“Nope. The party mood has been wrung out of me. Cold water seems to have been dashed over the lovely fire.”
“Too bad.”
Our gazes met in the mirror. “There’s always the prospect of another evening, Ed. The future holds a lot of nights.”
“I suppose so,” I said. “Well, if this is the way it’s got to be, I’ll take you home.”
“Go ahead and crash your party. I can get a taxi.”
As I started to protest, she reached and pinched my cheek. “Haven’t you discovered yet that I’m not one of those porcelain dolls? I don’t like for people to hover anxiously over me. I prefer to run my own errands, do my own chores. I like to take care of myself.”
She walked to the door. “Anyway,” she added with a touch of a smile, “if you take me home, you might want to come up. And I might relent, right when I’m trying to be sore at you.”
“Why be sore?”
“Because you are what you are,” she said quietly. “No one or no force will ever change you until the day you die.”
“Is that bad?”
“Sometimes. It was bad this evening. Some men would have felt they had a choice. But when you got the phone call, nothing or nobody could have kept you in this apartment.”
“There wasn’t really a choice, Myrtle. I had to go.” She tilted her head and studied me deeply. “You’ve made my point precisely, Ed.”
“You’re sounding a bit final, Myrtle.”
“Am I? Chalk it up to my mood.”
“Are you judging me?”
“Judging...? Oh, no, Ed! No one has the right to judge another person. Seeing a human being clearly doesn’t mean you’re judging him. You’re simply left alone in a place like this with the truth. You know that when next you hear of him, he will be dead — or he will have killed another man.”
“Neither happened, Myrtle.”
“A technicality,” she said. “A twist of circumstance. All the forces and factors were there. The fullness of the truth and knowledge was driven home to me, you might say.”
“You impressed me as a person big enough to face it.”
“I don’t know, Ed. I’m not sure of too many things right now. I need to sit in a taxi alone and later read a book with half of my mind while the half that really counts does some thinking. I need to get out of this aura of relentlessness that you somehow carry around with you. I... Good night, Ed. Call me in a couple of days.”
She moved quickly, crossing the hallway, reaching the stair well, and sliding from view.
Eighteen
I closed the door slowly and leaned against it a moment. She had left a feeling of emptiness in the apartment, a shadowy stillness that was too conducive to unsettling thoughts.
I pushed away from the door and crossed to the telephone. I opened the book at the yellow pages. On the fourth call I made contact with a novelty shop that was open and that stocked what I was after. The place was in Ybor City, a few blocks from the apartment.
“Yes,” a man’s voice said, “we have a few pirate costumes left. What size do you need?”
“I’m a forty-two regular.”
“I believe we can fix you up. Did you want the outfit tonight?”
“Yes.”
“We were getting ready to close,” he said. I gave him my name and address. “I can come right over.”
“Why don’t I just drop it off? You’re near by. I can go ahead and close and bring the costume on my way home.”
“Fine,” I said. “The apartment is on the second floor. I’ll watch for you. One thing...”
“Yes?”
“Is there a beard with the outfit?”
“I can include one, Mr. Rivers.”
“Big, bushy, to cover most of my face.”
“Are you going to a masquerade?”
“Something like that,” I said.
“I’ll see that we come up with a suitable beard.”
I worked on a beer while I waited. He arrived with a bulky suit box under his arm, a young, neat, dark-skinned man who probably operated the small shop with the part-time assistance of his wife.
He glanced me over, remarked that the costume should be perfect in size and that I was in luck. I handed over the rental fee and deposit money in exchange for a receipt and the cardboard box.
“The beard?” I asked as we stood in the apartment doorway.
“The most luxuriant one in the house,” he said. “Very bushy. Very black. I also included a large black eye patch. Your disguise will be as effective as any at the masquerade.”
“That’s what I’m after,” I assured him. “Thanks very much.”
“No trouble, Mr. Rivers. Have fun.”
“Sure,” I said. “Always.”
My tone brought a glance. “Buenas noches.”
Alone in the apartment, I set the box on a table, flipped the tabs, and checked the contents. There were huge, baggy pantaloons of bright red to smother my bottom, and a short, skimpy jerkin to expose most of my lumpy torso to the evening breezes. Black oilcloth boots were designed to cover my shoe tops and strap under the instep. The turban was a brilliant blue, and there was a sash matching it in color. I fingered the eyepatch aside, picked up the beard and shook it out. It was a lulu.
I stripped to my shorts and climbed into the paraphernalia.
With all the junk in place, I walked into the bathroom for a final check of the mug in the medicine-cabinet mirror.
I pulled the imitation silk turban a trifle lower on my forehead. I was satisfied with the effect. Very little of the original Ed Rivers showed through the montage of turban, eyepatch, and wild beard.
I paused once more, in the bed-sitting room, and tucked the .38 under the waistband of the pantaloons Only the blue sash remained. I wrapped it about my gut to cover the butt of the gun. I didn’t knot the sash to let the ends dangle. I tucked in the ends so I could get rid of the sash in a hurry.
As I left the apartment, I thought of the purpose and meaning of Gasparilla. Festival. Fun week. And I was on my way at last to a Gasparilla party...
When I came out of the building, the sky over the Hillsborough River flashed with bursting bombs, falling stars, and sputtering pinwheels of light. No kids were on the street tonight; all were down by the river watching the firewords display.
I got in the car, which I’d left at the curb, and eased it into traffic. I didn’t fight the tangle. But when I was out to the vicinity where traffic thinned, I pushed the car.
I watched the boulevard lights swish past, slowed as I neared the turnoff. A few minutes later, the car was picking its way along the driveway, through the jungle greenery of the estate of Señora Isabella. More correctly, the showpiece of a twenty-million-dollar fortune that death had earmarked for one Elena Sigmon.
I wedged the car behind a snooty little Porsche and got out. The smell of hickory chips smoldering in the barbecue grills put a tang in the air. Beyond the vast lawn, the cozy glow of the paper lanterns beckoned romantically. The sounds of the tireless bongos and endlessly wailing saxophone drifted to me.
As I walked across the lawn toward the hacienda, I concluded that the party was spreading out. I had to detour a couple who stood holding a long kiss, unaware of any other existence. Salome’s gauzy veils swished about her as she ran teasingly across the lawn, looking over her shoulder at the lanky pirate who pursued her. She conveniently ran out of gas, laughing and gasping as he caught up with her. He scooped her up, and she stopped laughing as she put her lips against his.
I reached the end of the lawn. Nobody seemed to mind the additional pirate who wandered onto the courtyard.
I looked around the courtyard for Fred Eppling, Clavery, Natalie, and the Sigmons. I didn’t see them, and decided they must be inside.