The Naked Detective(40)

I tapped my foot and told the truth. "I got kidnapped, okay?"

"Kidnapped!" said Ozzie. He mugged, and shuffled, and briefly seemed impressed. "Police blotter. Kidnapped." He looked me up and down. Then he pointed and said, "Hey, you got a boner!"

Other people, maybe, might have noticed this. Ozzie was that rare individual past the age of twelve who would comment on it. I did a little dance and shrank behind the door. He looked around and his shrewd eyes settled on the two bicycles locked up together, flank to flank, like tired horses. "You got a woman in there?"

"None of your business."

"Kidnapped," he scoffed. "Pussynapped!"

"Now you're being a jerk."

He didn't take offense. If he took offense every time someone told him off, he'd have no time for anything else. "Who is she?"

"Forget it, Ozzie. Go away."

"When we gonna play?"

"Soon. I'll see you in the park. We'll make a date. Goo'bye."

He gave me a last reproachful, hound-like look and turned to go. When he'd reached the bottom of the stairs I said, "Hey, you know anything about a guy named Mickey Veale?"

"Yeah."

"Well, what?"

"He's fat."

"Fat?"

"Fat slob. New in town."

"How new?"

"Who keeps track of time?" he said. "Couple years, something like that. Curly greasy hair. Owns the gambling boat."

"I thought he had water sports."

"That too, probably. Fat pig. Owns a lotta stuff. Came from Vegas. One of these assholes, thinks he can just cruise in from some bigger place and right away become a big shot here."

"Sounds like he is."

"That's the bitch of it," said Ozzie. "We're so fuckin' easy to outclass."

He climbed onto his bike. As he started rolling, he shook his head and said, "Doubles. I hope you're hosin' her at least."

I closed the door, and locked it, and pulled the curtains so there were no gaps between the panels.

I took a deep slow breath then resettled my robe and marched back toward the pool. I stepped outside to find that Maggie wasn't there. This threw me, but only for a second; I realized that she must have slipped into the bathroom while I was busy getting rid of Ozzie. I reclaimed my chair and my rose. The sun had warmed my glass; without the chill, the wine had a slightly bitter aftertaste of burned marshmallow. It was strange but not unpleasant. I considered it and waited for my new lover to return.

She soon appeared in the doorway, and I understood at once that a calamity had taken place: She'd put her leotard back on. It blurred her breasts and locked away her loins. It even changed her face. Before, her face had seemed somehow to be everywhere expanding—eyes widening, lips parting, the planes of her cheeks growing more lavish as they flushed. Now her features compressed into a look that was a little guarded, a little sheepish. She moved toward me and touched my hair.

"You know what, Pete?" she said. "I'm sorry but I'm just not ready."

I tried to speak. I couldn't.

She sat down where she'd sat before. "I realized it when we got interrupted. It's not the right time yet. That friend of yours, he did us a favor."

Some favor, I thought. I'll kill him.

"I mean," she went on, "are you even all that sure you're ready?"

Let's face it—sometimes men and women just don't understand each other. If I was any readier, my prostate gland would have exploded. But I couldn't very well say that. The grace of the true gallant may be beyond the reach of most of us, but there's no excuse not to be a sport, at least. "Hey," I managed, "if it doesn't feel right—"

"It was feeling wonderful," she said. "That's what makes this difficult. You mad?"

I shook my head. I wasn't mad. Devastated maybe, but not mad.

But not inclined toward chitchat either. By reflex I ate an olive. There was a sulky silence, then Maggie announced that she should go. I didn't try to talk her out of it.

"Can we see each other soon?" she said.

"I guess," I said. I didn't mean for it to sound churlish. No—that's a lie. Of course I meant it to sound churlish.

She left.

Alone, I ate more olives, put on the wry, self- deprecating expression I imagined a man should wear in this sort of circumstance, and poured myself more wine. After a time, I took off my robe and, glass in hand, I walked into the pool. For the first time in my life I wished the water was a whole lot colder.





20


I finished the bottle, then had a nap on a poolside lounge.

I woke up groggy and grumpy an hour later, as the air was changing from the spiky white heat of high afternoon to the even yellow warmth that carried through to sunset. I yawned and remembered my resolve to check out Paradise Water- sports. Nothing else this day had gone the way I'd planned; maybe that at least could still be salvaged. I rolled off the lounge chair and into the water. The dunk dispelled the grogginess. The grumpiness stayed with me.