He Sees You When You're Sleeping Read online

  “Listen,” Dennis said in the tone of a father confessor, “I know it seems impossible, but I bet that someday down the line you’ll meet someone. You’ve still got plenty of time.”

  Just watch who you play golf with, Sterling reflected.

  “Turned seventy last March, Dennis.”

  “Today that’s young.”

  Sterling shook his head. I’d be ninety-six. No one would accuse me of being a spring chicken.

  “How long have you been here anyhow, Dennis?” Chet asked.

  Thank you, Chet, Sterling thought, hoping that Dennis’s reply would be a big help in his getting the lay of the land.

  “Nor opened this place twenty-three years ago. Bill died just when Billy was starting school. She didn’t want to be on the road anymore. I knew her from one of the clubs in New York. After six months, she gave me a call. She’d caught her bartender with his hand in the till. Our kids were almost school age, and my wife wanted to get out of the city. I’ve been here ever since.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Sterling saw that Billy and Nor were on the way out. I’m falling down on the job, he thought, hurrying to catch up with them as they walked across the parking lot.

  He was not surprised to see that they had one of those little trucks. Must be the style these days. He smiled at the thought of Marissa getting into Roy ’s staid vehicle. Like any kid, she probably hated her friends to see her associated with anything boring.

  He hoisted himself into the backseat as Billy was turning the key in the ignition, then glanced over his shoulder at the boxes of what appeared to be musical equipment. If only they knew they had a “groupie” in the backseat, Sterling chuckled to himself.

  Settled in, he stretched his legs. I don’t miss being crowded by baby seats, he thought. He realized he was looking forward to the party. At the party the night before his final golf game, they had been playing Buddy Holly and Doris Day records. It would be fun if Nor and Billy sang like them, he mused.

  The car drove through the snow-covered streets of Madison Village. Reminds me of Currier and Ives, Sterling thought, looking at the well-kept houses, many of them tastefully adorned with holiday lights. Evergreen wreaths with holly berries graced front doors. Festive Christmas trees sparkled through parlor windows.

  On one lawn, the sight of a beautiful crèche with exquisitely carved figures provoked a wistful smile.

  Then they passed a house with a dozen lifesized plastic angels cavorting on the lawn. That bossy angel at the door of the Heavenly Council room should get a load of that monstrosity, he thought.

  He caught a glimpse of Long Island Sound. I always liked the North Shore of the Island, he reflected, as he craned his neck for a better look at the water, but it’s a lot more built up than it used to be.

  In the front seat, Nor and Billy were chuckling about Marissa’s attempts to be with them so she could see for herself the inside of the big house.

  “She’s some piece of goods,” Billy said proudly. “She takes after you, Mom. Always with her ear to the ground, afraid she’ll miss something.”

  Agreeing, Nor laughed. “I prefer to call it a healthy interest in her surroundings. Shows how smart she is.”

  As Sterling listened, his spirits fell. He knew that their lives were about to change and that they were soon to be separated from this child who was the center of their lives.

  He only wished he had the power to prevent it.

  Whenever Junior and Eddie Badgett held an event in their mansion, Junior had an attack of nerves. Here we go, Charlie Santoli thought as he followed the baseball bat and the bowling ball brothers. Junior, the baseball bat, had small, cold eyes. Eddie, the bowling ball, was always in tears when he talked about Mama, hard as nails about everything else.

  The usual flurry of activity before a party was going on. The florists were scurrying around, placing holiday arrangements throughout the house. The caterer’s team was setting up the buffet. Jewel, Junior’s airheaded twenty-two-year-old girlfriend, was tripping back and forth in stiletto heels, getting in everyone’s way. Junior and Eddie’s special confidential assistants, uneasy in jackets and ties, were standing together, looking like the thugs they were.

  Before he left home, Charlie had been forced to listen to yet another sermon from his wife about the Badgett brothers.

  “Charlie, those two are crooks,” she told him. Everybody knows it. You should tell them you don’t want to be their lawyer anymore. So what if they put a wing on the senior citizens home? It wasn’t their money that did it. Listen, I told you not to get involved with them fifteen years ago. Did you listen? No. You’ll be lucky if you don’t end up in the trunk of a car, and I don’t mean a rumble seat. Quit. You’ve got enough money. You’re sixty-two years old, and you’re so nervous you twitch in your sleep. I want the grandchildren to know you in the flesh and not have to kiss your picture good night.”

  It was no use trying to explain to Marge that he couldn’t get out. He had intended to handle only the various legitimate businesses of the Badgett brothers. To his regret, however, he had learned that when you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas, and a number of times he’d been coerced into suggesting to potential government witnesses that it would be worth their while financially-and physically-to forget about certain events. In that way he had managed to prevent the brothers from being indicted for a number of criminal activities, including loan-sharking, fixing basketball games, and illegal bookmaking. So to refuse to do anything they requested of him, or to try to quit working for them, was tantamount to committing suicide.

  Today, because of the magnitude of their donation to the senior citizens center, a two million dollar wing given in honor of their mother, they’d managed to get an A-list of guests to come to celebrate their absent mother’s eighty-fifth birthday. Both U.S. Senators from New York, the Commissioner of Health and Human Services, various mayors and dignitaries, and the entire board of governors of the senior citizens center would be there. The board alone included some of the most prominent names on Long Island.

  In all, a total of about seventy-five people would be present, the kind of people who would give the brothers the aura of respectability they craved.

  It was essential that the party go well.

  The main event would be held in the grand salon, a room that combined various aspects of a French royal palace. Bright gold walls, spindly gilt chairs, ornate rosewood tables, satin draperies, tapestries, and hovering over all, the reproduction of a two-story-high fifteenth-century marble fireplace, replete with sculpted cherubs, unicorns, and pineapples. Junior had explained that pineapples “symbolized lots of good luck,” and he’d instructed the decorator to make sure there were lots of pineapples on the reproduction and to forget about some of those other doohickeys.

  The result was a room that was a monument to bad taste, Charlie thought, and he could only imagine the reaction of the social set.

  The party was scheduled to begin at five and last until eight. Cocktails, hors d’oeuvres, and a sumptuous buffet would be served. The entertainment would be provided by Billy Campbell, the up-and-coming rock singer, and his mother, Nor Kelly, the former cabaret singer. They were very popular throughout the North Shore. The highlight of the evening would occur at 7:30 P.M. when, via satellite hookup from Wallonia, the mother of the Badgett brothers would be present to hear the assemblage sing “Happy Birthday Heddy-Anna.”

  “You sure you got enough food?” Junior was asking the caterer.

  “Relax, Mr. Badgett, you’ve ordered enough food to feed an army.” Conrad Vogel, the caterer, smiled dismissively.

  “I didn’t ask you to feed an army. I wanna know if you’ve got enough fancy food so that if somebody likes one thing and eats a ton of it, you won’t be telling him there’s none left.”

  Charlie Santoli watched as the caterer withered under Junior’s icy glare. You don’t dis Junior, pal, he thought.

  The caterer got the message. “Mr. Badgett, I assure you
that the food is extraordinary and your guests will be very pleased.”

  “They better be.”

  “How about Mama’s cake?” Eddie asked. “It better be perfect.”

  A tiny bead of perspiration was forming over Conrad Vogel’s upper lip. “It was specially made by the finest bakery in New York. Their cakes are so good that one of our most demanding clients used them for all four of her weddings. The pastry chef himself is here, just in case the cake requires any slight touch-up after it’s unboxed.”

  Junior brushed past the caterer and went to study Mama Heddy-Anna’s portrait, which would be formally presented to the senior center’s trustees to be hung in the reception area of the center’s new wing. It had been painted by a Wallonian artist and ornately framed by a New York gallery. Junior’s phoned instructions to the artist had been precise: “Show Mama to be the beautiful lady she is.”

  Charlie had seen snapshots of Mama. The portrait of a handsome matriarch in black velvet and pearls bore not the slightest resemblance to any of them, thank God. The artist had been handsomely rewarded for his services.

  “She looks real nice,” Junior conceded. Immediately his moment of satisfaction evaporated. “Where are those people I’m paying to sing? They’re supposed to be here by now.”

  Jewel had come up behind him. Slipping an arm through his, she said, “I just saw them turn in to the driveway, sweetie pie. Don’t worry about them. They’re good, really good.”

  “They better be. You recommended them.”

  “You heard them sing, lovey. Remember I took you to Nor’s Place for dinner?”

  “Yeah, I forgot. They’re okay. Good restaurant, good food. Good location. Wouldn’t mind owning it myself. Let’s take a look at the cake.”

  With Jewel still on his arm, her flaming red hair dancing around her shoulders, her microminiskirt barely reaching her thighs, Junior led the inspection tour into the kitchen. The pastry chef, his towering white hat regally settled on his head, was standing beside the five-layered birthday cake.

  As he saw them approach, he beamed with pride. “Is it not magnificent?” he asked, kissing his fingertips. “A spun-sugar masterpiece. My finest, finest effort. A worthy tribute to your beloved mother. And the taste. The divine taste. Your guests will cherish every bite.”

  Junior and Eddie walked reverently to view the masterpiece. Then, as one, they began shouting.

  “Stupid!”

  “Jerk!”

  “Dope!”

  “It’s HEDDY-ANNA, not BETTY-ANNA,” Eddie snarled. “My mama’s name is Heddy-Anna!”

  The pastry chef looked incredulous as he wrinkled his nose and frowned. “Heddy-Anna???”

  “Don’t you dare make fun of my mama’s name!” Eddie shouted as his eyes welled with tears.

  Don’t let anything else go wrong, Charlie Santoli prayed. They’ll both lose it if anything else goes wrong.

  It was a supreme effort for Hans Kramer even to begin the fifteen-minute drive from his home in Syosset to the Badgett brothers’ mansion on Long Island Sound. Why did I ever borrow from them? he asked himself for the thousandth time as he turned onto the Long Island Expressway. Why didn’t I just declare bankruptcy and have done with it?

  An electronics executive, forty-six-year-old Hans had quit his job two years earlier, taken his retirement fund and all his savings and mortgaged his home to open a dot-com company to sell software he had designed. After a promising start, with orders rushing in and the warehouse filled with inventory, the technology industry had crashed. Then the cancellations began. In desperate need of immediate cash, and in an effort to keep the business afloat, he had borrowed from the Badgett brothers. Unfortunately, his efforts so far hadn’t paid off.

  There’s no way on God’s earth I can raise the two hundred thousand dollars I borrowed from them, not to mention the fifty percent interest they’ve added, he despaired.

  I must have been out of my mind to go near them. But I’ve got a great line of products, he reasoned. If I can just hang in there, things will turn around. Only now I’ve got to convince the Badgetts to let me renew the note.

  In the year since his financial troubles began, Hans had lost twenty pounds. His light brown hair had become streaked with gray. He knew his wife, Lee, was worried sick about him, although she had no idea how bad the situation was. He hadn’t told her about the loan, opting instead to tell her only that they needed to cut back on their spending. Why, they’d even practically given up going out for dinner.

  The next exit off the expressway led to the Badgett mansion. Hans felt his palms begin to sweat. I was so cocky, he thought as he flicked on the turn signal. Came over here from Switzerland when I was twelve years old and didn’t speak a word of English. Graduated from M.I.T. with high honors and thought I’d set the world on fire. And I did for a while. I thought I was immune to failure.

  Five minutes later he was approaching the Badgett estate. The gates were open. Cars were lined up, waiting to be admitted by a guard at the foot of the long and winding driveway. Obviously the Badgetts were having a party.

  Hans was both relieved and disappointed. I’ll phone and leave a message, he thought. Maybe, just maybe, they’ll give me an extension.

  As he made a U-turn, he tried to ignore the voice inside him that warned that people like the Badgetts never give extensions.

  Sterling, Nor, and Billy entered the rear door of the Badgett mansion just in time to hear the insults being heaped on the hapless pastry chef. Sterling hastened into the kitchen to see what was going on and found the chef frantically adjusting something in the lettering on the cake.

  Wrong age? Sterling wondered. He’d been at a party once where the twelve-year-old daughter had baked a birthday cake as a surprise for her mother. When she proudly carried out the cake, candles blazing, the mother had nearly fainted. The age she had so carefully concealed was starkly revealed in hot-pink lettering on the vanilla cake. I remember thinking that anyone who couldn’t read could always count, Sterling thought. That wasn’t too charitable of me.

  Fortunately this chef’s mistake was small. With a few twirls of his pastry tube, he changed Betty-Anna to Heddy-Anna. Nor and Billy had been drawn to the kitchen by the uproar. “Just make sure not to sing ‘Happy Birthday, Betty-Anna,’ ” Nor whispered to Billy.

  “I’m tempted, but I want to get out of here alive.”

  Sterling tagged along as they went into the salon. Nor ran her fingers over the piano; Billy took his guitar out of the case, and they tested the microphones and sound system.

  Charlie Santoli had the responsibility of giving them a list of songs that were favorites of the brothers. “They don’t want you blasting your music so loud that people can’t think,” he said nervously.

  “We’re musicians. We don’t blast,” Nor snapped.

  “But when Mama is hooked up via satellite, you’ll be leading the ‘Happy Birthday’ song, and then they want you to really project.”

  The bell rang and the first wave of guests were admitted.

  Sterling had always liked being around people. He studied the guests as they came in, and as he listened, realized that there were some pretty important people present.

  His general impression was that they were here purely because of the largesse of the donation to the senior citizens center, and that after the party they would be happy to forget the Badgett brothers. But a number of the guests stopped to admire the portrait that would be hanging in the new wing.

  “Your mother is a beautiful woman,” the president of the center’s board of governors said sincerely, nodding at the portrait. “So elegant, so dignified. Does she come to visit you often?”

  “My precious mother isn’t a good traveler,” Junior told her.

  “Mama gets airsick and seasick,” Eddie mourned.

  “Then of course you visit her in Wallonia,” she suggested.

  Charlie Santoli had joined them. “Of course they do, as frequently as possible,” he said smoothly.
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  Sterling shook his head. He’s not telling the truth.

  Billy and Nor started their first song and were immediately surrounded by an appreciative audience. Nor was a fine musician with an attractive, husky voice. Billy, however, was exceptional. Standing in the crowd, Sterling listened to the murmured comments.

  “He’s a young Billy Joel…”

  “He’s going to be a star…”

  “And he’s gorgeous,” the daughter of one of the board members cooed.

  “Billy, let’s hear ‘Be There When I Awake.’ ”

  The request brought spontaneous applause.

  His fingers moving lightly on the strings of the guitar, Billy began to sing, “I know what I want… I know what I need.”

  That must be his hit record, Sterling thought. Even to my out-of-date ears, it’s great.

  Thanks to the music, the atmosphere at the party loosened up. The guests began interacting, allowing their glasses to be refilled with the excellent wines, and piling their plates with the truly spectacular food.

  By 7:15 the Badgett brothers were beaming. Their party was a success. They were a success.

  At that point, Junior picked up the microphone and cleared his throat. “I wanna welcome all of you, and my brother and me hope you’re enjoying yourselves very much. It is our pleasure to have you as our guests, and we are very, very happy to have given you the money, I mean donated the money, for the wing of the senior citizens center to be known as the Mama Heddy-Anna wing in honor of our saintly mother’s eighty-fifth birthday. And now, by the miracle of satellite, from the historic village of Kizkek where my brother and me were raised, our mama will appear. Mama stayed up way past her bedtime to be with us ’cause she’s so honored. Now I ask all of you to join in singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to her. Our wonderful Billy Campbell and his mother, that doll Nor Kelly, will lead us in song.”

  There was a faint smattering of applause. The birthday cake was rolled out, ablaze with eighty-six candles, one to grow on. The ten-foot screen dropped down from the ceiling, and Mama Heddy-Anna’s dour face emerged to fill it.

  She was seated in her rocking chair, sipping grappa.