Idiots, she thought.
Even in the middle of Biscayne Bay there was no avoiding this distinctly male brand of bad behavior. A sea breeze delivered their randy chuckles and lewd low-toned commentary, one of the men offering a favorable critique of her legs while the other speculated hopefully on the presence of a tattoo. In vain Joey prayed that their frat-house blather would be drowned out by Strom's manic barking. Yet when she looked up again, the boat was no more than sixty or seventy feet from the seawall.
"Hey, babe," one of the men said. "Let's see those tits again."
Joey could easily imagine Chaz in that skiff, making the same smurking, cloddish approach to a total stranger. Calmly she got up and walked to the shed where Mick stowed his fishing tackle. He'd been teaching her how to cast a spinning rod, and it seemed like a good opportunity to practice her accuracy. Distracted by a second sighting of her breasts, the two fishermen failed to take note as Joey tied the large plastic minnow to the line-a hefty deep-sea plug bristling with multiple sets of treble hooks.
Strom circled deliriously as Joey advanced, weapon in hand, to the end of the dock. The young man in the bow of the skiff was emitting a gargling sound, presumably in appreciation of Joey's physique, as she drew back the spinning rod. His gaze never left her chest, so he didn't see the fishing lure arcing brightly through the noonday sky. Joey wasn't sure if she snagged his shirt or the flesh of his neck, but in any case she jerked hard enough to spill the howling imbecile into the water.
She had reeled him halfway to shore when Strom, surrendering to ancient instincts, sprung off the dock and lustily attached himself to the thrashing angler's thigh. His companion bellowed in alarm but gave no thought to heroics; instead, he jammed the skiff's throttle into reverse and backed smartly away from the island.
The tumult was still in evidence when Mick Stranahan arrived a few minutes later in the Whaler with Rose, Joey's worldly friend from the book group. Strom released his grip on the fisherman and paddled somewhat ineffectively toward Mick, who with Rose's assistance hauled the slippery dog into the boat. Making no move to unhook the swimmer, Stranahan bit through the fishing line and instructed the driver of the skiff to come fetch his dumbass partner. The cucumber-sized lure remained attached like a garish brooch to the floundering man's shirt. Joey also spotted a ragged hole in his cargo shorts-Strom's zestful contribution-as the man clambered over the gunwale of the skiff, which immediately departed at top speed.
The wild scene seemed surreal to Rose, who hopped off the Whaler, hugged Joey ferociously and exclaimed, "You're the hottest-looking dead person I ever saw!"
Joey noticed that Rose had bleached her shoulder-length hair to a hue of blond that would have impressed the Gabor sisters. She wore a pullover, black tights and white high-top sneakers-on her way to the gym, no doubt, when Mick had intercepted her.
He pointed toward the receding speck that was the green skiff, heading for the mainland. "Those jackasses give you a hard time?"
"They tried," Joey said, "but Strom and I taught 'em some manners."
Mick pulled her close, kissed her neck and whispered: "Better put your top on. You're getting fried."
While Rose and Joey caught up, Mick set the picnic table and fixed a lunch of conch chowder, grapefruit salad, sardine sandwiches and sangria. It was a coolish day and they took their time, Rose frequently interrupting Joey's story to rail against Chaz Perrone.
"That sonofabitch," she said for at least the fifth time. "I still can't believe he pushed you overboard!"
Joey said, "And I can't believe I didn't break my neck."
"You still haven't gone to the cops?"
"This way is better. This way I'm getting answers."
"Speaking of which," Rose said, rummaging through her handbag, "I think I found what you wanted at the library."
She produced a folded stack of Xeroxed newspaper clippings. Stranahan grinned as he read the first headline aloud: LOCAL FARM CITED AS GLADES POLLUTER.
"Surprise, surprise," Joey said.
Rose noisily attacked a carrot stick. "So, tell me. Who is this Samuel Hammernut, and what's he got to do with your husband?" "He owns him," Mick interjected, "or so it appears." Joey told Rose about the water-testing that Chaz did in the Everglades, and about the new Humvee purchased for him by Hammernut Farms. Rose gave her a consoling hug and said, "No offense, sweetie, but I always knew that man was a whore. So, what's next?" "My brother's flying into Lauderdale on Monday." Rose looked intrigued. "The one from Australia, who nobody's ever seen?"
"New Zealand," said Joey. "You and Corbett are the only ones who know I'm still alive. Besides Mick, I mean."
"Who, by the way, wouldn't even tell me how you two met."
Joey gave Mick the "Are you kidding me?" frown. "He saved my life is all," she said to Rose. "He's the one who pulled me out of the ocean."
Rose reached for the pitcher of sangria. "That is so incredibly romantic. He actually saved you? Like from drowning?"
"Sharks, too," Mick added dryly. "And giant mutant octopi."
Joey pinched his earlobe. She was glad that he'd cooled off since last night at Flamingo. He had been furious to hear that she'd left the motel room to chat with Chaz's bodyguard.
Rose said, "I assume that your brother's coming here to kick Chaz Perrone's cowardly ass."
"He'd love to, but no," said Joey. "He's arranging a memorial service for me at some church in Boca. There'll be a notice in the papers."
Rose looked at Stranahan and then back at Joey. "You guys are bad."
"Not compared to Chaz," Mick said.
Rose set down her glass and rubbed her hands together. "So, tell me. What can I do to help?"
Joey said, "You can come to the service."
"Of course."
"And hit on my husband."
Rose thought about it for a beat or two. "Do I have to sleep with him?"
"I'd rather you didn't," Joey said.
Charles Regis Perrone had a bounty of experience dealing with aggrieved women, and for Ricca he pulled out all the stops. Twelve dozen long-stemmed roses, Godiva chocolates, a magnum of Dom- all were delivered to her apartment that Saturday afternoon. Still, she wouldn't pick up the telephone. Her adamantine refusal to make contact was exasperating but also arousing; a tough, take-charge side of Ricca that Chaz had never seen. He was confident that once she agreed to meet with him, he could win her back with his dependable arsenal of stage charm, counterfeit sincerity and unforgettable sex. As he rang her doorbell for the third time, Chaz checked his pockets for the potent blue pills that would, if all else failed, endow the ultimate persuasion. "Go away," Ricca said from the other side of the door.
"Sweetheart, please."
"Fuck you, Chaz."
"Honey, this isn't fair."
When Chaz heard the click of the dead bolt, his spirits soared. The door opened and Ricca said, "What the hell happened to you?"
"Mosquitoes."
"Your ears look like rotten guavas."
"Gee, thanks. Can I come in?"
"You've got five minutes."
Chaz stepped inside. He tried to hold her but she pulled away.
"Where are all the roses?" he asked.
"Dumpster," Ricca said.
Chaz winced, thinking of the bill from the florist.
"The champagne, I poured down the toilet," she added.
"I see. And the chocolates?"
"Oh, those I'm keeping," Ricca said, "except for the nougats. You've got four minutes left."
She was standing against the door, one hand poised on the knob. She wore rumpled sweats and no makeup, and she looked exhausted.
"What's going on? Why won't you see me?" Chaz asked.
"Because you killed your wife."