The Naked Detective(69)

Uncannily, we went eight blocks, ten, without seeing a single person. Then Ozzie pulled up to my house.

My haven and my retreat. I just stared at it through the taxi window for a moment—at my bicycle chained to its accustomed tree; at my shady porch, where I could rock and peek out through the lacy foliage. Everything seemed as it should be—it was all right there in front of me— yet I looked at it nostalgically, as if it had already long been lost or ruined. I'd made this house exactly what I wanted it to be; it was the perfect container for the life I'd chosen. I'd always felt safe here. Now this house seemed less safe than the open streets. It was where my enemies could find me. It was where I had the most to lose.

I sighed and reached out for the car door handle. I thanked Ozzie for his help.

He swiveled back and looked at me across the seat. "Want me to hang around?"

I shook my head. I didn't see what it would accomplish.

"I'll bring the tools back in the morning," he said.

I nodded. It was nice of him to remember the tools. I'd already forgotten all about them.

"Nice meeting you," he said to Maggie, and extended a hand to shake.

This unexpected bit of gentility from Ozzie only made the moment more bizarre. I stalled in my leaning out the door.

"You okay?" he said to me.

I nodded that I was, but I was lying. I was terrified in a way that seemed to be making me slow and stupid. My joints felt stiff, my arms and legs were heavy. My field of vision shrank and glared a sickly yellow at the edges. But I climbed out of the taxi, reached back in to grab the canvas bag. Maggie got out from the other side, and together we went up the porch steps to the house.

——

I opened the door, expecting ... what? A knife at my throat? A sap to the base of my skull?

I pressed myself against the door frame then sprang in like I knew karate. Nothing happened, and I felt ridiculous. A ceiling fan murmured. The refrigerator hummed.

I made sure the curtains were snugly drawn before I switched on a light. I dropped the tote bag on the sofa. Then I said to Maggie, "I need a drink. Some grappa?"

Grappa was the first thing we'd ever drunk together; but I wasn't being sentimental; I wanted the strongest liquor I could think of.

"Love some," she said.

I went to the freezer to fetch the bottle. A puff of frost reminded me I couldn't bear my clammy shirt for one more minute. I poured drinks then ran upstairs and grabbed a couple sweatshirts. Bashful away from her own place, Maggie slipped into the bathroom to put hers on.

During her brief absence I sipped my drink and wandered back into the living room. Pacing slowly, my eyes drawn irresistibly to the bag that held the pouches, I was suddenly seized by an appalling thought: I needed to get out my gun. This did not seem like a choice, but rather a compulsion, an imperative. Did I believe that, in a crisis, the gun would save me, that I'd somehow instantly take on the nerve and skill to use it? No, I don't think I believed that for a second. What I was feeling was unreasonable, primitive. Galled at my own fragility, I was reaching blindly for strong magic.

I lifted the watercolor of the mangrove islet from its hook; I started fiddling with the lock on the wall safe.

Maggie came into the room.

The gun was in my hand, and shoulder high by the time I turned to face her. She saw it and flinched; she suddenly stopped moving and let out a tiny gasp. She looked at me as though I'd been monstrously transformed, as though, suddenly, it was me she was afraid of. Mortified at having frightened her, I let the hand that held the pistol fall limply to my side. But for some fraction of a second, a question nagged at me: How could she imagine I would hurt her? There was nothing that could make me turn against her—was there?

There was a moment of supreme awkwardness. I struggled to produce a reassuring smile. It didn't work; I could feel in my cheeks that the smile came out grotesque.

Maggie's hand was at her throat. A little breathlessly, she said, "I've never been so close to a gun before."

Maybe there was nothing more to it than that. Guns were unsettling, after all. I nodded, sipped some grappa. My voice pinched, unnatural, I said, "Shall we see what's in the pouches?"

Stiffly, we sat down on the edge of the settee. The canvas tote was between us, a ghoulish chaperone. I put the pistol on the coffee table and reached into the bag. I grabbed the swollen pouch, the one that seemed to hold money. I offered Maggie the chance to open it. She declined with a shake of her head. So I opened it myself. It wasn't so easy. The zipper was plastic but fouled with sand. The slide hit roadblocks with every tug. I tried to finesse it for a bit, then quickly lost my patience and tore the rotting fabric where it was seamed into the vinyl.