Night Work (26 page)

    "I know you didn't want to come here," Connie said hesitantly, "but there's something I need to discuss with you."

    "Do you need money?" Frank reached for his wallet. "Just tell me how much you need, it's not a problem."

    Connie made no attempt to conceal her disappointment with his response. "No, Frank, I don't need money. That may be the only reason you get out of bed in the morning, but then, we aren't all alike, are we?"

    "I just thought - "

    "That's an awfully nice suit," she interrupted. "Italian silk, isn't it? Your father shopped at Sears so I've no idea what a suit like that costs, but I'll bet it set you back seven or eight hundred dollars. That diamond on your pinky must be worth at least two or three thousand. Your coat had to be about five hundred, and I'm sure those shoes weren't something you picked up on sale at Wal-Mart."

    Frank looked at her. "What's your point?"

    "Did you think I didn't see those hideous flowers Michael Santangelo and that other piece of scum sent to my husband's wake? Have you convinced yourself that I was too distraught to notice you and Vincent at the funeral?" she asked. "The two of you behave like a couple of gangsters. If nothing else, you certainly dress for the part."

    "I'm sorry if my success offends you," he said evenly.

    "Success? Is that what they call it these days?"

    "I'm a legitimate businessman, mother."

    "That depends on one's definition of legitimate."

    "I'm not going to discuss this right now."

    Connie gazed at the headstone. "I'm sorry," she said in a hushed voice. "I asked you to come here because there's something we need to discuss. Something I want you to know about my past."

    "I'm not sure I can handle anything else at this point."

    "Then I suggest you pull yourself together."

    Frank nervously lit a cigarette. "I'm listening."

    "Long before you were born, and a few years before I met your father," she said in a detached tone, "I was married to a man named Arthur Bertalia."

    Her admission genuinely surprised Frank but seemed unworthy of such dramatics. "Were there any children?"

    "Thankfully, no."

    He shrugged. "Then it's no big deal."

    "I was very young." Connie put her purse on the hood of Frank's car and crossed her arms. "I made a poor choice. We lived in Vermont and were together less than a year. The man I thought I'd fallen in love with and the man I married turned out to be two completely different people. He was a heavy drinker, horribly jealous - a very possessive man. He wouldn't let me work, and a few weeks after we were married I learned he'd lied about wanting children. By the time our second-month anniversary rolled around he started to beat me."

    Frank felt a surge of anger. He was tempted to interrupt her, to ask the series of questions flooding his mind, but held his tongue.

    "The beatings became more frequent," she continued, "but I convinced myself to believe him when he swore each time would be the last. Another poor choice. One day I'd been out shopping, and when I got home he was waiting for me. He was wearing a peculiar pair of black gloves, and it wasn't until he'd hit me that I realized they were lined with lead. He nearly killed me, Frank. I spent two months in the hospital. The day I was discharged I left him. We were divorced and I relocated to Massachusetts. A few years later I met your father."

    Frank lit a cigarette. "Why didn't you tell me about this before?"

    "Your father never wanted me to."

    "Why not?"

    Connie shrugged. "He was afraid you might think less of me."

    "That's ridiculous," Frank snapped. "Maybe he was afraid I might think less of him."

    "Believe me, we had more than one or two arguments about it, but he made me promise I wouldn't tell you until after his death."

    "I wish you'd told me sooner."

    "I wanted to, but you know how your father could be at times. He had this idea in his head that we were supposed to be flawless, the perfect American family."

    Frank looked out over the sea of graves. "Whatever happened to this Arthur Bertalia?"

    "I haven't a clue. After the divorce I never saw or heard from him again."

    Frank hugged her, pulling her in tight against his chest. She felt so small and defenseless; he found it inconceivable that anyone could ever raise a hand in anger against her. "I'm sorry you had to go through that," he said quietly, "but I want you to know that if anything, it makes me love you more."

    "It took us so many years to have you," she sobbed. "I was convinced the beatings had left me unable to have children."

    "It's all right," he told her. "I'm here."

    Connie kissed his cheek. "I'm so worried about you."

    "Never mind me," Frank said. "Are you going to be okay?"

    "I hope so," she whispered. "I haven't been alone in a very long time."

    "You're not alone." Frank stroked the side of her face and felt himself smile for the first time in months.

    

    

    The night of his father's death, Sandy had finally ventured from her side of the bed to Frank's, and he'd fallen asleep in her arms like a child suffering nightmares. Although their union seemed a step in the right direction, the comfort both received in revisiting a familiar physical tenderness was short-lived.

    Since that time Frank had done his best to submerge himself in work, usually staying at the office long after everyone else had gone home.

    He leaned back in his chair, watched the streetlights turn on through the open blinds in his office, and casually checked his watch. Having run out of things to do, he decided to call it a night. Hopefully Sandy would be waiting for him, but his wife's continued presence was something he could no longer view with certainty.

    The phone interrupted his thoughts. He had no plan to answer it until he realized it was his private line blinking. "Hello?"

    "Frank," Vincent's voice said through the line. "What the hell are you still doing at the office?"

    "I was just going over some contracts."

    "We got a problem."

    "My life's nothing but," he sighed. "What's up?"

    "Where's Sandy?"

    Frank hesitated. "Home, I think."

    "You need to get her out of there. Get her somewhere safe."

    "What the hell's going on?"

    "I don't want to get into it over the phone," Vincent said irritably. "Just do what I tell you. Get her out of there and meet me at the rest area outside of town in one hour. And keep your eyes open, understand?"

    Without bothering to set the alarm, Frank locked the doors to the office and hesitated at the edge of the parking lot. His eyes scanned the area and the surrounding block, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He bolted to his car and drove to the apartment as fast as his car would allow, parking on the street, a few doors down from their building.

    Sandy was sitting at the kitchen table having a cigarette when he burst through the door. His entrance startled her, and she reared back as if expecting him to run right past her. "What's the matter?"

    "Pack some things," he said, still trying to catch his breath. "Enough for a couple days. Hurry."

    His instructions didn't seem to register, and she stared at him blankly. "What?"

    "Just do it. Please."

    Sandy butted her cigarette and stood up, the color draining from her face. "Tell me what's happening."

    "We don't have time." He peered through the only window that faced the parking lot. "Do what I said. Now."

    Sandy ran to the bedroom, pulled a small suitcase from the closet shelf and quickly began to pack.

    "Did anyone call tonight?" Frank asked.

    "No."

    "Anyone stop by looking for me?"

    "No."

    "Was there any peculiar mail?"

    "No."

    Frank glanced over his shoulder and saw Sandy standing in the bedroom doorway holding a blouse with trembling hands. He went to her quickly and kissed her forehead. "It'll be all right if you just hurry," he told her. "I'm going to take you to your parents' house. I'll explain on the way."

    While Sandy resumed her packing, Frank hurried back to the window. A pair of headlights sliced the darkness, and a car he didn't recognize turned into the small parking lot. It made a slow pass behind a row of tenant vehicles.

    "I'm ready," Sandy said.

    "Turn off the light."

    "Frank, what - "

    "Turn it off!"

    In darkness the strange car came into clearer focus. Frank could make out two forms in the front seat, but not much else.

    "What should I do?" Sandy asked, standing in the center of the room, suitcase at her feet.

    "Stay quiet," he whispered.

    The car pulled to the far end of the lot, backed into a space, and the headlights were extinguished.

    "We'll go out the back," Frank said. Grabbing her by the arm he led her through the living room to the door. "I parked a little ways up the street. Don't make a sound and do exactly what I say, understand?"

    She nodded quickly, and Frank pulled open the door. The rear hallway was seldom used, but he stepped out first and looked around anyway. A small staircase led to the end of the parking lot closest to the street. Just beyond the exit was a floodlight, but once they'd made it around the side of the building and into a row of thick shrubs, Frank felt confident they could reach the street undetected. Holding hands, they ran through a neighbor's yard and crossed onto the curb.

    Once they were both in the car, Frank started it and pulled away quickly, not turning on his lights until he'd put a safe distance between themselves and the apartment.

    Twenty minutes later he pulled onto a quiet side street and parked in front of Sandy's parents' house in the nearby town of Torlington. Satisfied that they hadn't been followed, Frank let his head rest back against the seat and took a deep breath. Neither of them had spoken during the ride and both found themselves at a loss for what to say next.

    "Am I just supposed to show up on my parents' doorstep unannounced and with no explanation?" Sandy finally asked.

    "Tell them we had a fight," Frank said. "They shouldn't have any trouble believing that."

    "I need to know what's happening."

    Frank rubbed his eyes. "I'm not exactly sure myself. I'll call you as soon as I know anything."

    "I don't have my car," she reminded him. "How am I supposed to get to work tomorrow?"

    "You're not," he said, looking at her. "Call in sick."

    "How long is this going to last?"

    "I don't know. Just make sure you don't tell anyone where you are. If anyone calls other than me - and I mean anyone - you're not there, got it?"

    "Yes."

    He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. "I love you."

    Sandy stepped out of the car and moved quickly along a small stone walkway to the front door, her suitcase dangling at her side.

    Frank watched her until she was safely inside, then pulled away. As he turned at the top of the block and headed for the highway, he couldn't help but wonder if he'd ever see his wife again.

    

    

    Set back from the highway and built up against a heavily wooded section of road, the rest area just before the Angel Bay exit was dark and appeared empty.

    As Frank pulled in he saw a pair of headlights quickly blink and then vanish over near the trees. He parked and walked quickly in the direction from which the lights had come.

    Vincent was standing in front of his Corvette. Even shrouded in darkness the worried look on his face was evident. "You're late."

    "I had to drive Sandy all the way to Torlington," Frank told him, buttoning his coat against the cold. "What's going on?"

    "There was some trouble with the Turano thing," Vincent said, hands stuffed deeply into the pockets of his jacket. "They missed the sonofabitch."

    "Oh, Jesus Christ."

    Vincent nodded. "The shit's really hit the fan this time, goombah. Michael's trying his best to smooth things over with the boys in Philly, but even he may not be able to work it out in time. I'm supposed to talk to him later tonight. If we're on our own, we're gonna have to take this sack of shit out ourselves."

    "Are you nuts?"

    "If we don't, we're dead."

    "How the fuck did this happen?" Frank clenched his teeth in anger. "You told me they could pull it off without a - "

    "Yeah," Vincent interrupted, "but I wasn't figuring on getting fucked over."

    "What the hell are you talking about?"

    Vincent began to pace. "Turano knew what was coming."

    "How?"

    "Somebody tipped him off, that's how."

    "Do we know who did this?"

    "Of course we do."

    The buzz of cars rushing past on the highway next to them periodically muffled their voices, but Frank was sure Vincent had not yet answered the question to his satisfaction. "Am I supposed to fucking guess?"

    "Use your head. Who knew about this?"

    "You mean besides Michael and his people?"

    "Obviously."

    "You, me, Charlie, and Gus."

    "Forget Charlie," Vincent said. "He left the hotel room that day in Connecticut the minute we started discussing it seriously. That leaves the three of us. Now I'm pretty sure you didn't do it, and I know goddamn well I didn't, so who does that leave?"