Mark Mills - Amagansett

George Wallace seemed to visibly shrink before Manfred’s eyes as he listened, the chair swallowing him. When Richard was finished, he eased himself to his feet and walked uncertainly towards the door, leaving the room without uttering a word.

‘He’s going to call the police.’

‘No, he isn’t,’ said Richard. ‘He’d have done it right here, in front of us.’

‘It doesn’t mean he won’t though.’

‘No, it doesn’t mean he won’t.’

They watched him from the drawing room. He walked, he sat on a bench beneath a tree, then he walked some more, disappearing from view to the far end of the garden.

Manfred found himself staring into the void, facing oblivion yet again. He felt the hatred and rage build in his gut, spreading through the pathways of his body, tightening the sinews, constricting his chest.

‘I’ll kill him myself.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘I’m trained, aren’t I?’

It sounded pathetic, even to his own ears, which only annoyed him more.

There might have been some truth in the words, but his training wasn’t a patch on Labarde’s. And as for his combat experience, the whole purpose of Fighter Direction was to guide others into warfare from the safety of the Combat Information Center. There had been hairy moments in the Solomon Islands, relentless night bombing raids by the Japanese, the odd barrage from an enemy battleship. He had even seen live rounds fired when the Marines flushed out a handful of enemy troops left behind on the island of Rendova. That ‘invasion’ had lasted no more than half an hour, and they’d quickly set up their big SCR-270 radars, feeding vectors to their own air crews to help them zero in on the Japanese planes.

This was how he’d spent a large part of the war, sitting in front of a cathode-ray tube, helping the Navy leapfrog its way towards the Philippines. As things went, it was about as good as it got. He was a lieutenant attached to the 1st Marine Air Wing; the radar technology over which he lorded was new, exciting, even glamorous; and there was the added cachet of always being on or about the front line. Okay, so it was the pilots of the old P-30s and P-40s who actually laid their lives on the line every day, but you were there with them, at their side, assisting, always in the thick of it, always safe back at base.

Maximum credibility, minimum risk. His father had judged it well, though they’d never discussed the details of the strings he had pulled.

It was a war record beyond reproach, an essential stepping stone toward the prize, playing the long game. The question was just how deep the dream ran in his father. After all his work—all the planning, the foresight—was he really going to throw it away now?

In his heart Manfred knew there was only one answer, though for a moment he doubted the assumption—the moment his father strode back into the drawing room from the garden. He walked straight up to Manfred, his eyes blazing, and slapped him hard across the face.

‘You stupid boy,’ he spat.

Manfred could only think how much worse his reaction would have been if he’d been told the whole truth.

His father walked to the sideboard, helped himself to a cigarette and lit it with a trembling hand.

‘This fisherman, Labarde, does he have a telephone?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Yes,’ said Richard.

His father made for the door.

Richard intercepted him. ‘What are you going to do, George?’

‘What you should have done in the first place—pay him off.’

‘I don’t know about this one.’

‘Name me one man who couldn’t be bought?’

‘Then let me handle it,’ said Richard. ‘For your own sake, you should stay out of it.’

It was a good point, though not the real reason Richard didn’t want him speaking to Labarde.

‘You should have come to me,’ snapped his father as soon as Richard had left the room.

‘Come to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Since when have I ever been able to come to you?’

His father glared at him.

‘It’s true,’ Manfred went on. ‘You know it is.’

He lit a cigarette. His father wandered to the French windows and looked out over the garden. They both smoked in silence.

His father turned. ‘He’s with you for ever now—Richard, I mean. You know that, don’t you? This is his ticket.’

It hadn’t occurred to Manfred before that Richard might have an agenda all of his own. And he drew comfort from it. If he’d done wrong, it was because his hand had been guided by a man thinking only of himself.

At that moment, Richard returned to the drawing room.

‘He wants two hundred thousand dollars for the document. Tonight.’

‘Two hundred thousand!?’

‘It’s cheap at that price,’ said George Wallace. ‘Though I daresay it’s doubled since you tried to steal it from him.’

‘Where are we going to find that kind of money on a Saturday?’ said Richard.

‘After everything else you’ve arranged,’ snarled Manfred’s father, ‘I can’t imagine it poses too much of a problem.’

Thirty-Six

Hollis had come prepared with two handkerchiefs. By midday, when the first cars started to arrive, one was already sodden from mopping his brow, and he’d laid it on a nearby hedge to dry in the sun; the second was well on its way to reaching its saturation point.

Another car tried to park on the verge and he moved it on.

Christ, it was hot, the windless heat roasting him in his uniform.

‘Ambulance! Ambulance!’

The urgent call came from behind him and he spun round.

Abel triggered the shutter of the Speed Graphic. ‘That’s great,’ he said, appearing from behind the camera. ‘I can just see it on the front page of the Star : Deputy Chief Hollis, Moments Before His Sad Demise.’

‘Very funny.’

‘Jesus, Tom, you look like you just went twelve rounds with Rita Hayworth.’

Easy for him to say in his sleeveless open-necked shirt and his cotton slacks.

‘So, how’s it going?’ asked Abel.

‘How’s what going?’

‘The fair, Tom, the ladies’ fair.’

‘Great. Attendance is up this year.’

Abel looked at him askance. ‘Tell me you’re kidding.’

‘I’m kidding.’

‘Christ, for a moment there I thought they had you in their clutches.’

‘No danger of that,’ said Hollis. ‘Where’s Lucy?’

‘Sulking. We had an argument. She thinks I’m seeing someone on the side.’

‘Are you?’

‘I sure as hell wouldn’t tell you if I was. But no, as it happens, I’m not.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘How’s the President?’

‘The President?’

‘Mrs Calder. You remember, the one who invited you to a party, the one you were spotted with in Springs the next day.’

‘We went walking,’ said Hollis. ‘She likes to walk.’

‘You’ve got to start somewhere, I guess.’

‘I guess.’

‘Why the hang-dog expression? No, don’t tell me—you fucked it up.’

‘I might have.’

‘You idiot, Tom.’

‘Coming from you?’

‘Well, go and sort it out. Tell her she’s invited to dinner over at my place later. You can come too…assuming you survive.’

‘What about Lucy?’

‘Don’t worry about her,’ said Abel, ‘she’ll be okay by then.’

Hollis waited till three o’clock before making his move. The fair was in full swing, the village green thronging with people clustered around the booths, the gypsy caravans, the wishing well and the wheel of chance, or waiting in line for boat rides on Town Pond. Mary’s little entourage had thinned out, and she was sipping a drink in the shade of a tree, the glass beaded with sweat.

‘Hi.’

‘Here—’ said Mary, handing him the glass.

He took a gulp of the cold lemonade.

‘Finish it,’ she said.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Believe me, I’m sure.’

He drained the glass, dabbed at his face with his handkerchief and looked around. There were some children playing nearby, romping and running about.

‘Edward…?’

‘The big one with the stick chasing the small one without a stick.’

‘Seems like a nice kid.’

Mary laughed, and he felt his heart soar.

‘How have you been, Tom?’

‘Oh, you know…terrible.’

‘Really? Why?’

‘Take a guess.’

‘Don’t blame me,’ she said, hardening.

‘I’m not. I let you down, I know that. And I’m sorry.’

‘So am I.’

Her words sounded so final, but he wasn’t going to give up, not now. ‘There’s a lot I need to tell you.’

‘You mean your investigation.’

‘That came to nothing.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Other things,’ he said.

‘I’m not sure this is the time.’

She didn’t want to hear it, thought Hollis, not now, not ever. She just couldn’t bring herself to tell him straight.

‘Maybe later,’ she said.

Two simple words kicking down the door.

‘How about this evening?’ he suggested. ‘You’re invited to dinner at Abel’s place.’

‘This evening’s difficult. There’s all the clearing up.’

‘Delegate it. You’re the President.’

‘And there’s Edward.’

‘Get someone to look after him. I think it’s going to be a special occasion.’

‘A special occasion?’

‘It’s just a feeling.’

She thought on it. ‘Okay, I’ll ask my sister if she can have him for the night.’ She paused. ‘Don’t read too much into that; it’s easier if he sleeps over.’

‘I wasn’t reading anything into it,’ he lied.

The sister said yes. He even met her briefly, with her brood and her lanky husband who made no bones about eyeing him mistrustfully.

He stayed for Mary’s speech and clapped politely with everyone else when some prizes were handed out. As he headed home he stopped by Daker’s Wine & Liquor Store and asked for two bottles of Champagne to be put on ice.

Thirty-Seven

Manfred checked himself in the mirror, adjusted his bow tie and removed a fleck of lint from the shoulder of his tuxedo.

He was surprised that nothing in his appearance, his face, betrayed the turmoil inside.

He told himself it would be over soon, but the thought brought little satisfaction. He had been outmaneuvered by a fisherman. Labarde would still be at large and in possession of a considerable amount of money, destined to see out his days in comfort, at their expense. No, there was not a whole lot to be happy about.

The cash had arrived a few hours earlier, Manfred and Richard watching from the house as the black van pulled up by the garage. A dark little man pulled open the doors, the van disappeared inside and the doors were closed again. A few minutes later, the van was gone, taking the body with it. A leather case containing the money had been left beside the wheelbarrow.

With the exchange now sure to go ahead, they needed Gayle out of the way, and Manfred had spent more than an hour persuading her to brave the dinner with him at the Maidstone Club. At the appointed hour, he would slip away, join Richard back at the house, and they would go on together from there. Justin was under instructions to ensure Gayle stayed at the club.

That, at least, was the plan. Richard had assured him it would all be over by midnight. Only, it wouldn’t be. There would be no conclusion, simply an accommodation with a man who might haunt him for the rest of his life.

Manfred checked himself once more in the mirror then crossed to the Wellington chest. He opened the top drawer and stared at the handgun buried amongst his socks.