"Dana is still in Europe, Jack. A little vacation. Now, you listen to me. The only reason I'm talking to you right now is because of the respect and affection I have for my daughter. Don't be so naive as to believe that you can slander me in the press, trespass on my property, and hack into my colleagues' computers without consequences. Please consider yourself warned, Jack. And this is a friendly warning, because as I said, I like you."
While Neubauer did his power bit, I thought of Fenton treading water with his boots on, Hank out of work, Marci and Molly afraid to drive their cars. When I'd had all I could take, I got up and moved around the conference table faster than he must have thought possible.
I grabbed him in a hammerlock and held his neck so he couldn't move. The summers I'd worked framing houses and laboring in Jepson's Boatyard had made me a lot stronger than his personal trainer was making him.
"You don't think anybody can get to you," I said through clenched teeth. "Well, you're wrong. Do you understand that?" I squeezed his neck a little tighter.
"You're making a huge mistake," Neubauer said, grimacing. He was in a little pain. I liked that.
"No, you made a huge mistake. For whatever fuckedup reasons, you involved yourself in my brother's murder case. Facts were covered up. Friends of mine were threatened for trying to get at the truth."
Neubauer began to struggle harder, but I held him firmly. "Let me go, you fucker!" he ordered.
"Yeah, all right," I said, and finally released the son of a bitch.
I started to walk out of the conference room, but then I stopped and turned to Neubauer.
"Somehow, someway, my brother is going to get justice. I promise you."
Neubauer's hair was mussed and his jacket creased, but he had regained most of his composure. "And you're going to wind up like your brother," he said. "I promise."
"Well, Barry, I guess we've both been warned then. And I'm glad we had this little chat."
Chapter 42
I WENT BACK DOWNSTAIRS knowing that I had just blown my summer associate's job, and probably my law career.
I didn't know whether it was worth it, but I didn't think I had a choice. Sooner or later, somebody had to stand up to Neubauer. I was glad it was me.
I tried to call the Island — I wanted to tell Mack what had just happened and ask his advice — but the line out of my office was dead.
"Christ," I whispered, "they're faster than I thought."
Two minutes later the phone rang. My favorite executive assistant from the forty-third floor was on the line.
"I thought my line had been cut off," I told Richardson.
"You just can't dial out," she said. "Tell me, how did someone like you wind up in a place like this?" she asked.
"Clerical error."
"Well, it's been corrected. Mr. Montrose wants to talk to you."
He got on the line. "What happened to that ambitious eager beaver who practically begged for his job?" asked Montrose, warming quickly to the task. "We hold open a door that almost never gets opened for someone like you, and you slam it in our face. The only decent time you put in here was on a worthless pro bono case."
"You're not talking about the Innocence Quest?" I asked. "Exley told me it was the heart and soul of Nelson, Goodwin and Mickel. That would make me the heart and soul of the firm."
"You're history, Mullen," said Montrose. Then he hung up.
About five minutes later a pair of burly security guards — one African American, the other Hispanic — stood outside my office. I knew them from the firm's softball team.
"Jack, we've been asked to escort you out of the building," said the shorter, wider of the two. His name was Carlos Hernandez. I liked him.
"We were also told to give you this," he said, and handed me a piece of paper called a Separation Document.
" 'Effective immediately, Jack Mullen has been terminated from Nelson, Goodwin and Mickel for improper use of company time and resources and behavior detrimental to the firm,' " I read.
"Sorry," said Carlos with a shrug.
I wish I could tell you that when I pushed my way through the shiny steel revolving door and stepped out to the street, I felt relieved. Truth is, I was as frightened as Montrose and Barry Neubauer wanted me to be. Suddenly my threats against Neubauer seemed ridiculous and hollow. I knew I'd done the right thing upstairs, so why did I feel like such a fool?
I walked in a daze over to the New York Public Library and the beautiful paneled reading room where I used to ponder my future when I took the train into the city while I was still in high school.
I wrote a letter to the Mudman. I passed along the news that his old prosecutor finally seemed willing to submit the nineteen-year-old evidence from his case for DNA testing. I wished him luck and told him to stay in touch if he could.
I called Pauline from a pay phone, but I got voice mail and couldn't bear to leave a message.
Then I walked across town to Penn Station and crawled home to Montauk one more time. The whole way home I kept trying to solve the same riddle. What can I do to make this right?
Chapter 43
FENTON HOISTED HIS GLASS and toasted my sudden exit from the fast lane. "You did good, my son. You've come back down to our level, maybe a little lower."
"We missed you," said Hank. "Welcome back to the real world."
It was Friday night at the Memory Motel. The membership of the Townie Benevolent Association was present and accounted for, and with the date set for the inquiry, there was a certain defiant joie de vivre.
In this group, my unemployment was hardly cause for sympathy. Despite the biggest economic boom in history and the fact that an obscene amount of that money was being frittered away in our backyard, very little was trickling down to us.
As we compared notes, it became clear we were all on the same blacklist. We weren't paranoid, either: somebody was out to get us.
"I've been knocking on doors all over town and can't get a thing," said Hank. "Even places like Gilberto's, which I know is hiring, won't touch me."
"Some bastard has been cutting my nets," said Fenton. "Do you know how hard it is to repair a net? Not to mention that I'm afraid to go out on the boat alone."
"My story is even worse," said Marci, "because it involves me. Two weeks ago this parking-space monger on Georgica Pond commissions me to build the Hamptons' first authentic maze. Last night he calls and tells me he's awarding the project to Libby Feldhoffer. He was told that if he stuck with me, the planning and zoning board would never approve it."
"Libby Feldhoffer!" said an outraged Molly. "Her work is so pedestrian."
"I knew you'd be there for me, sweetheart."
"I didn't want to tell you, but this morning someone canceled their eleven-thirty at the last minute," said Sammy to a round of boos.
Under the circumstances, I was almost glad to have finally shed my golden-boy bloom. I drained the dregs of our pitcher and was on my way back with a refill when Logan, the Friday-night barkeep, handed me a large manila envelope.
"For me?" I asked. "From who?"
"A guy dropped it off. Said it was for all of you."
"You know him?"
"I've seen him around, Jack. He tried to order a martini once."
I returned to our table. "We've got mail."
I gave the envelope to Molly, and was refilling mugs when she flung it across the table.
"I don't know if I'm up for this whole thing anymore, Jack. Actually, I'm not. This is creepy. It's way beyond creepy. Will you look at this!"
The envelope held six pictures, one of each of us. Fenton sitting on the deck of his trawler at dusk. Sammy drinking coffee in the Soul Kitchen. Me getting off the Beemer in my driveway. The shot of Hank showed him racing across our lawn with a defibrillator. One of Marci with her maze client, just before she got dumped.
In every photo we were shot alone, and from behind. Just to remind us how vulnerable we were. Molly's picture set the standard. It was an extreme close-up of her asleep in bed. The
photographer couldn't have been more than a foot away.
Under each picture were numbers: 6-5, 4-3, 10-1, 3-1. There was no note.
Chapter 44
ABOUT MIDNIGHT a boisterous pack of outsiders spilled into the Memory. The front of the bar, "our" bar, was suddenly awash with strained smiles, fake laughs, and shrill squawking into cell phones.
"What a dive — I love it!" shouted one particularly enthused newcomer. "Fuck you, too," retorted an in-house wit.
"Check this out," said Marci, pointing to a tanned figure sipping a sea breeze at the center of the clamor. "That's Horst Reindorf."
Reindorf, a former professional bodybuilder, had starred in more than a dozen hit movies. His latest, and Neubauer's first foray into film production, Intergalactic Messenger Boy, was being released the next Friday in 25,000 theaters. "And there's Dennis Soohoo, who plays his Tonto-like sidekick," added Marci as the actors posed for a picture.
"I guess somebody around here watches the E! channel," said Sammy.
"Like you don't?" Marci snapped back.
"I don't watch it. I live it."
"Someone at the Beach House probably suggested a great little townie bar," I said. "Told them it would be good for a hoot."
Horst Reindorf had taken his sleeveless T-shirt off and was twirling it over his head. Dennis Soohoo had grabbed a cute girl, who happened to be Gidley's young cousin. Thank God, she pushed him away. One of the entourage's female members climbed up on the bar and started to dance.
"If Barry Neubauer is going to mess with us," said Gidley, "it's time we return the favor. We don't crash his parties. He should know enough not to crash ours."
"I don't think that's such a smart idea," said Molly. "Seriously, Fenton."
"I'm sure you're right," said Gidley as he stood and began working his way through the thicket. Hank, Sammy, and I got up to follow. What choice did we have?
We didn't realize that Gidley was preparing to assault the social summit with as much confidence as Sir Edmund Hillary's assault on Mount Everest. To his right, a party photographer was positioning an executive producer for a candid shot with Reindorf and Soohoo. At the last minute, Gidley squeezed into the viewfinder. He threw a beefy arm around the Dorfmeister.
"I can't believe you're here at the Memory!" Gidley shouted. The subtext was, where you're not wanted!
"Excuse me," said the photographer, "we're shooting for Vanity Fair."
"We might as well get one of me and my new best friend," said Horst, with his trademark toothsome grin. "You a fisherman? Smells like it."
"Thank you much, Horst," said Fenton. "I am a fisherman. Fourth-generation."
"Somebody get this asshole away from Horst," said one of the studio junior executives.
The regulars knew something was up. The room tightened around the celebs and their hangers-on. "Mr. Photographer, could you take two in case one doesn't come out?" said Fenton. "It's not every day you get a picture of yourself beside the phoniest asshole in all of show business. And a friend of the sleazy Neubauers to boot."
The next couple of minutes were a blur. Reindorf grabbed Gidley by the throat. Fenton, his crazed grin gone, came over the top with an unscripted punch, complete with convincing sound effects. He caught the action hero on the bridge of his nose. Real blood spattered everywhere.
"My God, what are you doing?" shrieked a shiny black-clad publicist. "That's fucking Horst Reindorf!" In a gesture that was way beyond the call of duty, she threw herself at Fenton and pummeled him so ferociously with her Palm Pilot that Horst was able to retreat and slip out a side door.
The rest of Horst's party were not as fortunate. When the producer grabbed a beer bottle, I tackled him against the bar and held him there. Then Hank squared off with Dennis Soohoo. Down went Soohoo. The biggest mismatch pitted Sammy against a young studio-executive type. Even though the guy was half a foot taller and thirty pounds heavier, Giamalva floored him with an uppercut that would have made Sugar Ray proud.
Someone might have actually gotten hurt if Belnap and Volpi hadn't charged in with their batons out and once again made the Hamptons safe for civilized society. Volpi rubbed it in by cracking a few skulls, and he seemed to enjoy it.
He didn't hit me, but he did ask with a wink, "How's your girlfriend, Jack?"
Chapter 45
THE FIXER had been standing in the shadows of the Mullen garage for an hour when the beam of Jack's single headlight broke through the mist on Ditch Plains Road. He elbowed his muscular partner as the gleaming blue motorcycle slowed in front of the small house. "Here comes the bad boy now."
He watched Jack cut the engine, lower the kickstand, and pull a deep breath of night air into his nostrils. That little shit is still savoring his victory, the Fixer thought. His knot of anticipation tightened as Jack pulled off his helmet, lifted the garage door, and wheeled the bike in. He'd been looking forward to this meeting for weeks.
Now Jack was opening the small door on the side of the garage, and the Fixer was counting down from three. When Jack stepped through it, he walked directly into the Fixer's black-gloved fist.
To the Fixer, a well-timed sucker punch was one of life's great unsung pleasures. He loved the way it delivered shock and hurt in one exploding instant, and when the Muscle grabbed Jack from behind and pulled him up by his hair, the Fixer could read the pain register as a ten in Jack's eyes. Then he threw another punch at the center of Jack's face.
With his arms pinned behind him and a knee in the small of his back, all Jack could manage was a flinching twist. But it was enough to reduce a direct hit to a glancing blow, and it sent the Fixer stumbling forward until he and Jack stood eye-to-eye in the darkness.
"Give this message to Neubauer. Can you do that for me?" Jack asked. Then he brought his forehead down on the bridge of the Fixer's nose.
The Fixer was leaking blood worse than Jack, which caused him to seriously consider taking out his hunting knife and gutting Mullen in his own garage. Instead, he started working Jack hard with both fists. This was good work, if you could get it.
When Jack stopped moving, the Fixer stopped missing. This greatly improved his spirits. Pretty soon he felt good enough to deliver a message, his words supplying a rhythm to his fury.
"Don't you ever" — PUNCH — "ever" — PUNCH — "fuck with people who are your superiors in every" — PUNCH — "fucking way," he advised.
The Fixer had some more things he badly needed to get off his chest, but by then Jack was close to unconscious.
"As for Mr. Neubauer, you can tell him yourself."
Somehow, somewhere in his consciousness, Jack heard that, and promised himself he would.
But the man with the black driving gloves wasn't quite finished. He pulled Jack's head up by the hair.
Then he whispered in his ear, "Smarten up. Your grandfather's next, bozo. It'll be easy, Jack. He's really old."
Chapter 46
WIN A FIGHT, you think it's the world's most exciting sport. Lose, badly, and you realize what a fool you were. Once I'd peeled my face off the garage floor and done an inventory of the damage, I knew I had to get myself to the hospital.
I was thinking I'd have to wake up Mack or call Hank, but when I got to my feet, I felt I could manage it on my own, which seemed preferable. I did go in and check on Mack. He was sleeping like an eighty-six-year-old baby.
I got the key and drove my father's old truck to the emergency room in Southampton. Even at four in the morning, it took me about thirty-five minutes.
There's not a lot of mayhem at our end of Long Island. Southampton isn't East St. Louis. When I walked into the ER, Dr. Robert Wolco put down his New York Times crossword puzzle and turned his attention to my face. "Hey, Jack," he said, "long time, no see."
"Hey, Robert," I managed. "You should see the other guy."
"I'll bet."
"I'd rather not."
He began by very gingerly and thoroughly cleaning my wounds. Then he laid me down under a bright orange light,
shot my face full of Novocain, and stitched it closed. The skin on my face felt as if it were being laced up like hockey skates. It took twenty-eight stitches.
Wolco thought that he had done some of his best work and that the scars would heal nicely. I wasn't too worried. I never had the looks in the family anyway. He gave me a plastic tub of Vicodin for my ribs (X rays showed that three of them were cracked) and sent me home. The night, the beating, was one more thing I owed Barry Neubauer.
And I was counting.
Chapter 47
THINGS WERE GETTING TIGHT. The inquest concerning Peter Mullen's death was almost there.
On Monday night the Fixer parked about a block down the street from a modest-looking house in Riverhead, Long Island. There was a terra-cotta planter on the porch and an antique weather vane on the garage. Beside the retro-looking mailbox with J. DAVIS painted across it in childlike yellow script, a stone rabbit was perched on its hind legs. Yikes.
For this little slice of heaven, the doc spent fourteen hours a day elbow-deep in stiffs, coming up with all sorts of creative theories about how they got that way. Davis's civic-mindedness baffled the Fixer. She could be pulling down a million per in Manhattan. Instead, she was poking around in cadavers.
Why do people do this? Why do they care if someone drowned or got sunk? They probably watch too many movies. Everyone wants to be a hero. Well, guess what, Jane? You're no Julia Roberts. Trust me on this one.
He knew the doc's loyal pooch would be showing the effects of the yummy treat he'd slipped through the brass newspaper slot at the bottom of the door — another corny retro touch — a few hours earlier. She wasn't much of a watchdog now, lying on her side and snoring to beat the band.
The Fixer quietly let himself in, stepped over the dog, and walked up the stairs toward Jane Davis's bedroom.
This, he was thinking, this is why I get paid the big bucks.
Jane was sleeping, too. Yeah, Janie, you do snore. She lay on top of the sheets in her bra and panties. Not a lot up top, the Fixer noted, but decent legs for a doc.