"The Big Cypress is a good place to hide." Skink gave him a sideways glance.
"Not the swamp-rat routine," Decker said, "not tonight. Let's stay in town."
"You got somewhere that's safe?"
"Maybe."
"No hotels," Skink hissed.
"No hotels."
Decker parked at the curb and studied the house silently for several moments. It seemed impressively large, even for Miami Shores. There were two cars, a Firebird and a Jaguar sedan, parked in a half-circle gravel driveway. The sabal palms and seagrape trees were bathed by soft orange spotlights mounted discreetly around the Bermuda lawn. A Spanish archway framed the front door, which was made of a coffee-colored wood. There were no iron bars across the front window, but Decker could see a bold red sticker advertising the burglar alarm.
"You gonna sit here and moon all night?" Skink said.
They got out and walked up the driveway, the gravel crunching noisily under their feet. Skink had nothing to say about the big house; he'd seen plenty, and most were owned by wealthy and respectable thieves.
Indelicately Decker asked him to stand back a few steps from the door.
"So they don't die of fright, is that it?" Skink said.
Catherine answered the bell. "Rage," she said, looking more than a little surprised.
She wore tight cutoff jeans and a sleeveless lavender top, with no brassiere. Decker was ticked off that James the doctor had let her answer the door in the middle of the nightthey could have been any variety of nocturnal Dade County creep: killers, kidnappers, witch doctors looking for a sacrificial goat. What kind of a lazy jerk would send his wife to the door alone, with no bra on, at eleven-thirty?
"I would've called," R. J. Decker said, "but it's kind of an emergency."
Catherine glanced at Skink and seemed to grasp the seriousness of the situation.
"Come on in, guys," she said in a friendly den-mother tone. Then she leaned close and whispered to Decker: "James is here."
"I know." The Jag was the giveaway.
A snow-white miniature poodle raced full speed into the foyer, its toenails clacking on the tile. The moment it saw Skink, the dog began to snarl and drool deliriously. It chomped the cuff of his orange rainsuit and began tearing at the plastic. Wordlessly Skink kicked the animal once, sharply, skidding it back down the hall.
"Sorry," Decker said wanly.
"It's okay," Catherine said, leading them into the kitchen. "I hate the little bastardhe pees in my shoes, did I tell you that?"
Out of nowhere Skink said: "We need a place for the night."
Catherine nodded. "There's plenty of room." An emergency is right, she thought; that would be the only thing to get Decker to stay under the same roof.
Skink said: "Decker's hurt, too."
"I'm all right."
"What is it?" Catherine asked.
"I almost broke his neck," Skink said, "accidentally."
"It's just a sprain," Decker said.
Then James the doctorCatherine's husbandwalked into the kitchen. He wore a navy Ralph Lauren bathrobe that stopped at his pale hairless knees; he also wore matching blue slippers. Decker was seized by an urge to repeatedly slap the man in the face; instead he just froze.
James studied the two visitors and said, "Catherine?" He wanted an explanation.
Both Catherine and Decker looked fairly helpless, so Skink stepped forward and said, "This is your wife's ex-husband, and I'm his friend."
"Oh?" In his lifetime James had never seen anything like Skink up close, but he was doing his best to maintain a man-of-the-house authority. To Decker he extended his hand and said, "R.J., isn't it? Funny we haven't met before."
"Uproarious," Decker said, giving the doctor's hand an exceedingly firm shake.
"They're spending the night," Catherine told her husband. "R.J.'s trailer flooded."
"There's been no rain," James remarked.
"A pipe broke," Catherine said impatiently.
Good girl, Decker thought; still quick on her feet.
"I'm going to fix these fellows some tea," she said. "Everybody into the living room, now, scat."
The living room had been designed around one of those giant seven-foot televisions of the type Decker had seen at Dennis Gault's condominium. Every chair, every sofa, every bar stool had a view of the screen. James the chiropractor had been watching a videocassette of one of the "Star Wars" movies. "I've got all three on tape," he volunteered.
Decker was calming down. He had no reason to hate the guy, except maybe for the robe; anyway, it was Catherine who had made the choice.
James was slender and somewhat talltaller than Decker had expected. He had a fine chin, high cheekbones, and quick aggressive-looking eyes. His hair was reddish-brown, his skin fair. His long delicate hands were probably a competitive advantage in the world of chiropractic. On the whole he was slightly better-looking than Decker had hoped he would be.
"I've seen some of your photographs, and they're quite good," James said, adding: "Catherine has an old album."
A double beat on the word old.In a way Decker felt a little sorry for him, having two surly strangers in the house, and a wife expecting him to be civil. The man was nervous, and who wouldn't be?
Bravely James smiled over at Skink, a dominating presence in his fluorescent rainsuit. James said, "And you must be a crossing guard!"
Catherine brought cinnamon tea on a plain tray. Skink took a cup and drank it down hot. Afterward his dark green eyes seemed to glow.
As Catherine poured him another cup, Skink said: "You're quite a beautiful girl."
Decker was dumbstruck. James the doctor was plainly mortified. Skink smiled luminously and said, "My friend was an idiot to let you go."
"Thank you," Catherine said. She didn't act put out at all, and she certainly didn't act threatened. The look on her face was charmed and knowing. It was, Decker thought irritably, as if she and Skink were sharing a secret, and the secret was about him.
"Catherine," James said sternly, changing the subject, "have you seen Bambi?"
"He was playing in the hall a few minutes ago."
"He looked a little tired," Decker offered.
"Bambi?" Skink made a face. "You mean that goddamn yappy dog?"
James stiffened. "He's a pedigreed."
"He's a fucking rodent," Skink said, "with a perm."
Catherine started to laugh, caught herself. Even in his jealous snit, Decker had to admit they made a comical foursome. He was glad to see that Skink's momentary charm had evaporated; he was much more likable as a heathen.
James glared at him and said, "I didn't get your name."
"Ichabod," Skink said. "Icky for short."
Decker suspected, and fervently hoped, that Ichabod was not Skink's real name. He hoped that Skink had not chosen this particular moment, in front of these particular people, to bare the murky secrets of his soul. Catherine was known to have that effect on a man.
Inanely Decker said to James, "This is quite a place. Your practice must be going great guns."
"Actually," James said, "I picked up this house before I became a doctor." He seemed relieved not to be talking about the poodle or his wife's good looks. "Back when I was in real estate," he said, "that's when I lucked into the place."
"What kinda real estate?" Skink asked.
"Interval-ownership units," James replied, without looking at him.
"Timeshares," Catherine added helpfully.
On the sofa Skink shifted with an audible crinkle. 'Timeshares," he said. "Wherebouts?"
Catherine pointed to several small plaques hanging on one of the walls. "James was the top salesman three years in a row," she said. It didn't sound like she was bragging; it sounded like she said it to get it out of the way, knowing James would have mentioned it anyway.
"And where was this?" Skink pressed.
"Up the coast north of Smyrna," James said. "We did very well for a stretch in the late seventies. Then Tallahassee cracked down, the media went sour on us, and the interval market dried up. Same old tune. I figured it was time to move along to something else."