Sandra put silverware into its basket. "Maybe the two of you wanna go for a ride or something. Look at the ocean, go downtown. You're welcome to the car."
Debbi looked down, her long lashes threw faint fan-shaped shadows on her cheeks. She could not hold back a cockeyed little smile. She knew she was close to spilling the beans as usual, but she couldn't help herself, it felt too good. "If we go for a ride," she said, "we'll go on Arty's bike."
"The two of you?" said Sandra. "Together?"
Debbi bit her lower lip and nodded.
Sandra dried her hands and turned off the water. In the sudden quiet, crickets and tree frogs could be heard. "That's so nice," she said. "Romantic."
Debbi glanced up at the ceiling, gave a shrug that brought her shoulders almost to her ears, a shrug so big it was almost goofy. "Romantic," she said. "Yeah, it is."
———
" 'Nother big state?" said Bo, the thug who liked geography. "Virginia. People don't realize. Plus ya got them fuckin' tolls in Richmond."
Bert nodded, stroked his dog, glanced through the kitchen doorway at the clock.
"But wait a second," Bo went on. "You flew up, didn't ya?"
Bert nodded again, plucked a short white dog hair from his trousers.
"It's abrupt, like, when ya fly," said Bo. His scarred face scrunched up in disapproval. "Da things ya miss."
Bert nodded a third time.
"So like all of a sudden, boom, you're in New Yawk. I mean like, for you, Bert, how's it feel, you're dropped all of a sudden in New Yawk again?"
Bert reached up, tugged the stringy flesh beneath his chin. He thought about the oriental guy in earmuffs shelling peas at what used to be Perretti's.
He thought about working the phone with nobody to call. "Lemme put it dis way, Bo. Y'ever seen a car up on blocks?"
Bo didn't answer right away. He made a strange face, squirmed a little bit, reached down to straighten out his pants. Bert couldn't tell if he was thinking hard or if he was uncomfortable, if maybe his tubes were starting to shift and gurgle.
———
Arty and Debbi walked across the lawn in front of Joey Goldman's house. The moment seemed to call for holding hands, but Arty's arms hung limp at his sides, and the blandness in his posture sent a small dart of disappointment through Debbi. Had her new lover already lost the habit of aimless affection? Was he in fact no more romantic than other men she'd known?
When they reached the place where the writer's old fat-tire bike leaned against a palm, Debbi thought it would be wonderful if he took her in his arms. He did not. He only dropped his spiral notebook in the basket, then steadied the bicycle for her to climb aboard. Saddened and suddenly uncertain, she did.
They crunched along the gravel driveway, headed for the beach. The bicycle's wide tires made soft sucking sounds as the treads rolled off the asphalt. Wind tossed the enormous pendant fronds of the royal palms; they billowed up like lifted skirts. Debbi shifted her thin behind on the crosspiece of the frame, leaned back against Arty as he pedaled, but no longer felt quite safe with her flank against his chest.
At County Beach, they left the road and swerved onto a narrow zigzag path that wound through shrubs and sand and picnic tables. A gibbous moon hung high above the Florida Straits, it threw a jagged beam that rose and fell with the ripples in the water and tracked them as they rode. By an ancient slatted bench, Arty stopped the bike and said, "We have to talk."
They sat, neither one at ease enough to settle back. Arty said, "I don't know where to start."
Debbi said nothing. She didn't know how to help him start and she didn't like what she imagined was coming. Would it be the no-commitment speech? The old-girl-friend-in-the-wings routine?
"I'm writing a book with Vincente," Arty blurted. "I'm not supposed to tell anyone. I haven't told anyone. But it seems like everyone's found out. Those FBI guys—that's why they're hassling me."
Debbi's eyebrows pulled together. This was not what she expected the talk to be about, and it was a lot to take in all at once. "I don't think I understand—"
"My notebook," Arty said. "They want my notebook. They seem to think it's full of things they can use against him."
"Is it?"
Arty threw his hands up, let them slap down against his thighs. "Who knows what they can use these days? He's on record that there's an organization, they make their own rules, and he's the head of it. Smart prosecutor, that might be enough to jail him till he dies."
"But they can't make you—"
Arty looked out at the water. It was placid, gorgeous. But life could turn impossible in beautiful places too. "Debbi," he said. "Debbi. They're threatening me. They're threatening you, if I don't cooperate. I don't know how much longer I can stall. This thing with your probation—"