82 Desire

by Smith, Julie

  He grabbed the copy of Sailing magazine he’d picked up at Eckerd, and then thought twice about stereotypes. But there was nothing else on the boat except a Travis McGee novel he’d bought for the local color. He fell asleep reading it.

  In the morning he awoke feeling excited for the first time since buying the sloop. He had preparations to make.

  First, he went to a hairdresser—an actual salon instead of a barber shop—and said, “Do something. I hate this hair.”

  “What’s the matter? Blonds don’t have more fun?” The guy obviously took him for gay.

  “My wife won’t sleep with me anymore.”

  “Well, honey, maybe you should try Viagra.”

  Russell got up and flung off his smock, but the guy smoothed him down. “Take it easy, take it easy. Teeny little joke, that’s all.” And then he was all business. “Okay, what shall we do? How about something sandy—like mine—with a few highlights to make the transition?” He cocked his head, assessing. “And maybe a little more contemporary cut.”

  When he left there, Russell felt human again. Of course, he now looked a little like a straight man trying to pass for gay, but that was better than looking like himself or Dean. In fact, the effect took ten years off his age, in his own humble opinion. Even the three-day beard wasn’t that scruffy.

  Next he went and bought a pair of khakis (God, it felt good to wear them again!) and some kind of unconstructed linen jacket. After that, a dozen red roses, and he was Mr. Smooth Swain.

  Dina had gone to trouble as well. She had on a black dress with halter top and little swing skirt, the old Marilyn Monroe style, and her short hair had somehow been persuaded into curls and waves and things. She held out her hands for the roses. “Why, Mr. Woolverton,” she said. “How very kind of you.”

  He bowed. “My pleasure, Mrs. Wolf.”

  After that, things got a little more informal. In fact, they went so well he had to congratulate himself on combining his makeover with his lady friend’s tiny request. And indeed it did seem tiny when you considered how genuinely pleased she seemed to be. After dinner, she said, “Let’s don’t go dancing. Let’s find a motorcycle to ride.”

  He certainly wasn’t stealing one, if that was what she meant. But apparently she didn’t mean anything. “Or maybe a horse,” she said.

  “No, let’s just walk.” He pulled into a beachfront parking lot. “And you tell me about Mr. Wolf.”

  She kicked off her shoes, slithered out of her pantyhose, and slid out of the car, chattering like a little girl. “Well, his name’s Akela and he hangs with Kaa, the snake, and Bagheera, the panther. They don’t like tigers much.”

  “You want to go over that again?”

  “You never read Kipling when you were a kid? ‘Now this is the Law of the Jungle—as old and true as the sky. And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, and the Wolf that shall break it must die.’ “ She sighed. “It’s the hardest thing in the world to find someone with the same frame of reference. Don’t you think? Bet you read Sailing magazine, and that’s about it, right?”

  He was speechless.

  “Why are you looking so surprised? Caught you, didn’t I?”

  You don’t know the half of it, he thought. He said, “You are one surprising babe.”

  “You know what? Just ‘cause you brought me roses, I’m going to let you call me babe. You know, I really like your hair that way—the blond thing just wasn’t you.”

  “Are you going to tell me about your ex-husband or aren’t you? I’m really sorry I never asked you about him.”

  “Well…” She seemed to get shy all of a sudden. “He was my high school boyfriend, and then he was a rep for a printer—I got him the job. And then he was pretty much of nothing.” She gave Russell a strained smile, the sort he thought of as “brave.” “Mr. Wolf liked his toddy,” she said. “Hey, want to go swimming? You know what? It’s a gorgeous night. We could skinny-dip.” But she didn’t. She simply waded into the surf fancy dress and all, holding the skirt up so that the wind caught it and came under it, and made it a black mushroom floating on the water. “Come on in,” she shouted.

  But he hadn’t left his old life so far behind that he could just wade in. He first removed his jacket, shoes, and pants, and then he ran in, feeling the water like a healing spring around him. He caught her and held her, thinking they could make love right there, right in the water, but in the end he didn’t want to, only wanted to hold her and be comforted by her. As he held her in the softness of the night, and the gentleness of the water, a tenderness came over him, part of it simple joy in her presence, and part of it a great longing, something tinged with sadness.

  He thought, My God, I feel something for this woman, and the thought so surprised him that he lost his balance, tipping toward her and nearly knocking her over. He managed to right himself before they were both underwater, and she said, “Whoops. Time to go in.”

  He dressed quickly while she scampered to the car. When he got in, she moved over to kiss his cheek. He smiled and touched hers with the backs of his fingers, and all the way home, she rubbed his thigh. He parked in front of her building and reached for her, the feeling nagging at him that he shouldn’t be doing this. They necked like teenagers, her perfume—Opium, he was pretty sure—living up to its name. The more he held her and kissed her, the more he felt his judgment slipping. He was aware of behaving like a robot, yet unable to find the “off” button, until she spoke.

  “Let’s go in,” she whispered, her breath a feather on his neck.

  He pulled away and looked at her. Her eyes were wide and soft, and he thought, I can’t hurt this woman.

  He was trying to think what to do when she said, “You okay?”

  “That’s a good question.” At times like this he wished he smoked.

  “Uh-oh.” She turned from him, staring straight ahead. “Here comes the let’s-be-friends speech.”

  He had to chuckle. “Uh, no. That’s the last thing on my mind. I’m just a little…”

  “Confused? It’s the I’m-a-little-confused speech.” He could swear there was a wet track on her face.

  This was a woman who was obviously a veteran of a lot of things Russell was not. He wanted to protect her from the assholes who’d dumped her with stock phrases, and at the same time, it made him mad that she lumped him with them. (Though, in fact, he had been about to say he was a little confused.)

  He said, “You know what your problem is, Ms. Wolf?”

  She whirled toward him, fire in her eyes. “I’m a castrating bitch?”

  “Your problem is that you have obviously come in contact with some pathetic specimens of masculinity. I, Dean Woolverton, have taken a special vow to restore your faith in the existence of that elusive species known as the ‘gentleman.’”

  “Oh, yeah? How? By sleeping with me a few times and then saying you don’t want to hurt me? That makes you a real terrific guy, Dean.” She slammed out of the car and clicked into the building.

  Dean Woolverton, you asshole! Russell Fortier just wouldn’t be in this situation. He bought a fifth of Scotch on the way back to the boat and poured himself a double. He took the bottle and went up to the cockpit, downing his drink by the time he sat down.

  The night was as beautiful as it had been when he and Dina were wading, and yet the vastness of the water, the softness of the air, failed to work their invariable calming magic. A deep, thick, murky sadness had descended on him, or perhaps had burrowed out of him, chewing and biting its way to the surface like some trapped parasite.

  He had an almost overwhelming urge to talk to his wife.

  But that couldn’t be. He didn’t even want to think of the consequences of that one.

  But someone from his old life. Surely there was someone he could talk to, someone who knew him as Russell Fortier, husband and family man, well-known business figure, solid citizen (except for a few unfortunate lapses), loyal friend.

  Who am I kidding? I just ran out on my wife an
d friends. And my kid, goddammit, my kid. Russell Fortier doesn’t exist anymore.

  Eugenie’s face floated into his consciousness, so trusting, so utterly undeserving of what had happened to her.

  It was better this way, he had thought. This way she wouldn’t have to suffer the public indignity of a disgraced daddy. But he saw, through mists of Scotch, that he was wrong. She would go through that no matter where he was. And this way, he wasn’t even there to say he loved her, low-down scum though he was.

  He had to tell her at least that he was okay, he wasn’t dead, that he’d acted in the way he thought best for everybody.

  And yet that wasn’t true.

  The alcohol couldn’t blunt the facts, which were simply that he had acted first stupidly, and then selfishly. It was not a nice thing to face.

  He poured himself another Scotch.

  He thought, I have to talk to her, a thought he’d had plenty of time to think in the last few days, but which in the sober state had never occurred to him.

  The thing built and built until he had to pace the deck to keep from calling her. And in the end, he did. He called her at school, but was told she’d gone home.

  Because of him, he was sure of that. She was probably missing half the damn semester, and all because of him. He had to tell her to go back to school, to quit worrying about him, to quit hating him, to love him anyway, no matter that he was pond scum.

  He definitely could not call her at home. Bebe might pick up the phone and if he heard Bebe’s voice, he’d probably bay like a hound.

  Maybe he could somehow get a message to Eugenie. He could call someone else.

  He liked that idea a lot.

  Okay, there were three choices—Doug, Edward, and Beau.

  Three choices and no contest.

  Of the three, only one would be unequivocally and genuinely glad to hear from him. Only one would be likely to keep his secret and not try to use it for his own gain. Only one was a real human being and not the shell of one. Beau. Lumbering, blundering, slightly stupid Beau. Big old tears filled Russell’s eyes as he remembered all the snotty things he’d ever thought about Beau—thought and said, most of them.

  Russell was truly aghast at the life he’d led, and starting to fear this new life was just more of the same. He didn’t want to think about what the alternative might be. Certainly didn’t want to undergo another moment of truth like that time on the boat two years ago. If he had yet another, where the hell could it possibly lead?

  He looked at his watch—eleven-thirty. That made it a mere ten-thirty in New Orleans, the shank of the evening for a man who never missed Jay Leno. Which Beau was.

  Russell didn’t even hesitate. He dialed from memory, and in about fifteen seconds he was listening to that old-shoe voice. He said, “Beau, if Deb’s with you, go to another room.” Surely his old pal would recognize his voice.

  Good old Beau—he didn’t miss a beat. “Wait a minute, the TV’s on in here. Let me get to a different phone.”

  Russell drummed his fingers. But in just a moment, Beau was saying, “Russell! God damn, it’s good to hear your voice. God damn. I mean it.”

  Now that Russell had him, he didn’t know what to say: Sorry I left y’all in the lurch? Somehow, that didn’t seem to cut it.

  But Beau was taking the lead. “You okay, fella? Anything I can do for you?”

  “I’m fine, Beau. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

  “Man, you just don’t know. Lots of people think you’re dead.” A beat passed, and then Beau apparently remembered something. “Oh, God, you don’t know, do you? Listen, there’s a lot to cover. Let me talk a few minutes, okay? There’s some stuff you’ve really got to know.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” Whatever was coming couldn’t be good.

  “After you left, somebody tried to blackmail us. Guy named Gene Allred. Two-bit private eye who’d been hired by crazy Ray Boudreaux to get some dirt on us. Well, he did get it, God knows how—out of the ‘Skinacat’ file you left in your computer.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Russell said again. He remembered the file all too well. “I didn’t think anyone could get to it.” Actually, he hadn’t thought about it at all.

  “So, as near as we can figure out, he decided to double-cross Boudreaux and blackmail us instead. But here’s the bad part—here’s the really, really bad part. The guy ends up dead.”

  “What?”

  “Murdered. Shot in his office.”

  “Jesus, Beau.” Russell was having a pretty profane night. “Who did it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Russell couldn’t miss the absence of the plural pronoun. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  “All I’m saying is, the police haven’t caught the guy.” His voice got louder, and carried a note of pleading in it. “Hey, Russell, this is murder. That other stuff was bad, yeah, but it probably wasn’t even illegal—or at least most of it wasn’t. It was just mean, stupid shit. But this is murder. You follow me?”

  “No. No, I don’t.” Right now, he probably couldn’t follow a map of his own backyard.

  “I think we ought to come clean, buddy. I don’t think we can hide this shit anymore.”

  “What do the others think?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know. We’re going to meet tomorrow to talk about it.” He sounded troubled. “Listen, buddy, I could sure use any support you could give me.”

  Russell was trying to think of an answer when Beau spoke again. “Uh … there’s one other thing you need to know. There’s a school of thought says you did it.”

  Twenty-two

  THURSDAY MORNING SKIP woke up with a new lease on life—or at least on the case. She had a headful of new ideas, most of them, curiously enough, out of the mouths of babes.

  Things had been up and down on St. Philip after Steve and Kenny came back from their walk. (Naturally, Kenny had agreed to go—no way was he going to turn down an opportunity to be with Steve and Napoleon. In fact, Napoleon had once been his dog until Skip and Dee-Dee laid down the law—and now they were stuck with the big lug anyway.)

  The chicken was just getting done, Skip had had a shower, and Kenny and Steve were in terrific spirits when they returned. Dee-Dee and Layne were up for fun, but clearly on edge. And Sheila was sulking all the way through the meal, putting a damper on the whole event. At first they tried ignoring her, just nattering on about anything at all.

  But the girl was like a storm cloud, emitting black energy and random lightning bolts. So Skip did something she rarely did, except in extreme circumstances—turned the conversation to her work. Sometimes she told stories about past cases, a guaranteed icebreaker; but by now Kenny and Sheila had heard all the good ones. Sometimes—and she usually did this only with Steve—she’d postulate a problem. As it happened, she had one on her mind, a little thing that had niggled at her ever since Abasolo brought up the notion that Russell might have used a false ID to get out of the airport.

  The thing had merit, but she hadn’t yet had a chance to put her mind to it. “Listen,” she said, “can I run a police problem by y’all?”

  Five avid pairs of eyes turned to her, Sheila’s no less alert than anyone else’s. Kenny said, “Yeah! Yeah!” and Sheila gave him the requisite withering big-sis look, but it was only a glance, really. This stuff never failed.

  “Okay, yesterday I robbed a bank with a security camera trained right on me…”

  Sheila said, “Nobody would be that dumb.”

  “You’d be surprised. Say I’m a first offender—how’re they going to ID me?” Mouths popped open, but she put up both hands. “Wait a minute, wait a minute. That has nothing to do with reality, it’s just how criminals think—in the event they do think, which most of them don’t. And I’m no exception. But say I’ve smeared my license plate with mud, thinking that’s real professional, but then it rains—so there I am with naked plates. I’m making a getaway and I hear sirens. I get home and my house is surrounded by poli
ce cars.”

  “Oh, sure. They’re really going to send a whole fleet of cars…”

  Once more, she held up an open hand. “Oh, wait, I forgot to mention, I killed somebody in the course of the robbery. Let’s make it worst-case scenario.

  “So I can’t go home. All of a sudden I realize I’ve got to start thinking. I abandon my car because it’s no longer safe, quickly get some new clothes and a backpack for all my new money, some sunglasses, maybe—I do the best I can to look different. But I know what I really need to do is get out of town. So what do I do next?”

  Jimmy Dee said, “Take a taxi to the airport and get on the next flight to anywhere.”

  But Sheila objected. “The cops would be watching the airport.”

  “You’d have to get there before they got around to it,” Jimmy Dee said.

  Kenny said, “Hey, I’ve got it. Just keep going. Take the taxi all the way to Baton Rouge and fly from there.”

  “Or,” said Sheila, “you could rent a car in Baton Rouge.” It was a thought. Skip hadn’t considered it.

  Dee-Dee said, “How about a boat? You take a taxi to some little fishing town and hire a fisherman to take you somewhere—maybe somewhere with an airport.”

  “Hey, wait a minute,” said Steve. “Why don’t you just steal a car?”

  “ ‘Cause the cops would put out a bulletin on it—right, Auntie?”

  Sheila said, “Hang on. You could also steal a license plate and switch it with the one on the car you stole.” Her cheeks were pink and her eyes were bright as pennies.

  “That would work,” said Skip. Anything to keep the good mood going.

  Layne, the puzzle-maker, finally spoke. “Greyhound bus is always good. I think you can buy an anonymous ticket—not like if you rent a car or fly.” He paused and thought a minute. “But what you really need’s a fake ID. Because you’ve changed your appearance, all they’ve got is your name. You’ve got to get rid of it.”

  This was going nicely, Skip thought. She’d successfully thrown them off the track of what she was getting at, and they were getting there anyway.