A younger man came out of the cabaña. He wore torn khaki shorts, and his hair was bleached white by the sun. He was slim-hipped, heavily muscled, with a huge, deeply tanned, symmetrical chest. He scuffed his hair with his knuckles.
“For Lord’s sake, Moss, you talk at a full holler. Who’s that?”
“Shut up. You got errands to do.”
The younger man shrugged and went back into the house. He had a square-jawed, sulky-looking face. He came out immediately, shouldering into a white sport shirt, and got into the gray sedan.
“Did you do a good business last year?” Paul asked.
“We didn’t get started last year. We closed her up and did some fishing.” Paul looked at him incredulously and saw that the man had nothing further to say. He said, “Well, I’ll be getting back.”
“Have yourself a good rest, fella.”
Paul walked back to the beach, and Winkler followed along with him. They went along the beach. Winkler gouged at the sand with his heel. “There’s the stake up there, and the property line comes right down across about here.”
The meaning was clear. Paul nodded, without speaking. When he looked back, the big man was standing spread-legged on the property line, scratching his red chest.
Back at the house, Paul stripped down to his shorts, efficiently mopped the floors in the small house, then went down the beach, waded in, and swam to cool off. He took an outside shower, dried himself off. The sun had made the sheets smell fresh. He made up the bed, unpacked. Through all the routine motions, he was thinking of Moss Winkler. The man acted as if he had a still on the place. An unpleasant type.
At five o’clock, Paul dressed and drove into Cove’s End. Some of the stores had new fronts. Two new buildings were going up. He parked outside a familiar bar called the Grouper Hole and went in. When his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he saw Al Wright behind the bar reading a comic book. Two intent fishermen were playing a crucial game of table shuffle-board. Two middle-aged women in sun suits and billed caps sat in a booth, drinking beer.
Al looked up as he approached the bar. His face lit up, and he stuck his hand out. “Paul Rayder! Where’s the monkey suit? This one is on the house. Scotch and water? Coming up.”
Paul looked around, slid up onto a stool. No redecoration here. The same dusty stuffed fish, same framed admonition against asking for credit.
“Staying long?” Al asked, putting the glass in front of him.
“I don’t know yet. I’m down at the house right now.”
“The whole darn town is sorry you sold out, Paul. That place attracted a nice class of people. Hear it’s a mess down there now.”
“It is that. Talked to Winkler. I can’t figure that guy.”
Al Wright leaned a bit closer and lowered his voice. “Neither can anybody else. That’s a good property he bought, and the town knows what he paid for it. After he bought it, he put up a no-vacancy sign, and after every cabin was empty, he puts up the closed sign. That doesn’t do the town any good. He and his people, they don’t even trade here unless they forget something they need in a hurry. What I say is, what’s going on out there?”
“Anybody have any guesses?”
“You know how the town is, Paul. If you’re fixing to spit, the whole town knows it before you start looking for a spot. They been trying to add two and two, and all they get is wild ideas. Me, I don’t go for gossip. You know that.” His broad dark face assumed an expression of complete innocence. “There’s that Moss Winkler. Then there’s a husky white-headed kid called Donny. And there’s a thin mean-looking guy called Corson. They do a lot of that there skin fishing — you know, spearing stuff underwater. They have parties sometimes, with girls down from Miami, and for a while they had some beat-up-looking little old girl cooking for them, but I hear she isn’t there anymore. Then they got some real slick friends come down in big cars. The town figured smuggling from Cuba for a while, but some of the boys kept track, and Winkler don’t take his boat out far, or meet anybody.” Al edged even closer. “Now, I got my own idea.”
“What’s that?”
“I think some of those big gangsters are using this Winkler as a front man and had him buy the place for a hideout. That’s why he doesn’t want any business there. He’s got to keep those cabins ready, see? Suppose the Senate committee is looking for a big shot and he wants to disappear for a while. Doesn’t that make sense?”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t want people around. He made that clear today.”
Al reached over and nudged him. “Sure. Sure. That’s a real private spot. He doesn’t want anybody around. He keeps your sign up. That’s just a front. He wants your house, too, the way I hear it. Funny she didn’t sell it to him. Paul, I’m sorry about you folks splitting up. I always liked Valerie, in spite of what they say. Another drink?”
“Please. What do they say?”
Al gave him a wide-eyed look. “You didn’t hear? I’m not one to gossip. You can depend on that. Wait’ll I fix your drink.”
He made the drink quickly and came back, wiping his hand on his apron. “Well, just before she sold, the town says, she got herself all jammed up with that Donny. Seems like he was staying there at one of your cabins, too. All alone. Folks saw ’em riding around together.” He leaned over and nudged Paul on the shoulder. “How do you like that! But, as I said, I always liked your wife, Paul. She sure worked hard after you were gone. The whole town was pulling for her to make out good. But then she ups and — boom, the place is sold.”
Al leaned his heavy tattooed arms on the worn bartop across from Paul. He said, “Of course, a bad thing like what happened to that Eddie Morrisey didn’t do the town no good. Makes the tourists nervous when one of our own people gets himself drownded.”
“Hit his head, I heard.”
“He did a fool thing — dove off the reef. That’s what they think, anyhow. It didn’t kill him. The drowning killed him. There was little pieces of coral in the wound on his head. I got a look at him that morning. Went down when I heard something was up. The tide brought him in, and it was a good thing he wasn’t in there long enough for anything to start eating on him, because it was his wife found him and drug him out of the shallows. That Linda is a real nice girl, Paul. They had to give her shots, and they took her up to Homestead and put her in the hospital. Closed up the restaurant, of course. Her ma came down, and they took Eddie up and buried him in Ohio someplace. We figured the restaurant would go on the market then, brand-new and all, but no, sir. Two weeks, and the two of them are back down. Linda a lot more quiet-like, but with her jaw stuck out, and they’re making it pay off. Another drink?”
“Not right now, thanks, Al.”
“Put your money back in your pocket. Here, I’ve been doing all the talking. You come back in and tell me about this Korea deal sometime, hear?”
When Paul went out, the sun was almost gone. He got into his car and drove to the Sand-Dollar Inn. There were three other cars parked there. Inside, all was crisp and shining, with tile floor, bright plastic upholstery on the chairs, booths, counter stools. Behind the counter was an opening where he could see into a kitchen that looked as aseptic as a laboratory. He walked to a booth, and a tall bright-haired girl hurried over with a formal smile and a menu. She looked familiar, and he suddenly realized she was the oldest daughter of Mack Randolph, who owned the Cove’s End Market.
“Aren’t you Marie Randolph?”
She gave him a startled, puzzled look, and then her eyes widened a bit. “Gee, I didn’t recognize you, Mr. Rayder.”
“How’s your father?”