Long Island Noir (2 page)
It’s almost as if the whole world has caught Gatsbyitis. And what an amazing, prescient book that was.
The Great Gatsby
could be seen as the first noir novel of Long Island—a poor boy who doesn’t have two cents to rub together falls for a rich girl who would never marry him. So he makes himself a massive fortune the only way he can—illegally. And buys himself a mansion on Long Island. Despite his fortune he is never truly accepted, never truly safe, comfortable, or content. And of course, she leaves him because he’ll never be part of her set.
F. Scott Fitzgerald’s mansions of Great Neck and Little Neck are still there, lording imposingly over their lesser neighbors. The American dream of suburban bliss has never died, only grown more desperate, more materialistic, and less romantic as it has shoved its way further east, until now there is literally nowhere left to go. The Hamptons I knew and loved are gone forever.
The most die-hard fans of
noir
fiction may find a few of these stories a little
gris
. Not everyone here is literally down and out, though spiritually, they’ll give you a run for your money. A wealthy grandmother abandons her young grandson on a public beach in a moment of rage, putting his life in danger. A Northport hood is willing to murder his own brother for ratting out the local mob. An upper-class Pakistani woman almost dies in childbirth, a victim of severe marital abuse, yet she refuses to speak out. The president of a wealthy synagogue robs his donors blind in a ponzi scheme, including his staunchest supporter, a Holocaust survivor. They are all characters driven by some twisted notion of the American Dream, which they feel they must achieve at any cost. This is real-life noir. These people are our neighbors.
* * *
I heard this story at a dinner party once. Kurt Vonnegut, who lived on our street in Sagaponack and was a family friend I wish I’d known better, was invited to a summer cocktail party at the Hamptons home of some billionaire CEO. At the party, someone asked Kurt, “How does it feel to know this guy makes more money in a day than you will ever make in your lifetime?” After a moment, Kurt responded calmly that he didn’t mind at all, because he had something the CEO would never have.
“What’s that?” the person challenged.
“Enough.”
These are stories about people who will never feel they have enough, whether they have everything they ever dreamed of, or nothing at all.
Kaylie Jones
February 2012
F
AMILY
V
ALUES
G
reat with fear, Nick was deliberate about getting out of his car just as the policeman had told him. The order came after Nick was ordered to cut the engine because the noise from his broken muffler was “waking up the neighbors.” It was seven p.m. Late January. Nick was just about to cross over the Jessup Lane Bridge, which led to Dune Road in Westhampton Beach, a strip of wealthy homes built on a barrier island. Nick knew that the gravelly sound of his muffler roaring past Main Street would draw the attention of the village cops. He had no delusions. Even if he’d somehow gotten over the bridge, he’d still have the bay constable to deal with. It wasn’t that he picked his poison—his poison had picked him. He’d seen the reflector strips on the doors of the cop car just as he rounded the tall hedgerow and he knew he was caught—no time to debate whether he should try to make for the bridge, before the lights spun suddenly behind him. They illuminated the interior of his car. He could practically read the e-mail he’d printed out—between his sixteen-year-old brother Jeffrey and the lowlife who’d invited him to his beach house. In the dead of winter, it wouldn’t be hard to narrow down the few houses with the lights still on inside, and fortunately “The Famous Mr. Ed” provided the address and a description of his house (which he warned Jeffrey he’d never find—buried as it was behind all the ivy and scrub pine). A white, circular observation tower rising from the roof
where I do all my meth and meditation
, he’d written. Thank you, Facebook. Nick was lucky Jeffrey was somewhat readable—lucky that he’d paid attention one day to Jeffrey’s favorite song, Janis Joplin’s “Summertime.” Nick was only half-listening.
“One of these mornings, Nick, you’re gonna rise up singing,” he’d said.
“By rise up, you mean OD and choke on my puke?” Nick remembered joking.
But Jeffrey shot off, “You don’t get it,” before he could detect Nick’s humor. Trying to have one of those brotherly moments.
Earlier tonight, somehow Nick had remembered this, and with his mother sobbing in the other room, he went on Facebook and tried to hack into Jeffrey’s account, using any variation of Joplin’s song he could think of, before finally getting in with
RISEUP
. He’d gone straight to Jeffrey’s inbox and found two messages. One from their father. It had been awhile, but Nick recognized the shape of his own mouth in his father’s profile pic and shook his head in disbelief. Dad wasn’t on Jeffrey’s “friends” list, but there was a message waiting nonetheless, and the photo was an old one, from back when their father still lived with them. Back when he was a fairly quiet spectator, moving when Nick’s mother told him to move, remaining still when it seemed best to do so. It was taken before his father finally muttered to Nick in the middle of the night that he’d measured out his life in coffee spoons, and then got into his truck and pulled out of the driveway.
The note was brief but infuriating to Nick.
How are you, where have you been, what’re you doing?
For a moment Nick felt the urge to delete it. Instead, he rolled his eyes and moved on to the second message.
Mr. Ed. Age: 16. Hometown: Oz.
Quote: “Haytas only make me stronga.”
The message to Jeffrey was written in the voice of God.
Good and faithful servant Jeffrey. Thou willest visit the house of true Dionysian worship: the 1333rd house of Dune Road, and thou shalt participate in much celebration and mirth, and thou must see that it is good, when one ascends Jacob’s ladder to the observation tower, where I myself do all my meth and meditation …
Douche bag. Nick printed the message and Googled the address. A photo of the house popped up in the search. From one of the local newspapers. It was a photo of two old men and an old woman. The caption read:
Donna and Leonard Katzenberg donated $5,000 to Edward Schiffer’s charity at his home reception at 1333 Dune Road this weekend
. Nick printed the article and read it while he drove out of Mastic Beach.
Edward Shiffer, the Famous Mr. Ed, hadn’t seen sixteen since 1970. An investment broker who owned a string of hotels. Nick had no idea what he was going to do when he got there, but before he even found his keys and told his mother he was bringing Jeffrey home, he’d grabbed his old Ken Griffey Jr. Rawlings bat—thirty-two ounces, and cherry-stained, with dings in the barrel from hitting rocks when he was younger. As he read the article he began to form in his mind exactly what he wanted to do, but probably wouldn’t. At the very least, the bat just might scare Ed Shiffer enough into getting facedown and not moving until he and Jeffrey were gone.
It was never going to work, Nick thought, and getting pulled over just before he crossed the bridge didn’t come without a little bit of relief. Perhaps he’d get the cop to do something legal. A little less violent. Something that might get Jeffrey some help and nab a pervert at the same time.
But the conversation got off to a bad start. The moment Nick said good evening, the cop said, “Stick your good evenings, give me your license and registration,” which Nick had at the ready. The cop took them. Said nothing until a smile of disbelief washed across his face and he shook his head. “How did I know you were from Mistake Beach?” he said. Nick said nothing. “I’m from there originally,” the cop added.
Nick said, “Oh yeah?” and the cop looked at him suddenly.
“Originally,” he repeated. “Pineway.”
“I’m on Mayfield,” Nick said, though he knew the cop had his license and could read. The cop gave him another look, as if to close the gap of familiarity.
“Are you bragging or complaining about that? Hope you’re complaining.”
“What?”
“All right, step out of the car,” the cop said, backing away from his door. He tucked Nick’s information into his front pocket. Nick tried to ask him what he was stopped for, but the cop barked his order again and it startled him. Then he told him to cut the engine—that he was waking the neighbors— and, for the third time, to step out of the car.
“I know it’s not the quietest muffler,” Nick said when he got out, but the cop cut him off by nudging him back against the car.
“It’s not just the muffler. You also got a broken taillight, and you got a sticker on your back window obstructing your view, and your insurance is a week expired.”
“I didn’t notice all that.”
“Of course you didn’t—just like every other kid from Mastic I stop out here. What are you doing here?”
“My brother—”
“You robbing houses?”
“No, my brother—”
“What about your brother?”
“My brother has been missing for the past two days, and I think he’s up in a house on Dune Road.”
“Why would he be there?”
“He’s got a drug problem.”
“Are you bragging or complaining about that?”
Nick paused. “I guess I’m complaining,” he said.
“Well, complain to your psychiatrist, not to me. Okay, what’s the rest of your bullshit story?”
“It’s not bullshit, there’s a guy on Dune Road who met him over the Internet and invited him to a drug party. Look, I’ll show you the e-mail.” Without asking permission, he turned and ducked through the open window of the driver’s side door. He felt a sudden force yank him back, and he was instantly on the ground with a knee in his ribs.
“You looking to get shot!” the cop screamed. “You never reach into your car like that—what are you reaching for?” The cop jerked him up off the ground and slammed him on the trunk. Nick yelled that he was sorry, but the cop told him to stick his sorries; to keep his palms and his right cheek down on the trunk. Then he went around to the passenger’s side of Nick’s car and yanked the door open. He grabbed the papers, including the e-mail. Stuffing them into his back pocket, he ripped open the glove box and pulled everything out. He moved to the seat cushions, the door pockets, and ran his hands under the seat.
“Where’s the weapon?” he yelled. Nick said he didn’t have one, keeping his face on the trunk. “Bullshit, everybody in your town’s got some weapon. Never stopped one that didn’t.”
From then on Nick would only answer direct questions. His knees could hardly hold his weight. His chest ached. He wanted to vomit.
He was reminded of why he’d never tried to help his brother. The last time was in the sixth grade. Jeffrey was eight. It was the day after the Fourth of July, and Jeffrey had gone off with friends to collect fireworks that hadn’t exploded—either because they were duds, had bad fuses, or were dropped by someone in all the excitement. His friends kept beating him to the prize—grabbing the spare firecrackers, bottle rockets, and jumping jacks before Jeffrey could reach them.
He came home crying, holding out three broken firecrackers in his palm while he rubbed his eyes and told Nick his friends weren’t being fair. One of them even tackled him to the ground, punched his ribs, and snatched the jump rope Jeffrey had found fair and square.
Nick rode his bike down to the kid’s house and called him out, shaking his fists at the front window. But the kid stepped out with his three older brothers: thirteen, fourteen, and sixteen.
Nick limped back home. His bike had been thrown over the fence into a sump. And the only thing Jeffrey could think to do was get mad that Nick hadn’t recaptured his jumping jacks for him, and storm into the house, slamming the door. He didn’t even stick around to hear Nick’s side of things.
The front door of the car slammed, and the cop had opened the back door to continue his search. It took seconds for him to see the bat lying across the backseat and exclaim, “Ah, I thought so!” He showed Nick the bat with a satisfied smile.
“I play baseball from time to time,” Nick said, which was a lie.
“And what were you planning to do with this tonight?”
“Nothing,” Nick said, which was the truth.
“We’ve had three smash-and-grabs this month on Dune Road. Think I got the guy who did ’em?”
“What’s a smash-and-grab?” Nick asked.
The cop came around the car, grabbed Nick’s shoulder, and flipped him over so he was faceup. Then he waved the bat at him.
“You’re in enough trouble as it is, you wanna be a fuckin’ wise-ass, I’ll jam this bat right down your throat. You’ve been smashing windows and stealing shit from cars.”
“I have not!” Nick said.
“Then why do you have this?”
“I told you, I was heading over to that guy’s house. He’s got my brother.”
“So you
were
gonna do something with it—a minute ago you play baseball, now you’re gonna use it on someone?”
“I don’t know why I took the bat,” Nick said.
“Just shut the fuck up before you make it worse on yourself. You got any drugs on you?”
“What? No!”
“I’m going into your pockets, if I stick myself on a needle you’re a dead piece of white, Mastic trash, you hear me? I’ll ask you once more.”
“I don’t do drugs,” Nick said “I’m a sophomore in college.”
But the cop said that meant nothing, and after the lie about the bat he didn’t believe a word he said. He had probable cause to search him. He recited his legal cover all while clutching at the outside of Nick’s pockets. Nick could see the cop’s breath pulsing into the cold night past his shoulder, as the cop rifled through his pockets. He came out with a few dollars and put them on the trunk. The wind blew them onto the street. Nick reached to catch them, which earned him another face-plant onto the trunk.
