The water picked up speed again, and when I tried to swim toward the side of the levee, I was so exhausted I just let it carry me on. In a moment, the current slowed again, then stopped. The water was suddenly warmer. And salty. And endless. I was in Biscayne Bay. Keep swimming east and I'd hit the coast of Africa.
A gentle tide was headed out to sea, and so was I. Floating on my back again, I turned over and did a slow crawl, angling north along the shoreline. Just offshore, the lights of a shrimp boat twinkled in the night. I swam in that direction. A fish jumped from the water, silvery in the moonlight.
I swam some more, picking up strength, cutting smoothly through the flat, warm water. Suddenly I was thirsty, and I thought of Harrison Baker and his tale of fresh water spouting up in the middle of the bay. I thought of the coral reef not far south of here, alive with fish. I thought of all that lay beyond the horizon, so much of it unknown. As a boy, I had wanted to run away to the sea. Now, here I was, wanting to come back to land. There, too, to face the unknown.
15
The policeman knocked on the door and waited. So did I.
Water dripped from my clothing onto the dark wood of the hallway. Blood trickled from a dozen scratches on my forehead, legacy of the thorns. Even worse, my nose itched, and with my hands cuffed behind my back, I couldn't scratch it.
Through a window at the end of the hall, I could see the orange glow of the sun rising over the ocean. It had been a long night.
The cop knocked again, louder. A muffled voice came from the other side of the door. A moment later, Chrissy Bernhardt, dressed in a black-and-red silk kimono, cracked open the door, the chain still attached. She didn't seem surprised to see a cop at her door at dawn.
"Sorry to bother you, ma'am," the Miami Beach cop said. Yeah, he actually said "ma'am," just like in the movies. The cop was in his fifties, probably a year or so away from a retirement watch and juicy pension. He pushed me toward the door. "Do you know the subject?"
"Subject?" I asked, offended. "I always thought of myself as more of a verb."
"Let me get a good look at him," Chrissy suggested. She pursed her lips and studied me through sleepy eyes. "He has a certain animalistic charm, don't you think, officer?"
"I wouldn't know."
"Could we strip-search him?"
"Chrissy!" I protested.
"So you do know him," the cop said.
"Intimately," she said, pursing her lips.
"Can you state with certainty whether he's an American citizen?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
" Si, jefe," I answered in a really bad imitation of the Frito Bandito. "I love thees country very much."
" 'Cause he floated up the beach this morning, landed near South Pointe, just like one of those Cuban rafters. I was ready to turn him over to Immigration, get him a deportation hearing."
"I was sort of hoping for France," I broke in, "though I'm told the Costa del Sol is nice this time of year."
The cop shook his head. "He claimed he was swimming, then was picked up by a shrimper who dropped him just offshore. Says he was on his way to see you, but he's got no ID, no money… and just look at him."
I was standing in a puddle of water. My face felt swollen, and my back ached.
"He is a mess," Chrissy agreed.
"A warm bath ought to help," I suggested.
"Maybe you should leave those cuffs on, officer," Chrissy said.
The cop was already fishing for his key. "No can do. City property."
The hot water trickled down my chest as Chrissy squeezed the sponge, a real one that used to float in the gulf off Tarpon Springs. She leaned forward and I leaned back. She was behind me in the big old tub with the claw feet, her legs wrapped around my waist, her soapy breasts pressed against my back.
Chrissy had already dabbed my cuts with hydrogen peroxide and scrubbed seaweed from various crevices and orifices. Now she was letting the warm water lull me into a fuzzy state of sleepiness and semi-arousal.
Which was when her breasts began pressing against me, and her nipples hardened.
And so did I.
She was moving the sponge lower now. Down my chest, down the washboard abs, not quite as tight as they used to be, down, down, down. And then back up again.
"Tease," I complained.
"Just relax, Jake. We have all day."
I leaned back against her again. I closed my eyes and sank lower into the water, inhaling the sweet, soapy fragrance of her wet hair. She hugged me tight and said, "It feels good to take care of you. You've done so much for me."
"I haven't done anything yet, and I'm worried about-"
"Shhh. Not now."
I let myself drift, still feeling the ocean swells rising beneath me. A feeling of calm. But not peace. The nagging questions hung over me. I would ask Chrissy. Later.
A little plop in the water, and Chrissy said, "Whoops, dropped the soap."
Her hands moved down my chest again, and lower still. Once underwater, she latched onto me. "Whoa, Jake. Did you bring an oar with you?"
"Yeah. I thought I might row your boat."
"Precisely what I had in mind."
She gracefully slid out from behind me, swung around, and sat down facing me, her legs spread. We slid closer, and her long legs wrapped around my hips. Warmed by the water and the wet friction of body parts, we kissed-a long, sweet, soft kiss. The second kiss was harder, more urgent. The third kiss, or maybe it was an extension of the second, was filled with gasps and the biting of teeth on lips. I opened my eyes to see Chrissy open hers, a startled look on her face. In that moment, as she wriggled closer, lifting her hips and lowering herself onto me, I looked into her eyes and saw something I wanted to believe no other man had ever seen. She had felt something, something new, I was sure.
A man's conceit.
Making love to a woman.
Believing it had never been like that for her before.
I've had women say it. Once in a while even scream it. But I never believed it. Hell, no one's that good. Chrissy didn't say a word. But her look, as if she were in an altered state; her sounds, the guttural urgency that rose from within her; and the movement of her body against mine-finally led to an explosion that rocked us both and settled me deeper into her.
After a moment she said, "I love you, Jake. God, how I love you."
Chrissy was looking for something to wear.
One hand fanned through her closet; the other clutched a liter bottle of French water. Four bottles a day, she told me. For the complexion. A cigarette dangled from her mouth. For the lungs.
The closet was filled with clothing. Packed tight. Disorganized. Tasteful suits that Audrey Hepburn or Grace Kelly might have worn, jammed next to beaded, see-through bodysuits that could get you arrested in Tupelo, Mississippi. Skirts that stopped just below the knee, just above the knee, way above the knee, and some so short they were hardly there at all. Sculpted stiletto-thin dresses, shapeless tentlike dresses, ribboned dresses, embroidered dresses, chained dresses, one held together with a dozen brass safety pins, all for show.
When she couldn't find anything in the closet, Chrissy swung open a six-foot-high cardboard closet, the kind movers use. There were two of these boxes in the bedroom, another three in the corridor. Inside, structured jackets, destructured jackets, crepe trousers, leather trousers, dresses with tie-up corsets and others that looked like bustiers, and lots of black and red.
"This is going to take a while, isn't it?" I said.
"Sorry, Jake, but I just don't have a thing to wear."
"Hey, we're just getting a burger at the News Cafe. Gianni Versace isn't going to be there."
"He was last week."
"Oh."
My sweatpants and Raiders jersey had just finished tumbling in her dryer. I was wearing Chrissy's kimono, but it looked a hell of a lot better on her. She was scattering assorted articles of clothing across her bed but seemed on the verge of selecting some Levi's with holes in the knees when I brought it up. "What is it you're not telling me?"