Long Island Noir Read Online Free PDF Page B

Peter wasn’t as huge as he used to be. He looked partially deflated, like a Macy’s Day Parade balloon half an hour after the crowds left.
    “I just got here this morning. Took in the sights. Had some fresh snapper; the fish are better out here than in California, you know. Had a Crazy Vanilla ice cream down at the store, went to Gunther’s, that sort of thing.”
    “Gunther’s, eh? You a pool hustler now?” He edged forward, keeping his hands in front of him. Maybe he wouldn’t kill me here on this porch. Maybe Northport was still a nice small town, where a gunshot wouldn’t be written off as a car backfiring, where porch lights might blink on and screen doors swing open at one in the morning.
    “Nah, they had a reading tonight. I was one of the readers.” I lit another cigarette. “It was even listed in the paper; they ran my picture. Homecoming for Local Author .”
    “A reading?” He was confused. Good. Maybe a little drunk too. I hoped he’d have to be to kill his own brother in cold blood, never mind having to kill me too. “Like, people just sit there and read?”
    “No, Uncle Peter; we read aloud. It’s like a show. It’s for Kerouac’s memorial anniversary. They do one every October at Gunther’s.”
    “Was Louie there? Jess?”
    I shook my head. “Nah, the regulars clear out when the poets hit the stage. You know how Northport is …” I waved my right hand, the cherry of my cigarette bobbing along in the shadows, so he didn’t see what I reached for until my old extendable baton telescoped out and smacked him right in the shin. Uncle Peter was still a large man—it’s like trying to chop down a tree with a baseball bat. Something he would say! But he was old and slow, and I got up and swung the baton down on his head three, four times, and I shouted. I shouted, “I love my mother! I love my mother! I love my mother and father!” No porch lights went on. No screen doors swung open, except for the one behind me.
    “Pete …” my father said, his mouth heavy with wine. I didn’t know which of us he meant.
    The Cadillac is eating Pennsylvania for breakfast by the time the sky lightens. My father’s next to me, leaning his head out the window like a dog. His son’s crazy, the craziest man he’s ever known, but he’s alive. Alive and free and on the road. Forget property taxes, chemicals on the lawns to keep them green. Forget the police, forget the families of New York, who are all dying or senile or in prison or watching better versions of themselves on the television and saying to themselves, Yeah, yeah. Al Pacino, that’s me. Forget Long Island, that little turd hanging off the end of America. California, here we come! We have a suitcase full of unmarked bills my father had hidden behind the drywall in the garage, my bandaged-up uncle in the trunk banging away on the lid. We have nothing to lose, everything to live for, my father and I. Dad figures his brother will calm down by the time we get to Ohio; then we can let him out and have a little “sit-down” about his future. I hope Uncle Peter decides to come with us. We’ll fall asleep and wake up again a million times. In the West, the sun peeks out distantly on the horizon, a great white pearl.

HOME INVASION
    BY K AYLIE J ONES
    Wainscott
    T hat first winter in Wainscott, my dad and I both read Vincent Bugliosi’s book about the Manson murders, Helter Skelter , which had recently come out. I was so terrified I didn’t sleep for three days, even with all the lights on in the house and the doors and windows bolted shut. My dad brought out his revolver, a beautiful Colt pistol with a blueish tint and a little gold medallion of a rearing horse embossed on the brown handle, which he kept in his bedside table, just in case. He believed every man had a right to defend his home and every home was at risk in one way or another. He drove me out into the Northwest Woods of East Hampton and nailed a white paper with a circular black