“You mean like falling in the blood?”
“Yes, like falling in the blood. Did you get any on your hands?”
“Just the palms and fingertips.”
“But you didn’t touch anything….”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Does the desk count?”
“Yes.”
“Then the desk…. And the doorframe and the railing on the stairs, and the butterfly chair when I slipped again, and one of the legs of his pants pulling myself up, and on the ransom note that I dropped when I fell again and left behind in all the excitement….”
The gang got up and started backing away.
“What?” said Fussels.
The screen door opened again.
Deputies Gus and Walter came in. “Is there a Gaskin Fussels here?”
They all pointed.
Gus produced handcuffs. “Gaskin Fussels, you’re under arrest for the murder of Douglas Fernandez.”
33
Captain Florida’s log, star date 385.274
Starting to have my doubts about this marriage thing. Thought it was going to take me to the next level, but so far all it’s been is moody obedience school. First Coleman breaking in during our Star Wars game, then more shit for going to the pub until three A . M . Didn’t think it could get any worse. Was I wrong! Had a full day planned with Coleman, but Molly wanted to pick out bathroom towels. I’d already packed my gear and told her I’d be happy with whatever she picked out. Next thing I know, I’m fucked without a clue. All this negative body language and those slamming doors again. I run after her and say, ‘What’s the matter, honey?’ And she says, ‘Nothing.’ But doors keep slamming. That’s the thing about marriage — I haven’t deciphered it yet. But I’ve just figured out the first thing. “Nothing” really means “something.” If it actually is nothing, they’ll tell you all about it, just yap and yap and yap about the most meaningless tripe while you’re trying to watch a documentary on Czar Nicholas, and finally I say — real nice — “Baby, I’ve kind of been looking forward to this show all week….” So now all of a sudden Czar Nicholas is more important than she is. Like a stupid idiot, I had to say he was — you know, Russia, dynasty, big turning point in global history. I’d tried climbing out of that hole but anything I said was just pulling more dirt down on myself. I called a married friend of mine in West Palm Beach and asked him what the hell was going on, and he said, “Are you nuts?” Turns out I’m supposed to pick out towels with her. It’s part of the marriage bonding. I didn’t know this. So I go to the department store, and she’s happy again, and we’re walking the aisles and pretty soon I want to cut my fucking head off. If I’m going to buy a towel, I walk in, grab a towel and buy the goddam thing. Then I wash with it. End of story, fade to black. But I find out that in marriage, the towel selection becomes some kind of introspective chick flick with Holly Hunter that lasts three hours and never goes anywhere. Molly keeps holding up towels and asking if I like them, and I nod impatiently, glancing at my watch. “Perfect. Love ’em. Let’s go.” And she says, “You don’t like them. I can tell.” And she picks up some more. “Love ’em. Spectacular.” “You’re just saying that.” It goes on like this for twenty more towels until she finally decides on the very first ones she showed me. We go to the counter and — get this, the little hand towel in the set is nine dollars! I say, “Holy cow! In some countries you can get blown for nine dollars!” Apparently this isn’t what she wanted to hear. What am I, psychic? It’s an around-the-clock minefield. Like whenever there’s a bunch of blood on my clothes — automatic question time. Oh, and friends. That’s another thing. I’m not allowed to have any. They’re bad influences. And she really hates Coleman. Doesn’t want him coming around anymore. I say he’s my best friend. She says she works hard to keep a clean home and can’t have him throwing up all over the place. I say, “But that’s what he does.” And whenever he is here, she’s always calling me aside for secret conferences, like, “What’s he doing?” And I say, “Drugs.” Come to find out it wasn’t really a question at all; it’s a rhetorical question — another curve ball! But here’s the biggest caveat: Actually, I can have a few friends, but they have to be married to her friends. After the towel travesty, there was this dinner at the head librarian’s house where I was supposed to meet all my new, approved buddies, like a forced marriage in Nepal. Guys who wear plaid sweater vests. Jeffrey, Ronald, Ned. I tell myself, “Don’t prejudge.” The women are in the kitchen, and we’re out back by the barbecue with glasses of Lipton having loads of chuckles, and then we go in the garage looking at tools and golf clubs and I’m bored as hell until I realize, hey, we’ve got everything here to make pipe bombs. In short, everyone got way too emotional in the emergency room, and now I’m the bad influence. I tell my wife, look, I didn’t want to hang out with the noodle-dicks to begin with…. And that’s why I’m writing this on Coleman’s couch. Still looking for the sorcerer’s key that unlocks it all. Night-night.
34
THE MORNING SKY was threatening a slight drizzle. The local fishermen stayed in, but the tourists still went out in their rental boats, arrays of fishing poles sprouting from their holders like antennas. They wore bright yellow and orange rain slickers and fought uphill against the choppy tide in Bogie Channel with a style of seamanship suggesting future Coast Guard rescues. The weather wasn’t that bad today, but tourists were known to go out even under storm flags. Vacation would not be denied.
Two people watched the bobbing vessels through the back patio windows of a waterfront ranch house on Big Pine Key. It was one of the older homes, built on the ground before flood-plane ordinance required stilts. The streets on this side of the island had names like Oleander, Hibiscus, Silver Buttonwood. The front yard was a field of little brown river rocks because fresh water was scarce for lawns. The rocks had an unintended security feature: You could always hear people driving up. In the middle of the yard was the centerpiece, a faux nineteenth-century ship’s anchor. That’s how visitors were given directions — “Just look for the anchor” — one of those big, three-hundred-pound jobs with a new antique verdigris finish, festooned with fishing nets and strings of colorful Styrofoam crab-trap floats. The nautical kitsch was surrounded by rings of cheerful lavender and pink flowers that had recently opened and would soon be chewed to the stems by night-feeding mini-deer. The original owner had known the bridge tender who was killed when a trawler struck the old Seven-Mile Bridge and was honored by a memorial plaque at the top of the new span that nobody could read because they were going by too fast and weren’t allowed to stop. A baby-blue sea horse sat over the numbers by the door. A dark sedan was parked half a block up the street.
The two people watching the boats were sitting at the kitchen table. They had been there since long before dawn. Periods of intense conversation or awkward silence. This was one of the quiet spells. The table had a glass top with a pebbly surface and a round, white metal frame. It could be used outdoors. There were two coffee cups on the table. Bottle of scotch. Pair of dark sunglasses.
“I need another Valium,” said Anna.
“You need to slow down.”
“Are you going to give me one?”
The man opened his wallet and scooped out a pill.
Anna tossed it in her mouth and chased it with the contents of her coffee cup.