d pulled the Harley to a stop in front of the Starlight Motel, but she hadn’t asked him to take her back home.
Nick turned from the woman in bed and moved across green carpet to a sliding glass door that led onto a small deck overlooking Highway 55. He hadn’t planned on attending the old man’s funeral. He still didn’t know exactly how it had happened. One minute he’d been standing on Crescent Beach going over some specs with a subcontractor, then the next thing he knew, he was on his Harley heading for the cemetery. He hadn’t meant to go. He’d known he was
He moved to a corner of the deck, away from the light spilling onto the wooden planks, and was quickly enveloped in darkness. Reverend Tippet had hardly uttered the word “amen” before Gail, wearing that filmy little dress with the tiny straps, had propositioned Nick.
“My body is better at thirty-three than it was at sixteen,” she’d whispered in his ear. Nick couldn’t remember clearly what she’d looked like at sixteen, but he did remember she’d liked sex. She’d been one of those girls who loved to get laid but wanted to act like a virgin afterward. She used to sneak out of her house and scratch on the back door of the Lomax Grocery where he’d worked after hours sweeping the floor. If he’d been in the mood, he’d let her in and bang her on a box of freight or on the checkout counter. Afterward she’d behave as if she were doing him a favor. They’d both known different.
The cool night air tossed his hair about his shoulders and brushed across his bare skin. He hardly noticed the chill. Delaney was back. When he’d heard about Henry, he’d figured she’d come home for his funeral. Still, seeing her on the other side of the old man’s casket, with her hair dyed about five shades of red, had been a shock. After ten years she still reminded him of a porcelain doll, smooth as silk and delicate. Seeing her brought it all back, and he remembered the first time he’d laid eyes on her. Her hair had been blond then, and she’d been seven years old.
On that day over two decades ago, he’d been standing in line at the Tasty Freeze when he’d first heard about Henry Shaw’s new wife. He couldn’t believe the news. Henry had married again, and since everything Henry did interested Nick, he and his older brother Louie had hopped on their old stingrays and peddled around the lake to Henry’s huge Victorian house. With the spinning of his bicycle tires, Nick’s head spun, too. He knew Henry would never marry his mother. They’d hated each other for as long as Nick could remember. They didn’t even speak. Mostly Henry just ignored Nick, but maybe that would change now. Maybe Henry’s new wife would like kids. Maybe she’d like him.
Nick and Louie hid their bikes behind pine trees and crawled on their bellies beneath the thick buck-brush edging the terraced lawn. It was a spot they knew well. Louie was twelve, older than Nick by two years, but Nick was better at waiting than his brother. Maybe it was because he was used to waiting, or because his interest in Henry Shaw was more personal than his brother’s. The two boys made themselves comfortable and prepared to wait.
“He ain’t comin‘ out,” Louie complained after an hour of surveillance. “We’ve been here for a long time, and he ain’t comin’ out.”
“He will sooner or later.” Nick looked at his brother, then returned his attention to the front of the big gray house. “Has too.”
“Let’s go catch some fish in Mr. Bender’s pond.”
Every summer Clark Bender stocked the pond in his backyard with brown trout. And every summer the Allegrezza boys relieved him of several twelve-inch beauties. “Mom will get mad,” Nick reminded his brother, last week’s experience with the wooden spoon across his palms still fresh in his mind. Usually Benita Allegrezza defended her boys with blind ferocity. But even she couldn’t deny Mr. Bender’s accusation when the two had been escorted home stinking of fish guts, several choice trout dangling from their stringer.
“She won’t find out ‘cause Bender’s out of town.”
Nick looked at Louie again, and thinking of all those hungry trout made his hands itch for his fishing rod. “You sure?”
“Yep.”
He thought of the pond and all those fish just waiting for a Pautzke’s and a sharp hook. Then he whipped his
