Orlando sat on the far end of the couch, haloed by the light through the window, and Wayde stood there and gaped. “You’ve got an attractive uvula, too,” Eleanor said.
“Huh?”
“Close your mouth, dear. You look hungry that way.”
“Sorry,” Wayde said, sitting on the floor. Her belly didn’t even wrinkle.
“Sonia called yesterday,” Orlando said. “It’s rained nonstop, and Al keeps hauling her out in it.”
“To do what?” Eleanor asked.
“Visit cops,” Orlando said. “The only thing Sonia’s seen is the inside of the hotel room and the Honolulu police station. Al brought letters from a bunch of L.A. cops, and he’s determined to meet everybody.”
“Poor Sonia,” Eleanor said sympathetically.
“No, she’s enjoying it. She’s as bad as Al, you know. She can’t wait to get to Maui, meet a whole new bunch of cops.”
“Who are we talking about?” Wayde asked.
“Orlando’s sister is a, um, policeperson,” Eleanor said. “Married to another policeperson.”
“My parents hate cops,” Wayde said. “They hate cops and politicians and the guys who own stores and everybody, and they’ve got these big love signs all over the house.”
“I talked to Al,” Orlando said. “I told him about that sheriff, that Spurrier, and Al said to stay away from him.”
“Who’s Spurrier?” Eleanor asked alertly.
“I’ll tell you later,” I said.
“Al said he was a motherfucker,” Orlando continued, the word sounding awkward in his mouth. “He’s been brought up for disciplinary action a bunch of times for pounding on people, especially queers.”
“ Orlando.” Eleanor sounded shocked.
He looked from her to me. “You didn’t tell her?”
Eleanor turned cool eyes to me. “Tell me what?”
“That I’m gay,” Orlando said, a bit defiantly.
A long hiss escaped Wayde. Her mouth was open, and she leaned forward, gazing at Orlando with a look of pure loss. Then she felt our eyes on her and sat up. “Way cool,” she said in a very small voice. I wanted to lean over and kiss the top of her head.
“When did you meet this Spurrier?” Eleanor asked, deciding for the moment to glide over Orlando’s revelation.
“After the wedding,” I said. “When was that, the day before yesterday?” It seemed like a week ago.
“I have to pee,” Wayde announced brokenheartedly. She got up and left the room.
“And why are you being told to stay away from this man?” Eleanor demanded.
“He beat Simeon up,” Orlando said.
“Is he the one you’re afraid of?” she asked.
“One of them,” I said.
“Orlando,” she said, “why don’t you and I go out on the roof and you can tell me what’s going on. Mr. Strong-but-Silent here is saving it for the third act.”
“Sure,” Orlando said promptly, standing up. So much for male bonding.
“And you,” she said to me, “can wash the cups and figure out what we’re going to do about lunch.”
“I thought I’d just eat some raw beef,” I said, getting stiffly to my feet. “And ladyfingers for Orlando and you girls.” I toted the coffee cups obediently into the kitchen and turned on the tap, getting the usual mysterious clanking noises before the water made its appearance. I was leaning against the sink, counting silently to twenty and waiting for the water to turn hot, when someone behind me said, “Knock, knock,” and I jumped about three feet and came down facing the door.
It was open, and Ike Spurrier stood in it.
“Guilty conscience?” he asked. A uniform, considerably taller than he, stood behind him, peering in at me as though the cabin were the Snake House at the Zoo.
“What do you want?”
“In the neighborhood,” Spurrier said, not bothering to make it sound true. He wore the same yellow tweed jacket, but today’s polo shirt was a particularly unappetizing shade of orange that emphasized the colorlessness of his eyes. He leaned forward and gave the kitchen and living room an uninterested once-over. Then he licked the red lower lip. “Guess being a gay detective doesn’t pay all that well, huh?”
“I’d ask you in,” I said, “but I don’t want to.”
“That so,” Spurrier said, coming through the door. “Well, don’t bother. I’m already in. Wally,” he said, “take a hike down the hill. Look around, see if there’s another door.”
The uniform didn’t move, so Wally was presumably someone else. Spurrier put both hands in his jacket pockets and smiled at me, the red lip stretching unappealingly beneath the mustache. “Hot, isn’t it?”
I could feel the edge of the sink pressed against my back, and I forced myself to step forward. “Do you have a warrant?”
“In this heat,” he said, “I’m surprised to see you in a long-sleeved shirt. I had you figured for a T-shirt kind of guy.”
I buttoned the cuff I’d opened when I showed Orlando my arm. “Did you.”
“Sure. All you buff guys, that the word? Buff? Like to show off your biceps. All that work in the gym, looking good for the other buff guys. Figured you for a formfit T-shirt.”
“How about that,” I said.
He focused on the door to the deck. “Where’s your boyfriend?”
“Who?”
“Got a lot of them, huh? I guess a buff guy like you would. Nordine. Where’s Nordine?”
“I haven’t got any idea.”
“There’s a room down the hill,” a male voice said from behind Spurrier. “No one there.”
“Well, he’s somewhere,” Spurrier said.
“I’m sure he is,” I said. “But he’s not here.”
“I really need to talk to old Christy,” Spurrier said confidingly. “This thing with Max-you remember Max.”
I didn’t say anything.
“You ought to turn that water off,” Spurrier said. “There’s a drought.” I reached behind me and twisted the tap without turning my back to Spurrier. “Somebody was in old Max’s house last night. Went right through the seals. Used a key, how about that? Bled all over the place, too.”
“What do you want, Sergeant?”
“In the neighborhood,” he said again. “Guy who bled like that must have got cut up pretty good. Maybe on the arms, what do you think? Well,” he said, turning his head, “look who’s here. Hey, Chiquito.”
Orlando came into the living room, giving Spurrier several hundred volts of pure disdain. “Has he got a warrant?” he asked me.
“Everybody wants to know about warrants,” Spurrier said. “You wouldn’t know where Nordine is, would you, sweetie?”
Orlando let a beat pass before he answered. “I’ve never met him.”
“And I thought it was a small world.” Spurrier took a hand from his pocket and tugged on his lip. “Well, I’ve got something he might want to hear about, in case you ever do. Tell him old Max’s index finger showed up in Boulder, Colorado, this morning.”
For a long moment no one spoke. Spurrier looked at us expressionlessly. Then Orlando put a hand against the back of my rocking chair and said, “I beg your pardon.”
“Special delivery.” Spurrier looked from him to me watchfully. “In a nice little ice pack. Along with a bunch of disgusting letters about what kind of guy he loved best in the whole wide world and some pictures. Cute pictures, too. Him and Nordine.”
“Sent to whom?” I asked.
“The newspaper.” He gazed at us, apparently thinking of something else. “Also a note suggesting it might make a good story. HOMETOWN BOY MAKES BOYS or something. Guess old Max was still in the closet back in Boulder.” Shaking his head, he came back to us and said, “Where you from?”
“Here,” I said. “I was born where I’m standing.”
Eleanor came through the door and headed for the kitchen, passing in front of Spurrier with an incurious look. “What about lunch?” she asked me, opening the refrigerator.
“My, my,” Spurrier said, aping surprise. “The fair sex.”
“His finger,” I said. “Why his finger?”
“You’re supposed to be a detective,” Spurrier said reprovingly. “So it could be printed, of course.”
“What’s this about a finger?” Eleanor asked, holding a bottle of Evian.
“Never you mind, little lady,” Spurrier said. “Although I’m not quite sure what the hell you’re doing here.”