The sun was at its zenith. It beat down on her head and made it pound, seemed to call forth vaporous memories of every Manhattan she'd ever drunk. She tried to sound strong; it didn't work, it came out petulant and whiny. "I wanna help."
Paul Amaro briefly closed his eyes. The woman was a lush and a hysteric and a general pain in the ass. "Ya wanna help, gimme the video and go the hell home."
He held out a meaty hand. It stayed empty. His sister-in-law said, "I'm getting a room."
"Rose, you got no fucking business here. Now gimme the tape, and go."
Just for a moment, she wondered if he would dare to grab her purse or hit her. She was braced, her shoulders tilted bravely forward. She said, "Not without my Louie." Then she pivoted to walk away, spoke across her shoulder, "Lemme know when you wanna watch the movie."
* * *
A phalanx of rolled-up towels separated Ziggy's side of the bed from Louie's, and Louie had been told that if he crossed the line he would die.
So he really hadn't slept that well. Aside from the fear of rolling over, there was the fact that Ziggy's feet were very near his face, his own feet in danger of tickling Ziggy's chin. Through the night he'd done no more than doze. He'd smelled the fleeting perfume of things that bloomed in moonlight, watched the thin curtain sway like a skirt on puffs of breeze that whispered through the open window.
As was his custom anyway, he rose from bed before the sun was up. He pulled on plaid Bermudas and went down to the quiet courtyard, where he used a rumpled cloth to wipe the heavy dew from a lounge. He sat back like he was at a show and watched the same old miracles that launched the day. Stars dimmed in the sky and in the pool. Hunks of purple cloud bulged out of the blackness in the east; the purple went pink, the first yellow rays spoked through. An unseen hand hurled the morning papers over the picket fence; they landed on the walkway with an authoritative slap. Streetlamps switched off, and only then did one notice they'd been humming all along.
The breakfast cart was rolled out, Louie savored coffee. People appeared, rubbing their eyes. The sun topped the metal roofs and, sudden as a toaster, it was hot.
Around nine, Angelina came down, kissed him good morning. A little while after, Ziggy showed up, grumpy, restless, not yet shaved. There didn't seem to be much to say this morning. They sat around uncomfortably, acquaintances on a group vacation that wasn't working out.
Sometime after ten, Michael and his lover, dressed in jeans and T-shirts that fit like glaze on doughnuts, walked through the picket gate; and, quite suddenly and with no warning whatsoever, what had been merely awkward became insane.
Michael spotted Angelina, waved and moved toward her around the pool. But he'd barely murmured a hello when his partner, having decided to seize the advantage of surprise, looked square at Ziggy and said, "You and I should talk."
Ziggy blinked toward the sun, rubbed his scratchy chin. Caffeine had not yet washed away his grouchiness, and he wasn't that fond of gay people to begin with. He said, "Yeah? And who the hell are you?
Protectively, Michael said, "His name is David."
"My name is Keith McCullough." He said this while somehow getting a hand in his taut pocket and producing a wallet with a badge.
"You're a cop?" said Michael, dazedly. "You told me you—"
"We'll talk about this later," said McCullough. To Ziggy, he added, "Witness Protection Program."
Ziggy looked away, said, "I got nothin' ta say ta you, dickhead."
McCullough said, "I think maybe you do."
Michael was staring at his feet, trying to get the earth to firm up beneath them. He said, "A cop. A cop?!. You were just using me all this time?"
"I hear that Paul Amaro's camped at a very comfortable hotel a quarter mile from where you sit," McCullough said to Ziggy. "I don't think you can afford to kiss me off."
"Paul Amaro?" Ziggy said. "I don't believe I know a Paul Amaro."
Michael was shaking his head. "A queer Fed! God Almighty, how'd I end up with a queer Fed?"
Ziggy went on, "I used to know a guy named Sal Martucci. He knew Paul Amaro. But this Amaro guy and Ziggy Maxx, nuh-uh, they don't know each other."
"This time around you're brave," McCullough said. "This time you're playing by the code. Last time around you didn't, remember? Paul Amaro, you can bet that he remembers."
"Just using me," said Michael. "Pumping me for all the romantic details. Who's this one, where's that one? You faggot bitch."
McCullough said, "Shut up, Michael. I'm not gay, I've got a wife and kids."
"Ha!" said Michael, loud enough to catch the ears and sympathies of people having breakfast all around the pool. "I don't care if you've got a harem and a flock of sheep. Homo is as homo does, sweetheart, and you're as gay as Liberace."