Deep Six

by D P Lyle

  As if to prove that any situation could go from bad to worse, the wind kicked up, dragging with it the smell of rain. Out over the Gulf a bank of dark clouds, tops silvered by the moonlight, innards flashing bright white with lightning, marched toward shore.

  Just great. Twenty miles from home, no right-side windows. Didn’t bode well for my pony interior.

  Headlights washed over me, and I looked up the street. Now what? Did Cooper have more to say? Maybe he called it in and his boss gave him the green light to haul my ass downtown. To tweak Ray if nothing else.

  I raised one hand to shield my eyes from the headlight glare. The car, a shiny new red SL Mercedes, rolled to a stop. The deeply tinted window slid down, revealing a young woman. Her straight blond hair hung like silk curtains to her shoulders and framed a face that could grace the cover of Vogue. Definitely not what I expected.

  “That was interesting,” she said.

  “You saw that, huh?”

  She laughed. Soft, almost musical. “Hard to miss a woman beating the hell out of a classic Mustang with a golf club.”

  I looked back up the street, from where she had come. “You live around here, I take it?”

  She brushed a wayward strand of hair from her face. “Just back around the bend.”

  “You on a beer run or something?”

  Another soft laugh. “Heading out to see a friend.”

  “A little late, isn’t it?”

  “He’s a bartender. Doesn’t close up until one. But he’s not nearly as interesting as this.”

  “Bet he’d be happy to hear that.”

  She shrugged. “He’d get over it.”

  I reeled in my first response—that a woman as beautiful as her probably didn’t have to worry too much about pissing him off. No one would put her on the road for being late. Instead, I smiled.

  “So what was that about?” she asked.

  “My ex. She’s insane.”

  “Obviously.”

  “I’m Jake.”

  “Nicole.”

  She extended a hand out the window, and I shook it. Soft skin, firm grip. The first drops of rain peppered my face.

  “You better get that beauty under cover.”

  “My thoughts exactly. Problem is, cover is about twenty miles away.”

  She hesitated, examining me as if trying to decide something. “Or just up the road. My place. You can stick it in the garage until this blows over.”

  “What about your friend?”

  “Sean the bartender? Like I said, this is much more interesting.”

  She smiled. Perfect teeth. Perfect smile. Just perfect. Down boy.

  “Glad I could brighten your evening,” I said.

  “A girl’s got to find fun where she can.”

  “You have an odd definition of fun.”

  “I hear that a lot.”

  The rain picked up, fat drops now smacking the Mustang’s roof and windshield.

  “Follow me,” she said.

  Not waiting for an answer, she pulled ahead, flipped a U-turn, and blasted up the road. I cranked up the Mustang and followed, but by the time I made the U, she was already out of sight around the curve. It crossed my mind that maybe this was all a game. That she was trying to ditch me. That maybe, just maybe, this would all be a good story for her to share with her friends over lunch tomorrow.

  I realized that this was a rather dim view of the fairer sex, but with rain slanting through my Mustang’s shattered windows, courtesy of one member of that sorority, I suspect I’d be forgiven.

  I navigated through the sweeping bend and on to a quieter stretch of Peppermill Road. No sign of the Mercedes. Where the hell did she go?

  Here on The Point, the homes were widely spaced, separated by hundred-foot wide natural areas that consisted of sea oat-topped sand dunes and clusters of pine trees. Zero lot line was not part of the residents’ vocabulary. And here, on the point of The Point, the spacing was even more generous, the road even darker.

  I slowed. Still no sign of the Mercedes. Then on my left, taillights winked through the sea oats that topped a broad sandy mound. Beyond a wide drive, her Mercedes nudged near a garage door that was rolling open. She pulled in. I slid my Mustang in next to the SL.

  “Anybody ever tell you that you’re hard to follow?” I asked.

  “Everyone.”

  The massive house was two stories of glass and stone and wood. Substantial was the word that came to mind. As well as expensive. Four broad, curved, stone steps led to the intricately carved wooden double front door. I followed Nicole inside.

  The interior was equally impressive. And substantial. And expensive. The living room seemed as big as my entire home. Deep sofas, a river rock fireplace, a massive flat screen TV that would do most movie theaters proud, and a wall of French doors that looked out over a wide deck, the beach, and the now churning Gulf. Rain hammered the glass. Lightning skittered in the distance, followed by a low rumble of thunder.

  “Something to drink?” Nicole asked.

  “Sure.”

  She navigated to the bar, a hand-carved oak monstrosity that filled one corner of the room. Behind the bar, dozens of liquor bottles stood like soldiers before a long mirror. She wore strategically frayed jeans and a red Ferrari t-shirt, both welded to her body as if shrink-wrapped. And what a body. Long and lean, curved where it should be. A West-Coast strut that looked like she had been runway trained.

  “You look like a bourbon drinker,” she said.

  “What does a bourbon drinker look like?”

  “Rugged, studly.”

  “That’s me, all right.”

  She laughed. “What’ll it be? Bourbon?”

  “Whatever you’re having is fine.”

  “Tequila it is.” She snagged a bottle of Patrón Silver and two glasses, splashing a healthy dose in each, handing one to me. She touched her glass to mine. “Welcome.”

  “Nice place. Much better than mine.”

  “Mine, too.” She took a sip. “This is my uncle’s vacation home.”

  She placed the Patrón bottle on a coffee table that looked long enough to handle an F-18 landing.

  “I can’t imagine what his primary must look like,” I said.

  “Bigger.”

  “What does he do?”

  “Movies. Producer, director, writer, all the usual Hollywood tags.”

  I gave the room another onceover. “Seems to pay well.”

  “Especially at his level. Won a couple of Oscars, a half dozen Emmys.”

  “Why here? Why not Malibu or someplace like that?”

  She kicked off her sandals. “That’s where he lives most of the time. Malibu. The Colony. He’s originally from Pensacola. Not big on Hollywood folks so he likes to come hang here.”

  “And you?”

  “My condo’s in California. Orange County. Newport Beach. You know that area?”

  “Been there a few times. Very nice.”

  “Too crowded. Much quieter here.”

  “Where is he now? Your uncle?” The thought crossed my mind that maybe we weren’t alone. Maybe Uncle Joe, or whatever his name was, was upstairs asleep. Or loading a gun.

  Her delicate fingers held the glass of tequila near her chest, the Ferrari logo distorted through it. “Europe. He’ll be there for a few months. Shooting his next film.”

  “So you’re on vacation?”

  “Sort of. Working on a screenplay.”

  “Isn’t everyone in California working on a screenplay?”

  She laughed again. “Seems so. But I’ve actually had a couple produced.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be.” She stirred the tequila with one finger and then sucked it clean. “They were short films. Though one was shown at Sundance.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Yeah. With that and six bucks I can get a latte at Starbucks.” She sat on the sofa, patting the cushion beside her. “Come. Sit.”

  I couldn’t think of
a reason not to, and if I had, I would have hammered any such impulse into submission. I sat. She twisted toward me, folding her legs, her knees against my thigh.

  The rain drummed the windows in waves. A long, stuttering flash of lightning lit up the room, followed by palpable thunder.

  She flinched and said, “Looks angry out there.”

  “It’ll blow through.”

  “I guess I’m stuck with you until it does.” She flashed a smile. “But since we have some time, tell me the story?” She refilled our glasses, returning the Patrón to the table.

  “What story?”

  “All that golf club business.”

  “The usual. Marriage, divorce, crazy woman. You live in California. I’m sure you’ve seen it before.”

  “True.” She brushed her hair back over her shoulder. Even her neck was beautiful. Or maybe it was the emerald hanging from the wound gold chain. “Are you a stalker or something?”

  “No. But, that’s what she thought. Then again, in her world everything is about her.”

  “What were you doing in this neighborhood in the middle of the night?”

  “Snooping. Just not on her.”

  “Interesting. There’s a story there.”

  Her eyes were so deeply blue they seemed bottomless. Like a calm tropical lagoon. Maybe a blue iceberg. But not cold. Definitely not cold.

  “My father’s a PI,” I said. “I was doing some work for him.”

  “And the story gets better. Now I’m definitely intrigued.”

  “Another old story. Some dude thinks his wife is seeing someone every time he leaves town. Wants her watched. Find out who she’s fooling around with.”

  “That’s more mundane than I hoped.”

  Nicole was far from mundane. Painfully beautiful but obviously bright. Not one of the vacuum-headed blonds I usually ran into on the local beaches and at my bar.

  “PI work is mostly mundane,” I said. “And boring. Lots of time eating junk food, waiting for something to happen.”

  “Like getting your windows smashed?”

  “That’s a first.”

  “I guess real PI work isn’t like the movies? Sam Spade and all that?”

  “Not even close. I suspect your uncle would say the same thing.”

  “Probably.” She stretched and suppressed a yawn.

  “Am I keeping you up?”

  “You stole my line.” A wicked smile.

  I shook my head. “Funny.”

  “That’s what I was going for.”

  “What’s his name?” I asked. “Your uncle?”

  “Charles Balfour.”

  “Really? I know him. Know of him, anyway.”

  “Who doesn’t? He’s my mother’s brother. She and Dad are in the business, too. Mom’s in costume design. Dad’s an editor. Both have also won awards.”

  “And you’re a screenwriter. Very talented family.”

  She tilted her glass toward me and shrugged.

  “You should be an actress,” I said. “You definitely look the part.”

  “What? Drug-addled and stupid?”

  “I was thinking more beautiful and photogenic.”

  “And I thought my eyes were too big.”

  I looked into those blue eyes. “Not big. Maybe deep.”

  She stared at me, then reached out and laid her hand on my arm. “That’s sweet.” A soft squeeze. “I was an actress. Sort of. Did a couple of movies. Bit parts. The girl in the bikini. Sometimes cutoff jeans. Eye candy. Always in the background.”

  “Bet you stole the scenes.”

  “Are you hitting on me?” she asked.

  “Just making an observation.”

  “Pity. I could use being hit on about now.”

  “I can’t imagine you going through a single day without some guy making a play.”

  She smiled. “That’s very kind. Unfortunately, I seem to attract losers.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  She snagged the tequila and refilled our glasses again. The bottle now half empty. Felt like most of it was swirling through my head. Should have had more than a granola bar for dinner.

  “So, why screenwriting and not acting?” I asked.

  “Ever been on a movie set?”

  “Not really. A few TV interviews. That sort of thing.”

  “Whole different animal. Movie sets are boring. Tedious. A lot of people doing mostly nothing. I don’t do tedious and boring well.”

  “How old are you?” I asked.

  She frowned. “You should never ask a lady her age.” Then she laughed, those baby blues sparkling. “I’m just kidding you. I’m twenty-seven. Why?”

  “You look younger, but act older.”

  “That’s a compliment of sorts, I suspect.”

  “It is.”

  “And you?”

  “Thirty-two.”

  “So why the divorce?” she asked.

  “Like I said, she’s crazy.”

  “Crazy usually goes both ways.”

  I nodded. “And crazy isn’t all bad. Just when it reaches the level of true insanity.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  She flipped her hair back again. “I bet there’s more to the story.”

  I shrugged. “I wasn’t very discreet.”

  “Banging some bikini blond on the side?” She raised an eyebrow. “Or were there several?”

  I shrugged again. Not really wanting to get into it.

  “So you’re an admitted bad boy?” she said.

  “You sound like her.”

  The phone rang.

  “I should get that,” she said. “It’s probably Sean wondering where I am.”

  She stood and walked to the bar where her purse sat. She retrieved her cell phone, bringing it to her ear.

  The side of the conversation I heard went like this:

  “Sorry, I fell asleep.”

  “I didn’t hear it. My cell was in the other room.”

  “No, it’s too late. Tomorrow?”

  “I’ll call you then.”

  She hung up the phone. “Sorry about that.”

  “Hope he’s not mad.”

  “He’ll get over it.” She sat. “Or not.”

  For the next hour or so, the rain never let up though the lightning seemed more muted, the thunder more distant. We destroyed the tequila bottle and shared histories.

  She was born in Beverly Hills; I’m a local boy who, except for a couple years in the big leagues, had lived on the Gulf my entire life. She earned a degree in literature at UCLA and a MFA in film from USC; I managed two years at the University of South Alabama on a baseball scholarship, up to the bigs, then back to South Alabama to finish my degree in business administration. She hung on the Hollywood circuit but never could catch the big break so moved down to the OC to distance herself from the LA madness; I bought a beach bar, and occasionally worked part-time for my dad. Like tonight.

  Soon she placed her empty glass on the coffee table and stretched out on the sofa, her head in my lap. “You’re easy to be with, Jake Longly,” she said.

  “As are you.”

  She wiggled deeper into the sofa, getting comfy. My head dropped back on the cushion, and I stared up at the pressed-copper ceiling. She took my hand in both of hers, lacing her fingers with mine, and soon her breathing became soft and shallow. My eyes grew heavy.

  That was the last thing I remembered.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE NEXT MORNING I woke groggy and more than a bit disoriented. My head had settled into the sofa’s deep cushions, my gaze up toward a ceiling I didn’t recognize. My heartbeat pulsed in my eyeballs and even my teeth and scalp hurt. I tried to move, but my neck and back protested. Took me a couple of minutes to remember where I was. One glance at Nicole and it all came back. Tequila. The devil’s liquid. I never handled white whiskey well, anyway. Gin, vodka, tequila always did a number on my brain. And every time, like now, I promised myself I’d stick to bourbon and beer.
Why could I never remember that?

  Neither Nicole nor I had moved. She was still stretched out on the sofa, curled on one side, her exquisite face in profile on my lap. She had apparently pulled an afghan throw over us sometime during the night. Or maybe I had. I had no memory of that. I glanced at my watch. Eight a.m.

  I slipped from beneath her, settling a decorative pillow beneath her head. She murmured something but didn’t wake up. I arranged the throw over her, snugging it up to her neck, and walked to the windows. Clear and sunny. My eyes felt as if someone had sandpapered them. I blinked a few times, but it didn’t help. The Gulf was calm and the beach empty except for a few early risers, staking out their plots of sand for the day.

  After I found my shoes—one near the bar, the other propped against a chair, no memory of how they got there—I slipped them on and kissed Nicole on the cheek, saying something stupid like, “I had a good time.” Totally lame. But, hungover, it was the best I could come up with. She never opened her eyes but offered a weak smile and muttered, “Call me later.”

  How could I refuse that offer? But I didn’t have her number and said so.

  She told me and I added it to my phone’s call list. I let myself out.

  Next stop, Alberto’s Exotic and Vintage Cars. Alberto Garcia, the owner, was the best mechanic around. Could fix anything. And if anyone could find windows for a ’65 Mustang, Alberto could. His shop was in Gulf Shores, a mile from the beach, in a mostly light industrial area. The low cinder block building was painted bright yellow and had an aged corrugated metal roof and four work bays. He specialized in exotics and Detroit muscle cars.

  When I pulled into the gravel lot, Alberto walked from one of the open bays where a light-blue vintage Chevy Malibu hovered on a lift, two of his guys beneath trying to pry something loose. Alberto smiled while wiping his hands with a grease-stained towel.

  “Jake. How goes it?”

  “Lost a couple of windows last night.”

  He leaned into the car, eyeing the glass bits that still covered the floorboards. “What happened?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “A woman. Got to be.”

  I shrugged. “Tammy.”

  He laughed. “That woman’s going to do that to your head someday.”