The Naked Detective (15 page)

That's when the knock came at the door.

It was a loud indignant knock. Maggie pulled away by reflex and snugged her robe around her throat. I gulped some rose and muttered a curse and gnawed my lip. "It'll stop," I said, though in my heart I knew it wouldn't.

And I was right. The knock intensified, became a hammering, took on a rhythm, the whole routine. I sighed and got up from the table. "This won't take long."

I barreled through the house, smoothing my robe as I went. Ozzie Kimmel was peering in my window, crouching down for a better angle, shading his eyes to cancel the glare. I opened the front door and he pivoted to face me.

His tennis bag was at his feet, and he was wearing the same hideous tank top he'd been wearing that morning, but now sweat had turned the ugly orange pink back to a parody of its former red. Rivulets started in his armpits and ran all down his sides. Without a hello, he said,

"What the hell is it with you these days? Last time you just walk out. Today you don't show up—"

"So this means you peek in my windows?"

But Ozzie knew he had the higher ground and didn't give it up. "I hadda play doubles 'cause of you. I
hate
doubles! Lob, dink. Dink, slice. Fetch, fetch. Then your fuckin' partner misses. I hate it! What's so important you couldn't show up?"

I tapped my foot and told the truth. "I got kidnapped, okay?"

"Kidnapped!" said Ozzie. He mugged, and shuffled, and briefly seemed impressed. "Police blotter. Kidnapped." He looked me up and down. Then he pointed and said, "Hey, you got a boner!"

Other people, maybe, might have noticed this. Ozzie was that rare individual past the age of twelve who would comment on it. I did a little dance and shrank behind the door. He looked around and his shrewd eyes settled on the two bicycles locked up together, flank to flank, like tired horses. "You got a woman in there?"

"None of your business."

"Kidnapped," he scoffed. "Pussynapped!"

"Now you're being a jerk."

He didn't take offense. If he took offense every time someone told him off, he'd have no time for anything else. "Who is she?"

"Forget it, Ozzie. Go away."

"When we gonna play?"

"Soon. I'll see you in the park. We'll make a date. Goo'bye."

He gave me a last reproachful, hound-like look and turned to go. When he'd reached the bottom of the stairs I said, "Hey, you know anything about a guy named Mickey Veale?"

"Yeah."

"Well, what?"

"He's fat."

"Fat?"

"Fat slob. New in town."

"How new?"

"Who keeps track of time?" he said. "Couple years, something like that. Curly greasy hair. Owns the gambling boat."

"I thought he had water sports."

"That too, probably. Fat pig. Owns a lotta stuff. Came from Vegas. One of these assholes, thinks he can just cruise in from some bigger place and right away become a big shot here."

"Sounds like he is."

"That's the bitch of it," said Ozzie. "We're so fuckin' easy to outclass."

He climbed onto his bike. As he started rolling, he shook his head and said, "Doubles. I hope you're hosin' her at least."

I closed the door, and locked it, and pulled the curtains so there were no gaps between the panels.

I took a deep slow breath then resettled my robe and marched back toward the pool. I stepped outside to find that Maggie wasn't there. This threw me, but only for a second; I realized that she must have slipped into the bathroom while I was busy getting rid of Ozzie. I reclaimed my chair and my rose. The sun had warmed my glass; without the chill, the wine had a slightly bitter aftertaste of burned marshmallow. It was strange but not unpleasant. I considered it and waited for my new lover to return.

She soon appeared in the doorway, and I understood at once that a calamity had taken place: She'd put her leotard back on. It blurred her breasts and locked away her loins. It even changed her face. Before, her face had seemed somehow to be everywhere expanding—eyes widening, lips parting, the planes of her cheeks growing more lavish as they flushed. Now her features compressed into a look that was a little guarded, a little sheepish. She moved toward me and touched my hair.

"You know what, Pete?" she said. "I'm sorry but I'm just not ready."

I tried to speak. I couldn't.

She sat down where she'd sat before. "I realized it when we got interrupted. It's not the right time yet. That friend of yours, he did us a favor."

Some favor, I thought. I'll kill him.

"I mean," she went on, "are you even all that sure
you're
ready?"

Let's face it—sometimes men and women just don't understand each other. If I was any readier, my prostate gland would have exploded. But I couldn't very well say that. The grace of the true gallant may be beyond the reach of most of us, but there's no excuse not to be a sport, at least. "Hey," I managed, "if it doesn't feel right—"

"It was feeling wonderful," she said. "That's what makes this difficult. You mad?"

I shook my head. I wasn't mad. Devastated maybe, but not mad.

But not inclined toward chitchat either. By reflex I ate an olive. There was a sulky silence, then Maggie announced that she should go. I didn't try to talk her out of it.

Alone, I ate more olives, put on the wry, self-deprecating expression I imagined a man should wear in this sort of circumstance, and poured myself more wine. After a time, I took off my robe and, glass in hand, I walked into the pool. For the first time in my life I wished the water was a whole lot colder.

I finished the bottle, then had a nap on a poolside lounge.

I woke up groggy and grumpy an hour later, as the air was changing from the spiky white heat of high afternoon to the even yellow warmth that carried through to sunset. I yawned and remembered my resolve to check out Paradise Watersports. Nothing else this day had gone the way I'd planned; maybe that at least could still be salvaged. I rolled off the lounge chair and into the water. The dunk dispelled the grogginess. The grumpiness stayed with me.

I only got grumpier when I arrived downtown and was accosted, halfway down the busy dock next to the Hyatt, by a hyperactive goofy kid with a lanyard around his neck. "How ya doin'?" he chirped. "Gettin' out on the water today? Best way to see the island. Only way, ya want the truth. Gonna be a gorgeous sunset. Postcard city. Fix y'up with a Jet Ski?"

His tone was double-dipped in the ersatz heartiness of tourist towns, the rote and grating gusto that waiters and concierges use to mask deep boredom and a nagging impulse to abuse and mock the customers. I told him, yeah, I'd take a Jet Ski.

He seemed put out that I didn't say it with more frenzied enthusiasm. He reached deep for another hit of friendliness. "Where ya from?"

They always ask this. I don't know why. No one cares about the answer. I almost told him I was local, just so he'd ease off on the bullshit. Then again, being taken for a tourist is a pretty good guarantee that you'll be forgotten at once. "Jersey."

I could see in his face then that he was trying not to laugh. It was amazing, really. Jersey. Laughingstock of the union, the nexus of all disdain. Just say the word, and people thousands of miles away would double over with contemptuous glee.

The kid walked me to a small booth to do the paperwork, then down to the floating platform where the Jet Skis were tied. I was given instructions. "Here's the throttle. The key hooks to your vest, so if you fall off, the ski doesn't wind up in Cuba. Any questions?"

I pointed my chin toward the bustling harbor. "Who has the right-of-way out there?"

Judging by the kid's reaction, this was the funniest thing I'd said since admitting I'm from Jersey. "Whoever has the least to lose," he said. "Take big wakes head-on. Have fun."

Fun. Right. I started the engine. Puffs of exhaust shot forth and stank up the water. I eased out from the dock and, feeling like a horse's ass, I was on my way.

The time just before sunset is rush hour in Key West Harbor. The fishing boats are plowing in, the cocktail cruises are barreling out. The sun is a low fireball frying everybody's retinas. Glutting up the basin, huge catamarans and refurbished schooners perform the ancient mayhem of raising sail, booms swinging and canvas snapping. Now and then a shrimp boat lumbers through, outriggers poised like a bully's fists to mow down pleasure craft.

Into this bedlam, like a skunk blundering onto an interstate, I steered my little plastic toy at idle speed. Charter boats, their captains cranky from their clients and the glare, slammed across my path. Flats skiffs up on plane whistled past me in a blur. The water was everywhere scarred with foamy wakes that spread like opening zippers; it rose up in jellied lumps then dropped me into seams whose sides were steep as fresh-dug ditches. I started feeling queasy, and imagined that more speed would make the ride less nauseating. I hit the throttle. My neck snapped back, my arms twanged in their sockets, and I almost ran into a ridiculous pontoon boat whose deck was covered in Astroturf.

But I was through the worst of it. The main channel was behind me; up ahead was the shallow anchorage just inside Christmas Tree Island. I paused there long enough to let the blood flow back into my knuckles, then continued past the islet to the vast green flat that stretches north and westward to the drop-off of the Gulf.

Out here—certainly less than a mile from where I'd started—the nerve-racking ride seemed suddenly worthwhile. Out here it was spectacular, serene, already a different world. The clear unroiled water was maybe two feet deep; below it, gray-green turtle grass swayed against a sandy bottom shaped into tiny dunes by the accidents of current. See-through shrimp drifted here and there among the tufts; needle-nosed fish smaller than a pinky darted in battalions. The sun hovered very close to the horizon. It had turned more pink than orange and was mercifully shrouded in a silvery haze. I turned my engine off to watch it vanish.

When it had sliced through the surface of the Gulf, its reflection sprang up to join it, and it became not a sphere but a cylinder, a fat candle quickly burning down. I squinted, and in the melancholy of sunset I guess it was inevitable that I thought of Maggie and of the sex that hadn't happened. I pictured her in my bathrobe. Saw the freckles at the tops of her breasts and the russet paleness in between them. Tasted the olive-tinged kisses and wondered what went wrong.

I thought about it and an awful thing began to happen: I started to get suspicious of Maggie once again, started to wonder if there was something more than sexual bashfulness in the way she was stringing me along.

I mean, okay, a woman was entitled not to sleep with me. But our foreplay had been tender, unhurried, marvelous. There'd been no sign of unease or hesitation before her abrupt and total change of heart. Could there have been something calculated about the whole performance? Sex me up and lead me by the gonads. Keep tabs on me by keeping me aroused. Why not? Lydia sent thugs, Maggie sent mixed signals. Either had the power to control a man, to make him captive.

But why? I watched the sun's fire melt into a copper slick that spread across the water; and tried to figure if Maggie had a reason for wanting to confuse me. The fact was, she knew more about Kenny than anyone, and she'd hid things from me once already. Supposedly she'd come clean. But coming halfway clean was a time-honored way of continuing to lie. What else might she be hiding?

I thought it over and stared at the sky. A broad band of yellow rolled up from the western horizon like an enormous bolster. At its upper edge it phased into a peculiar acid green that I've never seen anywhere but in the Keys. I stared, and a new misgiving tweaked me. Kenny Lukens had told me that he never even peeked inside the second pouch. But why should I believe that? Wouldn't it be more in line with human nature to check out what one had pilfered?

And if Kenny
had
looked in the pouch, and
did
know what was in it, and just had to tell somebody about it, who would he have told? His only Key West friend. His one true confidante. My supposed ally and almost my lover: Maggie.

I thought about that and my queasiness returned, but now it wasn't the waves that were giving me a bellyache. Now it was the possibility that Maggie knew exactly what was in that pouch, and wanted it, and, like her pal Kenny before her, was setting me up to run some potentially fatal errand to retrieve it.

The sky dimmed. So did my mood. By now I was taking something almost like pleasure in my mounting paranoia, and I probed an even creepier idea: How did I know for sure that Maggie had in fact been Kenny Lukens' friend? I had only her account of it. He hadn't mentioned her. It was she who'd prompted me again and again to imagine them as bosom buddies. But what proof did I have? She claimed he called her from the Bahamas; how did I know that was true? She said he'd sent letters; I'd never seen them. True, she had a story that neatly explained the matchbook from Green Turtle Cay—but that story didn't have to come from Kenny. It could just as easily have come from the person in pursuit of Kenny— someone with whom Maggie was in cahoots.

I shivered. There was moisture underneath my life vest and the air was gradually cooling, but that's not why I got goose bumps. I got goose bumps because I was weirding myself out, big-time. I felt by now that I had come this close to shtupping a murderess, commingling my seed with that of a monster. Then I thought: Pete, for God's sake get a grip. The woman teaches yoga. She drinks herb tea. Who ever heard of a killer teaching yoga? You can't send her to the Chair just because she put her leotard back on.