Surface Tension

by Christine Kling

  “Could you do that now?”

  “I’m afraid not, Ms. Sullivan. She’s at work.” Those high cheekbones, full lips, jutting chin. It was so difficult not to be taken by his looks.

  “Just call me Seychelle,” I said. “I hate Ms. Sullivan.”

  He smiled then, and turned on about ten thousand

  watts of dazzle. You could not not smile back. “And I’m James, okay?”

  “That’s a deal,” I said, grinning like an idiot.

  By the time I left Harbor House I had agreed that James Long would pick me up for dinner at seven. He was so smooth, the date was set before I really had time to think about it.

  I was on the verge of losing my business, I seemed to have screwed up the friendship I valued with B.J., and people were dying all around me. So what was I doing? Going on a date with some gorgeous guy I’d just met, a smooth operator who either played very fast and loose with the truth or was unaware of what was going on in the establishment he managed. James Long didn’t seem unaware of anything. I didn’t completely understand why I’d said yes, except that I hadn’t found any real information to explain what had happened last night after we’d dropped off Ely. Maybe, relaxing over a drink or two, James Long would tell me a little more about those things that went on here, those things that Ely had insisted I would never understand. And maybe, given the sting of a certain recent rejection, I’d feel what it was like to be out in public on the arm of an incredibly handsome man.

  And, of course, given my financial state, a free meal wasn’t a bad deal, either.

  That left me with at least an hour to kill before trying to put on a “girl suit.” Red used to say that whenever he saw me get dressed up. Working as a lifeguard or helping him out on the Gorda, I lived in shorts and T-shirts, so he had always been surprised to see me looking like a woman.

  When I turned into the Larsens’ drive and there was no sign of B.J.’s El Camino, I wasn’t sure whether I was relieved or disappointed. I hopped out of the Jeep and walked out to the street to get the mail. Bills, bills, and more bills. The only stuff for the Larsens was some third-class junk the post office wouldn’t forward. There was also a note from FedEx that they’d left a package under the mat at the Larsens’ front door. I collected the package and walked around to their back door took the key from under the rock and left the package on their kitchen table along with the rest of their mail. Since we were heading into summer, I didn’t expect them to show up anytime soon, but it was so typical of rich people like the Larsens, having their stuff sent FedEx just because they could afford to.

  I showered and sorted through my clothes, trying to find something appropriate. Judging from appearances, James would choose a formal dining spot, and my wardrobe was sorely lacking in that department. I finally decided that since I wasn’t big on chiffon, I’d have to be original. I took a hand-painted silk pareu I’d once bought on a lark and tied it as a sort of off-the-shoulder sarong. I blow-dried my hair and pulled back one side with a small barrette, then rubbed vanilla-scented lotion on my freshly shaved legs and put on some low-heeled leather sandals. That was it. I stood in front of the mirror turning to look at my profile. No, braless was not the way to go when one was nearly thirty. I dug around in my underwear drawer and found an old strapless swimsuit top with an underwire. Presto—cleavage. I checked the mirror again. Good enough. I wasn’t about to trowel on makeup just because I had a date with a guy who looked like he belonged in a café on South Beach surrounded by gorgeous models.

  I had given James directions to my place, but I’d told him to ring the buzzer outside the fence. Abaco didn’t particularly like strange men, and I didn’t want to start my date off with a dog bite.

  The buzzer rang at seven on the dot. I locked the cottage door and hurried out to the gate.

  “You look great,” James whispered as he brushed his lips across my cheek. He was wearing a crisp, original Guy Harvey shirt with a picture of a leaping marlin painted on the back, khaki pants, and Top-Siders. I was pleased to see I wasn’t too underdressed.

  Looking past him at the car in the Larsens’ driveway, I let loose a loud “Wow!” I walked around the silver Jaguar convertible making all kinds of unintelligible, appreciative noises. He opened the door smiling, but without saying a word. I liked the fact that he didn’t launch into a big lecture about the car. Most guys who drive hot cars like nothing better than to talk about them all the time.

  I sank into the soft leather seats and decided I would be perfectly happy if he took me to a drive-in. I could have stayed in that car all night.

  We headed north on Federal Highway, making the usual small talk. I laughed when he told me we were going to the Mai Kai Restaurant.

  “You don’t like it?” he asked.

  “No, it’s not that, it’s just that I have a friend who has several family members who work there. He’s always complaining about the place. See, he’s Samoan, and he thinks the shows are far from authentic—demeaning is the word he uses. Now I’ll have a chance to tell him what I think.”

  It felt rotten talking about B.J. like that. Talking about him was making me feel the heat of his kiss all over again.

  Fort Lauderdale’s Mai Kai really belongs in Orlando. It was as fake and touristy a place as I’d ever seen, full of vacationing New Yorkers, French Canadians, and Germans. Although we had no reservations, James was taken to a table right away. Several of the waiting tourists glared at us as we were led to a spot near the stage, but there were nods and acknowledgments as James walked past the tables of better-dressed patrons. James explained to me that we would eat first and watch the famed Polynesian revue afterward.

  He pulled out my bamboo chair, and before I sat, he brushed away imaginary crumbs with a cloth napkin from one of the extra place settings. He did the same to his own seat. I looked around at the carved tikis, flower leis, fake rock waterfalls, live orchids, and lush palms. No wonder B.J. was irked at his culture being reduced to Disney proportions.

  James lifted his glass after the waiter poured us each some Pouilly-Fuissé. “To Elysia. We’ll keep her alive in our memories.” We were seated not across from each another but rather at an angle so we would both have a good view of the stage. We clinked our glasses.

  I sipped a little of the wine. I would have preferred a beer.

  “You really look lovely, Seychelle,” James said, resting his chin sideways on his interlaced fingers and staring at me. “It’s quite a treat for me to be out with a beautiful young woman instead of a wealthy, wrinkly widow with a large estate.”

  “Thank you.” It embarrassed me when men complimented me, but it was a pleasant embarrassment.

  “How is it that a beautiful and accomplished young woman like you is not involved with a man at the present?”

  I didn’t really want to go into this tonight. I tried for the short version. “I was in a relationship, but that ended a few months ago. I don’t want to jump into anything on the rebound.”

  “Hmmm. Tell me about him. Have you two remained friends?”

  It seemed like a slightly odd turn for the conversation, but I soon forgot it as our waiter showed up. Though I protested that it was really too expensive, James insisted we both order the lobster Bora Bora. At least we didn’t have to drink any of those silly colorful drinks with the umbrellas in them. The food arrived quickly, and I gave myself over to the succulent flesh. Soon my chin was dripping butter, but I was ecstatic.

  I let James do all the talking. I watched as he meticulously dug out nearly every piece of meat without once ever touching the lobster’s shell. He said he was originally from Jamaica, but came to Miami at age six, grew up in Overtown, and had attended Ringling School of Design on an art scholarship. His grandmother, who had raised him, died in a house fire during his third year, and he quit school to take guardianship of his younger brothers and sisters. In need of money, he had started working in clubs in the city, and eventually went back to school for a degree in business administration. />
  “Art is still my first love, but it just doesn’t pay the bills,” he said.

  There was an earnestness as he talked about himself that was charming. He was neither too boastful nor too modest. There was very little not to like about the man, except for the fact that he (I was finding it more difficult to believe it could have been him) or someone else at Harbor House had played some part I didn’t understand in Ely’s death.

  I hadn’t yet said a word to James about the Top Ten and Patty Krix.

  “There’s something I keep wondering about,” I said,

  taking off the plastic bib with a picture of a cartoon lobster on the front.

  “What’s that?”

  “I keep wondering if there isn’t some kind of a connection between Elysia’s death and Patty’s.”

  James looked puzzled. “Patty?” he asked. Again, I couldn’t read his reaction. Either he was an exceptionally good actor or he really didn’t know what I was talking about.

  “Patty Krix. You remember her? Ely told me she was a resident of Harbor House for a while.”

  “Oh, yes, yes, I remember her now. What happened to her?”

  “You didn’t read about it in the papers or see it on TV? That big yacht, the Top Ten, found offshore with a dead girl aboard? That girl was Patty Krix.”

  “What? Patty? I did hear something about that, but I never heard the girl’s name.” He shook his head. “Oh, my God ...” He was wearing the same expression that he had worn in the courtyard discussing Elysia. Either Collazo hadn’t asked him about Patty Krix—which, given Collazo’s reputation for thoroughness, was rather surprising—or James Long was getting himself caught in a rather peculiar little lie.

  Before the coffee and rum pineapple cheesecake, James had the waiter bring us finger bowls with lemon and warm towels. He scrubbed each and every finger with his towel as I told him about my business, the Gorda, and how I had come to tow the Top Ten. I conveniently skipped over the fact that Neal had been my lover.

  “I had no idea I was out with a lady captain,” he said, setting aside his towel with that smile that eclipsed every tiki torch in the room.

  Once the Polynesian revue began, conversation became impossible. Okay, it’s touristy and hokey, but hey, I enjoyed it. It was fabulous to watch the men, their hard, oiled bodies undulating to the pounding rhythms. As I watched, I thought about how few opportunities women have to watch men’s bodies. I don’t mean checking out a guy’s butt in tight pants, but rather the chance to stare at and drink in the full curve of his bicep, the rippling of his abdomen, or the deep shadowed groove down his back. It didn’t mean that I wanted to bed them, but they moved in a manner so foreign and yet so familiar the skin swelling over the flexing muscles, that watching them was pure sensual pleasure.

  Our table was off to the right of the stage in an intimate, dark corner. As we watched the show, I was intensely aware of the proximity of James’s knee under the table. My head was telling me not to trust him, but all the while that deep animal part of me was reacting to his sexuality, his maleness. His knee brushed against mine, and I felt weak and foolish when I looked up and smiled at him. I forced myself to look away. We had a good view of the opposite side of the stage, where a door led to a backstage entrance. I tried to put some distance between us as I watched a group of dancers leaving the stage.

  Suddenly, I was startled to see B.J. standing there among the dancers, staring straight at me. When our eyes met, he smiled and gave a barely perceptible nod, and my stomach, full though it was, suddenly felt like it was doing its own Tahitian dancing. Then he turned, put his arm around the narrow brown shoulders of one of the lovelier women dancers, and vanished into the throng of brightly costumed performers. I glanced at James to see if he’d noticed, but he was concentrating on the other female Tahitian dancers onstage.

  What was that all about? I wondered for a moment if I had even seen B.J. In my mind, I again saw his hand touching the girl’s skin, and I shifted in my chair, brushing my knee up hard against James’s and leaving it there. His head turned and his eyes flicked down, then back up with one eyebrow raised. I smiled, and James put his arm around my shoulder. I hoped to hell B.J. was watching.

  After the show, I excused myself and walked across the dining room to the ladies’ room. On my way back to the table, I passed by some tall potted palms near the front cash register. A large, dark figure stepped out into my path.

  I heard my own gasp over the general din of the dining room before I recognized him.

  “B.J.?” I felt a bit sheepish at taking fright so easily, but after the past few days, I’d grown very jumpy.

  “Hey, Seychelle.” He smiled. “Don’t you look nice.”

  I held my hand to my throat. “God, you scared me. What are you doing here?” I had been genuinely frightened.

  “I came by to speak to my uncle Aunu’u. He wants me to help his son with his application for a scholarship to the University of Miami.”

  “Here at work?”

  “They get an hour or so between sets, and that’s when Vanu does his homework. He’s the fire walker you just saw.”

  In my mind I saw him again, the barely clothed young man walking across the hot coals.

  “They give athletic scholarships in fire walking now?”

  B.J. grinned at me. “No, it’s an academic scholarship. A few Samoans are more than just big muscles, brown skin, and white teeth.”

  I realized I had been caught in my own prejudice, and B.J. seemed to think it was funny. I knew what I was about to tell him would take the smile away.

  “Collazo, the cop, called me this morning. Have you heard from him?”

  “No, I’ve been working on the Chris Craft at Bahia Mar all day, surfed an hour around sunset, then came straight here.”

  “Elysia died last night.”

  The smile disappeared. “What?”

  “They said she was on heroin.”

  “Wait a minute.” He shook his head as though trying to clear out his ears. “What did you just say? That’s crazy. We saw her last night.”

  “I know. I didn’t believe it at first, either. They found her in the river this morning. And the people at Harbor House are saying she never got home last night, making us look like liars.”

  He opened his mouth as though to speak, but instead exhaled with a soft groan. He wrapped his big arms around me and leaned his weight against my body. After last night, I didn’t know what to think about B.J., and I felt awkward.

  “How did she ... ?” he half whispered, half moaned into my ear.

  I bit my lower lip to control the trembling. “I don’t know. But I will find out.”

  “Sey ...” He held me tighter.

  “I’ve got to get back,” I said.

  B.J.’s body tensed.

  I pulled away from him and looked at his face. He was frowning and staring across the room.

  “It looks to me like your friend keeps some bad company,” he said, his voice, now deep and strong, completely changed from seconds before.

  When I turned to look, I saw a short, powerfully built man leaning over my vacant chair. James was speaking fast and gesturing wildly, the whites of his eyes showing brightly in the darkened dining room. He no longer looked like the calm, sophisticated man I had left at the table. The other man wore a bright, flowered Hawaiian shirt, and from his black hair and broad, flat nose, I guessed he might be one of the dancers from the show. His right hand grasped the back of my chair, and on the back of his hand was a tattoo that from that distance looked like a coiled snake. There was something familiar about him, but I couldn’t place where I had seen him.

  “You know him?” I asked B.J.

  “Yeah, Cesar Espinosa.” He seemed to spit out the name. “He used to work here for a while as one of the walk-on torchbearers in the show. He’s not Polynesian, he’s Mexican, but he sort of appointed himself as bouncer. He liked to get into it with customers who’d had too much to drink—you know, roughed them up
for the fun of it, acted like he owned the place.”

  “I take it you don’t like him much.”

  “That’s an understatement. There was this girl working here. One of Vanu’s friends. She wasn’t Polynesian either; she was Chinese-Jamaican, an amazing exotic beauty. Her parents owned a convenience store, and her father was shot and killed there. She was only sixteen when she started here, still in high school, a bright, really nice girl, but she started dating Cesar right after her dad died, and she changed—quit school, ran away from home, got into drugs and prostitution. She still used to call Vanu sometimes, told him she wanted out, and then we heard she’d been found dead. They called it an accidental overdose, but Vanu always thought it was intentional, that that had been her way out. Cesar used her and then just threw her aside. She could not take the shame.”

  “You said he used to work here?”

  “Yeah, he quit about six months ago. I haven’t seen him around here since.”

  “I wonder what the two of them are talking about.”

  “It can’t be good. If your friend is a buddy of Cesar’s, be careful, Seychelle.”

  “B.J., my ‘friend,’ James Long, is the director of a very reputable charitable organization. He wouldn’t be in that position if he was a lowlife or crook of some kind. This man’s in the limelight. They write stories about him in the newspaper for crissakes.”

  “And you say I’m the one who is naive. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

  “Okay, okay.” I wondered if his distrust of James could have anything to do with his having seen James’s hand on my shoulder.

  He placed a quick peck on my cheek. “Tomorrow, we need to talk.”

  For an instant I felt a kind of hope rise inside me, a hope that maybe things could be different.

  “You take care of yourself.”

  He turned and passed through a side door into the backstage area.