The middle of nowhere, p.24
The Middle of Nowhere, page 24
“Yeah.”
He felt like Bliss was trying to stare him down. Dom wanted to tell him it didn’t work over the phone.
“Last round, Lenny. That means we touch gloves before the first punch.”
“Come alone, Dom.”
“No problem,” Dom said. “See you soon. Oh, and Lenny, it’s kind of dark and grainy, but I have to say, you look good on tape. You should think about doing some acting when you retire. And who knows, that day could come sooner than you ever possibly imagined.”
Bliss immediately called home. No answer. He left a message for Rachel to call him back right away. It was urgent. He couldn’t believe she was talking to Dom.
Then he left to meet Dom, to get back the tape, and do whatever else he needed to do to end this thing and get Dom out of his life.
Dom drove over the Brooklyn Bridge. Traffic was dense but flowing smoothly.
Rick, in the white Saab, was two cars ahead of them.
He had Mae on the phone. She had called him.
“Always try to keep at least one car between you and the mark,” he said, feeling authentic. “Two cars are better. But you need to watch out for trucks. And cargo vans. You let a cargo van get between you and the mark your vision is blocked. You won’t see his blinker. You could get caught by surprise.”
At that moment Rick put on his blinker and moved to the right lane. Dom was pleased to see Rick was following instructions.
“Where do you think he’s going?” she asked.
“No idea,” Dom said. “That’s the thing about tailing someone. You never know where they will take you.”
“Good metaphor,” she said, “I’m writing that down. Another authentic Dom moment. I’m definitely going to thank you in the the acknowledgments.”
“The guy who gave you the nitty-gritty.”
Of course Dom wasn’t really tailing Rick. He knew exactly where Rick was headed. But in Dom’s story, he was following Rick and he wanted to stick to the scenario.
“When you get really good at tailing someone, you go ahead of them,” Dom said. “The way a good boxer knows what punch his opponent is going to throw before he throws it.”
Silence. She must have been writing. Dom was starting to think maybe he should just write the book himself.
Rick was now heading under the bridge, down to the water. Everything was going according to plan. Dom had been worried that Rick would be too agitated to follow the directions, but he seemed to be keeping it together. He hoped Rick would be ready to explode when the time came, though Dom could always nudge him along a little if need be.
“I tried to call you,” he said. “You’re not listed.”
“I’ll let you know when the book comes out.”
“Okay,” he said. Mae didn’t like that, him trying to call her. He’d have his friend in the precinct find her number for him anyway.
“Hey, if you need an ending, I have one for you,” he said.
“An ending?”
That got her attention.
“Yeah.”
The Saab pulled over and Rick parked just where Dom had told him to.
“How can you give me an ending,” Mae said, “when you don’t know what my story is?”
A fence separated the street from a path that ran along the East River. The Brooklyn Bridge arched over the water, looking massive. There were a few people around. Not many, but enough to serve as witnesses, to corroborate.
“Dom?”
“Yes.”
“The ending?”
“I don’t need to know the story,” he said, “This ending is going to be so good, you’ll want to write your story around it.”
Rick got out of the car. He was holding the gun in his hand. Jesus, Dom needed to get over there. “Listen,” he said, “it’s all going to happen soon. I’ll tell you everything. We’ll talk about it over drinks. On my terrace. It looks out over Central Park. I’ll give you lots of nitty. More gritty than you’ll know what to do with.”
He hung up.
Dom tapped his jacket, feeling for the surveillance tape, just making sure it was there. Later it would be found inside Bliss’s pocket. Bliss going into the house, coming out twenty-two minutes later.
He got out of the car and walked quickly to Rick.
“Put that away, Rick,” he said. “We don’t want anyone getting nervous, calling the cops. They’ll come and take away the tape and you’ll never see it again and he’ll walk away.”
Rick nodded, his gaze somewhere far away. But he put the gun in his pocket.
Good boy, Rick.
To the right, through a gate in the fence, was a small park Dom used to come to when he was twelve, to smoke dope and make out with girls who would chew gum between kisses.
“It’s time, Rick.”
“Yes,” Rick said.
The bell rang.
Final round.
Rick bit his thumb. Dom noticed the cuticle was already rimmed with blood.
Bliss walked under the Brooklyn Bridge on the Brooklyn side, the span of the bridge arching majestically above him, the financial district just across the water. He had bungee jumped from the bridge a few years ago, a feat that was supposed to have catapulted him into a new frame of mind. But, like the yoga, it had only made him more certain he was beyond fixing, that ontologically he was a washed-up lounge singer playing a bowling alley bar in a tattered tux that was way too tight.
He followed the path along the water and, just as Dom said, he came upon a small park with a few benches and a rusted swing set. He walked over to one of the benches and sat down. It was a cloudy day. There were only a few people in the park.
He waited, thinking about what this encounter would bring. The whole thing was ridiculous. He felt stupid, getting into such a mess. Dragging his partner down as well.
Then he saw Dom, walking toward him. He looked calm. Bliss watched him closely, waiting until he was about twenty yards away.
“Far enough, Dom.”
“Okay.”
Dom stopped.
“You packing, Dom?” Bliss asked.
“Not now,” he said smiling.
“I’d feel better if you took your jacket off,” Bliss said.
“It’s Canali,” Dom said.
“You don’t have to put it down,” Bliss said. “Sling it over your shoulder. Like the guy on Miami Vice.”
Dom complied. It was going too easily.
“The boy,” Dom said.
“What are you talking about?” Bliss said. He didn’t get where this was heading.
Dom slowly reached inside his jacket. Bliss moved for his piece.
“I’m just doing a little Warner Wolf,” Dom said.
Bliss knew what that meant. Let’s go to the videotape. Dom slowly pulled the video from his pocket. He wiggled it, as if to say “shame on you.”
“Why’d you do it, Lenny?” Dom said.
“First let’s talk about Felix,” Bliss said.
“This is not about Felix anymore.” Dom gestured with the tape. “This is the story now, Lenny. Once they see this tape, they’ll forget about Felix.”
Bliss kept his hand on his gun.
“Why’d you kill him, Bliss?” Dom asked, his voice sounding forced, like he was reading cue cards. “That poor innocent boy.”
“What are you talking about?”
Then Bliss caught sight of a man in a black suit entering the park. He was moving fast, straight toward him. It took Bliss a moment to realize it was Rick Purdy. Rick Purdy, holding a gun, his arm straight out in front of him, moving toward Bliss like a robot.
Bliss saw the smile edge along Dom’s face.
He’ll break his wrist if he tries to shoot like that, Bliss thought.
“He was seventeen, Lenny,” Dom said, his voice rising, spurring the other man on. “You took away his future.”
Rick was now about twenty yards away, closing quickly, his eyes wide and unblinking, the gun in his outstretched arm, like the gun was leading him, dragging him forward.
“You killed my son.” he said, his voice calm but intense, like an irate librarian.
“I didn’t kill your son,” Bliss shouted, his eye on the gun.
“I saw you on the tape!” Rick screaming now, gesturing with the gun. “I saw you!”
Rick walked past Dom like he wasn’t there. Rick was possessed. A zombie. A zombie with a loaded gun pointing right at him. Bliss realized he was going to have to take Rick down.
“I’m going to do it, Ben!” the guy shrieked. “I’m going to do it!”
Bliss pulled out his gun just as Rick fired. The bullet caught Bliss in the leg. He crumpled over, falling off the bench, his back to Rick, facing the wrong way. He tried to twist his body, to get off a shot. He had his gun in his hand and he was trying to twist his body around, but he couldn’t figure out which muscles were working and which weren’t.
Then he heard the second shot and he prepared to die.
Dom’s elation was short-lived. Bliss was hit, still moving, but down. All Rick had to do was shoot again. There were twelve bullets in the clip. He was bound to connect. All he needed was to pull the trigger. Walk up to the helpless Bliss, put the gun to his head, and pull the trigger.
But Rick wasn’t moving. Dom watched in silence as Rick lowered his arm that held the gun. No, Rick. Then Rick seemed to freeze, as if he was caught in the invisible force field of some invisible space ship hovering right above his head.
“Rick!” Dom shouted. Rick didn’t hear him. Instead Rick started shaking like a broken toy. Just fire the gun, Rick. Pull the fucking trigger and finish the story. Finish the story the way I planned it!
Then a wild kind of roar emerged from Rick. Dom couldn’t tell if it was the sound of victory or defeat.
Then Rick raised up his gun. Finally. Then he pulled the trigger. There was a loud pop, and Dom watched as the back of Rick’s head blew apart, because Rick had stuck the barrel of the gun in his mouth.
Shit, Dom thought. Now he would have to finish it himself.
Rick. What a loser.
Dom raced to Rick’s body. He’d fallen straight back, his head already swimming in a large pool of blood. Dom put his hand over Rick’s. It was still warm. He tried to maneuver the gun in Rick’s hand to aim it at Bliss, but it meant the elbow having to move the wrong way.
He wrenched the gun free. He’d pop Bliss and get the gun back in Rick’s hand. He’d deal with the prints later. That’s when he heard Bliss.
“Drop it, Dom.”
He looked across the ring. He saw Bliss on one knee.
One. Two. Three.
Just like the Dominican.
Four. Five.
Bliss was pointing his gun directly at Dom.
Six. Seven.
About to get to his feet. Dom had hit him with all he had and he was getting up.
Eight.
This wasn’t the story. This wasn’t the ending Dom planned. The wrong guy was out cold. The wrong guy was getting up from the mat. He tore the gun from Rick’s hand and swung toward Bliss.
Nine.
Then Bliss toppled over. He was back on the mat. Hah! Bliss was struggling to get up. But he wasn’t going to beat the count. Not like the Dominican.
Dom smiled. Dom aimed. Then, perhaps, a handful of neurons registered extraordinary pain for a minute part of a second.
Then Dom felt nothing.
Bliss limped to Dom’s body. Ward was standing over him, looking down at the large man in the fancy suit he had just shot dead.
“What a waste of worsted,” Ward said.
Bliss found the videotape in Dom’s coat pocket. He starting scrambling toward the water.
Onlookers had assembled at the entrance to the park. Bliss holstered his gun and pulled out his badge. He showed it to the crowd.
“Call 911,” he shouted. “I’m a cop. Call 911 and say an officer’s been shot.”
A guy ran toward a phone booth. Another took out his cell phone. No one approached him. Which was fine. He had stuff he needed to do. In private.
He felt Ward’s hand on his arm, helping to prop him up. Bliss pushed him away.
He limped to the edge of the river and sat on one of the benches, taking a moment to catch his breath. There was a gentle lapping of the water against the concrete wall that ran along the edge of the park.
Rick being there. Rick with a gun. Rick shooting at him. It was not making a lot of sense.
But he knew what he needed to do.
The East River flowed swiftly here by the Brooklyn Bridge. He discreetly dropped the tape in the water. No one saw. He hoped no one saw him. The tape floated briefly, moving with the current toward the harbor, out to the sea. Then it sank, hopefully forever.
He heard the ambulance in the distance, police sirens approaching. Then Ward was on the bench next to him.
“He shot you,” Ward said.
“He thought I killed his son.”
“You okay?”
“No,” Bliss said. “Cori is going to be very upset with me.”
He put his leg up on the bench. The bullet had passed through his calf. It was starting to hurt now.
“I’ll have to lie,” he said. “Tell her I was climbing a fence. You’ll back me up on that?”
“Why were you here?” Ward asked him.
The uniforms were arriving. The ambulance was driving over the curb and heading down the path.
“Partner,” Ward said.
“Yes.”
“Why were you here?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You have to be sure,” Ward said.
The pain was beginning to amp up. His leg felt on fire.
“I was following Dom,” he said, wincing as he spoke.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“You followed Dom because you wanted to talk to him about Felix.”
“Okay,” Bliss said.
“Say it.”
“I wanted to talk to him about Felix.”
“Good.”
“But why did Rick shoot me?”
“Because his son died,” Ward said.
“But why did he shoot me?”
“He was deranged. He blamed you. But Rick’s dead, now. We’ll never know what he was really thinking, what demons were driving him, what evil was lurking in his heart.”
“Only the Shadow knows,” Bliss said.
“Yes he do,” Ward said. “Oh yes he do.”
Chantal lay in the hotel bed. Her mother was in the bed next to her.
“It’s like a sleepover,” her mother said.
“Yeah,” Chantal said.
It wasn’t anything like a sleepover. Her mother had stormed uninvited into Chantal’s bedroom, made her throw some clothes in a suitcase, and dragged her out of the house. Then they took a cab to a hotel. At the front desk, her mother told the clerk they would be staying a week.
“At least a week. Maybe longer.”
On the elevator, her mother finally confessed the purpose behind their escapade. At first Chantal thought it had to do with Holden’s blood that had pretty much ruined the carpet in her room. But her mother had larger plans.
“We’re starting over,” she said. She took Chantal’s hand. “The two of us.” Then she took a deep breath and looked at the numbers, slowly climbing, up and up. Just before their floor she said, “I’ve left your father.”
“Have you told him?” Chantal had asked.
The elevator door opened before her mother had a chance to answer.
Once in the room there was a teary session during which her mom confessed to being a terrible mother and that she never wanted to stay over Sunday nights in the Hamptons, that she never condoned that.
“It was Jerry’s idea. It was always Jerry’s idea.”
Chantal thought that was the first time her mother ever referred to her father as “Jerry.” He was no longer “Daddy.”
They had dinner sent up—room service, and for a few minutes it was actually fun, they were laughing.
“We’re free,” her Mom had said.
No, Chantal thought, we’re together. That’s what feels so good. But she didn’t say that, didn’t feel the need to rub it in.
They had watched a movie and now they were in bed, getting ready to go to sleep.
“Good night, Sweetie,” her mother said.
“Good night, Mom.”
She turned off the light. Chantal thought about how her mother had behaved that night, curled up on a hotel room floor, in her pajamas, nibbling at her room-service hamburger, giddy from having just left her husband (though Chantal knew they would all be back together again soon and, except for not staying Sundays in the Hamptons, things would be pretty much the same), but for some reason Chantal wasn’t feeling her usual anger, wasn’t feeling disdain for her mother’s transparent attempt to commune with her daughter, her youth, everything she left behind. She just felt kind of sorry for her.
Chantal turned in her bed and faced her Mom.
“You weren’t a bad mom,” Chantal said.
“Really?” her mother said.
“You really mean that?”
“Yes,” Chantal said.
“That … you’re saying that means …” She didn’t finish, and the words lingered in the air. Chantal turned away and closed her eyes. After a few moments she heard her mother whisper.
“Thank you,” her mother said.
Soon Chantal heard her mother breathing steadily, sound asleep.
But Chantal couldn’t sleep. The frenzy of the last few days had her mind reeling. She kept seeing Owen smashing his brother in the face. She wondered if that was some kind of apology to her, protecting her somehow. Or was it something Owen had wanted to do for years. Maybe both. Chantal remembered Owen leaving her room in the custody of the Gelman family lawyer, head bowed, dragging his feet, like a bad puppy. She actually felt some compassion for him then. That was the Owen she loved, the innocent boy inside him, the one that emerged after they had sex, who was quiet and vulnerable and desperately lonely.
But the other Owen, the before-sex Owen, was very different. She remembered the night Owen had tried to force her to go all the way. She ran downstairs but he caught her at the front door, apologizing like crazy, saying how much he loved her, was so crazy about her, begging her to stay. He led her to the couch and held her tight, stroking her hair. But then he was easing her under him and all of a sudden he was right back to where he was before. No, she told him. Have another drink, some E, a joint. She tried to leave again, so he said all right and settled for their usual way, not caring if it stained the upholstery. When he was all done, she left.
