rubbed his face with both hands. “Jesus,” he muttered.
“What?” she pressed him. “I need to know.”
“Nobody tells nobody nuthin’, you know? It’s no wonder there’s no trust.”
She forced herself to show no reaction. Such a comment, from this of all men. She stayed silent, letting him work through his own inner process.
Eventually, he passed a hand through his thinning hair, took a long pull on his bottle, and sighed again, finally saying, “I don’t really know what they were doing, just why. It had to do with smuggling, though.”
Her shoulders sagged. “I knew something was wrong, for months before they disappeared. Mom did, too. I think that’s why losing them hit her so hard. She must’ve guessed they were up to something and it got her nervous. Then, afterward . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Harry made no comment.
“You have no idea what went wrong?” she asked.
“No,” he told her. “I heard they were supposed to pick up a load before the bad weather, then maybe lay low for a few hours, to ride it out. I never knew. It was like the Bermuda Triangle or something. They just vanished. It wasn’t the storm, though—I’m sure about that.”
“Heard from who?” she asked.
He shook that off. “You don’t need to know, but a solid guy. I go back with him, too. Somebody else got ’em. Who or why, I don’t know.”
“That leaves the question you didn’t answer, then,” she told him.
He frowned. “What?”
“What was going on? You said you knew why they started doing this.”
He shook his head as if warding off a bee. “Jesus, Lyn, what is the point? Leave the dead be.”
Suddenly furious with all the verbal sparring, she half rose from her seat to push her face close to his. “Fuck you, asshole. Somebody
made
them dead. You think I’m going to let that go? You must have shit for brains. I’m not my father’s daughter for nothing, and if Dad were here right now, he’d take you apart for that crack.”
He sat back under the assault, and for a moment she feared her outburst would cost her what little he had left.
But he smiled finally, and even reached out and touched her cheek with his hand, saying quietly, “You’re right. I’m sorry. I was kiddingmyself. I felt bad when they disappeared, and made myself think it was better left alone. I let you all down.”
She seized her opportunity. “Who is it you know? I have to start somewhere. Maybe he can help.”
Harry closed down. “I asked already. He’s as clueless as I am. They just disappeared—that’s all he knows.”
She wasn’t going to give up. “Then tell me what started it all.”
“It was José. Abílo was just looking out for him. He got deep into gambling and owed big time. He finally went to Abílo for help. It was bad. But your old man had his pride—he figured they could pay off the debt and keep all of you in the dark.”
“But the people he owed were crooks, no?” Lyn asked incredulously.
Harry smiled. “Technically, maybe—he’s the guy I’ve been talking about. More of a middleman businessman, really. But Abílo was going to settle the debt anyhow, so it doesn’t make much difference.”
She sat there for a while, absorbing a set of images she’d never before imagined, fighting her disappointment.
Looking up at him one last time, she then asked, “What’s this businessman’s name?”
She expected more resistance, but apparently Harry Martin had run out of steam. Without hesitation, he said, “Brandhorst. Dick Brandhorst. Lives up north. Used to be Portland, Maine. I’m not sure now. We always talk by cell phone. That’s all I know.”
“You think he killed them?”
He shook his head. “No reason to—they were playing ball. The guy’s like a banker for the down-and-out, Lyn. He’s not the one José laid the bets with—him I don’t know. Dick’s the moneyman; call him the collection agent, but not a leg-breaker like in the movies.”
Lyn nodded and stood up,
“What?” she pressed him. “I need to know.”
“Nobody tells nobody nuthin’, you know? It’s no wonder there’s no trust.”
She forced herself to show no reaction. Such a comment, from this of all men. She stayed silent, letting him work through his own inner process.
Eventually, he passed a hand through his thinning hair, took a long pull on his bottle, and sighed again, finally saying, “I don’t really know what they were doing, just why. It had to do with smuggling, though.”
Her shoulders sagged. “I knew something was wrong, for months before they disappeared. Mom did, too. I think that’s why losing them hit her so hard. She must’ve guessed they were up to something and it got her nervous. Then, afterward . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Harry made no comment.
“You have no idea what went wrong?” she asked.
“No,” he told her. “I heard they were supposed to pick up a load before the bad weather, then maybe lay low for a few hours, to ride it out. I never knew. It was like the Bermuda Triangle or something. They just vanished. It wasn’t the storm, though—I’m sure about that.”
“Heard from who?” she asked.
He shook that off. “You don’t need to know, but a solid guy. I go back with him, too. Somebody else got ’em. Who or why, I don’t know.”
“That leaves the question you didn’t answer, then,” she told him.
He frowned. “What?”
“What was going on? You said you knew why they started doing this.”
He shook his head as if warding off a bee. “Jesus, Lyn, what is the point? Leave the dead be.”
Suddenly furious with all the verbal sparring, she half rose from her seat to push her face close to his. “Fuck you, asshole. Somebody
made
them dead. You think I’m going to let that go? You must have shit for brains. I’m not my father’s daughter for nothing, and if Dad were here right now, he’d take you apart for that crack.”
He sat back under the assault, and for a moment she feared her outburst would cost her what little he had left.
But he smiled finally, and even reached out and touched her cheek with his hand, saying quietly, “You’re right. I’m sorry. I was kiddingmyself. I felt bad when they disappeared, and made myself think it was better left alone. I let you all down.”
She seized her opportunity. “Who is it you know? I have to start somewhere. Maybe he can help.”
Harry closed down. “I asked already. He’s as clueless as I am. They just disappeared—that’s all he knows.”
She wasn’t going to give up. “Then tell me what started it all.”
“It was José. Abílo was just looking out for him. He got deep into gambling and owed big time. He finally went to Abílo for help. It was bad. But your old man had his pride—he figured they could pay off the debt and keep all of you in the dark.”
“But the people he owed were crooks, no?” Lyn asked incredulously.
Harry smiled. “Technically, maybe—he’s the guy I’ve been talking about. More of a middleman businessman, really. But Abílo was going to settle the debt anyhow, so it doesn’t make much difference.”
She sat there for a while, absorbing a set of images she’d never before imagined, fighting her disappointment.
Looking up at him one last time, she then asked, “What’s this businessman’s name?”
She expected more resistance, but apparently Harry Martin had run out of steam. Without hesitation, he said, “Brandhorst. Dick Brandhorst. Lives up north. Used to be Portland, Maine. I’m not sure now. We always talk by cell phone. That’s all I know.”
“You think he killed them?”
He shook his head. “No reason to—they were playing ball. The guy’s like a banker for the down-and-out, Lyn. He’s not the one José laid the bets with—him I don’t know. Dick’s the moneyman; call him the collection agent, but not a leg-breaker like in the movies.”
Lyn nodded and stood up,
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