A woman was approaching on the sidewalk. Middle-aged, cropped dark hair, jeans and sweatshirt. Sandy was slightly disappointed. But what had she expected — ruffled blouse and peasant skirt, like they wore at the Portuguese Festival? Sandy had been a kid when she went. She'd wanted her own ruffled blouse and peasant skirt, for about a week.
At least she'd learned a few words of Portuguese, in that week.
And the memory had brought her here, now.
The woman peered in the car as she passed. Sandy slumped lower.
Three more people passed by. None of them John Silva. Maybe she’d have to start asking around. Yeah, and people here were going to tell an outsider where John Silva could be found? But ten minutes later she spotted him coming up the sidewalk and she didn’t feel so foolish.
She got out and headed his way.
He was a short wiry man in the jeans/sweatshirt uniform. He had curly blond hair, a lot tamer than her own bushy curls. A lot blonder — from the sun, not the bottle, she guessed. Squarish face, set jaw, hideous red welt crawling up his cheek. He moved slowly but at least he was functioning. He saw her coming. He stopped, deer in the headlights, then turned and headed the other way.
She went after him. “You’re John Silva.”
He picked up his halting pace.
She easily matched him. “Joao?” she tried.
He glanced her way then snapped his look to the sidewalk.
“Do you speak English?”
“No English,” he muttered. He suddenly veered across the street. No crosswalk. No traffic either.
She came along. “I can say a couple things in Portuguese. Learned at the Festival when I was a kid, eating sopas.” Boiled meat and cabbage poured over a slab of bread. “Boa comida.” Good food.
It worked. He smiled.
She seized the chance. “I’m Sandy Keasling. Captain of the Sea Spray. I’m the one who pulled you out of the ocean yesterday.”
He gave a shudder. He said, finally, “Thanks you.”
“No English?”
“Little English.”
They’d nearly stopped. There was a park just ahead, a patch of grass with kiddie swings and picnic tables. She pointed. “Can we sit?” She angled off the sidewalk, onto the park path, throwing him a look. “Please? Por favor?” Shit — that was Spanish.
Well, good enough. He came along with her and sat on the bench opposite her, arms folded on the table. If she was reading his body English right, he thought he owed her for the rescue but he didn’t trust her.
She said, “What happened to you out there?”
He sat silent.
She touched her cheek.
He reddened. The welt itself purpled.
“Jellyfish,” she said. No clue how to say that in Portuguese. She cupped her hands and wiggled her fingers like tentacles.
He nodded. Face suddenly going pale.
“One of those purple-stripe jellies?” she asked.
He stared at her.
She looked around the park. Nothing purple. Not that she expected a purple wildflower here, now.
He said, almost a whisper, “Grande.”
She figured ‘grande’ meant big, just like in Spanish. Purple-stripes were big, all right. She’d seen them with bells up to two feet across. She nodded. “Grande.”
He whispered, “Enorme.”
“You saying enormous? Okay, I got it. Big.” If she had the language — or the mime skills — she’d ask him if he came across any Humboldt squid, or any whacked-out fish, anything like she’d seen yesterday out at Birdshit. On today’s runs, both morning and afternoon, she’d avoided the rock. No reason to rile the passengers. Yesterday’s load had been so freaked they didn’t leave tips. Eh, no reason to think Mr. Joao Silva came anywhere near Birdshit yesterday. But then where did he come from?
She said, “Where? How far away?” She flung her head back, flung out her arms, treading water. Body Portuguese, she hoped, for you were floating in the water half-dead. She straightened. “How far from where I found you?”
He shrugged. Universal body language.
“What happened to your boat?”
He shrugged.
“What were you doing? Why were you diving?”
He smiled, helpless.
“You had a dive bag. You had something in the bag. It was red.” Now she looked around for something colored red to point to but everything in this damn park was brown and green, except the swings and they were kiddie-pool blue. She held out her hands and shaped a bag. Mimed opening it, putting something into it.
“Nao compreendo,” he said.
She narrowed her eyes. Oh yeah, I bet you do compreendo. You just don’t want to say. She said, “I saved you. You owe me an explanation.”
“No so much English.”
“Why’d you leave the hospital?”
He shook his head, smiling.
“You illegal?” she snapped.
He jerked. She might as well have slapped him.
She said, “It’s okay. I don’t give a… I’m not a cop. No policia. Whatever.”
His hands were flat on the table. Ready to shove him up and get gone.
She’d hoped he would talk to her, right here. But she hadn’t counted on it. She said, “If you’re scared the policia will find you — or anybody who’s looking for you — guess what? Took me about ten minutes to figure out where to look.” That was a lie. It had taken her all afternoon but no reason to tell Silva that.
He was sweating now.
She was hurting. Migraine starting up. Too little sleep, too much worry. All thanks to Lanny. She needed to find out what was in the dive bag, why it was so damn valuable that Lanny had to steal it, lie about it. She could hope that Lanny hadn’t done something unfixable, like he'd done five years ago. Like she'd done. The Shitstorm. She breathed deep. Knuckled her forehead. The sea snake that liked to squeeze her brain began to uncoil.
Silva stared at her.
She held his look. Set the bait. “Look Joao, you want your dive gear? That how you make a living? I bet you can’t afford to replace it, right?”
He went rigid. Listening hard.
She pointed at him. “Joao’s dive gear.” She pointed at herself. “Come to my house. Compreendo?”
He slowly nodded.
“You come to my house, we’ll see about your gear, maybe talk a little more?”
“You house?
“Yes. I saved your life. I wish you no harm.” She placed her hand over her heart. “Friend.”
He took a long time with that, maybe calculating the cost of new dive gear, but then at last he placed his hand over his own heart. “Amigo.”
Same as the Spanish. So we got big, and friend. Her Spanish was iffy but in a pinch, worth a try.
Sandy did not try to question Silva during the drive to her place.
Best to get him there first.
She pulled off the highway, onto the windy road that ran through the pines, and when her house on the bluffs came into sight Silva let out a huh of surprise. People always made some sound when they first saw the place. Surprise, awe, jealousy. Not the house they thought of when they thought of Sandy Keasling.
The hacienda rambled long and low, commanding its view of the sea, red tile roof and wood-trim windows and whitewashed walls and a long narrow porch with carved oak posts. It took people’s breath away, until they got close enough to see the flaking paint and windows that did not sit flush on their sills.
She stopped the car and they got out. Silva started for the front door. She was going to have to disappoint him. No hacienda tour. She touched his arm, motioning him in a different direction.