The Poisoned Rose (6 page)

Frank Gannon had secrets. Augie had secrets. And Augie knew now that I had secrets, too. A past I had run from—and, for that matter, a present that I would run from, if only that were possible.

“Maybe that’s the wrong analogy,” Augie said. “Maybe you should replace treasure chests with land mines. That’s what this place is like. A minefield. Step in the wrong spot, and, boom, the shit goes off right in your face.”

It was only then that I realized Augie had probably had a few drinks before coming here.

“You might want to have a seat,” I said.

“We stepped into something tonight, Mac. You know that, right?”

“I sort of figured that out, yeah.”

“Frank and I grew up together. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“If I know one thing about him, it’s to never trust him. I knew it then, when we were kids, and I know it now. Maybe he didn’t know what we were walking into tonight, but I’d bet my life he did. Just like I’d bet my life he knew what he was doing by sending you to find that Weber girl. He’s a master manipulator, always has been. So I’m thinking that it might be smart of you and me to find out for ourselves what’s really going on.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“The guy who killed the cop is the one from the Caddy, so he saw us. And he knows we saw him kill Vogler. Maybe he’s beat it out of town, but maybe he hasn’t. His partner’s in custody, so he might be of some help, but if they’re pros, which I think they are, then I don’t think we should count on the cops getting much out of him.”

“What makes you think they were pros?”

“The Caddy was the kill car. They probably would have ditched it right way, a few miles out of town. The other car, driven by the other guy, was the shooter’s ride. It was a well-thought-out hit. They knew what they were doing.”

I thought about that for a moment, then Augie said, “You’re an easy man to find, Mac. Enough people know you. And I did just waltz in here now and catch you napping. So if the shooter isn’t long gone…” He didn’t finish his thought, didn’t need to.

“What did Frank have to say about tonight?”

“We didn’t have that much time to talk. But if he is up to something, we shouldn’t rely on anything he says, should we?”

“You really think he is up to something.”

“If you’re asking me if I think Frank would sell me to the devil for pocket change, my answer is yes, I think he’d do it in a heartbeat.”

“All right, Augie, let me ask you again: why are you working for him?”

“I spent twenty-five years in the DEA, most of it down in Colombia. Before that I did two tours of duty as a marine in Vietnam. I’m not squeamish, Mac, I’ve seen my share of shit. And I don’t have the…objections you seem to have to the kind of work Frank does. It’s funny, he tried to tell me that you were some kind of pacifist, which clearly you’re not, and thank God for that.”

“You told me earlier that your reasons for working for him were personal. Feel like telling me now what the reasons are?”

“It’s a long story. Maybe another time.”

“I don’t want to get caught in the middle of some old grudge between you two.”

Augie said nothing to that. I got the sense that maybe he was withholding something from me. But I knew better than to ask.

After a moment, he glanced again at the bottle of Beam. “I could use another belt.”

“You know how to pour.”

He gave himself a few more inches, then downed it.

“Maybe I will sit,” he said.

I nodded toward the chair by the window. Augie pulled it over and placed it across from me. He sat down on it and looked at me.

“Listen, I want to thank you for not leaving me there,” he said. “I was wrong about you. Frank’s wrong about you.”

I could see outside my three front windows to a rim of silver behind the clouded horizon beyond the bare elm trees. Morning wasn’t all that far off. I thought about another sip of Beam, but I was already too drunk.

“I think you and I are a lot alike,” Augie said. “We both rush into things without thinking. We might not be very good for each other.”

“You’re probably right.”

“But my right arm is yours. When you’ve gone through what I’ve gone through, you learn fast what men to trust with your life and what men not to trust.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. Finally I asked, “How long have you been retired from the DEA?”

“A few months. I moved back out here so my daughter and I could live the quiet life.” He paused, then said, “My best friend growing up was like we are. He had this exaggerated sense of right and wrong. It used to get him nothing but trouble. He was a good man, and I think it’s what finally got him killed.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think he tried to stand up to the wrong person and paid the price for it. He’s probably not the only one. It happens.”

“Who was the person he tried to stand up to?”

Augie shrugged off my question. “It was a long time ago.”

I waited a moment, hoping he might say more, but when he didn’t I asked him how old his daughter was.

“Fifteen.”

“Where’s her mother?”

“She was killed ten years ago. Murdered by a machete gang in Colombia. She was from there. It’s just me and Tina now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“How about you, Mac? Any family?”

I shook my head. “My mother died when I was young. And my father disappeared when I was seven. But you probably know all about me by now, don’t you?”

“Do you remember him at all? Your father, I mean.”

“Only vaguely.”

“What is it you do remember?”

“He chain-smoked. He was a cop. The only real memories I have are of us living in a hotel in Riverhead. I was a boy and as far as I knew he was the whole world.”

“Where’d you go after he disappeared?”

“He had arranged for me to be taken in by a family on Gin Lane. I guess he did this just before he disappeared. It must have been hard for him—a single father, and a cop on top of that, trying to raise a kid.”

Augie said nothing for a moment, then: “I’d imagine he thought he was doing the best thing for you.” He paused. “I doubt he just wanted to get rid of you.”

I shrugged. I still remember vividly being handed off to the man who would become my adoptive father. A man with an emotionally disturbed son my age in need of a companion and keeper. A man with an agenda, who, when I was old enough, decided that he would raise me to be the family bodyguard—protect his son and his wife when he was not around, protect all three of them when we traveled. I never saw my father after he had handed me over to this man, despite his promise that I would. Down on his knees, looking me straight in the eyes, he’d said, “I’ll come and see you in a few days, son. Okay?” It had felt as if something were being torn from me. But not long after that day, my father had simply disappeared. I didn’t know it at the time, was only told about it months later by the man who would eventually adopt me.

I was his son now, he’d told me.

I needed to change the subject, so I said, “Your daughter’s fifteen, right?”

“Yeah.”

“She must keep you on your toes.”

“She’s a handful. She’s her father’s daughter, whether she likes it or not. She saw her mother get murdered. She was left for dead, hid for three days before someone found her. She didn’t speak for almost a year after that. Trauma.” He smiled and shrugged. “Now of course she does nothing but talk. She’s not afraid of speaking her mind. She’s like her mother that way.”

“You two must be close.”

He nodded. “We take care of the ones we love, right?”

I had nothing to say to that, so I glanced toward my front windows again. Sunrise was definitely underway somewhere not far beyond the rain clouds.

Augie and I drank and talked till daylight was finally everywhere and the birds were singing and the rain had stopped falling through the trees. Together we listened to the church bell a half mile down North Main Street strike seven times. The bottle of Beam was empty and the twittering of the birds was like so much madness outside my windows.

I heard Augie saying, “We’ve got to find that cop killer before he has a chance to find us … Yeah, we stepped into it good, didn’t we … I’ll probably come back for you later on tonight … Thanks for not leaving me there …”

The next thing I knew I was alone in my living room and staring up at my ceiling from the dust-covered wood floor. I don’t know how I got there. But there was a steady ringing in my ears, and whenever I closed my eyes I saw a floating egg, blue-rimmed with an orange center. I felt as if I was being pulled along on the surface of a foaming river.

***

 

When I awoke it was light out and I was hungry. I looked at the bottle on my coffee table and saw that it was empty. I felt hollow and weak.

I had dreamed most of the night of the many ways of escape—the back roads out of town, and the secondary roads that bypassed the main highways and led off the island. I dreamed of the train tracks running from Montauk to Queens, mile after mile of metal rails and hard wood ties. I saw myself walking that straight line right out of here, away from everything I’ve ever known, counting each tie with the morning sun at my back.

I was awake now and still couldn’t shake that idea from my mind.
Escape.
The word echoed in my thoughts. But thinking and doing were two very different things. When I finally got myself up off the floor, I saw that it was three in the afternoon. I wandered into my kitchen but couldn’t find anything to eat, so I put on hot water for tea and stood at my window and looked at the train station.

The shutoff notice from the electric company was hanging on the refrigerator behind me. I didn’t have to see it to know that it was there. It reminded me of the money on my coffee table, the cash Frank Gannon had given Augie to give me.

I went to it, opened the envelope, and counted through the bills. It was more money than I had seen in a long time. It was almost as much as I had made in my best month last summer, when Jamie Ray and I had managed to do three painting jobs in one six-day week of working seven in the morning to eight at night.

I closed the envelope and dropped it onto the coffee table. The teakettle whistled back in the kitchen and I went to it and took it off the stove and dropped my last bag of ginger tea into a mug and poured the water over it. Then I pulled the chair Augie had sat in most of the night back to its position in front of my living room windows and sat on it backwards and looked down on Elm Street.

I thought about the chances that I could start a new life here and even made of list of errands to run, followed by a promise to myself to actually get out and run them. But before I could get too far with that I started to think of Vogler bleeding to death on that rainy street. From there it was a short trip to thinking about almost being killed out on Noyac Road. And it wasn’t long after that that I remembered the scratches on my face. I touched them with my fingertips, recalling the woman who had left them there, the fear that had coursed through her body. I had thought I was helping her, preventing her from making a mistake by running.

I had thought wrong.

I’d been told by a woman who lived with me for a month years ago that all things have a right to live. I believed that, I believed her, all evidence to the contrary.

It didn’t take much for me to start looking through my place for unfinished bottles of Beam. I found one under my sink that had a few shots left in it. I emptied the bottle into a glass and settled in. I drank slowly to make what I had last. But it wasn’t enough. Around nine I was out of what I had scrounged together and nowhere near numb enough, so I headed downstairs for a few on George. I didn’t care anymore who was looking for me. I remembered Augie saying something about coming to get me tonight. I wasn’t sure if I was going downstairs to make it easier for him to find me or more difficult. But I didn’t really care about that. The threat of my starting to remember again grew with each minute I went without a drink in my hand.

And anyway, I was hungry, and George served food over the bar.

I don’t remember her face or much of anything about her, really. She sits beside me in the dark corner at the end of the Hansom House bar and we drink together. It is loud, the place is crowed, there is a great hum around us, chatter and music. I lose a lot to this noise—a lot of what she is saying to me—but it doesn’t seem to matter. She smiles a lot and laughs and I nod at things I don’t really understand. It’s the smiling and laughing and long eye contact that tells me what I need to know.

We eat and drink, then go upstairs to my dark apartment. She opens a window and the curtain lifts and blooms like a restless ghost. The air coming in fills the room fast, too fast. It is a rush of cold and dark, a rush of outer space. I begin to shiver. She comes to me, presses her body against mine, wraps her arms around me. I smell her with each breath I take.

And then we are lying down. Her body radiates heat. I pull it close to me out of greed. I can see the vague shape of her by the streetlight coming in from outside. Her hair is shoulder length and straight. I smell it, smell her skin, the Quervo on her cool breath. She is drunk, too. She laughs. It’s a laugh that comes from deep in her gut. She climbs on top of me and straddles me and leans down so her soft hair brushes my face and makes a cozy little cave for us. We kiss that way for a long time. She laughs and smiles as we do this. She is almost giddy. There is warmth in her smile.

We undress each other, clumsily. There is joy in our fumbling. Finally, we’re both naked, and she straddles me again, reaches between her thighs and guides me inside her. She lowers herself down slowly till I am all the way in. We both gasp. Then she begins to rock back and forth, her back straight, her palms on my stomach. I watch her.

Afterward she is standing at my bedroom window, wearing nothing but an old army surplus wool blanket around her shoulders. Her feet are bare. The floor must be cold. I tell her this but she says it’s okay. She stands in that pale light and tells me that I’m a hard man to get to. I’m not sure what she means. Then she says something else, says it several times before I finally hear and understand her. I realize she is asking me if I will help her. I hear myself tell her that I can’t help anyone. She says something about how he’ll think twice about hurting her if he knows we’re together. I don’t know who “he” is, but I don’t ask. I tell her I can’t see her face with her back to the light. I ask her who she is. I have asked that before. She tells me that she is Rose. Don’t I remember? I say nothing.