Okay, maybe I really wanted to find out what Harry knew about Maureen. What are old friends for if not to talk about another friend’s kidnapped husband?
19
Turtle Beach doesn’t have the floury white sand of Siesta Beach and Crescent Beach. Instead, its sand is dark and dense, the kind that turtles love to burrow into. Turtle Beach once led to a boat channel called Midnight Pass through which boats moved from the bay to the Gulf. But in a particularly boneheaded decision, the county tried to change nature’s intention by moving the pass, with the result that now there’s no pass at all, which pisses boaters off like you wouldn’t believe.
It was near sunset when I parked the Bronco and walked out on the beach. A gray cloud cover had moved in to turn the light sepia, giving the beach and the people on it the look of an old photograph. A potbellied tourist threw bread at gulls while his companions, two women in lawn chairs they’d unfolded on the sand, looked in vain for the fabled sunset colors. The gulls squawked disdainfully at the man’s bread and circled away. Disgusted, the man flapped his arms against his square hips and glared at the women as if it were their fault his crumbs had been rejected.
No doubt accustomed to taking the blame for life, they heaved themselves out of their chairs and refolded them. Slump-shouldered with disillusionment, all three trudged through the sand to their parking place, where they made a big to-do of brushing away the beach before getting in their sedan. The minute they drove away, the cloud cover parted and gulls swooped down and pecked at the bread. Clouds that had obscured the sun minutes ago now rode above the water like sky elephants with gilded backs. The sun slipped beneath the sea, leaving the sky shot with shafts of indigo and orange. Too bad those pessimists hadn’t been willing to watch a cloudy sunset.
Harry wasn’t among the people watching the day’s spectacular end, so I walked down to the Sea Shack, an open-air seafood joint where beach bums and sun-browned fishermen drink beer and play poker.
As far back as junior high, just hearing Harry Henry’s name had been enough to send me and my girlfriends into giggling fits, and not just because he had two first names and was movie star handsome. From the time his voice changed, Harry had been a babe magnet, and some of the babes were twice his age. By the time he was sixteen, already six foot three and eminently swoonable, he was rumored to have screwed half the girls in high school. He was also said to have been the reason for a hair-pulling fight between the English teacher and the math teacher.
When he and Maureen got together, it had seemed almost inevitable to the rest of us. Maureen’s reputation for being promiscuous hadn’t been as well earned as Harry’s, but once she realized that her body caused men to grow mush-minded when they looked at her, she’d used it. Somehow she and Harry didn’t discover each other until our senior year, and after that they’d been inseparable. They were beautiful together too, with some extra quality that sets stars apart from ordinary people. All us less good-looking and less sexy classmates had expected them to stay that way, together forever, always set apart by their beauty. Somehow, the fact that they were both dumb as a box of rocks made them even more endearing to us. They were our high school’s golden couple.
Then, before the ink was completely dry on our diplomas and our mortarboard tassels were still hanging from our rearview mirrors, Maureen had stunned us all by marrying a man none of us had ever heard of. Harry had taken it like a prize fighter who’d been dealt a major blow to the head. For a long time he’d wandered around in a bewildered daze, unable to comprehend that the girl he loved had actually married somebody else.
If Harry had possessed acting talent or ambition, he might have headed to Hollywood or a career as a male model. Instead, he’d stayed on Siesta Key and worked on chartered deep-sea fishing boats. He’d never married, but lived alone on an old house boat at the Midnight Pass marina.
I found Harry at the Sea Shack. It was that peculiar quiet time when the light takes on a translucent quality and the sea seems to hold its breath waiting for the evening tide. Harry was at a back table on one of the Shack’s benches. He was leaning against the sun-bleached wall, and he had a friend with him I’d never seen before—a long-haired dog with wide whiskers and a coat patterned like a tortoiseshell cat. The dog was sitting on the bench too, and it looked as if Harry was sharing from his plastic basket of fish and fries.
I stopped a waitress and asked her to bring me the house special and a beer, and went over and sat down on the bench across from Harry, swinging my legs over and under to face him. He and the dog looked at me with identical expressions of mild curiosity.
I said, “Harry, if that dog’s hanging out with you, he must have pretty poor taste.”
He grinned. The dog grinned. The dog wagged its tail. Harry grinned some more, and I had a feeling he was mentally wagging his tail.
He said, “I won him in a poker game. He’s not much to look at, but he’s one smart dog. I think he counts cards.”
I said, “What is he, a Scottie and a Lab?”
Harry ruffled the dog’s mottled fur affectionately. “Hell, Dixie, I don’t know who his ancestors were. I figure he’s an American dog, a little bit of every bloodline all mixed together. You don’t want to get too prissy about pedigrees. That’s the beginning of becoming a fossilized human being.”
Harry was right. I had got so used to expensive dogs with pure bloodlines that I’d forgotten how much energy and intelligence nature invests in mongrels.
I said, “I’m sorry, dog. I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings.”
Harry said, “His name is Hugh Hefner. On account of he’s old, but he’s still chasing young bitches. I just call him Hef.”
“Does he live in pajamas?”
“Naw, Hef goes nude. And don’t get me wrong, Hef don’t actually get personal with the females he chases, he just likes hanging out with them.”
The waitress brought my beer and a plastic knife and fork wrapped in a paper napkin. The Sea Shack doesn’t go in for frills. As she left, she patted Hef’s head.
I took a sip of beer. “I guess you’ve heard about Mo’s husband.”
He looked out at the sunset-glinted water. “Kind of hard not to. She’s on the TV every hour.”
“Harry, did you ever meet him?”
“Who?”
“Mo’s husband, Victor.”
He grinned, and for a moment he looked young and handsome again, even with skin dried and crosshatched as an old leather boot.
“Sure, him and me hung out together all the time. We was real jet-skiers together.”
I was pretty sure he meant jet-setters, but I let it pass.
“No kidding, Harry, did you?”
A flicker of pain flashed across his face. “Why do you ask me that, Dixie? I’m not good enough for Mo, remember?”
The waitress brought a red plastic basket filled with still-sizzling batter-fried strips of grouper and wide-cut french fries. Hef’s ears cocked forward while I lifted out the little paper cups of tartar sauce and coleslaw and arranged them next to my beer bottle. I reached for a bottle of Tabasco at the end of the table and sprinkled hot pepper sauce on the fish. I turned the basket so the fries were on the right and the fish on the left. It’s important to have your food at the right latitude before you eat it. I unwrapped my plastic fork and knife and smoothed my napkin on my lap. I forked up a bite of crisp grouper and put it in my mouth. I fanned my mouth and grabbed for the beer.
Harry grinned. “You still like stuff hot, huh?”
I gasped and drank some more beer. “Not that hot! Boy, that fish is right out of the fryer!”
He nodded proudly. “They do it good here.”