The White Night (3 page)

CHAPTER THREE

Mike Long

Daylight breaks on
the horizon. The sun peeks up over the dividing line where green meets blue,
and this coffee tastes like complete shit. Why, oh why, do I let Toni buy this
stuff? Perhaps it’s because she has my testicles poised above the coffee bean
grinder, and I have no true say in the matter.

The beach house.
Jesus. I don’t know why we kept it. The cost definitely outweighs the benefits.

Nah, that’s
bullshit. I can’t even convince myself of that lie. This place is amazing, and
that view? Would you just
look
at that view? Pinks, oranges, and yellows
quiver along the underbellies of those fluffy puffy clouds. Hot damn. Heaven on
Earth right here in North Carolina.

It’s warm out
already. A nice breeze pushes the seagrass along in rivulets. Out there, maybe
a couple of miles, a tanker is sailing northward, probably heading up into the
Chesapeake Bay.

It’s a good life
here. It really is.

Or would be. Could
be. Could be better if only Ford will stop waffling and say yes to the
documentary. It’s not a big deal. Chelsea’s parents have already okayed it.
They’re
exploiting their daughter more than
we
will. Let them have the guilty
conscious. Ford, buddy,
come on
. We’re trying to
help
her.

And help
ourselves, of course, for reasons so different you could drive a semi through
the gap.

I need the money,
You need people to love you again.

Well, I mean, like
big time love you. Not just the folks you meet at a deli or walking down the
street. I know you need to sit on the couches of late night shows and get
invited to Eastwood’s ranch. Not me. All I need is for Dayton and Ashley to
look up to me again, and for Toni to chill the hell out.

I’m trying, okay?
Please just get off my ass. I can’t
make
people take my ideas for a new
series. I can’t make the people who sign the checks sign the fucking checks.
Don’t you get it? This is out of my control. I have no say in this whatsoever.
None. And that’s exactly why I had to go crawling back to Ford and beg him to
do this. He’s the talent. He’s the show. He’s Batman. I’m Robin.

The almighty Ford
Atticus Ford
was
the show. He was
Graveyard: Confidential
all by
himself. He was the gas, the engine, and the body of the Corvette.

I was the can of
soda in the cup holder.

Maybe
I had
my own little cult following, but the spotcamgirls were never going out of
their way to send
me
naked pictures of themselves, no matter how much
Ford tried to placate me.

For God’s sake,
this coffee… Tastes like it’s been filtered through desiccated dog turds.

Desiccated. Word
of the day right there.

If Ford will just
do the documentary—two weeks of shooting, we kick this demon’s ass, and then we
go home. Little bit of promo around Christmas during the release, sit through a
few press junkets, and we’re golden. I cash in on a few mil, and then I can
disappear again. Maybe the kids will like me. Maybe Toni will stop looking at
me the way she does. She doesn’t even try to hide the disappointment anymore,
not even after I dropped the pounds.

It was never about
the fat, was it, Toni? Always the money. I dropped seventy-three pounds for
you; the biceps, the pecs, the six-pack, the tan? I thought that’s what you
wanted, but no, the money. The stupid money. I wish I’d never said yes to Ford
back at that asylum.

You will fall.

So many years
later, and that continues to pop up in the back of my mind now and again. How
did it know? Or did it? Could’ve been talking about me tripping down the stairs
later that night. And yet, here we are, Toni.

Answer me this,
sweetheart
,
when did dollar signs replace the love and affection?

Was it after
season two, when the sponsorships really started rolling in?

The shoes, the
fast food joints, the online investment websites—nobody at TPC headquarters had
ever seen anything like it. Such amazing offers right up front for two goobers
with a camera and some bad jokes. All we had to do was shill a product, and the
bank accounts would runneth over like that Jesus cup thing.

Those were the
days, weren’t they, Ford?

Looks like the
tide is heading out. Should I go to the gym today or take it easy?

It’s, what, leg
day? Don’t be a cliché, Mike, everybody loves skipping leg day.

Up and at ‘em, old
boy. Get moving. To Do List. To do, to do.

Hit the gym. Check
in with Ford, then call Carla. Status update on the documentary.

I should—

“Mike?”

Lost in the
randomness of my own runaway thought train, I hadn’t heard the patio door open,
and Toni’s voice scares the bejesus out of me. I jump, spin around to face her,
and feel the lukewarm coffee splash on my toes.

“Oh, hey, you’re
up early.”

“You didn’t answer
the phone.”

Hair mussed and
sleepy-eyed, she still looks phenomenal in one of my t-shirts and nothing else.
Obviously, I don’t mind that she’s never broken the habit of sleeping in the
nude—man’s a man, am I right?—and will only throw on a t-shirt to come
downstairs if she thinks the kids might be awake. They’re old enough to throw
out a few jabs of “Gross, Mom,” and, “Dad, make her put some clothes on!” but I
chuckle and ignore them. It’s one of the only awesome things left over from the
good times.

The other is her meatloaf.

She mumbles
something about the person on the phone.

“Who?”

“I don’t know who
it is. Just come get the fucking thing.” She beckons me over, using the
cordless house phone as a lure, and doesn’t step out onto the deck.

What happened to
us?

Rhetorical
question.

She barely
acknowledges me when I take it, and then I listen to her bare feet pad across
the kitchen floor, around the corner, and her angry stomps fade away the
further she gets up the stairs. No matter what’s going on between us, that bare
bottom remains a symbol of perfection, and I could chew it like bubble gum.

Is that weird?
Probably.

Chances are high
she doesn’t love me anymore, but I’m still attracted to her. Blood through the
veins and all.

“Hello. Mike
speaking.” I have no clue who this could be at six-thirty in the morning.

“Mr. Long?”

“Yeah.”

“Mike Long from
Graveyard:
Classified
?”

“Yes. Who is
this?”

“You don’t know
me, but…”

The voice is
female. Little rougher, could have some age on it, like she’s seen things. I’m
thinking she could be in her mid-thirties.

Mystery lady says,
“God, I’m really sorry to bother you so early, but I haven’t slept in days, and
I was—this is going to sound like I’m some crazy stalker, but you have your name
listed in the phone book, and I was hoping, maybe… hoping you might be able to
help.”

I told Toni to
take our name out of the public phone book years ago.
Years
. She never
would. For a while, she was caught up in her own peripheral fame, and having
our name in the phone book meant that she could take calls and entertain
reporters, sometimes even segueing that whole thing into articles about herself
and the interior decorating business she used to own. She even got a few
modeling gigs out of it. By the time the phone stopped ringing entirely, I had
forgotten that we were publicly listed, and since Toni controls all the
household bills and whatnot, I’m guessing she left it out there with wistful
hopes on her mind.

When you’re in the
twilight of fading fame, there’s nothing worse than a silent phone.

The woman
apologizes again and sounds like she’s going to hang up.

“It’s okay,” I
tell her. “I was already up. You know, sunrise on the deck. Bad coffee.” I
almost whisper those last two words. Toni is back in bed, in the master bedroom
directly above me where the humongous, large-paned windows overlook the
Atlantic, but I’m worried she’ll hear me criticizing her shopping choices.
Yeah. It’s that bad. I’d rather avoid the argument. “Can I help you with
something, Miss…?” I leave the question dangling at the end of that sentence,
prompting her to finally reveal a name.

“I’m Dakota.
Bailey
.”

She reveals it in
such a way that indicates I should know who she is, simply by her name, but I
should keep it a secret that Dakota
Bailey
is on the other end of the
line. Are you kidding me?

“Oh, shit. No way!
The
Dakota Bailey? Seriously? Dakota Bailey. On my phone.”

For God’s sake,
Mike, reel it in. It’s not like it’s the president.

“Yeah,” she says. “That
would be me.”

Dakota Bailey…
the
Dakota Bailey, won the reality cooking competition
Yes, Chef!
three
seasons in a row before she retired and went out on top. She’s a miracle worker
with a blank slate and a silver countertop covered with random ingredients.
Give her three onions, a bowl of wild rice, some shrimp, sun-dried tomatoes,
and a bucket of strawberry yogurt, and she’ll whip up a dish that will blow the
ever-lovin’ socks off any celebrity judge sitting on the panel.

Chicken cutlets,
peanut butter, and a basket full of chocolate-covered walnuts, along with white
cheddar and raisins… strap on your seatbelts for the rocket-ride of
deliciousness.

It was
all
mouth-watering from my side of the television screen. I never got to sit on the
celebrity judge panel, though I tried my damndest to get Carla to pull some
strings back when
Graveyard
was the number one show on Thursday nights.
Never happened. My star wasn’t bright enough. Ford could’ve gone, if he had
wanted to, but he wasn’t a fan of the show.

Sacrilege, I say.

Dakota Bailey
retired from
Yes, Chef!
about five years ago, and I lost my chance. Last
I’d heard she had taken her winnings and started some ridiculously upscale
restaurant in New York City, and the reservation list was—literally—two years
out.

I
adored
her when she was on the show. It wasn’t the same without her, so I stopped
watching a couple years back, and she sort of fell out of my memory. Out of
sight, out of mind.

Yet, here she is,
now, on the other end of the phone.

Dakota Freakin’ Bailey.

Now I know what
people feel like when they see Ford walking down the street.

Total fanboy
moment right here.

I take a breath,
or, you know, six deep ones to calm myself down. This takes so long that I hear
Dakota say, “Mr. Long? Are you there?”

“I—yeah—I am.
Sorry about that. It’s just that you’re Dakota Bailey.”

“And you’re Mike
Long.”

“I am indeed. Just
Mike.”

“You were my
favorite part of
Graveyard
. I’m sure Ford’s a great guy off camera, but,
you know, you always had the cool gadgets.”

That’s nice to
hear, even if it’s a little white lie. I’ll take it. “Thanks, I appreciate it.”
This feels a bit like we’re both stroking each other’s egos at some schmaltzy
cocktail party until I remember that she sorta called me in a panic at half
past six in the morning. “So… You needed some help with things, or whatever?”
I’m aware of how fumbling and awkward I sound but the words are tripping out of
my mouth because I’m talking to Dakota Freakin’ Bailey.

“Are you still
investigating?” Her tone is full of hope.

“Off and on, yeah.
I do some local things around Kitty Hawk for charity organizations. Events like
that once in a while. And, believe it or not, last month, I actually helped
Ford with a pretty insane investigation up in Virginia Beach. I’m trying to get
him to do—” I have to interrupt myself right there.

Unofficially, I’m
rambling like a fool.

Officially, I’m
bound by a non-disclosure agreement and don’t have the privileges to talk about
the documentary until Carla and her team send out the press release. I’m told
that’s any day now. And by ‘any day,’ it means whenever one of us is able to
coerce my former partner into signing the contract. Ford and I haven’t spoken
in a couple of days, not since I told him to chill the hell out and go take a
break, but as of yesterday Carla insisted that he had his fingers wrapped
around the pen and was hovering over the dotted line.

“I’m trying to get
him to come help me down here once in a while, but you know Ford, always the
busy man in the room.”

“That’s nice,”
Dakota says. Her end of the line goes silent, and I patiently wait on her to
continue. Otherwise, I might begin blabbing about how amazing she was in her
third season and how she managed to pull off that incredible win over the guy
with the dreadlocks.

I can’t remember
his name. Nobody remembers second place.

Dakota’s raspberry
steak parfait must have been out of this world on that final episode. Her voice
is hushed when she speaks again. “Sorry. Thought I heard something.” The words
quiver across her lips.

“Are you okay?”

“No. God, no. Not
at all.” Her breathing intensifies; it sounds like she’s speedwalking. “Give me
a sec. Moving to another room.”

“Hey, everything
all right? Do I need to call the cops?”

“Please don’t. I
can’t—this can’t get out to the media. No reporters, no Twitter, nothing, okay?
Please?”

“Absolutely. Of
course.”

Anything for
you, Dakota Bailey. Wow.

“Not a word?”

“On my honor.”

“I’m just down the
beach from you, about half a mile.”

“Really?” This is
a mind-blowing fact, which sends me instantly daydreaming about walking down Beachfront
Avenue, carrying a bottle of my best red wine, and spending the evening with
her while she cooks Toni, the kids, and me some of the most delectable food
we’ve ever tasted.