Lights Out (19 page)

“Late. Sorry.”

“No problem. Did you sort out whatever it was?”

“Partly.”

The red light began moving again, back and forth.

“Do you live here, Jack?”

“It’s where I lay my weary head.” No mention of Aspen or Connecticut.

Eddie sat up. The smell was irresistible. “Got another cigarette?”

“You smoke?”

“Trying to quit. It’s prong one of my three-pronged plan.”

There was a soft smack on the coffee table—the cigarette pack; and a softer one—the matches. Eddie lit up.

“I give up,” said Jack.

“About what?”

“Prongs two and three.”

“Steam bath, which I haven’t had yet. And take nothing with me.”

“Did you?”

“I took my sneakers,” Eddie said. But he knew the break hadn’t been as clean as that. There was El Rojo’s hundred dollars, for starters. That had led to Sookray and Señor Paz. Then there was Prof’s charcoal drawing. That had led to Tiffany, who was in contact with Sookray. He hadn’t made a clean break at all; his old community reached out for him.

“Still wear a ten?” Jack asked.

“Yeah.”

“There’re boxes of tens around here somewhere. Jogging, tennis, loafers, Christ knows what else. I’ve got this personal shopper, don’t ask me why. Take what you want.”

The red-tip glow kept moving, back and forth.

Eddie said: “You got rich.”

Jack made a sound, half laughter, half choking on cigarette smoke. “Rich? What’s rich?”

“This place. Boxes of shoes. Personal shopper, whatever that is.” A check for $230,000 left in a jacket on the floor.

“That’s not rich, Eddie. Rich is never having to worry about money. Never having to think about it. Just living in it, like the air you breathe.”

“Is Bobby rich?”

“Bobby?”

“Falardeau. He says he’s set for life.”

The red light stopped, brightened, moved on.

“You went home?”

“Yeah.”

“Saw Bobby?”

“And Vic.”

“What made you do that?”

“Bobby I ran into. Vic … I don’t know.”

“He’s a pathetic drunk.”

“The whole town’s kind of pathetic now.”

“It was always pathetic. How about a drink?”

“What’s BCC?”

“Mining and metals.”

“They fired Vic.”

“That’s such a loaded word,” Jack said. “I wish people would stop using it. Firing’s just an expression of socioeconomic forces. You can’t fight forces like that. All you can do is get on their backs and ride them.”

“I’ll tell Vic that the next time I see him.”

Jack laughed again, this time without choking. “How about that drink?”

“Okay.”

The red light went out. Then came bumping sounds and clinking sounds.

“You like Armagnac?”

“What is it?”

“Cognac, but snobbier.”

“That’s me.”

Jack appeared in the pool of pink-orange night glow, sat across the table with brandy snifters and a bottle. His half glasses were up on his forehead; there were deep pockets under his eyes, garish pits in the city light.

“Bobby’s set for life, all right,” said Jack as he poured, “but I wouldn’t call him rich. He could have been rich, but he didn’t have the balls.”

“Didn’t have the balls?”

“To hold out for what he could have gotten. I wasn’t surprised. You remember how he was in the pool.”

“I raced him yesterday. One-hundred free.”

“You’re kidding.”

“His problem was technique, not character.” But even as he said it, Eddie wasn’t sure.

“That means you beat him.”

Eddie didn’t say anything. Jack brought the snifters together with a ping, handed one to Eddie. “Bobby in good shape?”

“He still works out in the pool.”

“Maybe. But he must have had delusions. Look at you. I wouldn’t stand a chance either.”

“I never beat you, Jack. Not in the free.”

“Let’s leave it like that.” Jack raised his glass. “Here’s to you, bro.”

They drank. Eddie didn’t know about the snobby part. He just knew the Armagnac was good, and said so.

“A present from Karen, actually. She brought it back from Paris.”

Eddie thought of his French café dream right away. “She’s a client?”

“Right.”

“What does she do?”

“Manages a family trust.”

“Her family?”

“One half of it. The poor half. They came over with Peter Stuyvesant and split in two. Her half sat on their little acre for three hundred years. The other half started General Brands.”

“Is she good at it?”

Jack smiled. “Good enough to come to me.” He took another drink.

“What do you do, exactly?”

“Investment research. Analysis. Counseling.”

“You invest the money for them?”

“Some clients have commission accounts with me, yes. Others pay a straight fee, plus a percentage bonus if earnings targets are reached.”

“How did you learn all this stuff?”

“Picked it up on the fly. That’s how everyone does it. They may tell you different, but it’s the only way.”

“So you didn’t go back to school?”

“School?”

“After Galleon Beach.”

Jack’s eyes went to the papers scattered on the table; at least Eddie thought they did: the light wasn’t good enough for him to be sure.

“I did, in fact.”

“USC?”

Jack nodded. “But that’s not where I learned this business.”

“Did you swim?”

“Swim?”

“At USC.”

“No.” There was a silence. “I got bored with it. All those hours in the pool. I wasn’t really that good.”

“You were.”

“I wasn’t going to get any better, then.”

I was
.

Jack lit another cigarette. It glowed in the space between them.

“How did you manage?”

“College? It’s not so tough, Eddie. Like high school, except you get laid more.”

“I meant without a scholarship.”

Jack took a drag. The red tip brightened. “Waiting tables, loans, scrounging, the usual.”

Someone screamed, faint and far away, down in the park.

“Did Bobby tell you how to find me?” Jack said.

“I saw your letterhead at Vic’s. Your old letterhead.”

Jack refilled their glasses. Eddie’s didn’t need refilling, but Jack poured anyway. He swirled the liquid in his glass, staring into the tiny whirlpool he’d made.

“What happened to J. M. Nye and Associates?” Eddie said.

Jack made a sound, not a laugh, more like a snicker. “It was an eighties thing. The climate’s changed.”

“How?”

“Like the ice age.” He took another drink, a big one, as though to fend off the cold.

“So Windward Financial Services is something different?”

“Leaner. I don’t know about meaner. We were mean from the get-go.”

“You’re talking about the associates?”

“Right.”

“Who are they?”

Jack shrugged. “What you’d expect. It doesn’t matter. They’re gone.”

“You’re on your own?”

“Thank God.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because now I don’t have to worry about a bunch of fuck-ups fucking up. One of my beloved associates is still in the hoosegow.”

Hoosegow. One of those words that was supposed to be funny. Eddie didn’t find it funny at all. He said nothing.

Jack misinterpreted his silence. “He didn’t do anything sinful,” he said. “In this business the line between making a killing and breaking the law can be very fine.”

“So people can end up in the hoosegow just by accident.”

There was another silence, much longer than the last. Jack laid down his drink. He put his hands together, almost in the attitude of prayer; his fingernails glowed pink-orange in the light flowing through the window.

“I’m sorry, bro,” he said.

“For what?”

“For not … keeping in touch. It was inexcusable. But—” His voice broke. “—I couldn’t stand to see you like that. That goddamn visitor’s room. That was hell, Eddie. I won’t forget it till my dying day.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“Yes, you do. I took the easy way.”

“What do you mean?”

There was wetness on Jack’s face. “It was easier to forget,” he said. He picked up his glass and drained it. “To try to forget.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself.”

“No, I’m not.” Jack took out a handkerchief and wiped his face.

He drank more Armagnac. So did Eddie.

“Eddie?”

“Present.”

“How are you? Really.”

The phone rang. Jack answered it. “Send it up,” he said. Then he turned to Eddie. “I want you to stay here. I mean that. As long as you like. Don’t worry about anything, anything at all. Understand?”

“Sure.” He understood the concept of not worrying. He was free. What was there to worry about?

“Do you need any money?” Jack asked.

“Got some. I’ve been making it hand over fist.”

“Here.” Jack laid some bills on the table.

“No, thanks.”

“Just take it. Get yourself some clothes. See the sights. I’m not going to be around tomorrow.”

“No?”

“Business trip.”

“Where?”

“Nowhere interesting. We’ll come up with a plan when I get back.”

“What kind of plan?”

“To get you back on your feet.”

“I’m on my feet.”

“I know. I can’t tell you how impressed I am.” Jack poured more Armagnac. “But what do you want to do, Eddie? Or is it too soon to say?”

Eddie thought it over. “Go for a swim.”

Jack laughed. “Same old—” He cut himself off. His eyes were pink-orange in the light. Someone knocked on the door.

Jack went to it. A bellman held out a silver tray bearing an envelope. Jack took it and returned to the couch.

“You can swim anytime you like at my club,” he said. “Although that wasn’t what I meant.”

“Is it too late to get into junk bonds?” Eddie said.

Jack smiled his smile. “They’re making a comeback already.” He had one more shot of Armagnac, then rose, stretching. “You can sleep on the pullout,” he said.

“I’m fine here.”

“Pullout’s more comfortable.” Jack went into the bedroom.

Eddie finished what was in his glass, put it down. His eyes rested on the envelope the bellman had brought. It wasn’t sealed. He peeked inside, saw a plane ticket, slipped it out. Jack was taking a return flight to Grand Cayman, first class.

“All set,” Jack called.

Eddie went into the bedroom. Jack was spreading a quilt on the pullout. He gave the pillows a little pat and went into the bathroom.

A few minutes later they were in their beds. The pullout was comfortable, but Eddie couldn’t sleep. He lay in it, feeling the Armagnac tingling inside him. He’d had too much, on top of too much the night before, and nothing for so many nights before that. The room began to spin, just a little. He watched it spin for a while, listening to Jack’s breathing. He knew that sound.

He spoke. “What happened to
Fearless
?”

“Confiscated.” Jack replied immediately, wide-awake.

“How did Packer take that?”

Eddie heard a little laugh. “Brad? I don’t think he cared much by then. The bank owned the boat anyway.”

“It did?”

“Sure. Packer was just a nobody with a two-bit dream. The world’s full of Packers.”

Eddie had only met one, and Galleon Beach hadn’t seemed two-bit to him. The room spun a little more.

“Did you ever go back?” he said.

“Back where?”

“To Galleon Beach.”

“Why would I have done that?”

“It was a nice place.”

“It was a dump, Eddie. You’d be disappointed now. Some things only work when you’re young.”

Eddie knew that last part was true. That was what was killing him.

“Did JFK ever turn up?” he said.

Pause. “If he had, we’d have gotten you out.”

“He must be somewhere.”

“He could be dead. And even if he isn’t, does it matter anymore? You’re here. From now on things are going to be good for you. I’ll see to that.”

Eddie said nothing. He heard Jack roll over.

“Big day tomorrow,” Jack said. “Better get some sleep.”

A big day for you, maybe, Eddie thought. He stared at the ceiling. It was moving. He listened to Jack’s breathing, that same breathing he’d heard when they shared a bed in their little room.

“Do you remember Mom?” he said.

“A little.”

“What was she like?”

“Who knows?” There was a long silence before Jack said, “Christ, Eddie, we were living like shit the whole time.”

“No, we weren’t.”

“You’re wrong.”

But Eddie knew he was right, knew now what living like
shit was about. There was another silence. It went on and on. Eddie occupied himself with the tingling of the Armagnac, Jack’s breathing, and the slowly spinning room. Time passed. Then Jack spoke once more, soft and gentle.

“Good night, Sir Wentworth,” he said.

That brought the mist to Eddie’s eyes, but of course no one could see, so it was almost all right. He pretended to be asleep.

Good night, One-Eye.

Outside: Day 4

17

E
ddie awoke with a question on his mind: Did it matter if JFK was alive? was somewhere? He didn’t know the answer.

Jack was gone. He’d left a note on the coffee table, beside the bills he’d laid there the night before.

“Bro—here’s the card that opens the door and a pass for the health club. Did I mention the concierge? Hector? Don’t tip him—the fucker’s already taken care of. Back in a day or two. Get some clothes. Have a swim. Boogie. J.” At the bottom was a map showing the location of the health club, near Grand Central Station, and of Macy’s.

Eddie counted the money—$350—and left it where it was. He dressed in his sneakers and Prof’s sweatsuit, pocketed the note, the cards, and his Speedo, and started for the door. His hand was on the knob when he turned back, went into the bedroom, and opened the closet.

The suit Eddie had hung up for Jack was still there, between two pinstripes, one charcoal, one navy. Eddie checked the inside jacket pocket. The check for $230,000 was gone. He returned to the sitting room, came close to picking up the $350—it was just about equal to his take for the past fifteen years—and went out.