“He won’t be,” she said.
“It’s like that?”
“Yes.”
He had no words for her, and so walked over to the bed, leaned forward, and kissed her softly.
She looked at him quizzically. “You’re in a strange mood.”
He stepped away and continued to dress.
She watched him somberly for a moment, then cocked her head to the right, almost playfully. “By the way, there’s something I’ve never asked you. Are Asians better? I hear guys think we are.”
He stood by the window, knotting his tie. Outside, a brief autumn rain had come to an end. “I don’t rank women by ethnic group,” he told her.
She propped herself up in the bed. Her hair lay thick as a blanket over her small and perfect breasts. She had flawless skin and gleaming oval eyes. Everything about her was perfect, particularly her forthright acceptance of herself, the utter lack of self-importance.
“Okay, so how do you rank them, Stark?” she asked.
“By how much I care,” he told her.
“You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“So where am I on that list?”
“Second from the top.”
Something in her face changed. “We’ve been together for a long time.”
He gave his tie a final pull. “Yes, we have.”
“What’s our secret?”
“That we’re easy, I guess,” Stark answered. “That it’s no big deal.”
She drew her knees up and planted her chin on them. “That is so the wrong answer, Stark.”
He plucked his jacket from the chair across from the bed. “Maybe it’s time for you to move on, Kiko.”
She heard it, and he knew she’d heard it, the air of finality in his voice, its declaration, clear and ominous, that he’d turned a corner in his life, was taking no one with him.
“You’re not coming back, are you?” she asked.
He said nothing but only drew on his jacket and buttoned it.
“Can you at least tell me why?”
He walked to the door, then turned and faced her squarely. “Because you need to find someone else and go over the falls with him.”
“Over the falls.”
“You need to fall in love, Kiko,” Stark said. “Everybody needs to do that… just once.”
Her eyes glistened suddenly, and her long black hair trembled. “Good-bye, Stark,” she said.
At the door he wanted to look back but knew he shouldn’t. “Good luck” was all he said.
TONY
The little rooming house was neat but very shabby, with furniture that looked scavenged from the street. Eddie’s room was equally spare. A small refrigerator rattled in one corner. A single-eyed hot plate sat on a tiny wooden table, fit only for heating water or canned food.
“He ain’t suppose to have a hot plate,” the old woman who ran the place said sourly. “Fire code don’t allow it.”
Tony stood at the center of the room, hoping to get some idea of where Eddie had gone. He’d never been in Eddie’s room, he realized, nor anywhere else with him save at the marina or one of the little diners in the nearby village. And yet, during all that time, he’d thought of Eddie as his best friend, the person he’d turned to to help find Sara, and who had now vanished without a word.
“He didn’t come into work this morning,” Tony said. “Didn’t call. So I was wondering, you know, if maybe something happened.”
The old woman plopped down in the room’s single, overstuffed chair. Her hair was white and stringy, her eyes a filmy brown.
“He don’t talk much, Eddie,” she said. “Keeps to himself.”
Tony wondered if this amounted to loneliness, or if Eddie was simply one of those solitary souls who prefers the quiet, the lack of fuss, a life without strings.
“When was the last time you saw him?” he asked.
“Yesterday,” the old woman answered.
“What time?”
“In the morning. About nine, something like that.”
Tony glanced toward the open closet, where a few shirts hung limply from wire hangers, along with a couple of wool jackets and three pairs of flannel trousers. “It’s not like him not to show up for work, not to call in. It’s just not like him.”
“So, where is he, you think?” the old woman asked.
“I don’t know,” Tony answered. He walked to the window and peered out at the street. The neighborhood was like Eddie’s closet, drab and untended, its faded brick buildings lined up like old shoes. “Did you notice him going off with anybody?”
The old woman shook her head. “But I don’t keep an eye on the men who live here. And Eddie, I didn’t even know he was missing.”
And so no one would be hunting for Eddie Sullivan, Tony thought, no wife or kids or friends save for Tony himself.
“You think he’s in trouble some way?” the old woman asked.
Tony peered at the empty parking space where Eddie’s old Ford should have been parked. “I’m sure he’ll turn up.”
But he was not sure Eddie would turn up, and if he didn’t, he had no one but himself to blame. For a moment he reviewed the circumstances that had led to this pass. He’d asked Eddie to talk to Caruso, and after that Eddie had disappeared. And so it stood to reason that if anyone knew where Eddie was, it was probably Caruso. Even so, Tony didn’t know what to do about it. Caruso worked for his father, and the Old Man would be furious at the thought that Tony had tried to come between him and his trusted gofer.
He was still pondering the situation when he got back to the marina. He’d hoped to see Eddie’s beat-up old car in the lot, but it wasn’t there, and because of that Tony now felt a slowly deepening dread settle upon him.
He walked into his office, glanced out the window, hoping against hope that Eddie would miraculously appear, sauntering down one of the wooden piers in that ungainly way of his. But Eddie didn’t materialize, and so he turned from the window and sat down at his desk. For a time he once again considered his options. They seemed to grow fewer with each consideration, and finally he concluded that there was nothing to do but take the bull by the horns. He picked up the phone and dialed the number.
“Yeah?”
“Vinnie, it’s Tony Labriola.”
Silence.
“I’m calling about Eddie Sullivan.”
Silence.
“I thought you might know where he is.”
“Why would I know that?”
“Vinnie, this is serious.”
Silence.
“Are you listening, Vinnie?”
“Yeah, I’m listening.”
“I know he talked to you about Sara.”
Silence.
“About how my father’s looking for her.”
Silence.
“You hear me, Vinnie?”
“Yeah.”
“So, what did you tell him?”
“I didn’t tell him nothing.”
“Vinnie, are you listening to me? Eddie’s missing.”
Silence.
“Vinnie, I can’t let this go. I know Eddie talked to you about Sara. Now, listen, did you tell my father that Eddie talked to you?”
“No.”
“Tell me the truth, Vinnie.”
“I didn’t tell him nothing. Your father, I mean.”
“What did you tell Eddie?”
“Nothing.”
“Vinnie.”
“Nothing.”
“Where is he, Vinnie?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where is he, Vinnie?” Tony repeated evenly.
“I’m telling you, I don’t know,” Caruso answered.
“I know you talked to him.”
“Okay, so what? I ain’t saying I didn’t talk to him. But that don’t mean I know where he is. Last I seen him we was at Billy’s Grill. Like you say, he wanted to know was I looking for your wife. I told him no, and that was the end of it.”
Tony listened for something further at the other end of the line, a word or caught breath, some hint that signaled truth or lie, but nothing stirred, and so, after a moment, he said, “Vinnie, we got to meet.”
“That ain’t a good idea, Tony.”
“You got to meet me. I won’t say a word about it to my father, but I got to talk to you. We’ll go out on my boat. Nobody’ll see us. You got to do this, Vinnie. I got to find Eddie.”