silence for a moment.
“Forgive me for saying this, Harry. But you know what I think?”
“What?”
“It’s not just Bobby, is it?”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t have a family of your own anymore. So you’re trying to protect ours.”
He looked away. A light wind had sprung up, stirring the willows. The rabbit was gone.
“And bless you for that,” she said. “But you can’t solve all our problems. You shouldn’t try to.”
“I’m not.”
“There’s something else about Bobby too. The way he is; he always thought he could lean out over the edge as far as he wanted, that somebody would always be there to pull him back. He’s been that way since he was a kid. It used to be me he relied on, to catch him before he fell.”
“I know.”
“This time it’s you.”
He had no answer for that.
Later, after she left, he brought the bottles in from the trunk, put them in the refrigerator. But he didn’t open them.
Around eleven, he took the Mustang keys, went out to the car. The restlessness was on him, a feeling he couldn’t name or satisfy. He headed east on 537, dark fields stretching away on both sides. He noticed a slight roughness to the engine, an erratic cough in the exhaust. When he reached Tinton Falls the streets narrowed and the farms gave way to houses with warm second-floor lights, the occasional blue glow of a television in a downstairs window.
He picked up Route 36, drove east to the ocean, pushing fifty, the wind whipping through the car. He thought of Lynn Pettimore and her two children, of the emptiness of Jimmy’s apartment. He thought of Cristina and Fallon, of his bulk on her, moving in the dark.
The Sand Castle was a sprawling two-story restaurant on the inlet in Manasquan. Nestled in the shadow of a highway bridge, it sat on a pier that extended out over the water and into the sunlight. On the far end of the pier were tables beneath umbrellas. Though the tables were empty, Harry could see gulls perched on the railings as if waiting for the diners to return. Gray wooden steps stretched from the gravel parking lot to the front door.
There was a two-lane access ramp that curved down to the restaurant from the bridge, the only way in and out. Just before the turnoff was a small strip mall with a pizza parlor, video store, and Laundromat. From where he’d parked alongside the Laundromat, he had an unobstructed view of the ramp and restaurant. He looked at his watch. Three-thirty.
He took the field glasses from the seat beside him. They were hard green plastic, made for jungle use, and he’d paid $200 for them at an army surplus store ten years ago. He took off his sunglasses, hung them on the rearview mirror, and brought the binoculars up. The restaurant sharpened into view as he focused.
The outside was decorated with fishing nets, life preservers, buoys, and fake harpoons—Shore tourist-trap kitsch. He scanned the front of the restaurant, saw the closed sign on the glass door. Through the wide windows he could see empty tables set for dinner.
There were only four cars in the lot, a black Jeep Wrangler, a ten-year-old Plymouth with a Rutgers sticker in the rear window, a tiny Geo Metro, and a dark blue BMW with its top down. It was either the same car he’d parked alongside at the country club or its twin. No Lexus.
He opened the glove box, rooted under papers until he felt the smooth, pocket-sized can of CS spray. He set it on the console, then reached under his seat and drew out the manila envelope full of money. He put it on the passenger seat, picked up the glasses again.
At ten to four, a maroon Buick with New York plates drove past him, turned down the ramp, and pulled into the restaurant lot. Two men got out. The driver was in his midforties, heavy, dark haired, with broad shoulders and a distended gut. He wore a sport jacket over a polo shirt, had a cigarette dangling from his lips.
The passenger was twenty years younger and a hundred pounds lighter,
“Forgive me for saying this, Harry. But you know what I think?”
“What?”
“It’s not just Bobby, is it?”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t have a family of your own anymore. So you’re trying to protect ours.”
He looked away. A light wind had sprung up, stirring the willows. The rabbit was gone.
“And bless you for that,” she said. “But you can’t solve all our problems. You shouldn’t try to.”
“I’m not.”
“There’s something else about Bobby too. The way he is; he always thought he could lean out over the edge as far as he wanted, that somebody would always be there to pull him back. He’s been that way since he was a kid. It used to be me he relied on, to catch him before he fell.”
“I know.”
“This time it’s you.”
He had no answer for that.
Later, after she left, he brought the bottles in from the trunk, put them in the refrigerator. But he didn’t open them.
Around eleven, he took the Mustang keys, went out to the car. The restlessness was on him, a feeling he couldn’t name or satisfy. He headed east on 537, dark fields stretching away on both sides. He noticed a slight roughness to the engine, an erratic cough in the exhaust. When he reached Tinton Falls the streets narrowed and the farms gave way to houses with warm second-floor lights, the occasional blue glow of a television in a downstairs window.
He picked up Route 36, drove east to the ocean, pushing fifty, the wind whipping through the car. He thought of Lynn Pettimore and her two children, of the emptiness of Jimmy’s apartment. He thought of Cristina and Fallon, of his bulk on her, moving in the dark.
The Sand Castle was a sprawling two-story restaurant on the inlet in Manasquan. Nestled in the shadow of a highway bridge, it sat on a pier that extended out over the water and into the sunlight. On the far end of the pier were tables beneath umbrellas. Though the tables were empty, Harry could see gulls perched on the railings as if waiting for the diners to return. Gray wooden steps stretched from the gravel parking lot to the front door.
There was a two-lane access ramp that curved down to the restaurant from the bridge, the only way in and out. Just before the turnoff was a small strip mall with a pizza parlor, video store, and Laundromat. From where he’d parked alongside the Laundromat, he had an unobstructed view of the ramp and restaurant. He looked at his watch. Three-thirty.
He took the field glasses from the seat beside him. They were hard green plastic, made for jungle use, and he’d paid $200 for them at an army surplus store ten years ago. He took off his sunglasses, hung them on the rearview mirror, and brought the binoculars up. The restaurant sharpened into view as he focused.
The outside was decorated with fishing nets, life preservers, buoys, and fake harpoons—Shore tourist-trap kitsch. He scanned the front of the restaurant, saw the closed sign on the glass door. Through the wide windows he could see empty tables set for dinner.
There were only four cars in the lot, a black Jeep Wrangler, a ten-year-old Plymouth with a Rutgers sticker in the rear window, a tiny Geo Metro, and a dark blue BMW with its top down. It was either the same car he’d parked alongside at the country club or its twin. No Lexus.
He opened the glove box, rooted under papers until he felt the smooth, pocket-sized can of CS spray. He set it on the console, then reached under his seat and drew out the manila envelope full of money. He put it on the passenger seat, picked up the glasses again.
At ten to four, a maroon Buick with New York plates drove past him, turned down the ramp, and pulled into the restaurant lot. Two men got out. The driver was in his midforties, heavy, dark haired, with broad shoulders and a distended gut. He wore a sport jacket over a polo shirt, had a cigarette dangling from his lips.
The passenger was twenty years younger and a hundred pounds lighter,
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