… There was a smooth, shiny spot on the beam near his head, as though a couple of coats had suddenly been deemed necessary. He lifted his hand and ran his fingers over the spot; beneath the paint there was a pattern of inconsistencies in the surface, almost the suggestion of a bas-relief. Hmmm. He’d never done this, but it always seemed to work on television …
He took out a piece of paper, held it against the beam, and rubbed with the side of the pencil.
Three … four … two … no, that was it, the rest was too messed up to read. Evidently Ron had filled in the numbers with putty, but he hadn’t been very good at it.
Three-four-two were the first three digits of the old Elly Ann’s hull number. There was a point at which coincidence went too far, and Bailey was sure in his own mind that Ron Zygmore was alive and somewhere on his way to San Cristobel. Certainly Bailey had enough to justify a prolonged stay (sweet, heavy breath, and her heels pressing into his ass, and that tongue on his neck; no, that was for later, let’s get off this damned boat first) — he could call his clients tomorrow. They could decide for themselves whether they wanted to move ahead on his recommendation or get a sight-confirmation. Now that he had evidence, Bailey felt more than justified in billing them for the time he’d spend waiting for Ron to show up.
As he climbed over the gunwale, a hand grabbed his arm. Bailey looked into the face of a black man, about six feet, well-muscled, in a light jacket and chinos.
“Can I help you?”
Righteousness and threat were in the voice; Bailey decided not to pretend the Bastard Luck was his. “Maybe you can. I’m Roger McAdams, with the Bureau of Marine Tourism—”
“The what?”
That’s what happens, Bailey thought, when you don’t know shit about boats. His smile remained unshaken, with a surface confidence that only years of asking strangers for private information could give.
“Marine Tourism. We’re trying to promote the use of San Cristobel Harbor among tourists targeted for the Caribbean market. That means making it more attractive for Europeans—”
“Look, I don’t know who the hell you are, mister.” Bailey noted the bulge in the man’s jacket, as well as the simple fact that the man was wearing a jacket on this sunny day. Of course, Bailey had a jacket himself, and for much the same reason. “But I think you better get out of here before I call the police.”
“Hey, look, no offense. We’re just trying to talk to some of the tour captains—”
“This ain’t no tour boat. You see a sign saying TOUR?”
“Not everybody has signs posted—”
“Out of here, mister. Now.”
Bailey went, trying to look aggrieved. He felt the man’s eyes on his back, all the way down the pier.
Walking away, it occurred to him that for a forty-five-year-old floating house of wood, the thing was very well maintained, and the paint job was the least of it. It was too bad, in a way; too bad Ron’s love for this boat would go unrequited.
Bailey remembered the old Polaroid of the four men in a roadhouse, with “June ’73” in faded magic marker on the back. He could see the gangly, dark-haired kid with the beer and bandanna; he could see him lying on the deck here and looking up at the stars, dreaming about … about not even the big score; the moderate score. About retiring to this boat and never having to chain himself up from nine to five again.
Not a yacht in New York Harbor or a string of clubs in LA; innocent, working-class dreams for working-class drug runners. And what did the decades bring him instead? A divorce, one dead child, and the seduction of a decent 401k plan. The kind of thing that seems bearable until suddenly you look back and wonder …
Still, it was never nice when one of the four musketeers dumped the others over the side.
Bailey took his time making his way back to the car, checking periodically to see that his interrogator wasn’t following. When he reached Lilith’s convertible he was still drinking about it. Okay, treachery, pain, and a failed life; but at least, no bodies in the woods this time.
Well, no doubt there would be a body eventually …
It was for his clients in Atlanta to deal with that. Fortunately Bailey had ceased to believe in God some years before he went into this line of work; otherwise, he would have felt terribly betrayed.
When he got back to the house he found Teej lying on the sofa, reading. Lilith was still closeted in her office, no surprise there; she’d brought three phones and two fax machines with her, and took her work seriously.
Bailey took off his jacket; Teej was used to the gun. “Is there a television around here?”
“There’s one in my room. You can watch it, if you want.”
“Thanks.” Lilith was oblivious to much of popular media, but this case looked like a short one, she spent a lot of time working, and as far as Bailey was concerned, he was just glad to know the Queen of Air and Darkness had cable.
“Red Stripe beer in the fridge,” offered Teej, making the immediate connection between pay-per-view movies, hockey games, and grain alcohol. Teej was more into oddball PBS stations himself, but he was perceptive about the needs of others.
Bailey opened the refrigerator and pulled out one of the Red Stripes. As he straightened up, he found Teej standing behind the door. “What?” Bailey said.
“Um … do I get the convertible tomorrow?” Teej asked.
Bailey sighed. “I should never have taught you to drive. That’s the problem, right there.” He handed over the beer.
It was a beautiful night; he supposed they were all beautiful nights here. Bailey sat on the patio behind the house, his back against the wall of the kitchen, knees up. A breeze stirred the ferns and orchids that screened the driveway and the pool lay like a submerged grotto, lit from below. Teej was in his room watching the Discovery channel, or some such thing; Bailey could hear occasional scraps of television, very faint in the distance.
Footsteps tapped on the flagstones of the patio; Lilith deliberately making noise in her sandals, to let him know she was coming. She brought a bottle of champagne and a single glass, which she gave to Bailey.
“I know you like to watch me open these,” she said. And without benefit of corkscrew and no apparent effort, she pulled off the wrapper and the cork in one smooth gesture.
“I’m amused by simple things,” he said, holding out the glass for her to pour. He didn’t much like dry champagne, but he’d drink it anyway. She sat down beside him in her jeans and halter top, skin like snow under moonlight.
He was a thirty-five-year-old atheist sleeping with a Jewish vampire of indeterminate age, and he was drinking champagne because Lilith liked the tang. Work that one out, Ann Landers. Or maybe the Penthouse letters column would be more appropriate …
She rested one hand on his thigh as he drank. This was cozy, like coming home; the closest he’d ever come, anyway. The soft wind that ran up the hill from the ocean was like raw silk, a few degrees colder man usual. He’d worry about rain, except the night was so damned clear.
She was thinking the same thing, apparently, because she glanced upward, smiled, and said, “‘Look, how the floor of heaven is thick inlaid with patins of bright gold.’”
“What’s that from?”
“Merchant of Venice.” She poured him more champagne. Get that blood alcohol level up past.08, where she could taste it. He smiled; God, he was easy.
“And it means?”
“Come on, Bailey, you never see stars like this in the city.”
“Ah, stars. I thought you said ‘pattens.’ I wondered why the floor of heaven was covered with shoes.”