To Moe, Bern had said, “You could’ve spewed on them but chose me instead?” The two of them finally on the dock; Bern on his knees, running cold water over his head. He’d wanted to say, “That shows questionable business judgment…a decision an executive probably wouldn’t make. Like handing the cops several thousand dollars’ worth of stuff that’s rightfully mine. A death wish, motherfucker, that’s what it shows!”
Another situation in which profanity would have been appropriate.
Take the Luger, stick the skinny barrel in the Hoosier’s ear, and squeeze off two or three from the eight-round clip. No…better yet, use Cowboy Moe’s own weapon, the chrome .357 six-shooter he carried in his truck. Afterward, turn himself in, and tell the jury exactly what had happened: I’m sitting there, minding my own business, so sick I wanted to die. Seriously—die. On the back of a boat, trying to breathe air that didn’t taste like diesel fumes. Finally, getting a little better—dozing, I’m pretty sure—when I feel what I think is salt water hit me in the face. But guess what…?
Not guilty. Even if only one of the jurors had experienced a hell trip like today with his idiot nephew. First time in his life Bern could actually smell colors. Reds, blues, greens—each with its own unique diesel stink, and they all triggered the gag reflex.
B ern was determined to keep his temper, though. He needed Moe. Couldn’t fire him yet because no way was Bern going out in rough weather again, no matter how much he loved the Viking. So Moe’s scuba and boating skills would be needed. Bern didn’t care anymore about profit, but he still wanted to find the wreck. For one thing, he wasn’t going to let the nerd laugh at him, then steal what rightfully belonged to him. Something else: His grandfather knew the wreck’s location. Why?
Bern had a lot on his mind—the Jewish thing drifting in and out between thoughts of holding a gun to the Hoosier’s head…of wondering what the old man’s real motives were…also seeing the glamorous woman, imagining her photo, hoping she was still around with those smoldering eyes. She had to have been some beauty queen the old man was wild about—why else the photo?
Forgiveness, as the old man used to say, was for people who didn’t have the balls for revenge.
That’s how Bern planned to spend the evening: sit in his condo, and leaf through the leather-bound journal, hoping a woman’s name jumped out at him from all that faded writing. The other papers, too, most of them in German, which he didn’t understand, but a name, at least, might point him in the right direction. Tell him the woman’s identity.
How would the old man feel if he knew Bern ripped the clothes off his old sweetheart?
Go insane, that’s what he’d do. Touch the sacred flesh was the best way to screw his grandfather.
Tomorrow, he’d put a call in to Jason Goddard, the old man’s personal assistant. Leave a message, because it was Saturday, then try a cell phone number that might still be good. Also, he was thinking of asking Augie to contribute his expertise, the little brownnoser who’d learned to speak and read German to get in good with the old man.
Trust him with the old man’s journal? He’d give some thought to that.
Now, though, Bern had to make nice with the redneck Hoosier—and do it in a hurry, too, with that thunderstorm coming. Moe was working overtime, trying to make up for what he’d done that afternoon.
Not a chance in hell.
21
I’d been wondering about it for a while but told Chestra, “I just realized something. There have to be twenty, twenty-five photographs in this room. But your godmother, Marlissa Dorn, isn’t in any of them. I find that surprising.” I waited for a moment, deciding if I should add, “There are none of you, either.” Then did.
The woman was standing with her back to me in the gold lamé gown, her shoulders wider than her hips, silver-blond hair piled atop her head, a pearl necklace visible beneath wisps of hair and delicate ears. Without turning, she said, “You’re not the first to notice. Tommy asked the same thing.”
Meaning Tomlinson.
Outside, there was a flash of blue light, then another. Lightning. It illuminated the balcony’s wrought-iron railing, trees beyond. A cell of cool wind blew through the doors as Chestra said, “Storms. I just adore them. Don’t you?” Then turned in synch with the movement of curtains as if she, too, had been levitated by wind.
“There’s a reason there so few photos of Marlissa and me,” she said. “For Marlissa, the explanation is fascinating, but sad, too. For me, though, it’s just ego plain and simple. I’m a proud old broad who can’t stand the way she looks, especially when compared to the way I used to look. Ego, pride.” She wagged her eyebrows and took a sip of her drink—chartreuse and soda, an exotic liqueur unfamiliar to me. “Name a conceit. I delude myself that it’s okay because I admit that I’m vain. I haven’t reached the age where my body only embarrasses others. Why advertise what you’ve lost and can never recover?”
I said, “I’m looking at a very handsome woman; one I find charming. I like her. Don’t be so hard on the lady, okay?”
“Handsome.” Her tone was dry, acknowledging the euphemism. “I guess I should be content with that. I have a photograph of my godmother, which I’ll show you—it’ll help you understand why I’m such a goose about photos. You’ll fall in love with Marlissa. Every man does. But wouldn’t you rather hear her story first? You asked the question: Why were Marlissa and Frederick several miles offshore in a storm?
“It’s possible, Doc, that you’ll be the first to see that boat in many, many years. What remains of it, anyway. You deserve an answer.”
I said, “I’d like to do both. And see pictures of you, too—there’ve got to be some around.”
Outside, there was another strobe of light. Thunder is noise created by a shock wave of air set in motion by an abrupt electrical discharge. This shock wave vibrated through the floor of the old house, rumbling as it rolled toward open sea.
Chestra listened for a moment, then was suddenly in a hurry. “You’re a dear man. But forgive me”—she touched her fingers to my cheek as she swept past, heels clicking on tile. I got a whiff of perfume, faint vanilla and musk—“I have to change.”
“What?”
“I can’t go to the beach dressed like this, and I never miss a storm. I feed on them. The energy. To see a big one come pounding off the Gulf—” She was already taking off jewelry—a bracelet, the pearls—as she headed for the stairs, her bedroom below. Over her shoulder, she called, “I won’t be a minute. Will you join me?”
I checked my watch. Nearly eleven. “I guess. But I still have a lot of work—”
“I’ll holler when I’m ready.” She put her tongue against her teeth and whistled—a wolf whistle. In Manhattan, it’s the way people would’ve hailed a cab to a Dempsey fight. “This one’s going to be a doozy, Doc!”
A photo of Marlissa Dorn. I was eager to have a look—although I expected to be disappointed. Chestra Engle was sharing a family legend, not talking about a real person. Legends never disappoint, people often do. Her godmother’s photo most likely would be the rule, not be an exception.
Even so…there were some exceptional photos in this museum of a house. As I waited, I poured a glass of wine—the woman had no beer—then moved from wall to wall as if touring an art gallery.