The Naked Detective(38)

If thoughts came, they should not be held but allowed to pass like breeze through a wide-open room, neither possessing nor possessed.

This was the part that gave me trouble.

I could soften my feet and let my ankles flop as well as the next guy, but, lying there, eyes closed amid the hot smells of ancient tobacco and baking limestone, I couldn't stem the restless flow of thoughts. Thoughts came, and when they came, they stuck, attached by burrs of suspicion.

Around the time I should have been relaxing my liver and my pancreas, I became preoccupied with recollections of last night's interview with the homicide detectives. While it was happening, it had seemed rigorous and long, but now suddenly I wondered if maybe they'd let me off too easily and too abruptly. They'd been nasty and intimidating—and then they gave me the merest wrist slap and sent me on my way. Why? Was there some deal implicit in their clemency? Were they as nervous as I was about what else might come out if the meeting continued . . . ?

By the time I'd let these thoughts pass through, I'd lost the opportunity to ease my diaphragm and the little muscles between my ribs.

I groped for serenity, and was finally settling down to releasing the sinews of my collarbone and throat, when once again my mind was shanghaied. This time it was Lydia. Her off-the-wall idea of hiring me. Her overly generous offer of pay. Was it a fee or a bribe? And then there was this near obsession with Mickey Veale. Was this a festering vendetta between the two of them, or just a way for Lydia to divert attention from herself? Then again, Veale was more than a convenient beard. He was also, apparently, a principal in Paradise Watersports, which trafficked in Jet Skis and snorkels. . . .

"Let go of any tension in the jaw," Maggie was cooing.

Yeah, right.

"The forehead is soft, unlined, unworried. The skin at the hairline is supple...."

The skin at my hairline was crawly, and it itched. Afraid of letting down my teacher; I didn't allow myself to scratch. I breathed deep and got through to the end of class.

When it was over, people rearranged their bandannas, found their sandals, and started leaving. I stood up and bided my time. Maggie came over and stood close to me. But we both felt shy, I guess; we didn't touch.

"Thanks for the bike," I said.

She said, "I'm glad you're okay. What happened?"

"Got arrested." To myself I sounded awfully blasé. Like I got arrested every other week.

"That's terrible. Your forehead looks all tense."

"No big deal. I'd never seen the inside of a jail before."

Her gray eyes got wide and maybe a little moist with sympathy. "I feel like it's my fault."

"It isn't."

"I feel terrible. It must have been awful."

"Not really. A little sordid, maybe."

"The way I kept pushing you, trying to convince—"

I badly wanted her to stop blaming herself, and I finally stumbled upon an awkward but effective way of getting her to. I closed the narrow space between us, wrapped my arms around her back, and kissed her. It was not the seamless, dewy, wholehearted kiss that maybe it should have been. There was some fear in it, some hesitation, and since her lips were moving as I zeroed in on them, we didn't quite connect dead center. Still, it was enough of a kiss so that I could feel the tiny nub of flesh in the middle of her upper lip, and would remember forever that her mouth tasted of raspberries.

Then I pulled away. We stared at each other. There's a look that two people share when it is inevitable that they're becoming lovers; that they've become lovers, in spirit if not yet in deed. The look is the bond that sex confirms. I think that was the look we shared, though of course you're never really sure till after.

The moment went on a long time. At some point I had to speak. Anything I said would have seemed clumsy and irrelevant. But what I did say was especially ridiculous. "Have you ever ridden a Jet Ski?"

Maggie's eyelids quivered as her mind traced out the preposterous segue. After a beat, she said, "I hate Jet Skis."

"So do I. They're noisy, vulgar infuriating, and generally run by trailer-trash morons. I thought we'd go out for sunset."

She studied me for telltale signs of whimsy. "You're serious?"

"Paradise Watersports," I said. "I'd like to get to know them."

"Ah," she said, and dropped her eyes. "So, you're still—?"

In spite of myself, I nodded that I was. "Listen, if you'd rather not—"

"No," she said. "I'd love to come along."

We looked at each other again. There followed one of those delicious and excruciating silences through which a torrent of possibility noiselessly roars. Finally I braced myself and said, "Got plans for the afternoon?"