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Overview
Long Island may bring to mind quiet middle-class homes among leafy trees and lawns, or the glitzy enclaves of the Gold Coast and the Hamptons. But this gigantic stretch of land jutting out into the Atlantic Ocean, home to nearly eight million people, can also be home to schemes, scandals, and various criminal activities. This volume collects an assortment of noir short stories set in Nassau and Suffolk counties—among them “The Shiny Car in the Night” by Nick Mamatas, selected for inclusion in The Best American Mystery Stories 2013.
Original stories by: Jules Feiffer, Matthew McGevna, Nick Mamatas, Kaylie Jones, Qanta Ahmed, Charles Salzberg, Reed Farrel Coleman, Tim McLoughlin, Sarah Weinman, JZ Holden, Richie Narvaez, Sheila Kohler, Jane Ciabattari, Steven Wishnia, Kenneth Wishnia, Amani Scipio, and Tim Tomlinson.
“New stories as diverse as the massive island itself . . . even the Hamptons have a wrong side of town.” —Kirkus Reviews
“An eclectic and effective mix of seasoned pros and new voices.” —Publishers Weekly
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781617751158 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Akashic Books |
| Publication date: | 03/01/2019 |
| Series: | Akashic Noir Series |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 290 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
PART I
FAMILY VALUES
GATE WAY TO THE STARS BY MATTHEW MCGEVNAMastic Beach
Great with fear, Nick was deliberate about getting out of his car just as the policeman had told him. The order came after Nick was ordered to cut the engine because the noise from his broken muffler was "waking up the neighbors." It was seven p.m. Late January. Nick was just about to cross over the Jessup Lane Bridge, which led to Dune Road in Westhampton Beach, a strip of wealthy homes built on a barrier island. Nick knew that the gravelly sound of his muffler roaring past Main Street would draw the attention of the village cops. He had no delusions. Even if he'd somehow gotten over the bridge, he'd still have the bay constable to deal with. It wasn't that he picked his poison — his poison had picked him. He'd seen the reflector strips on the doors of the cop car just as he rounded the tall hedgerow and he knew he was caught — no time to debate whether he should try to make for the bridge, before the lights spun suddenly behind him. They illuminated the interior of his car. He could practically read the e-mail he'd printed out — between his sixteen-year-old brother Jeffrey and the lowlife who'd invited him to his beach house. In the dead of winter, it wouldn't be hard to narrow down the few houses with the lights still on inside, and fortunately "The Famous Mr. Ed" provided the address and a description of his house (which he warned Jeffrey he'd never find — buried as it was behind all the ivy and scrub pine). A white, circular observation tower rising from the roof where I do all my meth and meditation, he'd written. Thank you, Facebook. Nick was lucky Jeffrey was somewhat readable — lucky that he'd paid attention one day to Jeffrey's favorite song, Janis Joplin's "Summertime." Nick was only half-listening.
"One of these mornings, Nick, you're gonna rise up singing," he'd said.
"By rise up, you mean OD and choke on my puke?" Nick remembered joking.
But Jeffrey shot off, "You don't get it," before he could detect Nick's humor. Trying to have one of those brotherly moments.
Earlier tonight, somehow Nick had remembered this, and with his mother sobbing in the other room, he went on Facebook and tried to hack into Jeffrey's account, using any variation of Joplin's song he could think of, before finally getting in with RISEUP. He'd gone straight to Jeffrey's inbox and found two messages. One from their father. It had been awhile, but Nick recognized the shape of his own mouth in his father's profile pic and shook his head in disbelief. Dad wasn't on Jeffrey's "friends" list, but there was a message waiting nonetheless, and the photo was an old one, from back when their father still lived with them. Back when he was a fairly quiet spectator, moving when Nick's mother told him to move, remaining still when it seemed best to do so. It was taken before his father finally muttered to Nick in the middle of the night that he'd measured out his life in coffee spoons, and then got into his truck and pulled out of the driveway.
The note was brief but infuriating to Nick. How are you, where have you been, what're you doing? For a moment Nick felt the urge to delete it. Instead, he rolled his eyes and moved on to the second message. Mr. Ed. Age: 16. Hometown: Oz.
Quote: "Haytas only make me stronga." The message to Jeffrey was written in the voice of God.
Good and faithful servant Jeffrey. Thou willest visit the house of true Dionysian worship: the 1333rd house of Dune Road, and thou shalt participate in much celebration and mirth, and thou must see that it is good, when one ascends Jacob's ladder to the observation tower, where I myself do all my meth and meditation ...
Douche bag. Nick printed the message and Googled the address. A photo of the house popped up in the search. From one of the local newspapers. It was a photo of two old men and an old woman. The caption read: Donna and Leonard Katzenberg donated $5,000 to Edward Schiffer's charity at his home reception at 1333 Dune Road this weekend. Nick printed the article and read it while he drove out of Mastic Beach.
Edward Shiffer, the Famous Mr. Ed, hadn't seen sixteen since 1970. An investment broker who owned a string of hotels. Nick had no idea what he was going to do when he got there, but before he even found his keys and told his mother he was bringing Jeffrey home, he'd grabbed his old Ken Griffey Jr. Rawlings bat — thirty-two ounces, and cherry-stained, with dings in the barrel from hitting rocks when he was younger. As he read the article he began to form in his mind exactly what he wanted to do, but probably wouldn't. At the very least, the bat just might scare Ed Shiffer enough into getting facedown and not moving until he and Jeffrey were gone.
It was never going to work, Nick thought, and getting pulled over just before he crossed the bridge didn't come without a little bit of relief. Perhaps he'd get the cop to do something legal. A little less violent. Something that might get Jeffrey some help and nab a pervert at the same time.
But the conversation got off to a bad start. The moment Nick said good evening, the cop said, "Stick your good evenings, give me your license and registration," which Nick had at the ready. The cop took them. Said nothing until a smile of disbelief washed across his face and he shook his head. "How did I know you were from Mistake Beach?" he said. Nick said nothing. "I'm from there originally," the cop added.
Nick said, "Oh yeah?" and the cop looked at him suddenly.
"Originally," he repeated. "Pineway."
"I'm on Mayfield," Nick said, though he knew the cop had his license and could read. The cop gave him another look, as if to close the gap of familiarity.
"Are you bragging or complaining about that? Hope you're complaining."
"What?"
"All right, step out of the car," the cop said, backing away from his door. He tucked Nick's information into his front pocket. Nick tried to ask him what he was stopped for, but the cop barked his order again and it startled him. Then he told him to cut the engine — that he was waking the neighbors — and, for the third time, to step out of the car.
"I know it's not the quietest muffler," Nick said when he got out, but the cop cut him off by nudging him back against the car.
"It's not just the muffler. You also got a broken taillight, and you got a sticker on your back window obstructing your view, and your insurance is a week expired."
"I didn't notice all that."
"Of course you didn't — just like every other kid from Mastic I stop out here. What are you doing here?"
"My brother —"
"You robbing houses?"
"No, my brother —"
"What about your brother?"
"My brother has been missing for the past two days, and I think he's up in a house on Dune Road."
"Why would he be there?"
"He's got a drug problem."
"Are you bragging or complaining about that?"
Nick paused. "I guess I'm complaining," he said.
"Well, complain to your psychiatrist, not to me. Okay, what's the rest of your bullshit story?"
"It's not bullshit, there's a guy on Dune Road who met him over the Internet and invited him to a drug party. Look, I'll show you the e-mail." Without asking permission, he turned and ducked through the open window of the driver's side door. He felt a sudden force yank him back, and he was instantly on the ground with a knee in his ribs.
"You looking to get shot!" the cop screamed. "You never reach into your car like that — what are you reaching for?" The cop jerked him up off the ground and slammed him on the trunk. Nick yelled that he was sorry, but the cop told him to stick his sorries; to keep his palms and his right cheek down on the trunk. Then he went around to the passenger's side of Nick's car and yanked the door open. He grabbed the papers, including the e-mail. Stuffing them into his back pocket, he ripped open the glove box and pulled everything out. He moved to the seat cushions, the door pockets, and ran his hands under the seat.
"Where's the weapon?" he yelled. Nick said he didn't have one, keeping his face on the trunk. "Bullshit, everybody in your town's got some weapon. Never stopped one that didn't."
From then on Nick would only answer direct questions. His knees could hardly hold his weight. His chest ached. He wanted to vomit.
He was reminded of why he'd never tried to help his brother. The last time was in the sixth grade. Jeffrey was eight. It was the day after the Fourth of July, and Jeffrey had gone off with friends to collect fireworks that hadn't exploded — either because they were duds, had bad fuses, or were dropped by someone in all the excitement. His friends kept beating him to the prize — grabbing the spare firecrackers, bottle rockets, and jumping jacks before Jeffrey could reach them.
He came home crying, holding out three broken firecrackers in his palm while he rubbed his eyes and told Nick his friends weren't being fair. One of them even tackled him to the ground, punched his ribs, and snatched the jump rope Jeffrey had found fair and square.
Nick rode his bike down to the kid's house and called him out, shaking his fists at the front window. But the kid stepped out with his three older brothers: thirteen, fourteen, and sixteen.
Nick limped back home. His bike had been thrown over the fence into a sump. And the only thing Jeffrey could think to do was get mad that Nick hadn't recaptured his jumping jacks for him, and storm into the house, slamming the door. He didn't even stick around to hear Nick's side of things.
The front door of the car slammed, and the cop had opened the back door to continue his search. It took seconds for him to see the bat lying across the backseat and exclaim, "Ah, I thought so!" He showed Nick the bat with a satisfied smile.
"I play baseball from time to time," Nick said, which was a lie.
"And what were you planning to do with this tonight?"
"Nothing," Nick said, which was the truth.
"We've had three smash-and-grabs this month on Dune Road. Think I got the guy who did 'em?"
"What's a smash-and-grab?" Nick asked.
The cop came around the car, grabbed Nick's shoulder, and flipped him over so he was faceup. Then he waved the bat at him.
"You're in enough trouble as it is, you wanna be a fuckin' wise-ass, I'll jam this bat right down your throat. You've been smashing windows and stealing shit from cars."
"I have not!" Nick said.
"Then why do you have this?"
"I told you, I was heading over to that guy's house. He's got my brother."
"So you were gonna do something with it — a minute ago you play baseball, now you're gonna use it on someone?"
"I don't know why I took the bat," Nick said.
"Just shut the fuck up before you make it worse on yourself. You got any drugs on you?"
"What? No!"
"I'm going into your pockets, if I stick myself on a needle you're a dead piece of white, Mastic trash, you hear me? I'll ask you once more."
"I don't do drugs," Nick said "I'm a sophomore in college."
But the cop said that meant nothing, and after the lie about the bat he didn't believe a word he said. He had probable cause to search him. He recited his legal cover all while clutching at the outside of Nick's pockets. Nick could see the cop's breath pulsing into the cold night past his shoulder, as the cop rifled through his pockets. He came out with a few dollars and put them on the trunk. The wind blew them onto the street. Nick reached to catch them, which earned him another face-plant onto the trunk.
"Are you seriously on something?" the cop asked. Nick thought it was rhetorical, until the man stepped back and told him to undress. Nick must have looked as if he'd never heard English before. The cop repeated it, and told him he needed to complete his search.
"It's January," Nick said.
"You wanna cooperate and get undressed here, or in jail? It makes no difference to me — I still get a paycheck."
Nick pulled his jacket off, slowly, while shaking his head. The cop told him to throw the jacket on the ground toward him. He did. The cop picked it up. Same with the shirt. Then the pants. He collected them all. His dirty sneakers, his socks. He told Nick he could pull his underwear down below his balls, turn slowly around, and then pull them back up. It was then that Nick first felt the cold — when a solid wind coming in from the bay slid through his underarms.
"Good — sit on the trunk of your car."
Nick asked for his clothes back, but the cop was already making a retreat to his squad car, with Nick's clothes held in a heap in front of him, like evidence. The cop asked Nick if he had a record, and Nick shook his head.
"Bullshit. You wanna tell me now, get your clothes back, or you gonna make me look it up?"
"Look it up!" Nick yelled. "I don't have a record."
"We'll see," the cop said, and slid into his car with Nick's clothes.
Seated on the ice-cold trunk, Nick stared across the bay at the scattered lights that rose above the shoreline — like white holes punched into black paper. He could only hear the bay, leaping up with a spray to kiss the wind, while reeds sang softly between them, lined like Christmas carolers along the foot of the bridge.
What about afterward? he thought, when he tried to imagine his brother. He hugged his arms, now leathered from the cold. If Jeffrey is rescued, will he ever be saved? Will he appreciate it? Alter, or change?
He pulled his knees up — to fold the parts of his body not normally exposed into the parts that were. Get the back of his thighs elevated off the trunk. He thought to move to the hood, where it was likely still warm from the engine — but he stared into the cop's windshield and thought better of it. Instead, he forced his mind away from the cold again, and thought of the ride out — the tree-lined boulevards, the loop through Main Street, and the theater marquee he'd driven past. The oldfashioned bulbs mounted beneath, pouring yellow pools onto the sidewalk. As if they'd blink and John F. Kennedy would suddenly be alive. Be superb again. Be hoisted on shoulders. Back before everyone had given up on the cure for death.
As he'd passed the marquee he was reminded of his first movie. Being taken by his father to see Snow White. He was ten, and Jeffrey was six. Nick had begged to see the movie all week. They were between paychecks, so his parents decided to leave Jeffrey home with his mother. On his way out, Nick turned in the doorway and saw Jeffrey's blank face peeking out from behind Mom's legs. Nick started to cry and asked if Jeffrey could come, but they said it was the only way.
Shivering now — his mouth stiffening at the jawline — Nick could only remember those few things. Jeffrey's unmoved face staring quizzically back at him while he wept. His father finally "putting an end to this dinner theater" by shutting the door. And the dry taste of popcorn he barely ate.
Even in the cold, through clenched eyes, he pictured Jeffrey's face staring back at him. Blank as lions from the kill. Could there be an afterward, after that?
In greater nightmares, Nick often fixed his mind on one solitary image. A cop coming up to his mother's door. Wipers would nod across the windshield of his squad car. The only movement Nick would notice on the dull gray screen behind the officer. Are you Mrs. Mahler? he'd ask. Whatever the outcome. Dead or arrested. Nick had never allowed himself to imagine what would happen after.
But those nightmares had stopped awhile ago. Nick wasn't sure when. He figured the mind could only hold so much before it either stops dead or says: Do what you must. I can't feel you anymore. But since he was only twenty, midway though his sophomore year at college, his mind didn't stop, and so he did the latter. Jeffrey drifted in, and through him, around him. Left when Nick arrived, arrived when Nick left.
Somehow the milk in the fridge needed replacing. The cereal was left out. A door slammed. Someone turned on the shower and a voice mumbled from it. That voice, which never asked a question. Shouted. Sang. Needed something — a ride to the store for cigarettes, even. Nothing. Mumbles. The occasional hums from its room late at night, when the stuff hits the veins and the limp body leans back against the baseboard. Mmmm. Mwahhh. The numb sound of the voice breathing, as if through a straw.
Somehow a door would be locked, and Nick's mother would bang to be let in. She'd know, but not really know, what he was doing in there. She'd suspected often, but only caught him once. Jeffrey had found his old skates and his hockey stick one day, and rolled through the house laughing, out onto the porch, sloshed across the grass like wading through water, and moved into the street. Nearly hit by a car, he spun around. Slap-shot a rock as it passed. Ducked away from another car that honked. Then he skated off. Crashed into the mailbox and bounced the back of his head off the street. When his mother ran out to him, some blood had trickled from his ear.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Long Island Noir"
by .
Copyright © 2012 Akashic Books.
Excerpted by permission of Akashic Books.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Table of ContentsIntroduction
Part I: Family Values
Matthew McGevna
Mastic Beach
Gateway to the Stars
Nick Mamatas
Northport
Thy Shiny Car in the Night
Kaylie Jones
Wainscott
Home Invasion
Qanta Ahmed
Garden City
Anjali’s America
Part II: hitting it big
Charles Salzberg
Long Beach
A Starr Burns Bright
Reed Farrel Coleman
Selden
Mastermind
Tim McLoughlin
Wantagh
Seven Eleven
Sarah Weinman
Great Neck
Past President
Part III: Love and Other Horrors
Jules Feiffer
Southampton
Boob Noir
JZ Holden
Sagaponack
Summer Love
Richie Narvaez
Stony Brook
Ending in Paumanok
Sheila Kohler
Amagansett
Terror
Jane Ciabattari
Sag Harbor
Contents of House
Part IV: American Dreamers
Steven Wishnia
Lake Ronkonkoma
Semiconscious
Kenneth Wishnia
Port Jefferson Station
Blood Drive
Amani Scipio
Bridgehampton
Jabo’s
Tim Tomlinson
Wading River
Snow Job
About the Contributors