"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."
Nina frowned. "Since when do you give a hoot what Charlie Chelsea thinks?"
"It's part of the damn dress code. Kingsbury's cracking down, or so Charlie says. I was trying to be a team player, like you wanted." Joe Winder spotted a small bonnet shark cruising the shallows, and cast the jig for the hell of it. The shark took one look and swam away arrogantly.
Joe Winder said, "So now I look like a Nazi."
"No," said Nina, "the Nazis had combs."
"How's the new routine coming? I assume that's why you're here." It was the time of the week when the girls on the sex-phone line had to update their shtick.
Tell me what you think." Nina reached into the breast pocket of the T-shirt and pulled out a folded piece of notebook paper. Carefully she unfolded it. "Now, be honest," she said to Winder.
"Always."
"Kay, here goes." She cleared her throat. "You say "Hello." "
"Hello!" Joe Winder sang out.
"Hi, there," said Nina, reading. "I was just thinking about you. I was thinking it would be so nice to go on a train, just you and me. A long, romantic train ride. I love the way trains rock back and forth. At first they start out so slow and hard, but then" – here Nina had scripted a pause – "but then they get faster and stronger. I love the motion of a big locomotive, it gets me so hot."
"Gets me going," suggested Joe Winder. "Hot is a cliche."
Nina nodded in agreement. "That's better, yeah. I love the motion of a big locomotive, it really gets me going."
Joe Winder noticed that the tide was slowing. These fish would be gone soon.
But there was Nina in her black panties. Knee deep in the Atlantic. Blond hair tied back under her cap with a pink ribbon. Reading some damn nonsense about sex on the Amtrak, in that killer voice of hers. The words didn't matter, it was all music to Joe Winder; he was stirred by the sight of her in the water with the sun dropping behind the Keys. At times like this he sure loved Florida.
Nina told him to quit staring at her all sappy and listen, so he did.
"Sometimes, late at night, I dream that you're a locomotive. And I'm riding you on top, stretched out with my legs around your middle. First we go uphill, real slow and hard and rough. Then all of a sudden I'm riding the engine down, faster and harder and hotter until…"
"Until what?" Joe Winder said.
"Until whatever," said Nina with a shrug. "I figure I'd just leave the rest to their imagination."
"No," said Winder. "A metaphor like that, you need a big ending." He slapped a mosquito that had penetrated the sheen of Cutter's on his neck. "How about: We're going downhill, out of control, faster and hotter. I scream for you to stop but you keep pumping and pumping until I explode, melting against you."
From someplace – her bra? – Nina produced a ballpoint pen and began to scribble. "The pumping business is a bit much," she said, "but I like the melting part. That's good imagery, Joe, thanks."