Where Love Has Gone (18 page)

1

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I looked at my watch as I came up in the elevator from the garage. It was almost noon by the time I’d got back to the motel from Juvenile Hall. That made it two o’clock in Chicago. Elizabeth would be waiting to hear from me.

Suddenly my hands were trembling. I needed a drink. I got off the elevator in the main lobby and walked into the bar. I ordered one Jack Daniels. Just one. I drank it quickly and went up to my room.

I threw my jacket across the chair and sat down on the edge of the bed and put in my call. I pulled off my tie and stretched out on the bed while I waited for my connection.

Her voice sounded warm over the wire. “Hello.” “Elizabeth,” I said.

“Luke?” There was quick concern in her voice. “Are you all right?” The words could scarcely make it out of my throat. “I’m all right.” “Is it that bad?” she asked quietly.

“Bad enough,” I said. “Nothing’s changed.” I pulled the package of cigarettes from my shirt pocket. “Nora still hates me.”

“You didn’t think that would have changed, did you?” I lit a cigarette. “I guess not. Only—”

“Only what?”

“I wish there was something more I could do. To let Dani know how much I want to help her.” “You’re there, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Yes, but—”

“Then stop worrying about it,” she said quietly. “Dani knows. The most important thing is that she doesn’t feel she’s alone.”

That kind of brought me back a little. “How about you? Don’t you feel alone?” She laughed. “I’m not alone. Our little friend has been keeping me company.” “I wish you were here.”

“Maybe the next time,” she said. “You’ll do all right without me.” “I love you,” I said.

“And I love you, Luke. Next time call collect. We won’t get the bill until the first of the month.”

“Okay, darling.” “‘Bye, Luke.”

I put down the phone. Somehow I felt better. Some of the tension was gone. Elizabeth had that effect on me. She made everything seem better. I closed my eyes and remembered how it had been on the boat a long time ago. That first time. When I took her and her boss out on a charter.

We’d tied up off Santa Monica and the old man had taken a cab into Los Angeles. Elizabeth had stayed on the boat. The old man had told her that she could have the weekend off.

We were all on a first-name basis by then and after the old man had gone off in the taxi, I turned to Elizabeth. “I have a friend here who’d put me up for the night if you’d feel better about it.”

“Would you be more comfortable that way, Luke?” There was no artificial coquetry in her voice.

“I was just doing the gentleman bit.”

“I’m sure.” She looked at me out of her clear blue eyes. “If I’d had any doubts, Luke, I wouldn’t have agreed to stay aboard.”

“A kind remark like that gets you taken out to dinner,” I said. “It’s a date if you’ll let me pay.”

“Uh-uh. I insist. You’re my guest for the weekend.”

“But that’s not fair. I cut your charter fee a hundred bucks.” “That’s my headache,” I said stubbornly.

She saw the look on my face and put a hand on my arm. “If it means that much to you. Why?” “I had a wife who fixed it so she paid all the bills. No more.”

She took her hand away quickly. “I see,” she said. “Well, I hope you’re loaded. We Swedes have big appetites.”

We went to the fish place on the Coast Highway between Malibu and Santa Monica and she was every bit as good as her word. Even I had to back off from the size of the portions but she cleaned her plate. Afterward we sat over our coffee, looking out through the plate glass at the surf breaking against the beach under the windows, and we talked. It was real easy and the evening went by and it was after eleven when we got back to the boat.

“I’m beat,” she sighed as we walked down the dock. “I guess I’m not used to all that sea air.”

“It has a way of knocking you out.” I looked at her in the uneven yellow light of the single overhead bulb on the edge of the dock. “You turn in. If it’s okay with you I’ll go down the beach awhile. I have a friend I ought to see.”

She looked at me peculiarly for a moment, then nodded. “Go ahead. And thanks for dinner.”

I grinned at her. “That was just an exhibition game. Tomorrow night we’ll do the real thing. Soft

lights, white tablecloths, music.”

“Thanks for the warning. I’ll starve myself all day.” She climbed down into the boat and disappeared into the cabin.

I waited a moment, then turned and walked down the dock. I went through the doors of the first bar I came to and asked for my friend by name. Jack Daniels.

I got stewed and it must have been after three when I stumbled off the dock onto the boat. I tried so hard to be quiet that I tripped over a mooring rope coiled on the deck and sprawled out with a crash. By then I was too tired to make it to the cabin, so I just went to sleep where I’d fallen.

I woke in the morning to the aroma of coffee and the fragrance of frying bacon. I sat up before I realized I was in my bunk with nothing on but my shorts. I rubbed my hand over my head. I didn’t remember getting there.

Elizabeth must have heard me move for she left the small stove in the galley and brought me a glass filled with tomato juice. “Here, drink this.”

I stared at her doubtfully.

“Drink it. It will burn away the fog.”

Automatically I swallowed it. She was right. It burned away the fog, all right, and the teeth, the throat, the stomach lining, everything. “Wow!” I gasped. “What was in that?” Dynamite?”

She laughed. “It’s an old Swedish handover cure. Tomato juice, pepper, Worcestershire, Tabasco and aquavit. It either kills you or cures you, my father used to say.”

“Your father was right. It’s sudden death. Where did you get the aquavit?”

“The same place you met your friend last night. I guess it’s the nearest one, isn’t it?” I nodded.

“Your friend packs a pretty good wallop.”

“I’m out of training,” I said defensively. “I’ve had practically nothing to drink for four days.

How did you get me to bed?”

“You were nothing. My father was six-four and weighed two hundred and thirty and I used to put him to bed. It was just like the good old days.” She took the empty glass from my hand. “Hungry?”

A moment ago I would have thrown up at the mere mention of food, now I was suddenly ravenous. I nodded.

“Sit down at the table then,” she said, walking back to the galley. “The service doesn’t include breakfast in bed. How do you like your eggs?”

“Sunnyside.” I climbed out of the bunk and into my pants. “Wait a minute,” I protested. “You don’t have to do the cooking.”

But the eggs were already in the pan. There were hot rolls and butter, jam and marmalade, four eggs and a half pound of bacon, a pot of steaming coffee. I was eating like a madman when she brought her cup to the table, filled it and sat down. She lit a cigarette.

I wiped up the last of the egg with the last of the roll and leaned back with a sigh. “That was good.”

“I like to see a man eat.”

“You’ve just watched a professional.” I filled my cup again. “That’s real coffee.” “Thank you.”

I lit a cigarette and sipped at the coffee. I felt better than I had for a long time. “You have a daughter?”

I nodded.

“How old is she?” “Eight.”

“Is her name Nora?”

I shook my head. “No. Dani. Short for Danielle. Nora was my wife.” “Oh.”

I looked at her. “What makes you ask?”

“You kept talking about them when I was putting you to bed. You miss them both very much, don’t you?”

“I miss my daughter,” I said gruffly. I got to my feet. “Why don’t you go out and get some fresh air? I’ll do the dishes.”

“You take your cup of coffee out on deck. The dishes are my job for the weekend.”

I went outside and sat down in one of the fishing chairs. The morning smog was rolling out to sea. It was going to be a hot one. I’d just finished my cup when she came up behind me.

I turned to look at her. “Want to hit the beach today?”

“Why go to a crowded beach when you can take your own boat out and have a private ocean?” “You’re the skipper,” I said, getting to my feet. “I’ll go ashore and lay in a few things for lunch.” She smiled. “I already took care of that. Including a dozen cans of beer if the sun gets too hot.”

I went forward to cast off.

The morning kept its promise. The sun was slow and reached down deep into your bones so that even the relief you found in the cool green water was only temporary. It didn’t seem to bother her though.

She lay stretched out flat on the deck soaking up the sun. It had been almost an hour since she’d moved. I lay on the bench behind the wheel under the canopy. I was in no mood to be cooked alive.

I pushed my cap back from over my face so that I could see. “There’s some suntan lotion in the cabin if you want it.”

“No, thanks. I don’t burn. I just turn black. I could use another beer though. I’m all dried out.”

I reached down into the cooler and came up with two cans. I opened them and walked out into the sun. It was like stepping into a furnace. She rolled over and sat up, reaching for the frosted can. She held it to her mouth and drank thirstily. Some of the beer escaped the corner of her mouth and ran down to her tawny shoulders. I couldn’t help staring. Bikinis and beer cans.

She was a big girl, at least five-eight with everything scaled to size. You knew automatically that if you had a woman like that you had it all, that there was not another woman on this earth who could make it plus or minus.

She wiped her face on the back of her arm. Then she caught me staring. She grinned. “My mother always said I was a sloppy drinker. Like my father.”

I grinned back. “You said you were thirsty.”

She put her hands flat on the deck behind her and leaned back on her arms, turning her face up to the sun. “God, this feels good. The sun and the ocean. I never thought I’d miss the water so much.”

I had to force myself to look away. For the first time in my life I dug the big blonde bit. Until now they had always been something up on the screen or in the chorus at Las Vegas. But seeing a real live one up close, now I knew all the reasons.

“If you miss the water that much,” I asked, “how come you wound up in a place like Sandsville?”

She had her eyes closed to the sun. “I came out to Phoenix with my husband. He was a pilot in the Air Force. He flew his jet into the side of a mountain at six hundred miles an hour. When it was all over, I took this job. I’ve been there ever since.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. I looked out over the water. Some guys aren’t ever lucky. Not even once. “How long ago was that?”

“Four years. You were a flyer, weren’t you, Luke?” “I was—once. But that was when I was very young.” “You’re not that old.”

“I’m thirty-six going on seventy.”

“It’s the booze that makes you feel that way. My father used to feel the same—” She stopped when she saw me staring at her. Her eyes fell. “I’m sorry, that popped out.”

“How old are you?” “Twenty-four.”

“Everything’s easy at twenty-four.”

“Is it?” she asked, her eyes meeting mine once more. “As easy as being a widow at twenty?” “Now it’s my turn to be sorry.”

“Forget it.”

I reached down and took a sip of my beer. “Where did you get that bit about me being a flier?” “I’ve know about you for a long time. That’s why I came out here looking for you.”

“For me?”

“You were Johnny’s hero. A hot fighter pilot. A chicken colonel at twenty-five. Johnny wanted to be just like you. I had to come out and see what he would have been like—if he’d lived.”

“And now?”

“I don’t have to wonder anymore. I guess I’ll never know. Johnny wasn’t anything like you.” “What makes you say that?”

“Last night when I put you to bed you were crying. I can’t image Johnny crying over anything once he got past the age of six. He was quick and aggressive and sometimes harsh and impatient. You’re exactly the opposite. Soft and gentle inside.”

“I was never really a hero,” I aid. “War forces you into being something you aren’t if you want to survive. I was a survival expert.” I grinned wryly. “Though what the hell I was trying to survive for I can’t imagine.”

Her eyes looked into mine. “I guess surviving can come to mean very little if you spend your life hiding in a whiskey barrel.”

I looked deep into her eyes for a moment. They were clear and proud and met mine evenly. I sighed. “I guess I asked for that.” I looked at my watch. “There’s just about time for you to get in one more dip before we have to haul anchor.”

I picked up my can of beer and went down into the cabin. It was a little cooler there. I took a sip from the can and put it on the table in front of me. Through the open hatch I heard the splash of the water as she dived.

The telephone beside my bed bounced me back into the present. I struggled up through the warmth of memory.

“Yes,” I mumbled. “Colonel Carey?” “Yes.”

“Harris Gordon here.”

Now I was awake. “Yes, Mr. Gordon.”

“I’m sorry to be so late in calling. But I was all tied up.”

I looked at my watch. It was after seven. I’d slept the whole afternoon. “That’s all right.”

“Would it be all right if we put off our meeting until tomorrow morning? It’s Saturday night and I find my wife has asked some people in.”

“I understand perfectly.” “Tomorrow morning at nine?”

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

I put down the telephone and turned to look out the window. Dusk was falling and the neon was coming on. San Francisco on a Saturday night and nothing for me to do in my old hometown. So I lit a cigarette and leaned back against the pillow and went back to thinking about Elizabeth and me.

2

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Elizabeth wore a simple white dress that night. Her hair fell down to her shoulders like spun gold against the creamy chocolate of her sun-darkened skin. It gave all the weekend cheaters in the place cricks in their necks. They’re used to beautiful women in Southern California, especially up around Malibu where the film colony comes to play, but there was something about her that drew every eye.