by Dianne Emley
“Working? We’re seeing the sights.” Sally raised his chin. “Why are you on our ass all the time lately, chief?”
“This is a family place, Lambertini. See that guy over there?” He nodded toward the man in the Hawaiian shirt who was watching them. “That’s what he just told me.”
“You got nothing on us.” Sally glowered at him.
“Good. We’re even. I’m going home. I’ll be in touch. Smile for the FBI.”
The man in the Hawaiian shirt took their picture.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Iris Thorne put her arms through the straps of her backpack , hoisted it onto her shoulders, then swung her leg up to mount the bicycle. She started pedaling and the wheels turned with their soothing click-click-click-click.
It was Sunday morning and the air was fresh with a chill on it that goose-pimpled her bare legs below the hem of her Spandex cycling shorts. She turned down the hill that led to the beach and started picking up speed. The light at the bottom changed to green and she sped through it, not hitting the brakes once.
She raced between the cement posts separating the street and the beach and turned left down the bike path, her tires skidding on sand. She changed gears and started to pedal.
The bike path, like the freeway, always has traffic. In a few hours the path would be crowded with visitors on rented wheels, cops in shorts, beach bunnettes in teeny bikinis, dudes in psychedelic jams with pirate kerchiefs tied around their heads, and little kids in sand-packed swimsuits all elbow to elbow with street people, street performers, street saviors and doomsayers, and anyone else who came to warm their face in the sun and dig their toes in the sand and escape the inland asphalt heat.
On weekend mornings, the locals took the air and the path was transformed. Strangers that tailgated and cursed and snubbed each other on freeways and in office buildings and stores smiled and said, “Good morning,” as in friendly small-town anywhere. The party animals sat in beach chairs on their patios and toasted the early risers, the locals, their people, holding the first beers of the day in foam insulators. Everyone was full of vigor and good will. Life in Southern California.
Iris pedaled hard.
Good morning, good morning.
“Left.” A guy cycling faster than her signaled he was passing.
The breezy quaintness of Santa Monica gave way to the funky weirdness of Venice to the tony newness of Marina del Rey. Iris stopped at a store and picked up croissants, a ripe melon, and Brie, and shoved the groceries into her backpack.
Inside Marina del Rey, weekend boaters sat on their decks sipping coffee. You didn’t even have to hassle with taking the boat out. It was great just sitting in it. A breeze rustled the sailboat halyards, clanging steel shackles and blocks against aluminum masts.
People nodded.
Good morning, good morning.
Iris got off her bike and unlatched the gate that led to the slip where Sympa was docked. Steve was standing on her undulating bow in bare feet with a sailor’s grace, at ease on moving ground. She looked at him with affection. The companionship was good. The good times were good. The sex was great. But it was all crumbs. Steve was what he was and it was up to her to take it or leave it. And she couldn’t seem to get up the energy to make a move.
Steve was talking to the owner of the large power boat docked in the slip next to Sympa, a bankruptcy attorney with a boat named Chapter 11. The weekend sailors liked talking with Steve, trading nautical war stories or debating about sports. Steve knew all of the them, watched their boats during the week, hired himself out for maintenance work. They trusted him. They should. And they went back to their offices on Monday morning with stories about Marina life and Steve was part of the local color. Steve, whom they’d never seen wear shoes, who wore this dangling turquoise earring and was tan year-round and wore shorts in winter and was strong and lean and had long hair that he pulled back into a ponytail and somehow made it all look good. Just a really great guy. Would take off, go sailing for months at a time. And the women he has coming and going off that boat. Then the weekend boaters would pick up their phone messages and go in their offices and turn on the computer and wonder if they’d trade it all to be like Steve.
Iris walked her bicycle down the wooden dock. Steve waved. Chapter 11’s owner said hello and gave her a once-over. Steve gave her a quick kiss on the lips and she ran her fingers through the curls cut short on top of his head, bleached almost platinum by the sun. She couldn’t resist. Steve gazed into her eyes with affection and lust. Chapter 11’s owner excused himself. He’d have some great Steve stories to tell on Monday.
“I brought breakfast,” Iris said.
She took her sandy tennis shoes off before climbing onto Sympa’s pristine wooden deck. She pulled off the heavy backpack, tossed it into the cockpit ahead of her, then boarded and sat down on one of the benches that flanked both sides of the boat. She stretched out. “I’m pooped.”
Steve sat on the other end of the bench, pulled her foot onto his lap, and started massaging it.
“Alley’s funeral was yesterday. Mmm… Remember I was telling you?”
He kissed her big toe, then the next one and the next one, then circled his hand around her ankle and held her foot between his chest and the crook of his chin, cradling her leg like a baby.
“It was weird. These cops were there and everything. Raab pontificating and Drye being an ass. Teddy freaked out and threw up on the steps. I met Alley’s mother. She was beautiful, like Alley.”
Steve caressed her leg as he watched her talk, moving her hands, her conversation self-propelled. He watched her and smiled. He liked this Iris Thorne.
He rubbed his smooth cheek against her foot, then kissed the bottom of it.
“I knew one of the cops in college. We dated. Well, it was more than just dating. But he’s on this case, can you believe it? And, he told me he wants to be, like, friends again, you know? We had dinner… sort of. But there’s nothing left. There’s really nothing. I’m not attracted to him at all. It’s over. It was over. It’s been over.”
“Doesn’t sound like it’s over.”
“It totally is! There’s nothing left. It just makes me uncomfortable. He’s around now. And I don’t like the job they’re doing. I didn’t tell you about Joe’s father and EquiMex and Worldco. It’s just a mess. Everything’s all screwed up.” She let out a long sigh of sorrow and fatigue and the burden of the world.
“And I called you last night and you weren’t home.”
He stroked her leg and looked at her with sparkling hazel eyes with green flecks and smiled a small smile. “I’m here now.”
He was here now. She knew that was all she could expect.
They stared into each other’s eyes like people in love or anger. She touched his hair where it curled to his shoulders and circled her fingers around the curve of his ear and ran fingertips across his collar bone and the dip in his throat on his bare chest and stroked the delicate skin there. She smiled the small smile back.
She pulled her foot away, got up, and walked down the steps to the cabin without looking behind her or saying a thing. He followed her, closing the cabin door behind them.
Iris stood in the galley in bare feet. She put slices of Brie inside the croissants and heated them in a toaster oven until the croissants were toasted and the Brie melted. “Cholesterol sandwiches, coming up.”
She went onto the deck and sat with her feet in Steve’s lap, drinking coffee from a stoneware mug, eating the croissants with strawberry jam, scattering papery crumbs on her clothes and around her mouth. She realized she was starving. She fed Steve bits of croissant with her fingers. The cool air raised goose bumps on her legs and arms. Everything tasted great. Her legs were comfortably fatigued from the bike ride and Steve. Life wasn’t so bad sometimes after all.
The morning wind in Marina del Rey was light, but they sailed instead of motoring out of the channel anyway, tacking Sympa back and forth until they cleared the breakwater and
reached open water, zigzagging around power boats, called stink pots by sailors, that were carelessly cruising in the sail lane, Sympa turning on a dime around them with a flutter of sails and swoosh of ropes, propelled only by wind, water, sail, rudder, and skill.
Once they had cleared the channel, Iris cranked the main halyard and raised the mainsail, struggling against the winch handle on the last few clicks. She secured the halyard with a cleat hitch, a sailor’s knot Steve had taught her and that she’d practiced over and over. She also knew the bowline, the figure eight, and the clove hitch, each knot having its own function. Good sailor’s knots, quickly done and undone.
She rolled the tail of the halyard into a neat coil on the deck and released the main sheet until the wind filled the sail, then fastened the sheet in the cam cleat with a firm downward snap. Then she raised the jib, adjusting the sail until it was smooth and full, at the correct angle with the wind.
Steve fine-tuned the sails with a master’s touch, releasing the cunningham to make the mainsail fuller in the light wind, releasing the clew outhaul to reduce tension on the foot of the sail, sliding the traveler into position on the block. The wind had picked up, and they retrimmed the sails and traveled close-hauled up the coast in the slot.
“Where to?”
“Away,” she said.
They changed course and sailed on a beam reach in a perpendicular line from Santa Monica, toward the horizon.
Iris sat on the bow and leaned against the rail. Steve sat on the stern, holding the wheel with his feet. They finally passed most of the Sunday boat traffic and waded through the brown sewage crud floating in the bay. They took turns at the helm, silent for long periods of time, lulled by the sun and salt water, listening to the boat cut through the waves. Land disappeared and they had seagulls, pelicans, porpoises, and sea lions for company.
She went below deck and came up with the plastic bag from the Rodeo Drive boutique. She pulled open the drawstring, took out the pair of miniature leather cowboy boots, and chucked them overboard.
A seagull dove for them, then left them floating on the surface after getting a closer look.
Iris took out the graying white chocolate rose on a wire and tossed that over. Then came the tin of lemon drops and the brass angel. Then the dried carnation, which stayed on the surface, like a floating wreath.
She dusted her hands, wiping them clean. It was done. Finished. Except for the cash.
Steve watched her without saying anything. She’d talk when she was ready.
She moved to him, open the plastic bag, and announced, “Two hundred thirty-eight thousand dollars.”
Then, for the first time since she’d opened Alley’s envelope, she explained. She told Steve about the key and the message, “Open this. You will know when to.” She told him about the safe-deposit box and the EquiMex stock that wasn’t traded publicly. About the cops. Paul Lewin, who hadn’t like her from the get-go. Calling her “Ms. Thorne” all the time. Real sarcastic. And John Somers.
She told him about how she had decided to see what she could find out on her own because the cops were so off-base. How she’d overheard Stan and Joe talking about Alley stealing ten million dollars from Joe’s dad and from Worldco, or at least Alley’s name was on everything. About how money had been transferred from Worldco to EquiMex, which turned out to be an offshore corporation where Alley was a director. And Teddy, coked up, scamming on penny stocks, freaking out about the cops at Alley’s funeral. Cutting off Jaynie’s head in the snapshot. And Somers saying that Alley had been stabbed with an ice pick.
Iris felt released.
“How much of this do the police know?” Steve asked.
“They know that Alley was murdered with an ice pick. At least that’s the only thing I’ve found out they know. They don’t know about Worldco or EquiMex or the safe-deposit box. I did tell them to watch Joe Campbell’s father, that they might learn something.”
“Is he a mobster?”
“He’s a guy with ten million dollars in an offshore corporation. Stan and Joe said something about a family business. Maybe the police will figure it out, if John follows up.”
“Why are you taking this into your own hands?”
“Because if I gave the police the safe-deposit box stuff, they’d say ‘Great! Case solved. Alley was a doper, just like we thought’. I know they’re trying to do a good job, but Alley told me that things aren’t the way they seem. If I tell the police, they won’t look beyond the obvious. The person behind Alley’s murder will go free. That’s the reason. In spite of what John Somers says. Jerk.”
She watched five dolphins gliding in the water near the boat, dipping up, skimming under.
“I remember the first time I saw Alley,” she said. “He was in the lunchroom and was trying to get something out of the snack machine. He was crouching down, trying to pull open the sliding door, which I didn’t realize could only be opened by sliding it from the front. Alley couldn’t get his hand in the right position to slide it, so he’d contorted himself, trying to hook his finger around the door. Once he had it open, he couldn’t hold it and grab the snack at the same time.
“I reached to help but he shuffled faster and managed to get out his potato chips or whatever. He smiled at me with that warm smile, then he had a spasm and his smile got all twisted. It surprised me and I was sorry that he saw my reaction. When I was leaving, he held the door open for me. He had to maneuver around to get his hand on the doorknob. It took him a while, but I waited.
“After I started signing with him and got to know him, he became just Alley. The Boys’ Club came after him, goading each other on, telling Alley ‘Spit it out’ and ‘What have you got to say for yourself?’ Billy Drye bought this toy wind-up penis—you know, one of those little toys that hops along on two feet, sadistic bastard—and put it in Alley’s briefcase. The thing kept showing up—in Alley’s pocket, in his desk drawer. Those idiots laughing and laughing. Alley tried to laugh with them, which just made them laugh more.
“Alley still wanted to be their friend. He kept trying. It’s like the men’s clubs that won’t take women members. You know one of their reasons? Women’s voices are too high. It would spoil the ambience. I have no interest in spending five minutes in there, but I’d be a member in a minute if I could. You always think that once you get power, you’ll change the rules. You play their game, right? Then they’ll be playing your game. But what happens is you become some sort of mutant. You have feet in both worlds and you’re not part of either anymore. Then you wonder if it’s worth it but you’re too stubborn to give up because you’ve sacrificed too much and maybe you can’t go back even if you wanted to.”
She looked at the sun setting on the horizon, at the ocean and the curve of the earth and the sky and the first stars, and felt comfortably minuscule.
“At the office last year, I started to get familiar with one of the reps who’s not there anymore. You know, just drinks, talking, lunch. But I could see one thing leading to another. I really liked him. It felt like it could be something, I mean… you know…”
“You don’t have to explain.”
“Then Alley told me about this bet that the Boys’ Club had, about who could sleep with me first. Alley knew everything. He read lips well. People forgot that. Alley hinted around, hinted around until I finally got it out of him.
“So I asked this guy about it. He turned beet red and swore he had nothing to do with it. He probably didn’t, but I thought, it’s not worth the risk. And I thought those guys were starting to warm up to me.” She laughed. “What a fool. I owe Alley. I owe him for that.”
She took the plastic shopping bag below deck, turned on Sympa’s running lights, then came up a few minutes later wearing a fleece-lined jacket against the evening chill.
They jibed, changed direction by turning the boat through the eye of the wind, ducking when the boom swung from starboard to port, and started heading back, wing on wing.
She put her arms around Ste
ve’s tight waist and leaned against him as he steered with his arm around her shoulders. The temperature had dropped with the setting sun.
“Iris, come with me to the South Pacific. We could leave next week.”
“Just leave?”
“Just leave. Head for warm water.”
“What about my job?”
“Leave for a year. Think about what you really want to do.”
“My condo?”
“Give your mom the keys.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Don’t complicate it.”
“I can’t.”
“You can. Leave all the bullshit until everything blows over. Let the cops solve this thing however they can. You won’t have sold Alley out. Alley wouldn’t have wanted you being this upset. He got involved in something bad. He was probably murdered for it. Maybe that’s what he meant by ‘Be smart.’ Get the hell out. Take the money he left you and live on some island in Micronesia and open a shell shop.”
“But it’s not my money.”
“Who’s then? It’s dirty. C’mon, I could use a first mate. The trip of a lifetime. Open sea, birds, fish, the boat, and you.”
“And you, Popeye.”
He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed and squeezed tighter and tighter until she squeaked and laughed and laughed and forgot about herself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Paper or plastic?”
Iris had taken the plastic and felt guilty. A plastic shopping bag dangled from each handlebar of her bicycle. The bike was unsteady as she rolled it down the carpeted corridor to her condo.
Her front door was open.
She put her key in the lock and the door just pushed open. She knew she hadn’t been that scattered, too scattered to forget to lock, to remember to even close the door.
The automatic timer on the lights had already lit the room. The drapes billowed back and forth through the open sliding glass door. She hadn’t left that open either. She also hadn’t done what had been done to her place.
