Gin Palace 01 - The Poisoned Rose

demanded.
    “She wants to talk to you. You know Long Beach Road in Sag Harbor.”
    I didn’t say anything.
    “Get there as soon as you can. Come alone.”
    “Who the fuck is this?”
    “It’s your new best friend, from last night. I could have killed you but I didn’t. I hope you’re smart enough to appreciate that. I hope for both our sakes you remember what I did. And what I said.”
    “Do you have a name?”
    “Some people call me Skull.”
    “Skull?”
    “Just meet my friend at eleven. I think you might have heard of her. Her name is Marie Welles. Anyway, she’s heard of you.”
    Before I could say anything more the line went dead.

Chapter Seven

    It was just ten when I left the Hansom House. I stopped at a filling station on North Sea Road and bought all the gasoline I could with the change from my pocket. It wasn’t much, but it would be enough to get me to Sag Harbor and back.
    I took the back roads through Noyac, along the rim of Peconic Bay, and made it to Long Beach Road a few minutes before eleven.
    Long Beach was on a strip of land one hundred yards wide and maybe three hundred yards long that ran between Peconic Bay and Sag Harbor Cove. It was here, last November, that Augie and I caught up with the Caddy when that kid Vogler was killed. On the cove side of the road, beach grass grew in clumps, and on the bay side, a small beach marked with white stones and shells ran from a blacktop parking lot to the water.
    I pulled into that lot and killed the motor and lights. The night was stagnant, the surface of the dark water smooth, creaseless. It was as if someone had taken an iron to it. I heard nothing but the steady ringing of crickets and frogs coming from the cove side of the road as I got out of my car.
    Across the lot a woman was standing a few feet from the water’s edge, alone. I walked to her. It took me a minute to reach her. As I walked, I noticed two cars parked side by side on the opposite end of the lot— a small dark blue pickup truck and another beside it. I couldn’t see the second car, so I didn’t know if it was empty or not. But someone was in the pickup, behind the wheel and smoking a cigarette. It was too far off and too dark in that part of the lot for me to see who that someone was. But I was fairly certain I knew.
    I wondered if he was still in possession of both his chrome plated .357 and his sense that all was even between us, whatever that meant.
    The stones and shells that cluttered the beach made sounds under my feet, announcing my approach. The woman was facing the water, but when she heard me coming she turned to look at me.
    She was wearing tan pleated slacks and a white mannish shirt, the cuffs folded over twice. She stood with her hands in her pockets, her chin held up slightly, her shoulders back, like a cadet. Her hair was dark and thick and fell all one length to a blunt cut just past the collar of her shirt. She had an athletic build, a good tan, and offered me a pleasant smile as I approached her. I didn’t recognize her.
    I didn’t really know what to expect, but I knew I hadn’t expected this. She acted as if we were friends getting together for cocktails, not strangers meeting under less than cordial circumstances on a dark beach off a lonely strip of road.
    She stood with ease and poise, smiled warmly at me, and yet she seemed to be waiting for something, watching me closely. Maybe she was waiting for what I would say, as if this would somehow determine how things were going to go for us.
    We were just a few feet apart. I could hear little over the peal of frogs and crickets across the street.
    “You’re Marie?”
    She laughed once, as though from relief. Or maybe it was surprise. But her smile widened even more.
    “Yes,” she said. Her voice was faint and raspy, barely above a whisper.
    “Are you sick?”
    “Laryngitis. From the air conditioning, where I work.”
    I nodded.
    “Thanks for meeting me,” she said.
    I glanced toward the pickup truck. The figure was still behind the wheel. I saw the glow of his cigarette. I looked back at Marie.
    “What is it you want?” I said.
    “If I’m straight with you, will you be straight with me?”
    “It would probably be better for both of us if we were.”
    “Good.”
    “So what is it you want?”
    “I assume you’re working for my brother.” It was an obvious strain for her to talk. Her voice sounded whiskeyed.
    “No. I don’t work for him. I don’t work for anyone.”
    “But you