The Best of Lucius Shepard (100 page)

Beyond
the wall was jungly growth that hid the house completely. The beach was a
crescent of tawny sand fringed by palms and hibiscus shrubs and Spanish
bayonet, protected by an underwater fence. A bunker-like guard house stood at
the foot of the concrete pier to which the cigarette boat was moored, and a
multicultural force (Cuban, white, African-American) patrolled within and
without the walls. The guards, along with gardeners and maids, were housed in
the bungalows, but they entered the house frequently to check on us. If we
stepped outside they would dog us, their weapons shouldered, keeping a
distance, alert to our every movement. It was easier to find privacy inside the
house. Relative privacy, at any rate. Knowing Billy, I was certain that the
rooms were bugged, and I had given up on the idea that I could keep anything from
him. Whenever Pellerin and Jo were closeted in their rooms, I would walk along
corridors populated by suits of armor and ninja costumes fitted to basketwork
men and gilt French chairs that, with their curved legs and positioned between
such martial figures, looked poised for an attack. I would poke into rooms,
examine their collection of
objets d’art
, uniformly mismatched, yet
priceless. Sometimes I would wonder if I dared slip one or two small items into
my pocket, but most of my thoughts were less concerned with gain than with my
forlorn prospects for survival.

Occasionally
in the course of these forays, I would encounter a maid, but never anyone else,
and thus I was surprised one afternoon when, upon entering a room in the
northernmost wing with a four-poster bed and a fortune in gee-gaws littering
the tables and bureaus, I saw Jo standing by the entrance to a walk-in closet,
inspecting the dresses within. She gave a start when I spoke her name, then
offered a wan smile and said, “Hello.”

“What
are you doing here?” I said.

“Browsing.”
She touched the bodice of a green silk dress. “These clothes must have cost
hundreds of thousands of dollars. They’re all designer originals.”

“No,
I meant aren’t you supposed to be with Pellerin.”

“I
need breaks from Josey,” she said. “His intensity gets to me after awhile. And
he’s getting more independent, he wants time to himself. So...” She shrugged.
“I like to come here and look at the clothes.”

She
stepped into the closet and I moved into the room so I could keep her in view.

“He
must bring a lot of women here,” she said. “He’s got every imaginable size.”

“It’s
hard for me to think of Billy as a sexual being.”

“Why’s
that?”

“You’d
have to know him. I’ve never seen him with a woman on his arm, but I suppose he
has his moments.”

She
went deeper into the closet, toyed with the hem of a dress that bore a pattern
like a moth’s wing, all soft grays and greens, a touch of brown.

I
perched on the edge of the bed. “Why don’t you try it on?”

“Do
you think he’d mind?” she asked.

“Go
for it.”

She
hesitated, then said, “I’ll just be a second,” and closed the closet door.

The
idea that she was getting naked behind the door inspired a salacious thought or
two—I was already more than a little smitten. When she came out, she was
barefoot. She did a pirouette and struck a fashion magazine pose. I was
dumbstruck. The dress was nearly diaphanous, made of some feathery stuff that
clung to her hips and flat stomach and breasts, the flared skirt reaching to
mid-thigh.

“You
like?” she asked. “It’s a little short on me.”

“I
didn’t notice.”

She
laughed delightedly and went for another spin. “I could never afford this. Not
that I care all that much about clothes. But if I had a couple of million, I’d
probably indulge.”

Shortly
thereafter she went back inside the closet, re-emerging wearing her jeans and a
nondescript top. It seemed that she had exchanged personalities as well as
clothes, for she was once again somber and downcast. “I’ve got to get back,”
she said.

“So
soon?”

She
stopped by the door. “I come here most days about this time,” she said. “A
little earlier, actually.” Then, after a pause, she added, “It’s nice having
someone to wear clothes for.”

We
started meeting every day in that room. It was plain that she was flirting with
me, and I imagine it was equally plain that I was interested, but it went on
for over a month and neither one of us made a move. For my part, the fear of
rejection didn’t enter in. I was used to the man-woman thing being a simple
negotiation—you either did the deed or you took a pass—but I thought if I did
make a move, I might frighten her off, that she needed to feel in control. If I
had been free of constraint, my own agent, I might have given up on her ... or
maybe I wouldn’t have. She was the kind of woman who required a period of
courtship, who enjoyed the dance as much as the feast, and she caused you to
enjoy it as well. Basically an unhappy soul, she gave the impression of being
someone who had been toughened by trouble in her life; but whenever she was
happy, there was something so frail and girlish about the mood, I believed the
least disturbance could shatter it. I grew more entranced by her and more
frustrated day by day, but I told myself that not getting involved was for the
best—I needed to keep clear of emotional entanglements and concentrate on how
to stay alive once Billy came back into the picture. That didn’t prevent me,
however, from exploring certain of her fantasies.

I
knew that she had been married when she was a teenager and one morning while we
sat on the bed, her cross-legged at the head and me sort of side-saddle at the
foot, I asked her about it. She ran a finger along a newel post, tracing the pattern
carved into it, and said, “It was just ... foolishness. We thought it would be
romantic to get married.”

“I
take it it wasn’t.”

She
gave a wan laugh. “No.”

“Would
you ever do it again?”

“Marry?
I don’t know. Maybe.” She smiled. “Why? Are you asking?”

“Maybe.
Tell me what type of man it is you’d marry. Let’s see if I fit the bill.”

She
lay down on her side, her legs drawn up, and considered the question.

“Yeah?”
I said.

“You’re
serious? You want me to do this?”

“Let’s
hear it, cher. Your ideal man.”

“Well...”
She sat up, fluffed the pillow, and lay down again. “I’d want him to have lots
of money, so maybe a financier. Not a banker or anything boring like that. A
corporate tiger. Someone who would take over a failing company and reshape it
into something vital.”

“Money’s
the most important qualification?”

“Not
really, but you asked for my ideal and money makes things easier.”

She
had on a blouse with a high collar and, as often happened when thinking, she
tucked in her chin and nibbled the edge of the collar. I found the habit sexy
and, whenever she did it, I wanted to touch her face.

“He’d
be a philanthropist,” she said. “And not just as a tax dodge. He’d have to be
devoted to it. And he’d have an introspective side. I’d want him to know
himself. To understand himself.”

“A
corporate raider with soul. Isn’t that a contradiction?”

“It
can happen. Wallace Stevens was an insurance executive and a great poet.”

“I
like to think of myself as an entrepreneur when I’m feeling spunky. That’s like
a financier, but I’m getting that we’re talking about two different animals.”

“You’ve
got possibilities,” she said, and smiled. “You just need molding.”

“How
about in the looks department?” I asked. “Something George Clooney-ish? Or Brad
Pitt?”

She
wrinkled her nose. “Movie stars are too short. Looks aren’t important, anyway.”

“Women
all say that, but it’s bullshit.”

“It’s
true! Women have the same kind of daydreams as men, but when it comes to
choosing a man they often base their choices on different criteria.”

“Like
money.”

“No!
Like how someone makes you feel. It’s not quantifiable. I would never have
thought I could...”

She
broke off, thinning her lips.

“You
would never have thought what?”

“This
is silly,” she said. “I should check on Josey.”

“You
never would have thought you could be attracted to someone you met at
gunpoint?”

She
sat up, swung her legs off the side of the bed, but said nothing.

“You
might as well confess, cher,” I said. “You won’t be giving away any secrets.”

She
stiffened, as if she were going to lash out at me, but the tension drained from
her body. “It’s the Stockholm Syndrome,” she said.

“You
reckon that’s it? We are for sure stuck on this damn island, and there’s not a
whole lot to distract us. And technically I am an accomplice in your
kidnapping. But there’s more to it than that.”

“You’re
probably right,” she said, coming to her feet. “If we’d met on our own in New
Orleans, I’d probably have been attracted to you. But that’s neither here nor
there.”

“Why
not? Because Pellerin’s your priority?”

She
shrugged as if to say yes.

“Duty
won’t keep you warm at night,” I said.

“Keeping
warm has never been my biggest goal in life,” she said with brittle precision.
“But should that change, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

* * * *

I
didn’t go outside much. The guards made me nervous. When I did it was usually
to have a swim, but some nights I went along the shore through a fringe of
shrubs and palms to the west end, the crosspiece of the T, a place from which,
if the weather were clear, I could make out the lights on a nearby Key. And on
one such night, emerging from dense undergrowth onto a shingle of crushed coral
and sand, littered with vegetable debris, I spotted a shadow kneeling on the
beach. Wavelets slapping against the shingle covered the sound of my approach
and I saw it was Pellerin. I hadn’t realized he could walk this far without
help. He was holding a hand out above the water, flexing his fingers. It looked
as if he were about to snatch something up. Beneath his hand the water seethed
and little waves rolled away from shore. It was such a mediocre miracle, I
scarcely registered it at first; but then I realized that he must be causing
this phenomenon, generating a force that pushed the waves in a contrary
direction. He turned his head toward me. The green flickers in his eyes stood
out sharply in the darkness. A tendril of fear uncoiled in my backbrain.

“What’s
shaking, Small Time?” he said.

“Don’t
call me that. I’m sick of it.”

He
made a soft, coughing noise that I took for a laugh. “Want me to do like
Jocundra and call you Jackie boy?”

“Just
don’t call me Small Time.”

“But
it suits you so well.”

“You
been through a rough time,” I said. “And I can appreciate that. But that
doesn’t give you the right to act like an asshole.”

“It
doesn’t? I could have sworn it did.”

He
came to his feet, lost his balance. I caught him by the shirtfront and hauled
him erect. He tried to break my grip, but he was still weak and I held firm. He
had a soapy smell. I wondered if Jo had to help him bathe.