Girls Like Us(46)

“I can handle myself.”

“I know you can. But Meachem’s got an army of people at his disposal. And you’re alone.”

“Not anymore. I’ve got you.”





16.



The rain blows sideways past the glass doors. The windows rattle like teeth in their casings. I’m in the bedroom, struggling to pull a sweater over my injured shoulder, when I hear the rumble of tires on gravel. I peer outside; an SCPD cruiser has pulled into my driveway. Behind it is my father’s red truck. The lights switch off. The driver hops out of the front seat. He’s wearing a raincoat with the collar turned up and a hat. He glances up at the window; it’s Ron Anastas. I inhale sharply and duck beneath the sill, my heart ticking like an overwound watch. The curtain beside me shivers. I wonder if he saw me. The front bell rings. I shut my eyes, willing him to leave. The door isn’t locked. He could just turn the handle and let himself in. He’s with a partner; I’m alone. My hand slides slowly to my weapon. I turn my head, listening.

Nothing. Finally, I hear the crunch of steps. A car door slams. Then the cruiser pulls away from the house, the sound of it evaporating against the heavy beat of rain on the roof. A minute ticks by, then two. Thunder rumbles in the distance. I stand up and look out into the rain. I let out a sharp exhale. For now, at least, they’re gone.

Dune Road, sandwiched as it is between the bay and the ocean, often floods during storms. I imagine it will close soon, and if it does, I’ll be trapped here until the storm passes. I can’t afford to wait. I hurry down the stairs and take the photograph of my father and Dorsey off his desk. I find Dad’s raincoat in the front closet, so large it comes almost to my knees. It feels strange to wear his clothes and drive his car while I’m investigating him. I don’t have much of a choice. I need to know who my father was. I flip up the hood and head out into the storm.

The keys to my father’s pickup are on the driver’s seat. I hop in and start it up. As soon as I pull out of my driveway, I notice that the edges of Dune Road are filling with water. In places, my tires are almost submerged. The bay is closing in. A police cruiser passes as I turn onto the bridge. It’s heading in the opposite direction. I feel a shiver of discomfort, an urge to slouch behind the wheel. There’s no going back now.

Hank O’Gorman’s place has a name—the Marina Bar & Grill—but no one ever calls it that. Folks just say Hank O’Gorman’s place, or simply Hank’s. It is as advertised: a bar and a grill, nothing more, nothing less, with sawdust on the floor and an old pool table in the back, which everyone knows is tilted just slightly to the left. There’s a dartboard filled with holes and a jukebox that plays only classic rock, mostly Lynyrd Skynyrd and AC/DC. If there’s a draw to Hank’s, it’s Hank himself. A retired cop, Hank is big and bearded, with flaming red hair and full-sleeve tattoos. He’s hard to miss. Six nights out of seven, he shakes up drinks behind the bar. More often than not, he lets his boys from the SCPD drink for free. I’ve never seen a non-local in the joint and I think Hank wants it that way. There’s no sign for the Marina Bar & Grill along the highway; there’s not even one over the door. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought it was just an old shack, a part of the marina itself.

There are a couple of cars in the lot. The lights are on. I hear the faint pulse of music from inside. When I let myself in, a bell rings overhead, announcing my entry to the mostly empty room. The wind whistles behind me. I run a hand through my hair, shaking off the rain.

There is a lone man at the bar, bent over a glass of scotch. In the back, a couple huddles in a booth. A television in the corner of the room is set to local news. A storm whirls angrily toward the coast of Long Island. In the corner of the screen, statistics flash. Predicted rainfall. Wind speeds. Beach closures. “Suffolk County,” the weatherman says, “will be hit the hardest. Folks along the waterfront should prepare for evacuation.”

Hank emerges from the kitchen. He looks just the same as I remember. He’s large enough that he should be intimidating, but he has a kind way about him. He wears an apron over a plaid button-down that says “Kiss the Chef” on the front. When he sees me, his face lights up into a big smile, revealing the gap between his front teeth. He leans over the bar for an awkward hug, clapping me on the back with a bearlike paw.

“Nell Flynn. I was hoping I’d get to catch a glimpse of you. Dorsey said you were in town.”

“It’s good to see you, Hank. I’ve been meaning to stop by.”

“I’m sorry about your dad. I’ll miss seeing him around here.”

“Thanks. This was his spot, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” Hank presses his lips together as though he wants to say more. I never asked Dorsey where, exactly, Dad was coming from on the night he died. I assumed he’d been here, drinking at Hank’s bar the way he did most nights. But it doesn’t really matter. I don’t want Hank to think I blame him for Dad’s death. If Hank hadn’t served him that night, he would have found liquor elsewhere. Liquor always managed to find him. Anyway, I’m starting to wonder if his drinking factored into his crash to begin with. It may have been an intentional act by a man with a guilty conscience.

“You were a good friend to him, Hank. I appreciate that.”