"Twenty-five percent saltier than the ocean,” Deena says. “Fastest water in the world. They set world speedboat records here back in the sixties. Picture a hundred thousand people out here watching."
"Hard to,” he says. “How old were you when you left?"
"Seventeen.” She smiles at him. “Makes me thirty-two. I've heard you wondering.” She's somehow much friendlier, and Craig's suddenly convinced that today the real Deena will be revealed.
Deena pulls off the highway onto a drive leading past a big boarded-up motel, to a white and blue building with a vaguely steamship look. Its upper story is one huge oval, like an ocean liner's smokestack, with three giant portholes and the name in script: ACES & 8S. Whatever was under the 8S had been painted out.
"We're not where we're going yet,” Deena says, opening her door. “I need to check something, we'll just be a minute.” Closed long before her time. Once it was a yacht club, Jerry Lewis and the Beach Boys played there. And then it got flooded out.
"We used to climb up in there.” She points to the yawning portholes. “Ugh! Generations of bird droppings. Filthy.” She heads around the side of the building toward the water, with Craig trailing behind. He's remembering something.
"Aces and eights,” he says. “That's a dead hand. Unplayable.” But she's too far ahead to hear.
Two curving stone breakwaters shelter rows of tall pilings. The water's color is somewhere between liquid rust and black coffee, and it stinks. “What's wrong with this water?” he asks.
Deena has climbed down to the near breakwater. “Everything. Algae, all of the alkali, fertilizer runoff—you name it.” She steps out onto the breakwater.
"What are you doing?” he calls out. An elaborate abandoned swimming pool sits on a rise above the water, and he moves closer to look it over.
"Nothing.” She turns around and comes back. “Out there's the best place to see the stars. No lights at all. Let's go."
"A neat little ruin,” he says. “Wish I'd brought a camera."
"You don't want to miss your tennis.” Deena is heading for her car.
This is one controlling chick. Craig figures he may have to divest himself of her in the near future. Right now, though, he's having an adventure. He can hear himself telling it.
On down the highway, Deena says, “You haven't asked me why I left yet.” A couple miles go by. “It was a guy. Of course."
They're coming up on some kind of settlement. Houses and trailers line the highway and range out toward the beach. Deena turns onto the edge road that runs toward the water. “Welcome to Shalimar Beach,” she says. “Eight blocks across."
"Any of your people left hereabouts?"
"Oh, I doubt it.” They pass a smallish market with an iron grill still closed over the door, and a block farther on, Burt's Bar & Grill, likewise not opened yet. After another couple blocks, Deena says without slowing, “Right here. This guy pulls up in a cream Caddie and asks me, ‘Which way is the beach?’ Being funny of course, but you know, real likable. So I wind up getting in to show him the way, which he clearly didn't need. I was due at the market in half an hour. Oh, I made it all right.
"He came into the market a couple hours later and wanted to take me to lunch. The upshot of it was ... I went. Walked out and got in that car, all puffy leather inside like a whipped cream cave, and blew away. Never even thought to lock the cash drawer. Of course somebody cleaned it out, and all the steaks and most of the booze. I couldn't come back then, could I?"
And then what? Craig wants to ask, but knows better. It's all going to come out sooner or later. She wants to tell it.
Near the beach the road goes left alongside a sand berm higher than their heads, so that the sea is invisible to them and to the people living behind it. Four blocks later there's an opening. They come out on a beach marred with heaps of broken concrete and seven or eight derelict buildings and vehicles, a gutted hull of an Airstream trailer, and a windowless, rusted-out school bus. In the water a ruined winch stands, and a row of skinny poles leprous with chemical growths marches into the shallows.
"This looks like something by Dali,” he says. “Salvador."
"I know who Salvador Dali is.” Deena points at a wooden shell covered almost up to its window frames. “That was my aunt's snack stand. They had some really wet years, and the lake rose."
"Those buildings didn't fall down,” Craig says. “They were buried.” He crunches across to the Airstream, stomping on the thick, crystallized alkali that squeaks underfoot like crusted snow. Where he smashes through the top layer he sees more deposits and formations below, down and down. Deena waits silently for him to be finished.
Craig walks out to the Sea, that rich, vile water. An endless pale festoon scallops the high-water line, numberless dried, hand-sized fish, their black eye-holes staring.
"Tilapia,” Deena says. “They lose birds too. About a million last time."
Craig squints into the dazzle, trying to see across to the opposite shore. “How deep is the lake now?"
"Around fifty feet, I think. Maybe less,” she says. “Nights are the best. The stars. You ever—? No, that's right, you never get farther down than the Springs, do you? Absolutely magical. Awesome. That's what I want."
Deena stops at the top of the berm to give him one good look at the town. About half the houses are boarded up, a couple of them surrounded by razor wire. The only life he sees is a man with two big dogs inside a high chain-link fence.
"You did the right thing,” he said. “Leaving."
Heading back out, Deena stops at the now open market. “I doubt anybody'll recognize me,” she says softly. They go in together, and she strikes up a conversation with the young Asian boy behind the counter. Does anybody around rent outboards? And she and the boy go out back together. Craig wanders through the store, turning things over. The dark farthest end smells of brandied fruit and ant poison. He picks up a can of creamed corn, which he's never seen before, and a small package of Cracker Jack, leaves a five-dollar bill on the counter, and goes out to wait in the shade.
Deena comes outside laughing and animated and stands in the doorway, talking to Craig. “I got it!” she says. “He found an outboard for me. And I got the anchor, so we can go out tonight."
Deena drives like a banshee going back; Craig has to call her on it. They're utterly relaxed together now, he notices: She scratches her butt, and he catches himself picking his nose.
Craig finds himself asking, “So where did this guy take you?” although he does not want to know the details.
"Indio.” She nods toward the opposite shore. “A great two-hour lunch, and eventually a really nice motel. All the AC you could ever, ever want. Five days we spent there—in the morning he'd go back up for the tennis and leave me money to go shopping for clothes, and then he'd come back down at night."
"Huh. You were underage, right?"
She sniffs as if he's made a joke. “He was a wonderful lover, tender and considerate. Stuff I couldn't have imagined. By the fifth day it got a little wild, he was bringing down coke. I've never had another experience like that.” Deena was silent till they passed Aces & 8s. “I thought I was in love with him. Well, I was. So ... five days, and then nothing."
"Like how?"
"He didn't come back like he said he would. He didn't call. No word, just ‘See you tonight’ and then ... nothing. Like I'd just ceased to exist."
Craig does not want to know what happened to her next; he wants this conversation to be over. “Well,” he says. “If he could see you now."
The rest of the day is mellow and unremarkable. They do get to see Justine Henin, the little Belgian firecracker, play: Her serve holds up pretty well and she wins. Craig does not allow himself to think about tonight. They have dinner at a good Mexican place on Highway 111 that Deena knows, dawdling till it gets darker.
"I don't want to get there too early,” she says. Craig hasn't heard any more about her life after “the man,” but he figures he ought t
o ask. They go back to Deena's hotel for Craig's car so he can drive. But she doesn't want to bother to go upstairs now.
Heading south, Deena is excited, which bodes well for Craig's evening. Everything turns her on—those sharp volcanic cones so close to Indian Wells and the farther ranges all ruddy now in the last sunlight, and then the sunset colors in the water. “That filthy stuff looks totally innocent from here, doesn't it?” he says.
Eventually he says, making conversation, “Well, you must feel pretty proud of yourself. You say drugs are totally in your past. All over now. That's a big deal."
"Yes. All, all over now."
It's after dark when they turn in at Aces & 8s. Craig parks at the side of the building as Deena directs. She's out and up to where she can see the water, while he's still scrabbling in the glove compartment for his little flashlight.
"It's there!” she calls back. Next thing she's digging around in the dirt at the foot of a frowsy palm tree; she comes up with keys on a leather fob just as Craig arrives with his flashlight, pointing straight ahead.
Deena considers a moment. “Good idea,” she says.
The boat, aluminum hull and about twelve foot, sits alongside the breakwater, maybe thirty feet from shore. With no light around but starlight, it'll be tricky getting out there.
"Look at the stars,” Deena says, hushed. “A thousand thousand suns, spinning away."
The sky is truly dazzling—both darker and brighter than Craig has ever seen. “Definitely worth the trip,” he says.
"Isn't it? Thank you for saying that.” She's ahead of him on the rocks, crouched low, and he shifts the little dancing circle of light back and forth between her feet and his.
"You know how to operate an outboard, I gather,” he says.
"Oh, sure, my dad taught me real young, took me along fishing so I could do all the cleanup."
The anchor is a concrete block with a length of rope attached to a cleat on the gunwale. Deena directs Craig to the middle of the boat. Crouching low, she swings the block across to him, and he barely breaks its fall. She steps into the stern and starts the motor with no trouble. It's shockingly loud. She idles it down and maneuvers slowly through the rows of tall, slender pilings and out into open water.
"Good job,” Craig says as they pick up speed.
The movement of their going makes a small wind passing over Craig's skin. The scatter of lights on their shore recedes, but those opposite come no nearer. Slowing, Deena says, “Nobody knows where you are. Oh, except for the kid at the market."
"It's not like we're worried about a tsunami,” he says. “Earthquake, maybe. We're right on the fault."
Deena lies back, her face turned to the sky. “God! The stars. Too many to count. Too many to hold in your head. I used to think we go there—after. Maybe I still do."
She shuts the motor off. Now the boat lies still in the water, barely even rocking. Craig realizes that he has no idea how to start the motor again. But how hard can it be? Uneasy, he asks, “Are there still fish out here?"
Deena waves a hand in dismissal. “Of course I couldn't afford coke,” she says. “So it had to be crank. Sparkle. Cristina. I've kicked the meth twice. I can't go through that again."
Craig makes a sympathetic noise. It's not enough, but what is?
"What comes next—I feel a little sorry for you,” she says. “I was going to take you along, but then I figured, why? You didn't really do anything."
Take him along? Alarmed, Craig straightens up quietly. He's got to do something, he hasn't a clue what, but he's got to try. “I'm not following you. How do you mean, you feel sorry for me?"
"I saw your dad last Thursday."
"What?"
"In Santa Monica,” she said. “Not that hard to find, once I decided to look. That coffee place where he hangs out, on Montana? He never recognized me, of course. A shame about his arthritis. He never said anything, but you can see how it hampers him."
"Wait a minute.” It's a solid blow to his chest; Craig can't process this. “How do you know my dad?"
"I stole one of his credit cards in Indio. Because I wanted something of his. I didn't even know his last name. I've talked to him several times now. Just somebody's nanny, waiting to pick up the children, right? He said I reminded him slightly of someone.” She smiled at that. “My all-purpose face."
Now she's bending over the rope, doing something with it. Craig shines the light on her hands. The rope loop is free of the cleat, and she's just fastening a clear plastic strip around her wrist and through the loop, snugging it up; it looks like the kind of tie you use to fasten a trash bag, with notches you cinch up.
"Hey!” He can't believe this. She's locked herself to that chunk of concrete. He starts to slide toward her.
"Stop it!” she yells. “You'll tip the boat over.” Meaning, she will. “And turn off that light. It spoils the view."
Craig presses the light against his leg, concealing it entirely. Deena slides her forearms into the open concrete block and carefully pushes herself up halfway onto the gunwale, her back to the water. When she hoists the block onto her lap the boat lists over on that side, its lip only a few inches from the water.
"Hey, hey, wait a minute,” Craig says, visibly holding himself motionless. “Just listen, baby. There are some good ways now to deal with this, this drug thing. Surefire—"
"Your dad should be here instead,” she says. “But I couldn't make it happen. He adores you, you and the grandkids are the apple of his eye. He worries that you don't get enough joy out of living.” She snickers at that. “He was always talking about you.” She stops, but Craig, dumbstruck, can't think of anything to say.
"You know how it's going to look,” she goes on. “They'll nail you for sure. Who wouldn't believe you did it? Now it'll all come out. But you don't have to worry, you'll be all right in the long run. You know what they say: Money always walks."
She shifts again. “Say goodbye to Robbie for me.” The boat rocks and Craig dives at her, grabbing for her arm. “No!” she screams and tips backward into the water, hugging the concrete block to her chest.
He lunges into the splash reaching after her but touches nothing, the boat recoils and then springs farther back, shipping water, and Craig goes over into the warm soup. He's going down and down twisting, churning, groping for anything. Panic inflames him: Which way is up? Thrashing, he bursts through the surface under the stars and grabs onto the boat. Beyond the roar, water runs off him in tinkling rivulets.
His eyes burn. There's no sign of Deena, not the slightest ripple. Craig's flesh is alive with a thousand cuts. He sees the lighted flash below him turning slowly, drifting downward, dimming. Deena went in face up, looking toward the stars. He will never be able to forget it.
Copyright (c) 2008 Jean Femling
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Mystery Classic: THE LEOPARD MAN'S STORY by Jack London
He had a dreamy, far-away look in his eyes, and his sad, insistent voice, gentle-spoken as a maid's, seemed the placid embodiment of some deep-seated melancholy. He was the Leopard Man, but he did not look it. His business in life, whereby he lived, was to appear in a cage of performing leopards before vast audiences, and to thrill those audiences by certain exhibitions of nerve for which his employers rewarded him on a scale commensurate with the thrills he produced.
As I say, he did not look it. He was narrow-hipped, narrow-shouldered, and anemic, while he seemed not so much oppressed by gloom as by a sweet and gentle sadness, the weight of which was as sweetly and gently borne. For an hour I had been trying to get a story out of him, but he appeared to lack imagination. To him there was no romance in his gorgeous career, no deeds of daring, no thrills—nothing but a gray sameness and infinite boredom.
Lions? Oh, yes! he had fought with them. It was nothing. All you had to do was to stay sober. Anybody could whip a lion to a standstill with an ordinary stick. He had fought one for half an hour once. Just hit him on the nose every time he rush
ed, and when he got artful and rushed with his head down, why, the thing to do was to stick out your leg. When he grabbed at the leg you drew it back and hit him on the nose again. That was all.
With the far-away look in his eyes and his soft flow of words he showed me his scars. There were many of them, and one recent one where a tigress had reached for his shoulder and gone down to the bone. I could see the neatly mended rents in the coat he had on. His right arm, from the elbow down, looked as though it had gone through a threshing machine, what of the ravage wrought by claws and fangs. But it was nothing, he said, only the old wounds bothered him somewhat when rainy weather came on.
Suddenly his face brightened with a recollection, for he was really as anxious to give me a story as I was to get it.
"I suppose you've heard of the lion-tamer who was hated by another man?” he asked.
He paused and looked pensively at a sick lion in the cage opposite.
"Got the toothache,” he explained. “Well, the lion-tamer's big play to the audience was putting his head in a lion's mouth. The man who hated him attended every performance in the hope sometime of seeing that lion crunch down. He followed the show about all over the country. The years went by and he grew old, and the lion-tamer grew old, and the lion grew old. And at last one day, sitting in a front seat, he saw what he had waited for. The lion crunched down, and there wasn't any need to call a doctor."
The Leopard Man glanced casually over his finger nails in a manner which would have been critical had it not been so sad.
"Now, that's what I call patience,” he continued, “and it's my style. But it was not the style of a fellow I knew. He was a little, thin, sawed-off, sword-swallowing and juggling Frenchman. De Ville, he called himself, and he had a nice wife. She did trapeze work and used to dive from under the roof into a net, turning over once on the way as nice as you please.
"De Ville had a quick temper, as quick as his hand, and his hand was as quick as the paw of a tiger. One day, because the ring-master called him a frog-eater, or something like that and maybe a little worse, he shoved him against the soft pine background he used in his knife-throwing act, so quick the ring-master didn't have time to think, and there, before the audience, De Ville kept the air on fire with his knives, sinking them into the wood all around the ring-master so close that they passed through his clothes and most of them bit into his skin.
AHMM, September 2008 Page 16
