I raked my fingers one last time through Kenny's things, then turned back toward Vanessa. I thanked her for her time; her eyes asked me once again not to bring down havoc on her little enterprise. We shook hands and I turned to go.
I was halfway to the door when she said to my back, "Just like a man."
I looked across my shoulder to see her beginning to attack the mess I'd left behind. Abashed, I made a move to help repack the duffel. She treated me to a last look at that amazing smile and gestured me away. "Hey," she said, "I'm used to sloppy guests."
10
Back on the street, the world had moved from morning to full day. Houses seemed to stand up straighten like soldiers at attention, as their shadows were sucked in beneath them. The pavements had spent their nighttime coolness; I felt sharp sunshine through my sneakers and reflected up my legs.
I got back onto my bike and headed home. My mind was cluttered, my routine had been exploded. I needed to retreat.
I didn't get to. Climbing my porch steps, tennis bag in hand, I heard someone suddenly call my name and I did a little sideways jump.
It was Maggie. She was sitting in my favorite rocking chair and, purposely or otherwise, hiding out behind the jasmine bush the same way I was fond of doing. Now she rose without effort, moved toward me in a soundless float as in a painting by Chagall, and for some part of a heartbeat fell into my arms. Backing off immediately, she said, "Something terrible has happened."
"I know," I said. "I tried to visit you at Redmond's."
"You did?"
"Didn't have what it takes to get past the police line. You okay?"
She nodded but her eyes were on the porch planks. I asked her if she'd like some coffee. She said she would, and we went inside.
Fussing in the kitchen, grinding beans and wetting down a filter, it dawned on me, with ineffable regret, that I'd been too distracted and surprised to really feel the hug that Maggie had given me. However fleetingly, her arms had been around my neck, her breasts had been against my ribs. Was it conceivable that I simply hadn't noticed?
We took our coffee and went out back. The pool pump was humming; bits of leaf and some windblown oleander petals were slowly spinning on the surface in a lazy gyre that always missed the skimmer. We had to move our chairs very close directly underneath a palm to be in shade. Something about the hug now came scudding back in memory. Maggie's arms had been very cool against my overheated shoulders; the tiny hairs on her forearms had slightly tickled my neck.
She sipped her java and suddenly said, "The thing about Andrus? He reminded you how lucky you are to be here. He appreciated things. The smell of the air. The fish that hang around the dock. He took none of it for granted."
A eulogy not to be improved on, I thought. So I kept my mouth shut, drank some coffee, and looked down at the pool. In the brief silence I remembered something else about the phantom hug. It had to do with the texture of Maggie's bosom as it compressed against my chest, and, while it could be described in terms of cushions, bread dough, or certain ripening fruits, I don't think words exist that really nail it. Finally I said, "You know any more about what happened?"
She lifted her eyes and shrugged. "Supposedly a robbery. That's the word around the yard, at least. Andrus caught them at it and they killed him."
"They?" I said. "Do we know that there was more than one?"
"No idea. That's just what people say."
I pictured a struggle inside the thin shell of the Dream Chaser. "Nobody heard a fight?"
"Friday night," said Maggie. "There's a loud band at the Raw Bar. Plays till two in the morning. You sleep in earplugs or you don't sleep."
I drummed fingers on my chair arm. To the sky and the overhanging fronds I said, "Why that boat, of all the boats?"
Maggie looked away. "I've thought about that too."
"Seen any guys in snorkels lately?"
Maggie didn't answer right away. With her accustomed lack of effort or compunction, she lifted up her legs and tucked them underneath her. The motion reminded me that, for one brief instant in the fleeting hug, the fronts of our thighs had brushed together. But had they really? Was I remembering or imagining by now, and how much difference was there anyway?
Finally she said, "So you think—?"
"What I think is that either this is one big bastard of a coincidence, or the people who killed Kenny didn't get their precious pouch and came back to search the boat."
Palms rustled. Water swirled slowly in the pool. I squirmed to where I could reach into my shorts pocket, and pulled out the little flip-top compass. I handed it to Maggie. "Thought you might like to have this. It was Kenny's."