Under Cover of Daylight (14 page)

At seven they went downstairs to the poolside Coconut Hut. Sitting across from each other under the umbrella, at a spool table. Thorn with bourbon now, Sarah still with tea. Biting her lip now and then, avoiding Thorn’s occasional glance. A few tourists wandering about. Midweek, midsummer. Thorn was trying not to think about Sally Spencer, where she was, what she was doing.

As the sun set finally, Thorn switched to tequila at the Margaritaville Express, a little shack bar on the edge of Vacation Island’s paltry man-made beach. They sat at the bar, and Thorn watched two guys jet skiing out in the evening waters, spotlights brightening up an acre of the Atlantic.

At eight-thirty Sarah ordered conch fritters, ate silently. Thorn watched the evening crowd arrive. While Sarah ate, staring down into her plate, he swiveled his stool around and listened to two nurses from Michigan, who seemed drunker than he was. Talking for his benefit. Glancing up at him from their little picnic table.

“Blow jobs, blow jobs, blow jobs,” the red-haired one said. “All I ever hear.”

Her black-haired friend with tinted aviator glasses smiled at Thorn for the fifteenth time. “Guys don’t care,” she said, looking at her friend. “They think it’s caviar, this big favor. God’s knobby gift to girls.”

“That one at the Pier House.”

“Freddy.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said the redhead, sneaking another invitation at Thorn. Come down off your stool, big boy. Participate. “Blow job, blow job. He wanted to sit in his Porsche and have me do him, him looking at the sunset.”

“Romantic guy.”

“I drive four thousand miles to wedge my head underneath some steering wheel? While some guy who thinks his beat-up Porsche makes him a stud movie star watches the sunset? No way.”

“Hears you’re an RN and he thinks, Oh, boy, take my pulse, take my temperature. I think I’ve got a fever.”

Sarah nudged Thorn’s elbow.

“You ready?”

Thorn watched the jet skis flash in and out of that patch of light. Imagined what it would be like out there in the dark, lost, no reference point but that blind white stage.

“I am,” he said. He climbed off the unsteady barstool.

Two guys in tennis shorts and Hawaiian shirts were standing beside the nurses’ table. One of them short with a five o’clock beard, mean little eyes, his hair worn away in the back to a circle of scalp. The other one tall and heavy with a pirate’s eye patch, long, greasy hair. They must have homed in on all that blow job talk. A last smile from the redhead for Thorn before she plunged in with this new one, Hawaiian shirt opened down to his black, curly chest.

Thorn said, “I know who did it.”

“You’re blotto, Thorn.” She stirred her straw through the last of the iced tea.

Thorn watched the short, intense Hawaiian shirt slip his hand under the table to the redhead’s knee, starting the slide up that smooth track.

Thorn looked at the bill and laid some money on top of it.

He said, “Guy at the elementary school. Other night, the lumberjack. Guy I shut up.” Thorn smacked the bar with his open hand.

“God, Thorn.” Sarah hitched her purse over her shoulder. “There’s five hundred guys like that. Their wives. Their kids. All of them could’ve harbored a heavyweight grudge against Kate. That guy was nothing special.”

The two Hawaiian shirts were watching Thorn. Their nurses walking off to the bathroom. These guys not sure whether Thorn was just another drunk or had entertainment potential.

Thorn looked around at the picnic tables, couples with their pink drinks, their pitchers of beer, Christmas lights strung from coconut palms. All of it suddenly in brutal focus. All these people dropping their french fries on the ground where Dr. Bill had taught the kids how to clean fish, where Kate had taught them the names of the constellations, the second verses to the songs.

It was when they began to drive the twenty miles back up to Key Largo from Lower Matecumbe Key in Sarah’s Trans Am that Thorn’s eyes finally began to blur. He let his head slump against the headrest, closed his eyes, but felt the guttural vibration of the muffler, the twitch of the wheel from Sarah’s nervous late-night driving, every keen snap of night bug against the windshield.

Back at his stilt house Sarah parked on the grass as near the stairs as she could get. She helped Thorn untangle from the cramped car, muscled him up the stairs. Opened the door for him and gave him a light push into the room.

Thorn said, “You staying? I’d like it if you did.”

“I’m staying,” she said from far away. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Thorn undressed in the dark, feeling the wobble and sway of the whole day of drinking, the house riding a moderate chop. He tried to brush his teeth, to reconnect with the ritual, but couldn’t get the cap off the toothpaste.

He heard Sarah out on the porch. He carried the toothpaste to the doorway and saw her sitting in Dr. Bill’s chair, small convulsions shaking her.

Thorn stumbled out onto the porch, got his bearings, squinting toward the shivering bay. He moved beside the chair and looked down at her, her face buried in her hands. He wanted to reach out and put a hand on her shoulder, bring her back. But she seemed already to have sailed too far away.

I
RV WAS GLAD
the black-haired goddess had left the bar. He’d been having trouble concentrating on the nurse he was with. And the sunburned stud queenie was talking to, this blond guy tossing back shots of tequila, looking like a cross between Jimmy Buffet and who was that fucking tennis robot, Bjorn Borg? This guy had kept giving Irv the eye, to the point where Irv had been hatching a scheme to maybe hijack the two of them out in the parking lot. Run off with the goddess for a few hours of fun, find a swamp for the blond dork.

Irv thought black-haired queenie looked a lot like that ice skater in the Olympics a few years ago, very white skin, very black hair, bruise blue eyes that were sleepy, a little hooded maybe. And good sharp cheekbones, a nice long neck. Something to hold on to.

Anyway, Irv was developing the parking lot scene when his new nurse friend gave him a little tweak under the table, gave his balls a little pinch and twist. And bang, he was back with her, to hell with queenie and the drunk blond guy.

And now the nurses had headed off to the bathroom, Irv supposed to wedge in their diaphragms, and he and Milburn had just been sitting there getting more snockered ever since.

“They dumped us, man,” Milburn said. “And that redhead, with those Hindenburgs.”

“Hey, don’t worry,” said Irv. “She should be here in five more minutes. I see her nipples now.”

The nurses finally returned, leery now, like they’d been debating the issue of picking up these two. Irv, seeing it, switched gears to sincere, getting sincere into his voice. It took ten minutes, but he and Milburn maneuvered them down to the docks.

Good little boys, showing the visitors the sights. Gentlemen, suggesting a moonlit ride in their sleek craft. Glances exchanged all around. Irv playing a great role, modern liberated man, respecter of women. Harmless and courtly. Milburn smiling like a eunuch.

Irv thinking Cary Grant, Rock Hudson, charm charm. He finally worked them on board. Milburn cast off; Irv fired up the Mercs.

Right away the redhead shouted, “How much horsepower does this thing have?” Trying to stay with it, act like this was the kind of insanity she was used to, guys like him, boats like this.

Irv just smiled at her and flattened out the throttle, sent the other one lurching against Milburn. His date, so he should like it, right? But he yells at Irv to slow down.

This black-haired one, women’s lib sunglasses, Irv didn’t like how she’d checked him out, quibbled at dockside about where they were going, how long. He about told her to get fucked right there. Offering her a boat ride on a Scarab with two four-hundred-horse Mercs, and she’s bitching about whether or not it’s going to be worth her time. Right there he assigned her to Milburn. Up until then he’d been chatting them both up and hadn’t made up his mind which one was his.

Milburn yelled at him again to slow the fuck down. He did; he notched it back a little, aimed for the marker on Mosquito Bank. His redhead curled her arm through his and rubbed the side of her breast against his biceps. He glanced at her and dropped his hand to the front of her shorts, let it dangle there for a second and then tapped on her pussy with his little finger.

“You sure you’re ready for me?” he asked her, wind ripping at his voice. She smiled at him and shivered, yes, hugged his arm a little tighter.

Milburn had moved up onto Irv’s other side. Left his date leaning against the leather bumper at the back of the cockpit.

“Let’s head back.”

“We’ll go back when I’m finished showing these ladies my boat.”

“Now, Irv. Penny’s not feeling good, and I’m starting to feel it, too.”

He powered on toward the light at Mosquito Bank, rubbing against her shorts now with the chopping side of his hand. He thought he could feel it cooking in there.

Milburn went back with the lib complainer. They were talking, Milburn with his arm around her shoulders. Cute couple, just what Milburn needed, some woman who hated men. Perfect. As for Irv, this honey was just right, somebody who’d spit shine his prick and be happy for the privilege.

At the marker light Irv killed the engines. While he was getting a bottle of champagne from the little cuddy cabin refrig, the three of them started whispering at the back. The woman with balls seemed to be pleading her case to her friend.

Irv brought the champagne and plastic stemmed glasses up and set them out on the console. He drank a fast one and poured himself another.

“Irv,” said the redhead, coming over, “we best be getting back. Penny’s sick. I’m a little chilled, too, actually.”

“Fuck sick,” he said. “We’re out here, the water and the moon and the stars. Warm summer night. Some girls would kill for a chance like this. We’re talking paradise here. Look at those stars.” Irv caught her shooting a worried look to her friend. “I said look at the fucking stars.”

She was staring at him, her life getting a little weirder than she’d wanted.

“Cut the shit, Irv,” said Milburn. “Let’s get on back.”

“Let’s swim,” said Irv. He reached under the console and drew out the boat .44. “Let’s skinny-dip, ladies.”

“Fuck, Irv. Don’t get on one of these.”

“Come on, ladies. A little swim. I want to see what kind of shape the two of you fine ladies are in. We want to see a little race. Like over to the marker light. First one there, gets ... whatever you’d like. A ride back, a warm towel.” Irv aimed the automatic at one, then the other. Took the starch right out of the libber. Dick fell right off, balls came loose.

“What is this, Irv?” The redhead took a step toward him.

Milburn said, “He means it. He gets like this.”

“OK, OK, Jesus Christ.” The redhead started to undress. Her friend stood there, glaring at Irv. “I don’t mind, Penny, letting him have a look. And it
is
a nice night.” A real making-the-best kind of girl. “You guys coming in?”

“Sure thing, babe, soon as you finish the race. Come on, princess,” he said to the other one. “We’re going to see a race. Over to the light. Show us your stuff.” He drew the hammer back with his left palm, old cowboy dramatic stunt. John Wayne about to shoot a silver dollar out of his sidekick’s hand. Slow and careful. Terrific ass-grabbing stuff.

“Go down the ladder,” Milburn said when both of them were naked. Not enough damn light for a real good look. But they both were built. Firm, good legs. The redhead with one giant tit and one normal one. That was news.

They got in the water. Seemed like the black-haired one might have been whimpering a little. They swam along side by side, breaststroke toward the light. Seven miles from shore.

“Come on, Irv. This is shit. What if they get back and make a big stink?”

“Say what? They don’t know our names. They don’t know shit about boats. Nobody at that place got a look at us. If they had a dockmaster at the marina, I might worry about it. But who’re they gonna say we are?” He watched the two of them stroking along. Milburn shook his head and went back to sit down on the stern seat.

“Anyway, even if we didn’t get laid,” Irv said, “we got a good look at this Vacation Island.”

“So
what
?”

“So, now we know something. This lady we smacked. She’s not just some little fish guide. See, I told you it pays to catch the obituaries after a job. How you gonna find out about who you took out unless you read the papers? And can you believe that place? Vacation Island. That’s big money. Can you picture owning a place like that?”

“Get serious, man.”

“I mean it. All the chicks you’d have running around. Restaurants, anything you wanted to eat, you just tell your fucking chef to cook it up. Man, like your own little world. You could be like some fucking czar; you didn’t like how things were, you just fire people, hire some ass kissers, and get it just right. It appeals to me, Milburn. I don’t know why, but I like it. A place to call my own.”

“So how you going to get it away from this Ricki?” Trying to sound bored, but Irv could hear it: The fat sack saw a free tit in there for him somewhere.

“Oh, I don’t know. I think we have to go down there, Key West, like I said. Get cozy with her. Use my fucking famous charm. Turn up the kilowatts.”

Irv started up the big engines. He threw the spotlight on the girls. They were to the light by then. He idled over toward them. The redhead was holding on to the girders of the marker light, probably cutting herself to shit on barnacles. He got to within ten feet of them before he smacked the throttle down, pushing the tilt switch at the same time so he’d leave them splashing in one incredible rooster tail.

“I saved you, man!” Irv screamed back at Milburn. “That bitch was looking to add to her
cojones
collection.” They raced north along the reef line, back to Coral Reef Club.

W
HAT BREEZE THERE WAS
only ruffled the tops of Thorn’s trees, as sultry and useless as attic air. He and Sugarman sat out on Thorn’s porch. Sarah was inside, dressing.