“Stop that!” I hollered.
After flicking his hair back, Meeks did it again. WHAP!
The book… where was the fake book I’d left on the seat? While my eyes darted back and forth, Meeks began circling the boat, which floated the transom toward me. That’s when I saw it, the title Negotiators gleaming from beneath a life jacket. The book was within reach, but had Meeks tricked me again? Had he opened the cover, saw what was inside, and taken the gun?
“Ricky,” I said, leaning to move the life jacket, “I worked hard to pay for this skiff. If you want to have some private fun, something rough and naughty, we can discuss it. But put one more scratch on my skiff, all you’re going to get from me is lies and disappointment.”
Meeks leaned his hand on the bow. “What did you say? Rough and naughty, huh?” The man grinned.
In any other situation, I would have called the change that came over Ricky amusing. Not looking up, I said, “You heard me. I’m not in the habit of repeating myself.”
He laughed, hesitated, then said, “You’re lying,” and started toward me again. “How dumb you think I am?”
Now I had the book in my hands, knowing from the weight that the pistol was inside. “Not dumb enough to force a girl who’s willing,” I said into the man’s black eyes. Then, with a smile that Hannah Three might have offered, I placed the book on the gunnel and began unbuttoning my Navaho shirt, hoping Ricky would stop to watch.
He did. Stood facing me, half a boat length away, and said, “Bullshit!” before his ego reminded him that he was irresistible. “On the other hand…” He paused to give it some thought. “Hey-I get it! You read all the sweet things Olive Oyl wrote about me in her diary-good sex scenes, I’ll bet. Real… naughty, like you say. That’s what decided you you need a dose of Big Rick, huh?”
No… it wasn’t the grinning man’s ego talking, it was his sly brain setting a trap. Someone had told him I’d found Olivia’s missing pages-entries that could prove she had been raped and robbed. That’s why he’d searched my boat. Probably why he’d driven all the way to Fishermans Wharf. Only two suspects flashed into my mind-Martha Calder-Shaun one of them-but I wasn’t going to admit anything by asking for names. Instead, I undid another button, touching my free hand to the book for balance, and played the role of a silly girl. “You keep talking about other women, I might tend to my water pump first. Who’s Olive Oyl?”
Ricky Meeks had two grins. The one he’d practiced in the mirror and another that revealed who he really was. It was a vicious, pit bull leer that turned him into the painting I’d seen, a faceless head with horns. He spooked me with that grin now, taking another easy step, as he said, “You lying slut, you know exactly the girl I mean. Olivia’s so goddamn bony, she’s bruised me almost as bad as the bruises I put on her.”
It was a brag, not a slip of the tongue, and Ricky was disappointed that, instead of cringing, I picked up the book as if bored.
“What the hell you going to do with that?” he demanded, pointing the axe handle. “Plan to read me a bedtime story after I take some skin off your back?” Then, staring at my blouse, smiled, “Not bad, sugar… not bad at all.”
I had undone a third button, enough for him to see me spilling out of Mrs. Whitney’s 34D Chantelle bra, which held his bug-eyed attention while I opened the book and swung the pistol clear.
“No, Ricky,” I said, pointing the gun at him, “what I plan to do is shoot you in the chest-if you don’t drop that club and start walking backward. Now.” My uncle’s customized Devel was a double-action pistol, so I didn’t have to thumb the hammer back. But I did, making a click-click sound that replaced Ricky’s leer with a dazed, dumb look.
My favorite part in Hannah Three’s journals is where she describes getting her abusive husband so drunk that he wakes up naked, a baited fishing line knotted around his male privates, while hundred-pound tarpon school beneath her boat.
I had memorized what Aunt Hannah said to her soon-to-be-ex: I don’t have a damn bit of use for that thing anymore, so it’s up to you. Do you want to discuss a divorce? Or you want to fish?
The look on Ricky’s face had to be similar, but he only gave me a moment to enjoy it before recovering from his shock. “Go ahead, Annie Oakley,” he said, squaring himself. “The bull dykes in prison are gonna love you.” His knuckles were white on the axe handle, I noticed. He was breaking a shoe free of the muck, ready to move.
“Drop that club, start walking backward,” I replied, buttoning my shirt. “I won’t tell you again.” The calm in my voice gave me strength, but inside my head doubts were forming. I’d never fired this pistol, did it still work? How many years had the cartridges been stacked in the aging magazine? Misfire once, a man like Meeks would crush my head open and leave me for the feral pigs.
“Why, sugar, ’pears to me your hands are shaking. A woman acts tough, what she’s really doing is begging a man to take charge. Doesn’t mean I’ll have to slap you around too much-not if you hand ol’ Ricky that gun right now and be sweet.”
The oily tone, his vulgar grin, were infuriating. They suggested a growing confidence that threatened to drain mine. He can smell weakness, Mrs. Whitney had warned. It’s like an animal thing. Soon, within seconds, Meeks would charge or hurl the axe handle to distract me. His swaggering contempt, the memory of his hands on my breasts when he’d shoved me, only made me madder. The temptation was to step back and create space. Instead, I broke a foot free of the bottom, took a long step forward, and made it obvious I had selected a new target.
“I won’t miss at this range,” I said, settling into combat stance. “You’ve got five seconds! One…”
Involuntarily, Ricky’s free hand rushed to cover his genitals. Then his bully’s ego made him pull it away, while also changing his grip on the club. “You’re flat crazy, you know that? Let’s talk about this. Wait… stop counting!”
“Two,” I said.
Which caused Ricky to shout, “You don’t have the balls, you ugly cow!” but he also took a step backward, the club still in his hand.
Or had he?
It didn’t matter. Ricky had chosen the wrong thing to say to a person who had comforted a sobbing Mrs. Whitney, and who remembered her words about victims and forgiveness.
“Five,” I said, changing my target because I’d skipped a few numbers. Then I squeezed the trigger, both eyes focused and wide, just as my Uncle Jake had taught me to shoot.
TWENTY-TWO
WHEN I FIRED, THE GUNSHOT WAS SO THUNDEROUS, I WONdered if the special pistol was loaded with custom ammunition as well. There was a nice, smooth recoil while the bullet chopped the legs from beneath Ricky Meeks and caused panic in the mangroves. Vultures, done feeding, battered the tree canopy with wings and caustic shrieks, finally exiting in a smoky spiral that reminded me of the flying monkeys in TheWizard of Oz, or giant Asian bats I’d watched with Loretta on the Discovery Channel.
Even louder than the vultures, Ricky screamed, “You crazy bitch, you shot me!”
Yes I did. One round, but was still willing to pull the trigger if necessary. The man knew it and wouldn’t bother me again-or so I believed.
“Jesus Christ Aw’mighty-I’m bleeding! Look what you done to me!” Ricky held up a bloody palm to prove it, his hand black, not red, in the swampy twilight.