Yes?
So far, so good, everything on the up and up.
Now came the change of pace.
Mr. Hurley, my client has given me your name as a witness to certain events that occurred on the morning of January thirtieth. Before we answer the State Attorney’s demand for notice of alibi. I wonder if I could have a few words with you.
So, okay. Two possible reactions.
Yes, I am that person your client saw running off, and I did witness a murder, but We been afraid to come forward. It wasn’t your client who committed that murder, it was…
Who?
That was the first possible scenario.
Benevolent witness fingers the true murderer. In which case, all of Matthew’s troubles would be things of the past, and so would Parrish’s.
Second scenario.
The dangerous one.
I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.
In which case. Mr. Hurley, the possible man in black, was also the possible murderer.
What then?
Sorry to’ve bothered you. sir. and get the hell out of there before Hurley…
Before he what?
Matthew wished Warren Chambers and his gun were here at the Calais Beach Castle.
Head ducked, umbrella tilted against the driving rain like a black shield shunting enemy arrows. Matthew hurried across the courtyard, dodging puddles, leaping across rivulets, and in general doing a fairly good job of broken field running until he stepped shin-deep into a pothole brimming with cold brown water.
“Shit!” he said, and heard someone laugh behind him. and turned to see Irene McCauley standing just outside the office door, hands on her hips, legs fully revealed now and as long and as shapely as he’d suspected they were. Tight black shorts, loose black halter top. legs slightly spread in black backless high-heeled sandals — he suddenly realized what she reminded him of the poster for Damn Yankees, when he was still a kid and the show was playing Chicago. Lola getting whatever Lola wanted by standing spread-legged in what looked like just her underwear and black high heels, give ‘em the leg-and-crotch shot, Gwen.
“That’s a real bad one,” Irene said. “Catches a lot of people. I should have warned you.”
“Better late than never,” he said sourly.
His shoe, his sock, and part of his trouser leg were covered with mud. He looked down at them. He lifted the sodden trouser. Mud on his leg, too, above the sock. He put down his foot. Water squished in his loafer.
“Let me get you a towel,” Irene said, and went back into the office.
He followed her there. He stood outside on the front step, under the umbrella, looking out at the rain, feeling stupid.
“Well, come on in,” she said. “This isn’t a priceless Persian rug.”
It wasn’t a priceless any kind of rug, for that matter. It was only green linoleum, worn through in spots, especially directly in front of the counter and in front of the sofa on the right-angle wall. The screen door clattered shut behind him. He had the sudden feeling — as he sat on the sofa and took off his loafer and his sock, as he accepted a clean white towel from this woman with the solemn blue eyes and the shiny brown hair — that he had lived through all of this before, had sat in a small room that smelled of wet garments and dry heat while the rain fell steadily outside.
“Thank you,” he said.
Their eyes met.
“I should have warned you,” she said again.
He began drying his leg, his foot.
“Let me wring out that sock for you,” she said.
“No, really…”
“No trouble,” she said, and picked it up from where it lay on the floor near his loafer, her hand in sudden closeup, fingernails painted a bright red, hand closing on the blue sock, she moved out of the frame, he raised his eyes. She opened the screen door, stood holding it open with her hip as she wrung out the sock.
Beyond her, rain swept the courtyard.
He had been here before, had lived through these moments before.
“I love rain,” she said suddenly.
The screen door clattered shut again.
“Let me throw this over the heater,” she said.
“I really have to see Mr. Hurley,” he said.
“He won’t be going anywhere in this rain,” she said, and went behind the counter. He watched as she draped the sock over the protective guard of the electric heater. “I’ll have to fill in that hole once the season’s over,” she said. “Come summer, it gets dead as a doornail down here, I’ll have plenty of time to fix it.”
The rain beat steadily on the roof.
A faint trace of steam was already rising from the blue sock.
“Better be careful it doesn’t burn,” she said.
And smiled.
“Are you just visiting Calusa?” she asked. “Or do you live here?”
“I live here.”
Their eyes met again.
“Then maybe you can come help me fill in that hole,” she said. “Come summer.”
Silence.
Except for the rain.
A steamy, wet silence.
And the certain knowledge that he had been in this musty room before. The worn linoleum. The louvered windows. Even the calendar on the wall. The rain. Primarily the rain. Enclosing them. Containing them. Beating on the roof.
“Think you might like to do that?” she said.
“Your husband might want to take care of that,” he said.
“Not likely,” she said.
“No, huh?”
“Seeing as he’s been dead for four years.”
“I’m sorry,” Matthew said.
“Not me.”
Matthew smiled.
“How’s my sock doing?” he asked.
“You seem in a big hurry to see this Hurley,” Irene said.
“I don’t want to miss him.”
“Maybe you ought to consider what else you might be missing.”
She went to the heater, touched the sock. “Still damp,” she said.
“I’ll have to wear it anyway,” he said.
She shrugged, took the sock off the heater, and carried it to where he was sitting on the sofa.
“How long will you be with him?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll be having a drink along around four,” she said. “You’re welcome to join me. If you’re interested.”
“I’m interested,” he said. “But I have another appointment at five.”
“Oh,” she said.
She watched him as he put on the sock.
“You’ve got nice feet,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“I’ve got the ugliest feet in the world,” she said, and fell silent.
He put on his shoe.
“I don’t know your name,” she said.
“Matthew Hope.”
“How do you do. Matthew?”
She extended her hand.
He took it.
“Call me sometime,” she said.
“I will,” he said.
“Whenever,” she said. “I’ll be here.”
“I will,” he said again, and released her hand. He walked to the door, picked up his umbrella, searched for the release catch on it.
“Any other potholes out there?” he asked.
He was smiling.
“There’s one just outside unit number ten, about five yards from the front door. Just skirt wide of it.”
She was smiling, too.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t get lost now,” she said.
“I won’t,” he said.
He snapped open the umbrella and stepped out into the rain. She came to the screen door and stood watching him as he started across the courtyard.
He resisted the temptation to show off for her, dash across the courtyard like a Marine storming a machine-gun nest, stomp heedlessly into the mud, bullets flying everywhere around him. Instead, he proceeded slowly and cautiously, not wanting to step into another tureen of muddy water, wanting only to talk to Hurley now, find out what Hurley had to say.