It happened. Half an hour later, when I’d finished my interview and was crossing the parking lot toward the docks, Gabrielle pulled beside me in a red Corvette convertible, top up, engine running to stay cool in the June heat.
“Get in, chula,” she said, the window cracked only a few inches.
“What?”
“You heard me!”
Caught by surprise, I hesitated and checked my watch. Nathan would be arriving in twenty minutes to drive me to Olivia’s house, but the girl didn’t give me a chance to explain. She pushed the passenger door open and hissed, “Hurry up! Trust me, you don’t want him to see us together.”
Sybarite’s captain, Robert Simpson, I assumed.
I got in the car, which felt cramped with legs as long as mine until I found the power-seat adjustment. After that, riding in Gabrielle’s Corvette was more like riding in a spaceship.
“Where we going?” I asked, then was slammed back in my seat when she accelerated.
Upset enough that it fired her Cuban vocabulary, Gabrielle replied, “Someplace safe! We need to talk, chinga, or you’re screwed!”
TWELVE
GABRIELLE WAS RUMMAGING AROUND IN HER PURSE FOR something as she asked me, “Anyone following us? Take a look over your shoulder.” It came out Teek eeh luke, the only hint she was part Cuban.
I replied, ‘They’d have to own a jet airplane to keep up,” but twisted around in my seat anyway. “Nope. Just that man with the limp, but he’s headed the other way-not that I blame him.” I was referring to the guy she’d almost clipped with her fender.
Not bothering to glance back at the old fisherman, who was wobbling toward the shrimp yards, a paper sack clutched to his chest, Gabrielle said, “Old drunks should own Seeing Eye dogs,” then, without looking up, informed me, “I go by Gabby now. Clients think it’s cute, and it stops people from confusing me with the horn guy in the Bible. If they read Gabrielle on paper, it happens every time.”
Darren had mentioned Gabby when speaking of Sybarite, but I hadn’t made the connection. Gabrielle, though, sounded better, the way the girl rolled her Spanish r’s.
We were in a parking lot between a boat storage barn and a large wooden complex that was perched on stilts overlooking the bay, DOC’S RUM BAR on a green sign atop the building, the area still empty because it was early. No one around but cawing seagulls and a wandering cat. Gabby had parked near a cabbage palm that threw about as much shade as a fence post, so she left the engine running, the volume of “Mr. Saxobeat”’s thumping disco too soft to hear above the blast of air-conditioning but with enough bass to feel through my seat.
“Where the hell did I put it?” the girl muttered, still pawing at her purse, then told me, “Robert’s a paranoid little dictator, never trust him. He has spies everywhere. Take another quick look, I’m serious.”
The only other person I knew who would fret about spies on a clear June morning was Loretta. The remark caused me to lose some confidence in Gabby and wonder about my own judgment, having allowed a woman I hadn’t seen in years drive me a mile from the docks, tires screeching at every start and stop. In fifteen minutes, I was supposed to meet Nathan. Because he is not a punctual man, however, it was not a troubling concern. Plus, I had my cell with me. Nathan would text if he found my skiff empty.
“Finally,” Gabby said, bringing out a pink pillbox that contained three tightly wrapped joints, each thin as a dart. She lit one with a Bic, holding the joint between her lips until she’d replaced the case, then inhaled deeply before saying, “I can’t believe you’d do something that stupid. Jesus Christ!”
Spoken without exhaling, her words sounded squeaky, which only added to my confusion.
“What’s wrong with applying for a job?” I asked. “Captain Simpson says the first mate job pays pretty good money.” I let her watch me survey the Corvette’s gauges and leather upholstery while adding, “Looks to me like you’re not doing too bad yourself.”
“Captain Simpson,” Gabby said, exhaling her contempt. “That’s a laugh. He’s a backstabbing asshole who hates women-never forget that.” She extended her hand, offering the joint, and waited until I shook my head before repeating, “What you did was so goddamn stupid! The straightest girl I’ve ever met, so quiet and polite in school. Hannah Smith-unbelievable.”
I figured she was referring to me being aboard Sybarite, a boat with a bad reputation, until she added, “Knock off the act, damn it! I saw you! Robert would’ve called the cops if I’d told him.” The girl considered me for a moment, then looked at the joint between her fingers as if reconsidering. “Or… maybe you are a cop. Is that what this is about?”
“Last two years,” I said, “I’m a fishing guide, mostly fly-fishing, that’s my specialty. I heard about the mate’s job from Cordial Pallet. You can ask him.”
Gabby was still staring, thinking about it. A grown woman who worried about spies and smoked weed in public parking lots would need more reassuring if I expected her to open up and explain what she was talking about. I hate cigarettes but remembered liking the taste of marijuana, which Delbert Fowler had finally gotten me to try the afternoon he’d asked me to be his wife. It was one of those rare days when the word no didn’t seem to be in my vocabulary, which has been the ruin of more than a few good women, I suspect. But all it had cost me was a one-night marriage and a few unpleasant hours feeling like someone had poured syrup on my brain.
“People change,” I told Gabby, using my fingers to pinch the joint from her hand. “If you’re accusing me of something, there’s not much I can say until I know what it is.” I put the joint to my lips, took a shallow puff, then another, before handing it back.
The woman murmured a phrase I hadn’t learned in college Spanish, then said, “You didn’t inhale. Think I’m stupid?”
“I like the taste but not the feeling,” I explained.
“You kidding. The guy I buy from calls this stuff ‘Sunshine Skyway.’” She took a dreamy drag to illustrate. “Says it’s like floating over water on a sunny day.”
I shook my head. “I’ve got my own boat, thanks. The taste, though, it’s nice. Sort of an herbal flavor, and it smells good. Like smoking tea, you think?”
“Tequila-” Gabby said, making no sense. Then she took a deep hit and held the smoke in for several seconds before exhaling, “-Tequila’s the same for me. I’ll order a shooter just to smell and sip it, but I only drink Grey Goose ’n’ cranberry. You really don’t like getting high?”
“I would if it didn’t make me feel so slow and stupid,” I answered. “A couple of mojitos with fresh mint, that’s a different story.”