45

In a dark room, curtains shutting out sunlight to almost make it night inside, Flip lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling, wanting more blackness. Even the thickest motel curtains couldn’t keep the light away entirely.

It was all darkness now inside, and he wanted it outside him too. Eternal night. The sun was a hated thing, like a spotlight circling a prison to pin him to a wall and freeze his escape. It was a tool for the cops. Other people could have the warmth of it on their faces, burning its cancers into their skin. He wanted none of it. He never wanted to see the sun again.

Flip rolled onto his side, directing his face away from the window and the sunlight that tried to squeeze through the gaps like an airborne plague. Sleep away the day. That’s what he would do. Never again take the risk of exposure to that flame in the sky.

Candles. She’d lit candles for someone else. They’d filled the air with the smell of fruit and candy. The image of the table came to him, silverware aligned on carefully folded napkins, plates shining in the candlelight, goblets waiting for the wine to be poured. And she’d dressed with another man in mind, put on that long, silky robe that begged hands to touch it.

He pulled the pillows around his head. He couldn’t shake the images of her and what she’d prepared in expectation of someone else.

He’d knocked her to the floor. He pressed the pillows tighter around his head, wished he could squeeze the image out forever. But there it was, Diane sprawled on the floor, that robe riding up over her bare thigh, anger flashing across her face for an instant before she was back on her feet. And not a word of protest. As if she got knocked down every day.

Was that how it was for her? Did her old man treat her that way? Did her big sister? Or did she get used to being knocked around after she left home, when her scams took her across country, waitressing in Philly, desire for revenge and a big score driving every move she made, every human contact. Was it her childhood she was so driven to avenge? He had never asked. Flip had never met anyone so absorbed with retribution—even when he was in the joint, where guys nursed their grudges like there was no other reason to live.

“Mister?” A woman’s voice.

Flip bolted up. The pillows fell from his head.

“I make up your room?” The silhouette of a square woman was framed in the brilliant sunlight beaming in through the open doorway.

“No. Go away.” He shielded his eyes and waved with his other hand.

“You want fresh towels?”

The sunlight battered his eyes. “No. Get out.” He was on his feet, moving toward the door.

She shied away. “I come back later?”

“No. Do not disturb. See?” He took the sign hanging from the doorknob and hung it on the outside. “Do not disturb.”

She stepped out into the day, and Flip slammed the door and brought the little bar around over the knob on the door that worked better than the chains they used to have in these places.

What had he been thinking about? Diane. Of course. Diane. What else would he be thinking about? He’d been thinking about her ever since he first saw her when she visited him toward the end of his time in the Stark Youth Correctional Facility. The way she moved and the look in her eyes brought him along, trailing him after her like a puppy on a leash.

Well, he wouldn’t be her puppy anymore. He had a little something going for himself now. Sure, maybe he’d be there when she was ready to come crawling back to him. But he had these papers of Mr. B’s now. And Mr. B would pay to get them back. He’d pay big, or he would really pay if he didn’t.

Flip crossed to the closet and slipped the papers out of his bag. The light from the closet was too bright, so he angled the door closed against it. He read them again, the names and phone numbers and the notes beside them that described enough that even the dumbest cop would get the drift of what Mr. B was up to.

He looked over the list. The penmanship was precise, tiny, every letter a capital. Blue ink and black, even some in red. Flip wondered if the colors had any meaning or if Mr. B would just pick up whatever pen was closest when he had to jot something down. He could picture Mr. B at his desk, reaching for a pen, maybe yelling at Garrett or Ronny if he couldn’t find one. None of the names on the list meant anything to him. Somewhere here was the name of the girl, the daughter of the big guy who’d come for Mr. B’s head. He’d called her a strung-out, dead junkie.

This list had to be worth a lot to Mr. B. Even if he had a copy somewhere.

Flip reached for the phone. The base was bolted to the bedside table. As if somebody went around stealing old desktop telephones. He called information and got the number of the Ragtop Club, and after seven rings, a man answered.

“I want to talk to Mr. B.”

“Who’s this?”

“Tell him Frank.”

While the guy yelled for Ronny to see if Mr. B wanted to talk to Frank, Flip looked over the list some more. It was five pages long. The sheets were unlined, the names and numbers and notes running in uneven rows across the pages.

The other phone rustled. “Hi, Flip.”

He tried not to let surprise slip into his voice. “Smart boy. How’d you figure that one out?”

“Flip Dunn. Or Philip. Brother named Jason. I got it all right here. Old man lives in Inglewood, name of Henry. You want me to read his address for you?”

“I know his address.”

“I want that list, Flipper.”

“It’s Flip. I ain’t a dolphin.”

“You bring me that list. I want it right now, understand, Flipper? Now.”

This was no good. He didn’t want Mr. B going to his dad’s house, Doberman or not. “It’s Flip.”

“Okay, Flipper, here’s how it’s going to work. We already been to see your brother and his wife. But if that list isn’t in my hands today, a couple of my guys go have a talk with your dad tonight. Then they go back to your brother’s house after. Get it?”

Diane would know what to say. Flip had nothing to tell him.

“You thinking it over, Flipper?”

“Yeah, I’m thinking.”

“Okay, here’s an idea. You keep sitting there at Dino’s Motel. My guys’ll be right over, pick up that list. And my money. You can give me my money back too.”

Flip had seen phones that read out the caller’s ID. He should have bought a throw-away cell phone. Gone to a payphone. Something. He closed his eyes.

He was going to have to go out into the sunlight.