Surface Tension

by Christine Kling

  It occurred to me I had heard almost those exact words from someone else. Burns. He, too, had told me that these were not people to anger.

  I took my lukewarm soup out of the microwave and turned on the TV to catch the news. Suddenly, I was aware of the overpowering sensation of being watched. I glanced around at all three windows, thinking I might see the same glimpse of a head as I had that night with James.

  I stood upright, opened the front door and scanned the grounds. Stepping outside into the sunshine, I listened. Mockingbirds singing, insects humming, no noises to trigger this sense that someone was out there.

  The cops had seen Maddy come in here. They might even have been able to hear him shouting my name.

  The back door to the Larsens’ swung open. I started to jump back inside when I recognized B.J. He waved at me.

  “Hey, you fugitive, you.”

  “What?” I crossed the yard to speak to him.

  “You’re a wanted woman. A couple of police officers just came to the front door. I hadn’t worked on the library here in over a week, and I’d just started back to work when they began beating on the door. They’ve got a warrant for your arrest on burglary and evidence-tampering, and the only good thing is, they think you live in the big house—evidently these guys don’t know about the cottage.”

  “Thank goodness for that.”

  “But they did say they saw a man come back here.”

  “That was Maddy. He just left.”

  B.J. nodded. “Okay, I told them you weren’t home. I didn’t think you were until I saw you out the window just now.”

  “I saw their car out there when I started to turn down the street, so I parked Lightnin’ on the cul-de-sac and walked down the seawall.”

  He nodded. “Well, they’re still out there sitting in their car. You need to call Jeannie and deal with this, Seychelle, or you’re going to jail.”

  “I’ve already talked to her, and I’m not going to jail, B.J. I didn’t do anything wrong—well, except a little breaking and entering, maybe.” I shrugged.

  He shook his head and turned back into the main house.

  The soup worked its magic as comfort food, and I felt myself growing drowsy. More than anything, I wanted to crawl under the covers and just sleep—probably not a good idea with the cops parked out front. As I washed my bowl in the sink, I figured I’d better call Jeannie back to let her know about the actual warrant and ask her what to do next.

  Suddenly, the face on the TV screen looked familiar. I hadn’t been listening, so I didn’t really know what the story was about. The reporter was interviewing a man leaving a building, and I had seen that face somewhere just recently.

  The reporter holding one finger to her ear, turned to face the camera. “Rick, Benjamin Crystal is refusing to answer any reporters’ questions about his arrest or release here at the Dade County Courthouse this evening. The prosecutor’s office has planned a press conference for later this evening, and we will be here to bring it to you live.” The camera panned back to the man climbing into the backseat of a large, dark-windowed car.

  I snapped off the TV when the news anchor started in on a human-interest story about kittens. I remembered where I had seen that face. Harbor House. The photo on the wall with the three couples—Benjamin Crystal was the Hispanic man in that photo, standing next to James Long. Some things were starting to make sense.

  I scooped up the papers I had found inside my copy of Bowditch, along with the coordinates from the Top Ten’s GPS, and walked out to Gorda. The alarm beeped when I punched in the code, and I slid the door to the wheelhouse open. The offshore chart for the coast from Palm Beach to lower Biscayne Bay was the best scale I could find in the chart table. My only large-scale charts were of the Intracoastal Waterway. Still, I’d be able to get an idea if I was right. I located the Hillsboro inlet on the chart. The Top Ten had been anchored south of there. Finally, I broke out the dividers and the parallel rulers and plotted the position of BAB. Latitude 26°09.52’N. I drew a pencil line. Longitude 80°04.75’W. Another line. I drew a dot on the chart where the two pencil lines intersected and chewed on the pencil eraser as I stared at it. I eyeballed the distance north of Port Everglades, and it looked just about right. I’d seen Esposito and Big Guy out there diving on what must be the Bahama Belle. The coordinates of the location of the sunken freighter were public knowledge. They knew where the boat was, so what was it that they still thought Neal could tell them?

  I reached for Neal’s drawings. They reminded me a little of the reams of drawings I’d inherited from when Red built the Gorda. He’d had her designed by a professional naval architect, but Red sat in on every step of the process, bringing his twenty years of experience on navy ships to the task. He had saved all the drawings, which actually made things easier for me now when I needed to make repairs.

  Neal’s drawing appeared to be of a compartment of some kind. Actually, there were two views, one overhead and one from the side. It could be a compartment in the bow of a ship. I could make out the bulkheads, the backbone that ran right up to the bow. In most ships, this part of the bow was where they stowed the anchor chain. But why hadn’t they found whatever it was they were looking for when they sank the the old rust bucket? It’s not like an anchor chain locker is a great hiding place.

  I reached up and switched on the VHF radio hanging above the steering station. Taking the microphone, I waited for a break in the constant traffic and then called, “Outta the Blue, Outta the Blue, this is Gorda.”

  Only a few seconds passed before he replied, “Gorda, this is Outta the Blue. Wanna switch to zero six?”

  Once we were on the working channel, I asked Mike where he was. I could hear voices in the background.

  “I’m just off Pompano headed south on a broad reach. I’ve got a charter of six legal secretaries celebrating one gal’s birthday. They wanted to know if it was okay with me if they sunbathed topless.” He held the transmit button long enough for me to hear his laugh.

  “It’s a tough life you got, Mike. Listen, I hate to get serious on you, but I need to talk to you—but not on this open channel. Have you got a cell phone on board?”

  “That’s a roger Captain Sullivan.”

  “Could you call me at my place in about ten minutes?”

  “Will do. This is Outta the Blue, clear and going back to channel sixteen.”

  When I finally left the tug and started across the yard toward the cottage, the sound of the phone ringing caused me to trot. Just as I was about to pick it up, I thought that it could just as well be the cops calling from a phone out front. My hand froze for a moment, suspended over the phone. But I really needed to talk to Mike.

  The machine clicked on and my recorded message told the caller to call back or leave a message. The machine beeped, and a young girl’s voice came on.

  “Seychelle? Are you there? Please pick up if you are.” I recognized the voice, and she sounded nervous.

  I snatched up the phone. “Sunny, it’s me. I’m here.”

  “Like, you told me I could call you if I needed something, right? Well, I’m at the Top Ten Club, and ... I’m kinda scared. Could you come over here?”

  “Sure, but what’s going on? What are you afraid of?”

  “I just really want to leave. I need a ride. Please?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I can’t tell you right now. Uh, shit, he’s coming back....”

  “Hey, listen up.” There was no question about whose deep voice was speaking. “I like this girl. Mmm . . .” He laughed with that deep, throaty chuckle that made me want to reach through the phone lines and strangle him. “You want to see her? Hey, maybe you the kind likes to watch.” He laughed again. He seemed to be enjoying himself. “You don’t want me to hurt Blondie here, now, do you? Then come to the club. Alone. No friends. No cops.” The phone clicked and went dead.

  Cesar sounded like he had been watching too many movies. In my mind, I went over all the reasons why it would be really stupid fo
r me to dash off and go over there alone. The phone rang again, startling me, and I grabbed it without thinking this time.

  “Hello, this is your local mid-Gulf Stream substation of the retired Fort Lauderdale Police Department. What can I do for you, ma’am?”

  “Can you talk?”

  “These ladies have had enough Outta the Blue special Pusser’s Rum punch. They won’t remember much of anything tomorrow. I’m countin’ on it. What’s up, Seychelle?”

  “It’s not looking real good about now. The cops are looking for me. They’ve got a warrant out for my arrest.”

  “Shit, Seychelle. How can I help?”

  “What do you know about Benjamin Crystal?”

  “His name does seem to keep popping up today.”

  “You heard the news, huh?”

  “Yep, on the radio at lunchtime. How’re you mixed up with that scumbag?”

  I thought about my mother and Neal and Elysia, and how in the end I hadn’t been able to save a one. And now there was Sunny.

  “I can’t tell you all about it right now, Mike. I’m not really in trouble yet, but I could be later. Listen, keep your VHF and your phone open for me all night. If you haven’t heard from me by daybreak, break out the cavalry and come looking, okay?”

  “Sey, you can’t be messing around with these guys—” I slowly lowered the receiver into its cradle.

  Maybe this would be my one chance to get it right, I thought as I gathered up my Jeep keys and shoulder bag and headed out the door.

  XX

  My knuckles were white where I clutched Lightnin’s steering wheel at ten and two o’clock, charging down Federal Highway to Seventeenth. The rain started just about the time I pulled into the Top Ten Club parking lot. My stomach felt twisted and gurgling, like I might vomit at any minute. I’d considered telling B.J. where I was going, but I knew he would try to talk me out of it.

  The early-bird dinner hour on a Monday night was obviously a slow time at the Top Ten Club. The valet parking attendant was sitting on his stool under the front door awning with his Walkman headset on, eyes closed, head jerking in rhythm to the music. He didn’t even notice me as I slipped into my spot back by the dumpsters. I tucked my shoulder bag under the front seat and slipped my wallet and keys into my pocket. I wanted to be ready to run.

  The same short, muscled Hispanic guy was on the door, and even before he turned to greet me, I wondered why I hadn’t realized who he was, why I hadn’t put that part together yet. I saw the instant recognition in his eyes. He smiled, and I felt some small satisfaction at the gap in his teeth caused undoubtedly by my skates, but the sickness in those eyes made me look away. I didn’t want Cesar to see my fear.

  I heard his deep laughter as I headed straight for the back, where Teenie stood behind the bar. I shook the rainwater off my arms and slicked my hair back as I slid onto a stool.

  “Hi, Teenie.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Cesar disappear down a hall into the back of the restaurant.

  “Hey, girl, what’re you doing here? I don’t think that’s such a smart move on your part, honey. Our doorman really doesn’t like you. He had a fit after you left last time.”

  “The feeling’s mutual.”

  She laughed. “He’s not exactly Mr. Charming, is he?”

  “No,” I said, and smiled when she placed an iced Corona in front of me. “Do you know a young girl named either Sunny or Sonya? She’s been staying at Harbor House.” My voice sounded higher-pitched than normal, and I was having trouble breathing. This whole thing was beginning to feel like a terrible mistake.

  “Nope, never heard of her.”

  “Maybe you’ve seen her around here—a gorgeous blonde?”

  “Now isn’t that special,” she said with a grin. “Sure don’t see many of those in here.” She looked up at the music video on the TV set suspended over the bar.

  “Look, she left a message on my machine less than an hour ago. Said she was here.”

  Teenie looked straight at me, all traces of her smile now gone. “I don’t know nothing about nothing. Got it?”

  It was pretty clear she’d been warned not to talk to me. “Right, and thanks for all that nothing,” I said. I’d started to turn away from the bar when Cesar appeared at my side.

  “Follow me,” he said in that sickening voice.

  “Where’s Sunny?” I asked his back as he headed across the club to a hallway. I shrugged, raised my hand in a goodbye to Teenie, and took off after him. I saw fear in Teenie’s face.

  Cesar led me down a long hallway past several open doors where girls were entertaining men in private rooms. To me the only difference between lap dancing and prostitution was whether a zipper was up or down.

  “Where’s Sunny?” I said again to Cesar’s back.

  Cesar stopped at the end of the hall and grinned at me. His wide-set Indian eyes didn’t look quite right. It was no wonder he nearly always wore sunglasses. He then grasped my forearm and opened the door at the end of the hall. The warm, moist night air blew in from the parking lot beyond. A light rain had started to fall. Behind the club, a small white limousine was parked with the engine running.

  “Whoa. Hold it. I’m looking for Sunny, and she said she was here.”

  Cesar looked around as though to see whether or not anyone was watching.

  “Hey, shut up. You’re going to see Sunny. You’re gonna see a lot of her,” he said, and laughed that guttural laugh of his.

  I struggled against his grip. “Let go of me!”

  He opened the door to the backseat and, squeezing my arm in his ironlike fist, forced me into the car and slammed the door.

  XXI

  There were no door or window handles on the inside of the backseat doors, and a Plexiglas partition separated the driver’s and passenger’s seats. Cesar climbed up front and flashed me that smile that made me want to bust his teeth.

  I kept track of where we were going. The car executed a number of turns. At first, we headed north up U.S. 1, but soon we turned west on Davie and back into the Riverside neighborhood on the north bank of the river. There were parts of this neighborhood I wouldn’t venture into after dark. Though there were some waterfront homes, most behind locked gates, much of the area was made up of poorly tended cinder-block homes and federally funded apartment buildings. Heaps of trash lined the streets, and little kids in dirty underpants turned to stare at the big car as we passed.

  It scared me that Cesar didn’t seem to care about my seeing where we were going. I’d read enough thrillers to know that this was definitely a bad sign. He wasn’t worried about my being around long enough to point fingers. I started exploring the interior of the car, trying to find something I could maybe break off and use as a weapon. I slid my fingers down in the crack behind the seat, and something sharp pierced my skin.

  “Ouch!” I pulled my finger out; it was bleeding a little. More carefully this time, I felt around for the sharp object. I touched something finally, and pulled out a thin chain with a tiny golden angel. Ely’s angel. She’d had it on the day we walked on the beach, so she certainly must have ridden in this car. I closed my eyes and pressed the angel to my cheek, wondering if she had left it there intentionally as evidence. I suspected she had. I slid the necklace into my pocket and watched the big dark eyes of the neighborhood children staring at the tinted windows of the limo.

  We pulled up finally in front of a large ranch-style house, all ambling stucco, dark-tinted windows, and overgrown, unimaginative landscaping. Dense areca palms shielded the house from both the street and the neighbors. Cesar got out, opened the backseat door, and stood there glaring at me, waiting for me to crawl out. I hadn’t even stood up straight when he grabbed my upper arm again and nearly yanked me off my feet.

  “Hey!” I started to complain, but suddenly my face stung and my head flew to the side from the force of the open-handed slap.

  “Shut up,” he said. And I did.

  Cesar pulled me to the front door, opened it,
and pushed me inside. From the entryway, I could see through the living room, decorated apparently by the designers from Motel 6, and out the sliding glass doors to the pool. The rain had stopped and the last rays of the sun angled in under the dark clouds bathing the scene in an orange sunlight. A white powerboat was tied to the dock outside, Hard Bottom written in script across the bow. A smaller runabout was tied up behind it. It looked like the Sea Ray.

  Two men stood on the wood deck by the Jacuzzi talking. One was the tall body builder Big Guy. He had two bags of diving gear in his arms. The other was a rail-thin man with a long blond ponytail. I could tell from the way they were gesturing that an argument was under way.

  Big Guy saw me through the glass door and nodded in our direction. The ponytailed man glanced at me briefly, then walked off to the far side of the pool.

  Big Guy opened the sliding glass door and stepped soundlessly onto the thick carpet. He was wearing swim trunks, and blue veins stood up like a relief map on his forearms as he slid the door closed with his one free hand. He walked over to the hallway and whistled once. A huge black-and-white pit bull bounded into the room. The dog turned his massive head briefly to inspect me, and a deep low growl vibrated across the room. Then he returned his gaze to the big man.

  “Zeke, look who’s here,” said Cesar, tilting his head in my direction.

  Zeke. I’d heard the name. Then I remembered he was Crystal’s cousin, the one Jeannie had told me about, the freighter captain Crystal had been bringing drugs to when he got busted.

  “Heel,” Zeke said to the dog, then walked over to join us. “Hey, Cesar. This the girl? Funny, she doesn’t look so tough.” I recognized his high-pitched, almost effeminate voice from that night on the beach. The dog stayed at his side but reached his muzzle out and licked Cesar’s hand.

  “Ugh, get your fuckin’ dog away from me, Moss. Christ, that dog slobbers all over everything.”