Night Work (22 page)

    "Forget about it, man." Vincent smiled. "I already have."

    Frank nodded, watched him quietly, and hoped at least one of them was telling the truth.

    

    

    People seldom remember things as they actually were. Either times were too happy, or simply awful. Frank would later recall that week off the road as perhaps the best of his life. It was a welcome break, but nothing at all extraordinary happened. Frank spent most of his time puttering around the apartment, shaking off the effects of the road and doing his best to drink as little as possible. He and Sandy went out to dinner a few times. They made love. They looked at a couple of houses that were for rent in the area. Sandy made it a point of not paying too much attention to the second or third bedrooms in the houses they inspected. But just watching her, Frank knew she was thinking of what color to paint the walls, where a crib might fit snuggly in a room, and if the rocking chair in her parents' house would look nice near the window, to sit in and rock a baby on those tender crying nights.

    Late Saturday afternoon he and Sandy left for the party in New York. During the long drive Frank let her do most of the talking, preferring instead to listen thoughtfully and occasionally take his eyes from the road just long enough to admire her. Because Charlie had stressed that everyone dress casually, Sandy wore a pair of dainty sandals, and a simple cotton summer dress patterned with impressionistic flowers. She had applied only a little lipstick, and clipped her tawny, summer-lightened hair back into a no-nonsense ponytail. Frank had no special interest in women's fashion, but he loved watching Sandy get dressed, from the damp towel she casually wrapped around her slender figure after her shower to the final fully dressed young woman people recognized. His wife's beauty seemed effortless, as if it existed without her knowledge, and Frank often wondered what she had ever seen in him. In jeans, sneakers and a sweatshirt, Frank couldn't help but feel pale in comparison.

    

    

    Charlie and Beth Rain lived in a modest house at the end of a quiet lane in Weygard, New York, a sleepy little town just moments over the Connecticut border. Four cars were parked in the driveway so Frank parked on the street.

    "Now remember," he said patiently, "these may not exactly be the kind of people you're used to."

    "I'll certainly do my best not to embarrass you."

    "You could never embarrass me."

    Frank leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. When he pulled back, she looked at him and crossed her eyes. "Don't worry, I think I can sip a glass of wine without spilling it down the front of me."

    Charlie greeted them at the door. "I wasn't sure you'd show up," he said. "Come in, come in. You must be Sandy." Sandy nodded. "What're you doing with this bum?" Sandy smiled in an odd sort of way, to indicate that she appreciated his joke, if that's what it was, but didn't want to continue the conversation in the same direction. "Pretty and shy," Charlie chuckled. "You're a lucky man, Frank. Come on, let's get you guys a drink."

    Charlie led them down a short hallway to a spacious living room, the obvious center of the house. Dark-colored vertical blinds shielded what appeared to be two sliding-glass doors. An enormous velvet sectional sofa dominated one end of the room. Charlie went to a professional-looking bar and began to fill glasses with crushed ice. "What'll it be?"

    "Just a beer for me," Frank said.

    Sandy glanced around. "Do you have any white wine?"

    "Great, I throw a party and the Pope and Mother Theresa show up."

    A cool, dark-haired woman with hazel eyes and a paper-white complexion appeared from another room, carrying a bottle of gin. "Don't pay any attention to him," she said. "Nobody does."

    "Meet Beth," Charlie said evenly. "My adoring wife."

    Beth smiled and shook their hands, revealing lovely white, even teeth. Sandy liked her instantly and was relieved there would be at least one other person besides Frank whom she could talk to. While Frank stood near the bar and talked with Charlie, Beth introduced Sandy around the room. The music was just loud enough to make it difficult to hear people's names as they were introduced.

    Luther was sitting on the couch, one of his massive arms draped over his wife Claire's shoulder. He rose to greet Sandy, taking her small hand gently into his own which Sandy thought was roughly the size of a baseball glove. Claire was about Sandy's height, ten years older, perhaps fifteen pounds heavier, and infinitely worldlier. She also shook Sandy's hand, if for no other reason than to extricate it from Luther's grasp. Claire's thick brown hair was stylish, her designer eyeglasses unmistakably expensive and her manner bubbly and anxiously friendly, which seemed somehow to overshadow her rather average looks and slightly chunky figure. It was clear from her sassy attitude that Claire was more than a match for the towering man at her side.

    Steve and Pepper Dalton were both in their thirties. Steve seemed to constantly smile with his blue-gray eyes, as if easily amused. He struck Sandy as the kind of man who knew he was attractive to women and made it obvious that the feeling was more than mutual. His light-colored hair was brush-cut, and he possessed the square-jawed good looks of a comic-book superhero. Just over six feet tall, he had a body that could have been sculpted from Grecian marble, and was dressed in tight black jeans, an even tighter tank top and a pair of cowboy boots. A former wrestler, Steve had worked briefly for Frank and Charlie before moving to the big league circuit. On the verge of stardom, a severe back injury had forced him to retire from the ring. He had recently signed with a major federation as a manager to several big name heels, and also occupied his time with a strip club he owned in Hartford. Sandy remembered seeing him on television, a loud-mouthed character not at all like the soft-spoken man she had just met.

    Pepper was a former dancer at Steve's club, only recently retired, and the white spandex body suit she wore with a paisley sash cinched around her waist explained why she had been such a popular dancer. Red Hot Pepper, as she had been known, was a tall peroxide blonde with a blinding smile and a chest that could have had its own zip code. Her eyes were heavily made up with blue eye shadow, and she wore the sort of lipstick that is applied with a brush, the color a startling red.

    Sal Leoni was the final guest at the party. He was a sickly-thin, fortyish man with thinning, gray-brown hair. He wore dark glasses and sat by himself in a chair in the corner, oddly content to stare down the hallway at the front door. He seemed to be expecting something, or someone. "Nice to meet you," he said. He shook Sandy's hand formally, as though at a cocktail party at a European embassy. He all but clicked his heels. Despite the late August heat he wore a brown herringbone wool jacket, buttoned tightly. Sandy did not rule out that this odd man might be concealing a weapon.

    Having circled the large room, Sandy and Beth found themselves back at the bar. It was obvious that Charlie and Frank had stopped talking about whatever serious matter they had been discussing as the women approached. Sandy noticed that Frank had put aside his beer and was now drinking some amber liquor on the rocks, probably scotch.

    "Did you meet everyone?" Charlie asked Sandy with a smile. She nodded. "And you're still here?"

    Beth rolled her eyes. "After Charlie has a few drinks he thinks he's Johnny Carson. More like Ed McMahon, I'd say. We'll be in the kitchen if you think of anything interesting to say." She led Sandy down another small hallway to the kitchen. Turning the corner, Sandy noticed Luther and Claire were now dancing together, more like hugging, really, as they swayed to some music other than that which was now on the stereo. Charlie and Frank had resumed their discussion, drinks and cigarettes in hand, their heads bowed conspiratorially together.

    The kitchen was all white and stainless steel, immaculate and oddly intimidating. It looked like an operating room. Bread and vegetables were spread over a large butcher-block table. "I always wait until the last minute to get things done," Beth sighed.

    "Can I help?" Sandy asked.

    "You don't mind?"

    "Don't be silly, not at all."

    Beth folded her arms across her chest and smiled. "I'm glad you came."

    "Thanks."

    "Why don't you make a salad while I cut up the potatoes." Beth walked behind Sandy, around the side of the butcher-block to the refrigerator.

    "Tell me about yourself," Sandy said quietly. "What do you do for a living?"

    "I'm a nurse."

    "What area do you work in?"

    "ICU."

    "That must be fascinating."

    "At times." She smiled. "It's nice to have - I don't know - a direct impact on people. Especially kids. But it's never easy dealing with death, even when it's a constant aspect of what you do. After a while you force yourself to accept it as a part of life. If nothing else, death certainly doesn't discriminate."

    Sandy found herself surprised at how articulate Beth was, particularly after having met her husband. They seemed an odd pair at best, and acted as if the main point between them was more tolerance than love.

    "What about you?" Beth asked.

    "I'm a receptionist."

    "With a face and body like that, I would've thought you were a model, maybe an actress," Sal said suddenly. Neither woman had seen him enter the kitchen and were now surprised, unpleasantly. Sal grinned behind his dark glasses. It was a smile that didn't show his teeth, just a thin grim line of a mouth. His face was lined and unhealthy-looking.

    Beth gave him a cross look. "Try not to scare the guests, okay?" Sal turned back down the hallway, stopping in the bathroom before returning to the living room. "Obviously Sal can be crude at times, and he's been known to have a rather peculiar sense of humor, but he's harmless, I guess."

    "He's kind of creepy," Sandy said.

    She watched Sandy as if expecting her to continue. When she didn't, Beth said, "So, you're a receptionist?"

    "At a bank."

    "Do you enjoy it?"

    "Not especially."

    Both women laughed, and began to prepare the food.

    

    

    In the living room Frank and Steve were huddled near the bar. "How's the back holding up?"

    "Some days are better than others, brother."

    "How about the club?"

    "It's taking up more and more of my time. We're packing them in though. I didn't plan to still be in the wrestling game at this point, but it's hard to walk away from the money I'm making, even as a manager." Steve mixed himself a fresh drink. "Charlie tells me you guys are tearing things up on the independent circuit."

    Frank sipped his drink. "Can't complain."

    "I've been trying to convince Steve to work part-time at the school," Luther said, joining them at the bar. "I could use some help with training, but he's too busy watching all those sloppy asses bounce in that dive he's running."

    Steve laughed. "There isn't a sloppy ass in the bunch. They're tight, brother. And I mean tight."

    "Why don't you guys go light the grill," Charlie said.

    As though commanded, Sal opened the blinds concealing one of the sliding glass doors. He cautiously peered around the large deck and adjacent swimming pool as if expecting to find intruders.

    Steve caught Frank staring at Sal and nudged him gently with his elbow. "He's cool," he said quietly. "He's with me."

    "If you say so." Frank shrugged. People like Steve always had partners, not the kind anyone ever saw or heard of, but rather the kind who sent men like Sal to tag along and watch over their interests.

    As Sal slipped quietly outside, Charlie escorted Frank, Steve and Luther to the kitchen. He removed a waxy brown box from the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. "Ain't it amazing," he said, "what'll fall off the back of a truck." He opened the box to reveal a dozen slick red, thick London broil steaks.

    "It's magic, Charlie," Beth said, lighting a cigarette.

    Charlie kissed Beth's cheek as he left the kitchen, taking the steaks with him to the grill outside. It was a strange kiss, Sandy thought, an aggressive peck that seemed almost mean.

    The afternoon had mysteriously ended and evening had arrived. Like boys at a summer camp, the three men stood in front of the gas grill tossing lit matches at it until it exploded with a ball of fire and a fierce popping sound. Sal stood off to the side, watching them without comment.

    While the steaks sizzled, Frank headed back to the bar to get himself a fresh drink. He found Sandy in the doorway to the kitchen. "Having a good time?"

    "The more I drink the more comfortable I get," she said softly. "They're different, but everyone seems nice. Except for Sal. What a weirdo."

    "I know what you mean."

    "Beth says he's harmless."

    "I'm sure he is." Frank winked and moved across the room.

    Sal had meanwhile been abandoned on the deck. He watched the grill with a disinterested expression, a cigarette dangling between his lips. Everyone had had quite a bit to drink, and most of the conversations were either dying down or becoming somewhat forced, artificial and dull.

    "I think it's time to breathe a little life into this sucker," Steve said from the couch.

    "Ooo," Claire said, crossing the room and joining him there. "Is it that time already?"

    Pepper removed several small glass vials and a credit card from her purse, handed them to Steve then sat on the floor next to a coffee table in front of the couch. Steve emptied a generous pile of cocaine onto the table and began separating it into thin lines with the credit card.