All three surfers were heading for shore. The waves were still high but they’d started breaking too fast, so that ebb and flow met at an impasse in a wall of water. The girl had pulled a pair of jeans and a T-shirt off the roof of the van and was putting them on. The jeans fitted like hand-me-ups from a younger, thinner sister and the front of the white flimsy T-shirt was somewhat inaccurately labeled Out of Sight.
“Mike believes in nudity,” the girl explained. “But not mine. He wants I should be bundled up like an Eskimo all the time.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Really? I look that good?”
“I think so. The trouble is, the Federales might think so, too, which could cause problems. Officially, they’re pretty stuffy about women wearing enough clothing. Unofficially... well, you’d better be more careful.”
“No kidding, I look that good? Wait’ll I tell Mike. He’ll freak out.”
The three men emerged from the surf. Aragon picked Grady out immediately. The other two were younger, not yet out of their teens, and they’d had their hair cut for the trip across the border, so that their foreheads and the backs of their necks were several shades lighter than the rest of their bodies. Grady was deep brown all over except for the permanent sun scars across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose.
Mike escorted his lady into the van in spite of her protests — “Every girl’s got two of those and one of them, so what’s the big deal?” — and his friend Carl took the hint and began jogging up the beach.
Grady sat down in the sand, shaking his head to get the water out of his ears and off his hair. His movements were violent, as if he were trying to rid himself of something more adhesive than water.
Aragon said, “Are you Grady Keaton?”
“Good question.” The gaze he directed at Aragon was without interest and his eyes had a frosted look like starboard lights seen through fog. “I used to be.”
“What changed you?”
“I came here. In these parts I’m addressed as Mr. Shaw on account of the lady I’m with is Mrs. Shaw and the Mexicans are very, very square. The real Mr. Shaw doesn’t give a damn because he’s dead. He died of old age, which is not something I expect to do. How about you?”
“I haven’t thought about it.”
“Sure you have. Everybody thinks about dying. It’s the normal thing. Or is it? What the hell, who elected me judge of normal?” He transferred his gaze to the sea. “Every wave is different, did you know that? I mean every single one of them. Like if an experienced surfer sees a photograph of a wave in a magazine, he can usually tell where the photograph was taken — Pismo, Hollister, Huntington, any top spot on the coast.”
“I’ve heard that but never believed it.”
“It’s true.”
“So Miranda Shaw is with you.”
“No.”
“You said—”
“I said I was with her. There are a few small differences, like who’s picking up the tab, who invited who, who gives the orders and makes the decisions. I never even heard of this place until I was on my way. And the kind of salary I make I couldn’t afford to stay here for a day. I wouldn’t want to, anyway. The surfing’s nothing special and I’m usually the only one in the water, so what’s the fun? Surfing isn’t just riding waves on a board, it’s a whole way of life, like those kids in the van surfing from Oregon to La Paz. If I had the money — and I might someday, free money, no strings attached — that’s what I’d do. Except I’d start further north at Vancouver and go down to San Lucas and take the ferry that runs over to Puerto Vallarta.”
“It doesn’t sound like the kind of trip she’d enjoy.”
“Who?”
“Miranda Shaw.”
“I wasn’t thinking of inviting her.”
Up to this point Aragon had been standing, shifting his weight from one foot to another until both his shoes were filled with sand. He sat down and removed them and his socks and finally his shirt. The sun struck his chest like a branding iron and he put the shirt back on.
“I’m Tom Aragon, an attorney from Santa Felicia. I was sent to find Miranda Shaw.”
“I figured you weren’t here on my account.”
“In a way I am. I bring greetings from a young friend of yours in Santa Felicia, Frederic Quinn. He asked me to look you up. You’re one of his heroes.”
“So is Bingo Firenze’s uncle, hit man for the Mafia, so I’m not exactly flattered... Why do you want to see Miranda?”
“It concerns her husband’s will.”
“I thought that had all been settled. Shaw left everything to her, didn’t he?”
“The question is, what’s everything?”
“What’s everything? What in hell would it be? It’s stocks, bonds, real estate, cars, bank accounts, jewelry, the works. He was a very rich man. Wasn’t he?”
“Yes.” It was true enough. Shaw was once a very rich man and he left everything to his wife. Aragon didn’t consider it his duty to explain that everything was not only bank accounts and stocks and bonds and real estate, it was also debts.
“Something’s funny the way you’re talking,” Grady said. “Was he or wasn’t he a rich man?”
“I repeat, he was.”
“And he willed his estate to Miranda?”
“She’s his sole beneficiary.”
“Then what’s this about?”
“Shaw’s will hasn’t gone through probate yet. There are some papers which have to be signed by Mrs. Shaw.”
“Well, that’s easy.” For a moment Grady looked almost friendly. “She’s over in the cottage lying down. She sleeps a lot. They all do around here, the place is like a morgue.”
The fatigue which Dr. Ortiz claimed was normal for people under treatment seemed to spread from the point of injection throughout her entire body, leaving her simultaneously light-headed and lead-footed. She had giddy spells, and once she had fallen when Grady wasn’t there and she couldn’t even recall the incident until the soreness of her wrist and the bruises on her arm reminded her. Grady thought she’d been drinking and she let him think it.
She lay drowsy-eyed on the bed, wearing the white chiffon nightgown she’d purchased at a bride boutique in San Diego. She didn’t feel like a bride. The injections weren’t as painful as they’d been in previous years because Dr. Ortiz had added what he described as a secret new ingredient, but the numbness was almost worse than pain. She’d expected a surge of vitality and youth. Instead she felt shriveled, as though she were gradually being mummified. She had no appetite, for food or life or even Grady.
“Go and surf, dear.”
“But you said—”
“Run along without me. I’ll come down later and watch you.”
Then suddenly it was later and Grady was back.
“Where were you, Miranda?”
“I must have dozed off.”
“It’s six o’clock.”
“I’m sorry, dear. I meant to—”
“There wasn’t a soul in sight the whole damn afternoon.”
“I thought that’s what you wanted, a beach where you didn’t have to fight for every good wave.”
“Well, I got it, I sure as hell got it.”
Always, after one of her long sleeps, she was jittery. “Go and tell Dr. Ortiz I don’t feel well. I need something to calm me.”
“You’ve started pill-popping, you know that? Pills and booze and goat glands — Christ, what a combo.”
“Please, Grady. I’m quite nervous.”
“Let’s get out of here, Miranda. Pack your stuff right now and we’ll take off.”
“I can’t. Dr. Ortiz warned me that I must complete the course of treatments or the effect will be lost.”
“What effect?”
“Don’t I look... younger, Grady?”