Part 26 (1/2)

She touches her stomach. It didn't, she says. It got worse. So I went to the police. Then came here. Coney Island was always a special place for me.

For us.

She rubs his arm. Happy memories, she says.

They sit on the sand and watch the moonlight spill like milk across the water.

How are the other two merry fishermen? she asks.

Eddie's still in Dannemora. Happy got out of Sing Sing a while ago but no one's seen him.

All my fault, she says.

Nah.

They talk until the wind turns colder, then retreat to the bungalow. Along the way Willie tells her about his time at Sing Sing, the horror of Dannemora, his job with Funck.

Bess warms a can of soup, opens a bottle of bootleg wine. Willie lights a fire using driftwood and a Brooklyn Daily Eagle. There's a suitcase open on the sofa and beside it a canvas bag filled with books. He looks through them. Tennyson, he says. Still?

Always, Bess says. Once I'm in love, it's forever.

He reads: And ah for a man to arise in me, That the man I am may cease to be. He sets down the book, picks up another. Ezra Pound?

Bess comes toward him, swirling wine in a gla.s.s. She hands the gla.s.s to Willie, closes her eyes: You came in out of the night, And there were flowers in your hands, Now you will come out of a confusion of people, Out of a turmoil of speech about you.

Willie stares at the book. A confusion of people, he says.

They put pillows on the floor and sit by the fire. When the embers turn to ashes, when the clock on the mantel says three, Willie has to go. He's due at Funck's in two hours. Bess walks him outside. They stand, s.h.i.+vering.

Run away with me, Bess.

She throws back her head. We both know that's not possible.

Why not?

No money.

There are places where that won't matter.

Places where money doesn't matter? Make me a list.

Poughkeepsie.

She gives a pained smile. My husband's family is powerful. They'll see to it that your parole is revoked. They'll have you locked up forever. I won't be the cause of that. I've done enough damage to your life.

He looks at the sky. He tries to think of something to say that will change her mind. He tries to put his feelings into words. She stops his thoughts with a touch, tracing her finger down his sideburn.

He takes a pad and pencil out of his breast pocket, writes the number of the telephone in the lobby of his flop. I'll be back tonight to check on you, he says. Until then be careful.

I'd feel a whole lot safer if the newspaper hadn't printed my address.

He nods. d.a.m.n newspapers, he says. On the other hand, if they hadn't printed your address, I never would have found you.

She kisses him on the cheek, then steps back and aims a finger gun at his chest. She smiles. Your money or your life?

My life, Bess. Always.

Her smile fades. Oh Willie.

That night, as soon as the Funck truck returns from Greystone, Willie leaps off, dashes to the subway. Still wearing his gray coveralls, he rides to Coney Island and finds the door to the bungalow flapping open. The empty wine bottle is on the floor. Bess's things, her books, are gone. He picks up the bottle, sets it on the table. He walks down to the Half Moon and watches the honeymooners come and go.

Oh no, Photographer says. Guess who's crying again.

No.

Look.

Reporter walks toward Sutton timidly. Mr. Sutton? You okay?

Sutton, leaning against the lion: Do you know the Half Moon Hotel kid? In Coney Island?

Where that mob hit happened? Back in the forties?

Yeah.

That nut job, Albert Anastasia, killed some informant?

Yeah. Abe Reles. Rat of all rats.

Anastasia tossed Reles off the hotel roof, didn't he?

Right, right. Imagine-the Half Moon used to be the place to honeymoon in New York.

Did you know Anastasia?

We had-mutual friends.

What brought the Half Moon to mind?

I was b.u.mped off there too. In a manner of speaking.

Willie punching the time clock at Funck and Sons. February 1930. From Funck's office he hears maniacal laughter. He walks down the hall, finds the frosted door standing open, Funck sitting with his feet on his desk, cradling a bottle of something. Well well, he says to Willie, if it isn't Mr. Blackmailer! Come in, come in. Guess what, Mr. Blackmailer, you can be blackmailing me all you want, it don't matter. We're out of business. You want to call my wife? It don't matter neither. She's going to divorce me anyhows.

But why?

The market, genius. Half our clients is canceling. When bad times is coming, gardens is the first to be going. No azaleas in recessions. f.u.c.k the daisies in Depressions. Motherf.u.c.k the peonies. c.o.c.ksuck the daffodils. Nice knowing you. Here's your last check, Mr. Blackmailer. Hope you're having a nice life. I should've stayed in Amsterdam.