Lights Out Read online

  “Didn’t have the balls?”

  “To hold out for what he could have gotten. I wasn’t surprised. You remember how he was in the pool.”

  “I raced him yesterday. One-hundred free.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “His problem was technique, not character.” But even as he said it, Eddie wasn’t sure.

  “That means you beat him.”

  Eddie didn’t say anything. Jack brought the snifters together with a ping, handed one to Eddie. “Bobby in good shape?”

  “He still works out in the pool.”

  “Maybe. But he must have had delusions. Look at you. I wouldn’t stand a chance either.”

  “I never beat you, Jack. Not in the free.”

  “Let’s leave it like that.” Jack raised his glass. “Here’s to you, bro.”

  They drank. Eddie didn’t know about the snobby part. He just knew the Armagnac was good, and said so.

  “A present from Karen, actually. She brought it back from Paris.”

  Eddie thought of his French cafe dream right away. “She’s a client?”

  “Right.”

  “What does she do?”

  “Manages a family trust.”

  “Her family?”

  “One half of it. The poor half. They came over with Peter Stuyvesant and split in two. Her half sat on their little acre for three hundred years. The other half started General Brands.”

  “Is she good at it?”

  Jack smiled. “Good enough to come to me.” He took another drink.

  “What do you do, exactly?”

  “Investment research. Analysis. Counseling.”

  “You invest the money for them?”

  “Some clients have commission accounts with me, yes. Others pay a straight fee, plus a percentage bonus if earnings targets are reached.”

  “How did you learn all this stuff?”

  “Picked it up on the fly. That’s how everyone does it. They may tell you different, but it’s the only way.”

  “So you didn’t go back to school?”

  “School?”

  “After Galleon Beach.”

  Jack’s eyes went to the papers scattered on the table; at least Eddie thought they did: the light wasn’t good enough for him to be sure.

  “I did, in fact.”

  “USC?”

  Jack nodded. “But that’s not where I learned this business.”

  “Did you swim?”

  “Swim?”

  “At USC.”

  “No.” There was a silence. “I got bored with it. All those hours in the pool. I wasn’t really that good.”

  “You were.”

  “I wasn’t going to get any better, then.”

  I was.

  Jack lit another cigarette. It glowed in the space between them.

  “How did you manage?”

  “College? It’s not so tough, Eddie. Like high school, except you get laid more.”

  “I meant without a scholarship.”

  Jack took a drag. The red tip brightened. “Waiting tables, loans, scrounging, the usual.”

  Someone screamed, faint and far away, down in the park.

  “Did Bobby tell you how to find me?” Jack said.

  “I saw your letterhead at Vic’s. Your old letterhead.”

  Jack refilled their glasses. Eddie’s didn’t need refilling, but Jack poured anyway. He swirled the liquid in his glass, staring into the tiny whirlpool he’d made.

  “What happened to J. M. Nye and Associates?” Eddie said.

  Jack made a sound, not a laugh, more like a snicker. “It was an eighties thing. The climate’s changed.”

  “How?”

  “Like the ice age.” He took another drink, a big one, as though to fend off the cold.

  “So Windward Financial Services is something different?”

  “Leaner. I don’t know about meaner. We were mean from the get-go.”

  “You’re talking about the associates?”

  “Right.”

  “Who are they?”

  Jack shrugged. “What you’d expect. It doesn’t matter. They’re gone.”

  “You’re on your own?”

  “Thank God.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because now I don’t have to worry about a bunch of fuck-ups fucking up. One of my beloved associates is still in the hoosegow.”

  Hoosegow. One of those words that was supposed to be funny. Eddie didn’t find it funny at all. He said nothing.

  Jack misinterpreted his silence. “He didn’t do anything sinful,” he said. “In this business the line between making a killing and breaking the law can be very fine.”

  “So people can end up in the hoosegow just by accident.”

  There was another silence, much longer than the last. Jack laid down his drink. He put his hands together, almost in the attitude of prayer; his fingernails glowed pink-orange in the light flowing through the window.

  “I’m sorry, bro,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “For not … keeping in touch. It was inexcusable. But-” His voice broke. “-I couldn’t stand to see you like that. That goddamn visitor’s room. That was hell, Eddie. I won’t forget it till my dying day.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  “Yes, you do. I took the easy way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  There was wetness on Jack’s face. “It was easier to forget,” he said. He picked up his glass and drained it. “To try to forget.”

  “You’re being too hard on yourself.”

  “No, I’m not.” Jack took out a handkerchief and wiped his face.

  He drank more Armagnac. So did Eddie.

  “Eddie?”

  “Present.”

  “How are you? Really.”

  The phone rang. Jack answered it. “Send it up,” he said. Then he turned to Eddie. “I want you to stay here. I mean that. As long as you like. Don’t worry about anything, anything at all. Understand?”

  “Sure.” He understood the concept of not worrying. He was free. What was there to worry about?

  “Do you need any money?” Jack asked.

  “Got some. I’ve been making it hand over fist.”

  “Here.” Jack laid some bills on the table.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Just take it. Get yourself some clothes. See the sights. I’m not going to be around tomorrow.”

  “No?”

  “Business trip.”

  “Where?”

  “Nowhere interesting. We’ll come up with a plan when I get back.”

  “What kind of plan?”

  “To get you back on your feet.”

  “I’m on my feet.”

  “I know. I can’t tell you how impressed I am.” Jack poured more Armagnac. “But what do you want to do, Eddie? Or is it too soon to say?”

  Eddie thought it over. “Go for a swim.”

  Jack laughed. “Same old-” He cut himself off. His eyes were pink-orange in the light. Someone knocked on the door.

  Jack went to it. A bellman held out a silver tray bearing an envelope. Jack took it and returned to the couch.

  “You can swim anytime you like at my club,” he said. “Although that wasn’t what I meant.”

  “Is it too late to get into junk bonds?” Eddie said.

  Jack smiled his smile. “They’re making a comeback already.” He had one more shot of Armagnac, then rose, stretching. “You can sleep on the pullout,” he said.

  “I’m fine here.”

  “Pullout’s more comfortable.” Jack went into the bedroom.

  Eddie finished what was in his glass, put it down. His eyes rested on the envelope the bellman had brought. It wasn’t sealed. He peeked inside, saw a plane ticket, slipped it out. Jack was taking a return flight to Grand Cayman, first class.

  “All set,” Jack called.

  Eddie went into the bedroom. Jack was spreading a quilt on the pullout. He gave the pillo
ws a little pat and went into the bathroom.

  A few minutes later they were in their beds. The pullout was comfortable, but Eddie couldn’t sleep. He lay in it, feeling the Armagnac tingling inside him. He’d had too much, on top of too much the night before, and nothing for so many nights before that. The room began to spin, just a little. He watched it spin for a while, listening to Jack’s breathing. He knew that sound.

  He spoke. “What happened to Fearless?”

  “Confiscated.” Jack replied immediately, wide-awake.

  “How did Packer take that?”

  Eddie heard a little laugh. “Brad? I don’t think he cared much by then. The bank owned the boat anyway.”

  “It did?”

  “Sure. Packer was just a nobody with a two-bit dream. The world’s full of Packers.”

  Eddie had only met one, and Galleon Beach hadn’t seemed two-bit to him. The room spun a little more.

  “Did you ever go back?” he said.

  “Back where?”

  “To Galleon Beach.”

  “Why would I have done that?”

  “It was a nice place.”

  “It was a dump, Eddie. You’d be disappointed now. Some things only work when you’re young.”

  Eddie knew that last part was true. That was what was killing him.

  “Did JFK ever turn up?” he said.

  Pause. “If he had, we’d have gotten you out.”

  “He must be somewhere.”

  “He could be dead. And even if he isn’t, does it matter anymore? You’re here. From now on things are going to be good for you. I’ll see to that.”

  Eddie said nothing. He heard Jack roll over.

  “Big day tomorrow,” Jack said. “Better get some sleep.”

  A big day for you, maybe, Eddie thought. He stared at the ceiling. It was moving. He listened to Jack’s breathing, that same breathing he’d heard when they shared a bed in their little room.

  “Do you remember Mom?” he said.

  “A little.”

  “What was she like?”

  “Who knows?” There was a long silence before Jack said, “Christ, Eddie, we were living like shit the whole time.”

  “No, we weren’t.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  But Eddie knew he was right, knew now what living like shit was about. There was another silence. It went on and on. Eddie occupied himself with the tingling of the Armagnac, Jack’s breathing, and the slowly spinning room. Time passed. Then Jack spoke once more, soft and gentle.

  “Good night, Sir Wentworth,” he said.

  That brought the mist to Eddie’s eyes, but of course no one could see, so it was almost all right. He pretended to be asleep.

  Good night, One-Eye.

  Outside: Day 4

  17

  Eddie awoke with a question on his mind: Did it matter if JFK was alive? was somewhere? He didn’t know the answer.

  Jack was gone. He’d left a note on the coffee table, beside the bills he’d laid there the night before.

  “Bro-here’s the card that opens the door and a pass for the health club. Did I mention the concierge? Hector? Don’t tip him-the fucker’s already taken care of. Back in a day or two. Get some clothes. Have a swim. Boogie. J.” At the bottom was a map showing the location of the health club, near Grand Central Station, and of Macy’s.

  Eddie counted the money-$350-and left it where it was. He dressed in his sneakers and Prof’s sweatsuit, pocketed the note, the cards, and his Speedo, and started for the door. His hand was on the knob when he turned back, went into the bedroom, and opened the closet.

  The suit Eddie had hung up for Jack was still there, between two pinstripes, one charcoal, one navy. Eddie checked the inside jacket pocket. The check for $230,000 was gone. He returned to the sitting room, came close to picking up the $350-it was just about equal to his take for the past fifteen years-and went out.

  It was cold and rainy again, and everyone on the street looked pained. Not Eddie: just being outside was enough to make him happy. The rain fell in icy little pats on his bald head, like some exotic form of massage.

  The Midtown Athletic and Racquet Club had everything Eddie’s hometown Y did not-a juice bar, fluffy towels, rows of the latest Nautilus, StairMaster, and LifeCycle machines, a cushioned track, men and women in fancy outfits, squash and tennis courts-everything but swimmers of Eddie’s class, or even Bobby Falardeau’s; or so he thought, watching the slow passage up and down the lanes. He dove into an empty one.

  Right from the start he felt much better than he had in the hometown Y the day before; now he was a fluid being in a fluid medium. He swam for about an hour, just stretching out, listening to the water go by. He barely noticed when someone came up in the next lane, passed him with an easy fluttering kick. Eddie would have let him go, except he was curious about the ease of that kick.

  He let loose a little, drew close on the next length, cruised half a body length behind, studying the other man’s technique. Not bad: he was swimming about fifteen stroke cycles per length, riding high in the water, keeping his head still; and he had that easy kick.

  Eddie swam on, losing himself in the water, forgetting the other man. Forgetting, until the other man shot by him, passing him again. Shot by. And not because of an increase in arm speed. The other swimmer had decreased his arm speed, if anything; it was the underwater acceleration he’d speeded up.

  Eddie did the same thing, felt himself surge. He was swimming beautifully, skimming, fluid and strong and fast. But the other swimmer drew farther and farther ahead. After three more laps, Eddie had lost sight of him. In ten more, he passed Eddie again. Eddie climbed out of the pool on his next touch.

  The other man swam another lap, then fell back in the water, stretching. He looked up at Eddie and smiled. He was very young.

  The young man climbed out, pulled on a Columbia sweatshirt. Columbia. Eddie didn’t remember it as a swimming power.

  “You must have been really good,” the young man said. “Where’d you do your swimming?”

  “Alcatraz,” Eddie replied. He’d learned something: It mattered whether JFK was alive, and where he was. It mattered a lot.

  He went into the weight room. Eddie always started at the squat bar, but a woman in sheer tights and a pink leotard was there already. He waited until she finished her set and hoisted the bar back on the rack. She’d been lifting fifty pounds. Eddie added four hundred more, got under the bar, set his feet, got his grip, shouldered the bar, squatted, thrust himself back up. Usually he did three sets of ten, sometimes four. Today, feeling strong, he knew he could do five or even six. But after just that one lift, he lowered the bar back in the rack. He didn’t want to lift. Lifting was for making time go faster, a prison thing. Why would he want time to go faster now? He was free, free not to do something a little too much like breaking rocks in the hot sun. He walked away from the bar.

  The woman in pink was chalking her hands and watching herself in the mirror at the same time; she was watching him too.

  Eddie went into the showers. He was drying himself with one of the fluffy towels when he saw a sign: Steam bath: Co-Ed-Please Cover Up. He wrapped the towel around himself and went in.

  Eddie had the steam bath to himself. It was small, with wooden benches lining three sides. He sat at the back, leaned against the tile wall. Steam hissed out of a nozzle in one corner, filling the room with wet heat, wonderful wet heat that reminded him right away of the shed by the red clay court.

  I need more memories, he thought. He got hotter; sweat poured off him. Eddie forgot about the shed and simply felt his body relax, relax as though gravity had failed and all the muscles, ligaments, and tendons could finally stop straining to hold his bones together.

  “Tell me your plans,” El Rojo had said.

  And he’d answered, “A steam bath. After that I’d only be guessing.”

  There was nothing wrong with the steam-bath part. It was a good plan. He wished he’d carried it out soon
er. As he sweated he imagined that all the foulness, dirt, and corruption of the past fifteen years was seeping out of him, leaving him clean, pure, untouched.

  Time passed. A man with a sandy mustache peered through the window of the steam-bath door but didn’t come in. Eddie grew thirsty, but he was so calm, so detached from everything outside that steam bath, that he made no move to leave. Even his thirst was strangely pleasant, perhaps because he knew he could slake it at will. Slake: he liked the word. It had lake in it, so it meant an endless supply of drinkable water. It was also good for rhyming.

  With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,

  We could nor laugh nor wail;

  Through utter drought all dumb we stood!

  I bit my arm, I sucked the blood,

  And cried, A sail! a sail!

  Arm biting, bloodsucking: Eddie had seen crazy things like that. He was remembering some of them when the door opened and a woman with a towel wrapped around her body materialized in the clouds of steam. She sat down on one of the side benches, sighed, and leaned her head against the wall.

  The woman had a trim body, nicely cut hair, cool blue eyes. Because he didn’t think New York was the kind of place where you ran into people you knew, and because she wasn’t wearing her tortoiseshell glasses, it took Eddie a few surreptitious looks before he was sure he recognized her: Karen de Vere.

  “Hi,” he said.

  She gave him a cold glance, said nothing.

  Karen? Miss de Vere? He wasn’t sure of the proper form. Ms. de Vere? Ms. sounded funny to him; he’d never used the word in conversation and it brought to mind eye-rolling black servants in old movies, but he had a hunch it was the right choice.

  “Ms. de Vere?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re Karen de Vere, aren’t you?”

  She squinted at him. “Do I know you?”

  “Ed Nye. Jack’s brother.”

  “Oh, my God. I’m sorry. I’m blind as a bat without my glasses.” Her towel slipped slightly, exposing the tops of her breasts. She hitched it back up.

  “Jack’s a member here, isn’t he?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “I never see him. I do aerobics and he’s into squash. The two crowds don’t mix. I suppose you’re a squash player too.”