"I don't know what you call it," said Bud Schwartz, "but people are staring, so why don't you get up before some fucking Good Samaritan calls 911."
"I ought to sue the assholes for leaving this damn thing lying around."
"Good idea, Danny. We'll go see a lawyer first thing in the morning. We'll sue the bastards for a jillion trillion dollars. Then we'll retire down to Club Med." With great effort, Bud Schwartz helped Danny Pogue off the cement and steadied him on the crutches.
"So who's watching us?"
"There." Bud Schwartz raised his eyes toward a third-floor balcony, where three women stood and peered, arms on their hips, like cranky old cormorants drying their wings.
"Hey!" Danny Pogue yelled. "Get a life!"
The women retreated into the apartment, and Danny Pogue laughed. Bud Schwartz didn't think it was all that funny; he'd been in a rotten frame of mind ever since Molly McNamara had shot him in the hand.
As they approached the gatehouse, Danny Pogue said, "So where's the taxi?"
"First things first," said Bud Schwartz. Then, in a whisper: "Remember what we talked about. The girl's name is Annie. Annie Lefkowitz."
He had met her that afternoon by the swimming pool and gotten nowhere but that's who they were visiting, if anybody asked. No way would they mention Molly McNamara; never heard of her.
A rent-a-cop came out of the gatehouse and nodded neutrally at the two men. He was a young muscular black with a freshly pressed uniform and shiny shoes. Over his left breast pocket was a patch that said, in navy-blue stitching: "Eagle Ridge Security." Danny Pogue and Bud Schwartz were surprised to see what appeared to be a real Smith&Wesson on his hip.
The rent-a-cop said: "Looks like you guys had a rough night."
"Barbecue blew up," said Bud Schwartz. "Ribs all over the place."
Danny Pogue extended his wounded foot, as if offering it for examination. "Burns is all," he said. "We'll be okay."
The rent-a-cop didn't seem in a hurry to move out of the way. He asked for their names, and Bud Schwartz made up a couple of beauts. Ron Smith and Dick Jones.
"Where are you staying?" the rent-a-cop said. "Which building?"
"With Amy Leibowitz," answered Danny Pogue.
"Lefkowitz," said Bud Schwartz, grinding his molars. "Annie Lefkowitz. Building K."
"Which unit?" asked the rent-a-cop.
"We're visiting from up North," said Bud Schwartz. "We're not related or anything. She's just a friend, if you know what I mean."
"But which unit?"
Bud Schwartz made a sheepish face. "You know, I don't even remember. But her last name's Lefkowitz, you can look it up."
The rent-a-cop said: "There are four different Lefkowitzes that live here. Hold tight, I'll be right back."
The guard went back inside, and Danny Pogue leaned closer to his partner. The gatehouse cast just enough light to reveal a change in Bud Schwartz's expression.
"So help me God," said Danny Pogue, "if you leave me here, I'll go to the cops."
"What're you talking about?"
"You're gonna run, goddamn you."
"No, I'm not," said Bud Schwartz, although that was precisely what he was considering. He had spotted the yellow taxi, parked near a mailbox across the street.
"Don't even think about it," said Danny Pogue. "You're still on probation."
"And you're on parole," Bud Schwartz snapped. Then he thought: Hell, what are we worried about? We're not even arrested. And this jerk-off's not even a real cop. This guy, he can't stop us from leaving," said Bud Schwartz. "He can stop us from trying to get in, but he can't stop us from getting out."
Danny Pogue thought about this. "You're right," he said. "Why don't we just take off?"
"Taking off is not how I'd describe it, considering the shape we're in. Limping off is more like it."
"I wonder if that gun's loaded," said Danny Pogue. "Or if he's allowed to use it."
Bud Schwartz told him not to worry, they could still talk their way out of it. When the rent-a-cop came out of the gatehouse, he held a clipboard in one hand and a big ugly Maglite in the other.
"Miss Lefkowitz says she's had no visitors."
Bud Schwartz looked stunned. "Annie? Are you sure you got the right one?" He stuck with it, digging them in even deeper. "She's probably just pissed off 'cause we're leaving, that's all. Got a good taste and doesn't want to let go."
The rent-a-cop pointed the white beam of the Maglite at Bud Schwartz's face and said, "Why don't you fuckheads come with me."
Danny Pogue retreated a couple of steps. "We didn't do nothin" wrong."
"You lied," said the rent-a-cop. "That's wrong."
Half-blind from the flashlight, Bud Schwartz shielded his eyes and said, "Look, I can explain about Annie." He was ummming and awwwwing, trying to come up with something, when he heard a shuffling noise off to his left. The rent-a-cop aimed the flashlight toward Danny Pogue, but Danny Pogue was gone.
Bud Schwartz said, "I'm not believing this."
The rent-a-cop seemed mildly annoyed. They could hear the frantic thwuck-thwuck of the crutches, heading down the unlit road.
"Bastard," said Bud Schwartz. He felt sharp fingers impressively strong seize the loose span of flesh where his neck met his shoulder.
"Before I go get the gimper," said the rent-a-cop, pinching harder, "how about you telling me some portion of the truth."
"Really I can't," said Bud Schwartz. "I'd like to, but it's just not possible."
Then the Maglite came down against the top of his forehead, and the shutters of his brain slammed all at once, leaving the interior of his skull very cool, black, empty.
Joe Winder parked at the end of the gravel road and changed out of his work clothes. The necktie was the first thing to come off. He put on a pair of cutoffs, slipped into some toeless sneakers, slathered on some Cutter's and grabbed his spinning rod out of the car. He found the path through the mangroves his path, to the water's edge. He came here almost every day after work, depending on how badly the wind was blowing. Sometimes he fished, sometimes he sat and watched.
Today he made his way quickly, worried about missing the best of the tide. When he got to the shoreline, he put on the Polaroids and swept the shallow flats with his eyes. He spotted a school of small bonefish working against the current, puffing mud about forty yards out. He grinned and waded out purposefully, sliding his feet silently across the marly bottom. A small plane flew over and the rumble of the engine flushed the fish. Joe Winder cursed, but kept his gaze on the nervous wake, just in case. Sure enough, the bonefish settled down and started feeding again. As he edged closer, he counted five in all, small black torpedoes.
As Joe Winder lifted his arm to cast, he heard a woman call out his name. The distraction was sufficient to ruin his aim; the small pink jig landed smack in the middle of the school, causing the fish to depart at breakneck speed for Andros Island and beyond. An absolutely terrible cast.
He turned and saw Nina waving from the shore. She was climbing out of her blue jeans, which was no easy task.
"I'm coming out," she called.
"I can see that."
And out she came, in an aqua T-shirt, an orange Dolphins cap, black panties and white Keds. Under these circumstances, it was impossible for Joe Winder to stay angry about the bonefish.
Nina was laughing like a child when she reached him. "The water's so warm," she said. "Makes me want to dive in."
He gave her a left-handed hug. "Did you put on some bug spray?" he asked.
"Designer goo," said Nina. "Some sort of weird enzyme. The bugs gag on it."
Joe Winder pointed with the tip of the fishing rod. "See that? They're mocking me." Another school of bonefish cavorted, tails flashing, far out of human casting range.
"I'll take your word for it," said Nina, squinting. "Joe, what'd you do to your hair?"
"Cut it."
"With what?"
"A steak knife. I couldn't find the scissors."
Nina reached up and touched what was left. "For God's sake, why?"
"Chelsea said I looked like one of the Manson family."