What the hell had gone on in there? Lydia had probed me, aroused me, jumped my bones, and ended the performance with a credible attempt to crush my masculinity. Along the way, I'd learned— what? That she was a nympho, maybe, but a tough cookie for sure, and the heir to Lefty's little empire. And that there was a guy named Mickey Veale, presumably involved in water sports, who she didn't like at all.
Fine, but where did it get me? It got me back onto my bicycle, in underpants by Stoli. Underpants that would not dry quickly in the humid air. At least the evening was warmer than the refrigerated condo.
I rode. Gingerly, I addressed the question of where I was riding to. The sane course, as always, was retreat. Home to a bathrobe and some music, some simple food and bed. I knew that but I didn't go there. Feeling utterly peculiar, smudged beyond my own outlines, I found myself pedaling toward Redmond's Boatyard. I needed to see Maggie.
But wait—needed to? Why? I barely knew her. And the idea of needing someone was as scary as any of the things I'd fretted about that day. Still, that's how the thought broke over me: I needed to see her. You can't undo a thought; once I'd thought it I was stuck with it.
So I headed from the ocean to the Gulf. It's a short ride; it reminds you how tiny Key West is, how comfortingly insignificant. Except this evening I was having a tough time feeling comforted. The notion was scratching at me that there are things that matter even in places that don't.
I got to the street-side gate of Redmond's and saw that the police barricades were already down; so much for a detailed investigation into the death of a Latvian. I cruised right in. Residents were strolling here and there among the cradled vessels, or listening to music, or sitting on cut-off oil drums and drinking beer. Except for the yellow crime-scene tape around Dream Chaser, there was no evidence of recent violence, nearby tragedy. If a pall remained, it was of a kind that festered underneath the surface and didn't so readily show itself, the kind that went with a forever damaged sense of safety.
I rolled up to Maggie's trawler and, not without difficulty, climbed off my bike. The stars were out; the brighter ones were nested in little puffs of mist that looked like dandelions. I cleared my throat and called her name.
A long moment passed and then she finally appeared on deck. Her boat had a steep shear and high gunwales, and I had to crane my neck way back to see her; it was a little bit like crooning up to someone on a balcony—had that same absurdity and romance. I said hello.
She was wearing another of her T-shirt dresses, all smoothness and ease and unrestricted flow. Her curves were framed in stars. She seemed surprised to see me and didn't answer right away.
I asked her to invite me in.
She pointed toward the stern, then unfurled a rope ladder that clattered against the transom as it fell. I started climbing up. Rope ladders are unstable in the best of times, and this was hardly that. I swung; I wobbled; I felt a little seasick as I swung a leg into the cockpit. Maggie watched me climbing in, and the first thing she said was "Your pants are wet."
This was embarrassing. I wanted to explain it away as fast as possible. I said, "Lefty's daughter."
"Lefty's daughter?"
"She got 'em wet. Can we sit down awhile?"
The yoga teacher stared at me a second, then turned toward the companionway and led me down a short and narrow flight of stairs into the main cabin, which was cozy as a puzzle. Furniture was painted peach and aqua, and everything fit into something else. The galley counter was hinged into a table; the back of the settee became a bookcase. There was about the place the serenity that goes with lack of waste. The lighting was soft and yellow; there was a restful background noise of water lapping gently at caulked planks. . . . Then I remembered that the trawler was on land.
"Am I crazy or do I hear waves?"
"It's a tape," said Maggie. "Soothing, isn't it?" Then she added, "You have lipstick on your teeth."
On my teeth? Shit. I'd heard of lipstick on the collar. But the teeth?
"Want some tea?" she asked, lifting a cutting board to reveal a miniature stove top.
I nodded then sat and took a moment to reflect on what a fiasco I was making of this visit. I don't think I seemed drunk, but I couldn't have appeared too sane or sober either. Not with wet pants and red teeth. Now that I was sitting still, I thought I detected a trace of Lydia's perfume on me too. How could I redeem this mess? Drop to my knees, confess to Maggie that although another woman had gotten me sexed up, it was her I really wanted? If you thought about it, that was quite a compliment. But even I understood that certain compliments were better left unsaid.
Maggie brought the tea. It was herb tea and it smelled like strawberries. She took hers and sat down smoothly on the companionway stairs. "So," she picked up, "you spoke with Lefty's daughter. Seems to've been a successful interview."