Jonah looked over at Lucy. "You have rastafarian specialty omelet?" He asked in a low tone.
"Yeah, we did. At that stand right by where you picked us up. Guy name of Jacob."
He lowered his voice. "Mushrooms, mon?"
"That's what the man said."
"You know what kind of mushrooms a rastaman put in his omelet, Miss Lucy?"
She swallowed, and felt a ripple of rubies wash down her throat. She blinked, and the windshield broke into diamonds; then a birdcall somewhere out there echoed like a flute through the emerald canyon that ran down the middle of her mind. "I didn't at the time, but I think I do now."
"Ever since the hippies come here, it been very popular. But people like this..." he glanced in the rearview, "I don't know. Well, here's the hotel, so good luck."
They had arrived at the gatehouse, where Jonah pulled up and turned off his engine. "Can't you take us in?" Lucy said. "The driveway's so long."
"Sorry, Miss Lucy, I'm not one of their contract cabbies, so they will insist on search de whole car before lettin' me in."
"Since when have they been doing that?" she said, amazed, even as the words came out, that she could hold a regular conversation while all around her the fundamental mysterious structure of the universe hinted that it might just reveal itself. The leaves danced though the wind did not blow, and in the movement Lucy recognized...what did she see there? She could not name it, but she understood, past language, that it was very important. But why? The questions echoed, a cry in the brain. The brain—her brain—felt far far away. Perhaps she'd better head on out there, to where her brain had gone, lest it get lost.
"Here's some money," said Jim Strauss, his radio-smooth tone reduced to a cracked whisper. He thrust a ten dollar bill over the seat. "You get the change, OK Lucy? We've got to go." He flung the door open, dragged himself and his wife out, said, "We're guests," towards the plumed gatekeepers; then the two of them staggered off down the driveway.
Lucy and Jonah watched them go, then he looked at her. "You all right, Lucy?"
"Me?" She swallowed, and grinned. "You want to know if me...if I'm all right, Mr. Jonah? Well, yeah mon, as a matter of fact," she smiled, and handed him the ten bucks. "Silly...Psilocybin agrees with me. You ever try it, my friend?"
"Magic mushroom? No mon, I stick to beer, maybe a smoke sometime. I like to keep the world, you know, the way it is..."
Lucy giggled. "But you see, Jonah," she said, waving at the trees outside, which waved back at her. "The world isn't just that way or this way. It keeps changing, all the time, from one scene to another, one reality to another...like a movie. Shit," she said, as Angus Wilson, dead in a hot tub, floated into view, a toxic vision smogging up the reaches of her mind. "I don't think I like this movie." Abruptly, she opened the car door, and the image was gone. "Well, I've got your number. If I can't reach you I'll...send my pigeon," she laughed, then remembered that she was on the case. "Oh, like I was asking before, since when did they stop you from driving in here any old time?"
"Just a few days ago. I figured it was security for Dexter coming here the other day, and that's OK, but now the opening happen and still they want to search me for I come in."
"Hmmm," said Lucy, intrigued by an image of herself in the pipe and hat and cloak of Sherlock Holmes, on the job. All the people call him Dexter, like he's their personal friend. That's where she'd seen the dapper Rackstraw Barnes before! He was in Hanley's entourage at the Grand Opening. She closed the door. "Talk to you soon. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day, OK?"
"No problem." He drove off. Lucy wiped the glazed look off her face, put on her shades, and strolled through the entry gateway past the stone-faced, plume-headed gatekeepers, whose stoic expressions reminded her, at that moment, of certain masks she'd seen in the Museum of Folk Art at a show a few months back. She'd gone to that show with her friend Delia, and afterwards they'd taxied downtown to Lucky Strike on Grand Street for steak frites and Beaujolais Nouveau, and then drunk French cognac till four a.m. with two Italians she'd never seen before and would never see again. The Italians had been handsome, charming, intelligent, articulate in English, and she had walked home alone at dawn. Why? She wondered, strolling down the lushly planted driveway towards the hotel's porte cochere. Above her, the beautiful red fruit of the ackee trees dangled, jewel-like. She dared herself to pick one and bite it, thinking, how could that lovely red thing kill me? No way.
No way you're going to find out is more like it, sister, said another, more practical one of the many voices rising up within her. The pitch of these voices had intensified, and now threatened to blow her away with a cacaphonous, chaotic blast. Shutup, she shouted to herself silently, and it worked, for a minute, as quiet fell across the interior terrain.
She slipped into the lobby and through without seeing anyone she knew. By the time she'd made it back to her room, her watch had sprouted wings, and it was definitely time for a swim. The room had been cleaned, and had the look of a place she'd never seen before. She walked around, touching furniture, forcing herself to whisper, as she touched each thing, what it was: "Chair. Desk. Closet. Bed. Good, Lucy," she spoke aloud, mocking herself. "That's really good." Her voice sounded hollow and strange in the large, neat, completely foreign hotel room. But the psilocybin did shift things around on a fundamental level, and you had to get your bearings. Naming things was one way to do that. The names of even the simplest things had power, and to say them out loud tapped into that power, and made it hers. Or at least reminded her that she was a human being in a room full of things somewhere in the real world, and not just a bundle of sensations wired together in a frail little body by accident, stuck in the void, adrift for a reason she would never know until she was dead and then it wouldn't matter, would it? Ah, the wondrous things psychedelics bring to mind.
She took her clothes off, and then, en route to the head to put on her bathing suit, she remembered her pictures. She went to the desk, sat down, picked up the camera, and had a look at the architectural images she’d shot. Gazing intently into each image in the camera, she conjured up the shoot, and understood how the pictures would work. She had done her job well, and this filled her with a certain satisfaction that she could feel, now, high on the magic mushrooms, like a physical thing, a happy little creature nestling in her body. She looked down at her body. Her body, naked, sitting, had rolls of fat on the belly. She could see them there, rude reality. She sat up straight and they went away. Bad fat, bad!
Next she went to the greenish images, Angus' death scene and other moments from that night, and started shuffling through them on the camera. The green darkness roiled right up out of the pictures and filled the room around her, swirling like a swarm of flies, but she ignored it for what it was, the drug working on her own fear and negativity. At that moment, someone rapped softly on her patio door, startling her out of the deep, dark green swampy reverie into which she was sinking. That's right, the human race is out there! "Lucy, Lucy, you in there?" It was Desmond. "Ski time, Lucy."
"Um...just a second. Yeah, Des. Just lemme..." She put the camera down on the desk, jumped up, and ran into the bathroom to put on her one piece. She threw it on then went over to the patio doors, drew the curtains, and opened the door. There he stood, all six foot two inches of perfect dark chocolate manhood, with a smile on his face. She could tell—what was it, the smell? The eyes? The vibes!—that he was genuinely glad to see her. "Hi," she whispered, and swallowed, returning to earth.
He looked into her eyes for a moment. "Lucy," he said in a low voice. "You been smokin?" He grinned.
"Smoking? What, ganja? No, Desmond. No reefer for me." This was true, wasn't it?
"Well, you look a little bit..."
"I'm fine," she said, and abandoned all thoughts of death-scene photography as she stepped out onto the sun-stippled patio. The cigarette-style ski boat floated just offshore, out front of her room. Leroy, Desmond's assistant, sat in the back, and Harold Ipswich stood on the beach in
trunks and a life jacket, holding a pair of waterskis and looking out onto the bay. His pose was effortlessly elegant, a good sign, she thought. The water was glass, reflecting a porcelain, pale blue sky, and the seabirds flying across left trails that wove, in her eyes, a dancing web of their own. Lucy followed the exquisite form of Desmond across the grass and onto the heat of Blackwater Beach, where the sand crunched like diamonds between her toes.
She negotiated Harold, whose lust and longing-filled thoughts danced like little sprites on the surface of his face, without giving herself away. The sprites were clearly benign, and when he applied sunscreen to her back, at her request, and she discovered that he had wonderfully delicate and supple hands, she decided she might maybe have to have him this very day. Then she jumped in the boat with Desmond, whose lithe figure moved like an exotic animal, an erotic oversized cat, through the webs of reality and non-reality spinning and intertwining in her brain, while Harold, frizzed hair flying, pulled to his feet and skiied successfully across Blackwater Bay on the first try in his life.
Now, floating on her back twenty yards behind the speedboat, skis on her feet and a handle in her right hand, she waved at Leroy, and he told Desmond to get it moving. Lucy grabbed hold of the handle with both hands, and prepared for psychedelic waterskiing.
A deep breath as the rope went taut, speed picked up, and away she went. She wobbled for an instant, forced her legs into line, and found her balance and her feet at the same time. She was up and racing! Racing very fast, except that everything moved in slow motion, which made it easy. Harold waved as she cut down the center of the wake. Desmond picked up the pace, and Lucy cut over the wake with a flex of her knees, and steered herself out to the side of the boat. She focused on her form and balance, then lifted her right foot, kicked off the ski, and quickly planted it behind her left foot on the other ski. She whipped a few turns, banking off the little wake waves, jumping and bouncing, and then, in a wild instant, hit an unexpected bump and went flying, tumbling, crashing, her ski flew off and she was dragging through the water, gripping the rope and racing, a dolphin, a whale, a submarine on the move, she kept her head down and felt the ocean splitting around her, the underwater jetstream flashing past in waves of power until she realized she wasn't breathing. She uncurled her hands and let go, slowed to a stop, and came up gasping as Desmond circled around to pick her up. They found her lolling on her back, grinning at the sky. Her arms felt nine feet long, but she didn't mind. "What a rush!" she said, laughing up at the men in the boat. "That was a gas!"
"You did great, Luce," said Harold. "Looked like a champ."
"You want to go again, Lucy?" Desmond asked.
"No, I don't think so, Des. Once was enough. I...Harold, you want to go out to the island with me? I think I could do with some hot tub time. My arms are wasted." She held them up limply—they felt like overcooked linguini—then swam over and climbed up the little ladder into the boat. She rubbed her head briefly with a towel, and sat down. "Whew! I'd forgotten how fast you go!"
"Sure, I'll go to the island with you, Luce, but are you ready to...I mean, that's where you found Awful Angoose, isn't it? Right in that damned tub."
"Yeah. But so what!" She was buzzed off the ski run, and felt invulnerable. "I mean, it's not like he...well, what's to be afraid of?"
"Nothing. So let's go," said Harold with a shrug, and five minutes later they pulled up to the Tower Cay dock. They climbed up the ladder and stood on the dock in their swim suits, clutching towels. Desmond cranked the boat around and raced off.
The physical effort involved in keeping her feet on waterskis had taken her past the psychedelic peak; now the magic had settled into a lovely and completely manageable intensification of color and sensation. The afternoon sun had edged down far enough towards the horizon to let the air begin cooling. A faint breeze had picked up, and stirred the palm fronds overhead.
Lucy suddenly realized that she and Harold were supposed to strip. Well now. She had a look at him, he had a look at her, and they burst out laughing. "Luce...I'll leave it up to you."
"Harold, I don't know, I mean..." she blushed, and touched his arm. "Hey, tell you what, let's go over to the tub and sort of ease into the water and out of our suits at the same time. That way, it's..."
"Sounds good to me," he said, and headed over. Following him, she pictured his buns through the bathing suit. He was no Desmond, but then, being white and 40-odd years old, that was not surprising. Actually, he didn't look bad, some muscle definition in the back and shoulders, good posture, nice legs. The only problem a bit of a pot, but nobody's perfect. "You want a beer?" he said, stopping at the door to the tower.
"Yeah, sure," she said: "What harm's one more brew gonna do?"
He disappeared into the tower, and she went on to the hot tub platform. In a fit of modesty, she quickly stripped off her suit, threw it down with her towel, and lowered herself into the steamy, bubbly water, on the far side, so she could watch his approach. Only problem was, sitting there, she remembered how Angus Wilson had been sitting opposite her, naked and dead, just a few nights past. She stared at the spot, then closed her eyes and watched her memory of him sitting there dead. She opened her eyes and turned around to have a look at the rocks along the platform edge.
"Hey, you're already in there," Harold said. "What's the deal?" Angus went away. She shrugged, lifted her right foot delicately out of the water, and waved it at him. He came around the tub and crouched to hand her a cup of beer. "Here you go." She took it, sipped, and smiled at him. He put his own beer down, then straightened up. With his hands on the top of his trunks, he paused. She liked the way he looked up there.
Now was the time! Lucy spoke impulsively, her voice gone sultry with intent: "Come on in, Harold. I'll take yours off for you." He gave her a look, then stepped into the tub and slid down next to her.
"Aaaah," he said. "That's nice..."
Lucy was panting. She reached over and slipped her hand in the back of his trunks, and felt his rear end. He lifted himself a little, and she tugged the shorts off his butt. Then she slipped her hand around to the front, and pulled them loose there too. Once they'd gotten down around his hips, he reached down and slipped them off the rest of the way. Lust-inspired Lucy put her hand on him, felt him grow. She pulled herself over to him as he threw his arms around her and their mouths met in an open, searching kiss. Her sunscreen intuition had been right: his hands, all over her, were good, as was his tongue. Lucy felt herself melting away, driven by longing and dammed-up need, into the empire of the senses.
Moments later, Harold hoisted her up out of the hot, swirling water onto the edge of the tub, spread her legs, and first, after pausing, looking into her eyes, and pulling her down for a last kiss on the mouth, he lowered himself into the tub, lifted her legs out of the water, and kissed the soft insteps of her feet. He sucked her toes, licked her ankles, worked his mouth up and down the backs of her calves. She watched, and though she knew and understood it was him, she felt his tongue, his hands, his lips like a small busy horde of autonomous sex creatures working on her, devoted to nothing except bringing her pleasure. They were her slaves, the parts of his body. Then he moved his mouth upwards along the inside of her left knee, slowly, nibbling gently with his teeth. She felt his beard rasping along her inner thigh, pleasure in that soft scraping pain, and then his tongue driving, searching, touching her. Eyes closed, she held his head, she moaned, opened herself wide falling back onto the deck, letting go, entirely letting go. She opened her eyes, saw nothing but sky, blue and embracing.
For a few moments, and then it was his turn. She slipped into the water and urged him out, opened his legs, put herself between them, came down onto him with her mouth open, her eyes closed, gave herself to giving him pleasure. After a time he stopped her, pulled her up, moving together in rhythm they quickly spread out the towels and made ready to make love right there on the hot tub platform, sun sliding lower and the breeze picking up, they were groping and kissing an
d ready to fuse when the sound of the motorboat zooming up to the dock came through loud and clear.
"Fuck," Harold barked, a loud frustrated whisper.
"Unfortunately, not right now," she said, jumping up, the motor-buzz shocking her back to earth. He too jumped to his feet, and they stood naked, bewildered, as the sound of voices came from the dock. What now? Normally a situation like this you grab for your clothes. But on Naked Island, what to do? She slipped back into the tub, and Harold followed, detumescing at record speed. Well, they'd have to finish later. Right now, the thing to do was get it under control. They settled into the tub, Harold picked up his beer and had a sip.
Came into view now Joey Ruskin and Maria Verde naked, carrying bundles of clothes and towels. Joey built like a Roman sculpture, except that no fig leaf would ever suffice to cover that piece of anatomy, wouldn't you know it, and Maria, droopy Maria, comported herself in the manner of a serious exhibitionist, nipples on parade, a heap of cheap large jewels placed to enhance the clothes that were not there.
They demonstrated no surprise at finding the hot tub occupied. "Hi, Lucy," said the naked Maria, all bubbly-like. She'd apparently forgiven and forgotten their earlier run-in. "Hello, Harold. How's the water?" She threw her stuff down.
"S'fine, Maria," he said.
"Joey, you comin' in?" said Maria with an inquiring glance his way. He hardly looked at her as she slipped into the tub with a grunt.
"In a minute," he said, and sat on the bench opposite Lucy and Harold. Lighting an unfiltered English cigarette, one of the snooty variety that came from a flat, elegant box, he left his legs casually open. He dangled, looming large in their line of vision. "I trust you're having a good vacation, Lucy," he said. "I know you had some trouble the other night, and I hope it hasn't spoiled our lovely island for you."
"Everything's fine," Lucy said. "Right, Maria?" Lucy pushed herself across the tub, and turned her back on Joey. "Except that the sun was in my eyes over there." Now she faced Harold, at whom she smiled. "This is much better."
Murder on Naked Beach: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 1) Page 9
