John D MacDonald - Travis McGee 04 - The Quick Red Fox

by The Quick Red Fox(lit)

I showered with the strange feeling I was washing off the sweat and sunoil I had acquired on a bright terrace three thousand and more miles away.

  I put on a robe and went topside for a nightcap pipe, a load of Irish aromatic in a battered old large apple Comoy. I perched a haunch on the sundeck rail. The wind had died, but the surf still made that endless freight-train sound on the beach. Across the way the Alabama Tiger's perpetual floating house party was muted down to a few girlish squeals and somebody playing bad bongo. Meyer's craft was dark.

  Go mention it in the locker room, McGee. There you were with Lysa Dean, and she had on these skin-tight pants, fellas, and there was that big damn bed over there, and her hanging on me, sighing. Go on, McGee. Go on, man!

  Boys, once when I was riding my bicycle no hands, I hit a stone and removed about one-half a square foot of hide from assorted painful places. And once upon a time I won free dancing lessons from Arthur Murray because I knew, right off, what happened in 1776.

  When I got up in the morning Skeeter was gone, leaving the bed unmade and no coffee in the pot. But she left a drawing on the sink in the head. A rangy mouse who looked extraordinarily like me sat holding a Skeeter-like girl mouse asleep in his arms. The caption said, "Notorious mouse spares innocent prey. Vitamin deficiency suspected."

  After breakfast I phoned her. She said her apartment was smelling much better, thank you.

  "McGee," she said. "We might be turning into friends. That's pretty good, don't you think?"

  "You're too dangerous on any other basis. What's with this vitamin gag?"

  "I guess I was just sort of asleep. You started breathing hard. Then pow! On your feet, girl. And you went off like you used starting blocks."

  "Friends play fair, Skeet."

  "Well, hell. I don't know. I hadn't decided. You were blue. I practically had a Band-Aid complex. Woman's work or something. I passed the buck by sort of sleeping. Anyway I was terribly tired."

  "Quimby is a fine mouse."

  "Trav, dear, I am going to sleep for three days, and then you can take me fishing."

  "Deal," I told her. She hung up. It was a sad thing that we had a strange sexual antagonism that made us want to chop each other to bits. We had to cut deep to see how much it would hurt. And it hurt aplenty. You can't live with that. But you can learn to live very nicely without it.

  At eleven o'clock Dana Holtzer, as carefully poised as an unfriendly diplomat delivering an ultimatum, arrived with the money. Five thousand in cash. She had a receipt form for my signature, made out in the form of a letter of intent. The money was for "expenses in connection with research for a moving picture as yet untitled, to be purchased in treatment form at a price to be negotiated...."

  Apparently I was dealing with something called Ly-Dea Productions. She had a file copy of the letter for me. She sat erect on the cushioned top of one of the stowage lockers along the lounge wall under the ports. She wore no hat. She wore a tailored navy blue suit with pleated skirt over a crisp white blouse. I could see no concession to anything in the set of her heavy mouth, the waiting attentiveness of very vivid dark eyes. Had I not seen her reaction to Skeeter's mouse, I would have given up on her.

  "Tax reasons," she said.

  "Of course," I said, and signed her copy. She refolded it briskly and tucked it away.

  I wondered if anything would dent that efficient calm. I expected her to get up and trot off. But she had something else on her mind, yet wanted me to make a move first. I could guess why she had no particular enthusiasm for me. Her confidence would be given to large organizations with computers in the airconditioned basement to tell the other machines which cards to drop into the slot.

  Lysa Dean was in trouble. When you are in trouble, you go to J. Edgar Hoover, not to an obviously shopworn beach bum, a marina gypsy, a big shambling sharpshooter without an IBM card to his name. To Miss Holtzer I would look like more trouble, not less. My khakis were faded to pale beige, and the toes were out of my topsiders, and the old blue sweatshirt was fringed at the elbows. So I just fell into a chair, hooked a leg over one arm of it, and watched her mildly.

  She took it well and took it long, and then the pink climbed up her throat. "Miss Dean should be the one to tell you this," she said.

  "Tell me what, dear?"

  "She could answer any objections better than I could. The agency is sending a competent girl out, to take over for me temporarily with Miss Dean. I'll catch her up to date this evening." She took a deep breath. "Miss Dean has assigned me to work with you on this matter, Mr. McGee."

  "That is absolutely ridiculous!"

  "Believe me, it wasn't my idea. But in all fairness, it does have some merit. I can get through to her immediately at any time. There may be information about her you might want to have, and information about her friends and associates. Also I may be able to take some details off your hands, travel arrangements, accommodations, notes, financial records. Miss Dean would feel... more at ease about all this if I am with you."

  "I work alone, Dana. My God, I don't need any Katie Gibbs-type services, believe me. I wouldn't know how to act with you trudging behind me with a note book and a ledger. In a thing like this I might have to do a lot of... impersonations."

  "I am quite flexible and resourceful, Mr. McGee."

  I stood up. "But you don't belong in this sort of thing. It looks as if it would be pretty messy, if I have any luck at all."

  "I said yes to Miss Dean, but I do have one reservation. I must ask you if... if you are employed to kill anyone."

  I boggled at her. "What?"

  "That's a risk I wouldn't care to accept."

  I sat down and I laughed. She let me laugh it out, without a smile, with quiet patience. When I was through she said, "That's answer enough. I had to ask. I have to think of risks."

  "Miss Holtzer, I don't know if I could stand the continuous weight of your disapproval."

  "What does that mean?"

  "I understand you saw those pictures by accident, the ones left at the desk at The Sands, and you wanted to quit then and there. Life is full of a number of things, Miss Holtzer, and many of them get a little grim from time to time."

  Her dark eyes flashed. "Do they really?"

  "Haven't you noticed?"

  With a thoughtful expression she took cigarettes from her purse, snapped her lighter, huffed a dragon-plume of smoke toward me. "What I tell you now is, of course, none of your business. But I think we should understand each other a little bit in the beginning. My personal life is out of bounds for any future discussion. I am in the business of selling skills, tact, great energy, adequate intelligence and total loyalty. I sell this package to Lysa Dean for fifteen thousand dollars a year. Assigned to you, you get the same package. When I saw what those pictures were, I went through them to see how damaging they might be. I read the note. To me it meant that Lysa Dean was not as good a gamble for me as she used to be. I worried about that before, when I went through that thirteen-week charade."

  I saw her hand tremble slightly as she lifted her cigarette to her lips. "I am married, Mr. McGee. Or was married. My husband was epileptic. He was a talented writer, with a few very substantial television credits. Marriage was a calculated risk. We had a child, a boy. At first he seemed quite normal. Then we learned gradually that he was so seriously retarded an institution would be the only answer. It had no connection with my husband's difficulty. We had to get away after we put the little boy in. He would never know us, or anyone. Bill had made a good sale. It was a good trip, actually, as good as two emotionally exhausted people could expect. We got well enough to head home. We stopped at a place at night for coffee, along the road. It was a bar. We were not drinking. Bill had a sudden seizure. They never lasted long, but they were quite violent. An off-duty police officer thought he was a murderous drunk and shot him in the head. He did not die. He is permanently comatose, Mr. McGee, with tubes for feeding and elimination, and the alcohol rubs to keep bed sores from rotting him away. It is a me
dical miracle, of course. That was four years ago. I need that fifteen thousand. It is barely enough for me and my family. If Lysa Dean is going down the drain in a messy way, it is my responsibility to leave her before it happens and go where an equivalent job has been offered. The job might not be open if I was in any way connected with scandal. Yes, Mr. McGee, the world can get a little grim from time to time."

  "What can I say?"

  "Nothing, of course. I thought it would be easier to tell you now before you said more things you might regret later, that's all. You haven't hurt me. I'm not certain anything could hurt me, actually. I am sorry it is all so soap opera. I haven't the... self-involvement necessary to make moral judgments. Lee was terribly foolish. The pictures offend me because they are vulgar. And they endanger me. If you can't work things out for her, I will have to leave her. I think she senses that."

  "Maybe you could be some help."

  "Thank you."

  "Drink?"

  Her smile was small, and perfectly polite, and totally automatic. "Bourbon, if you have it. Weak, with lots of ice and water."

  I do not think she wanted it, but knew I wanted a chance to pull myself together, get the taste of my own foot off my front teeth. I had looked at that empty reserve and guessed repression and disapproval. She was merely burned out. Wires had crossed and a lovely machine had fuzed and quit, become a useless lump for her to carry around the rest of her life. I felt like a jackass adolescent who'd tried to tell a dirty joke in front of real people.

  When I went in with the drinks, she was standing with her back to me, feet apart, sturdy calves braced, fist on a rich curve of Mediterranean hip, head cocked, looking at a painting.

  "Like it?"

  She turned with a swift grace. "Very much."

  "Syd Solomon. He lives over in Sarasota. It's part of a Bahama series he did a few years back."

  "It's very rich. Are you a collector?"

  "Sometimes. I've got about five things aboard and maybe a dozen in storage. Every so often I switch them around." She sipped her drink. "Is that all right?"

  "Yes. Thank you. What do you drink? What is that?"

  "Lately Plymouth gin on the rocks with two drops of bitters." I could almost hear the little click as she filed that away. I had acquired a drinkmaker.

  She went back to the upholstered locker and sat and said, "By the way, my expenses won't come out of what I brought you. Is there anything I can start doing today? My desk is fairly clean and the girl won't be in until later."

  I left her there and went to the safe and took out the envelope. I put Lysa Dean's pictures back in the safe and brought out the ones Gabe had made. I handed them to her. She looked at three of them, and then looked at me with faint surprise and fainter approval. "You had this done, or did it, since you left her yesterday?"

  "I had it done."

  "It's quite clever. I see, I think, what you have in mind. These are no danger to her. Are the others safe?"

  "Yes." I waited until she had glanced through the set and put them aside. "Would you take down a few things?"

  A note book, gold pen and attentive expression appeared with impressive speed. I gave her Gabe's full name and address. "Make out a check for a hundred and mail it to him for the photo work. The checkbook is in the desk drawer over there. See if you can get a line on a Carl Abelle, possibly a ski instructor at the Mohawk Lodge in Speculator, New York, previously at Sun Valley. Phone him and fake it so that he won't be left with a lot of curiosity. If he is there, find the best way to get there, and reserve us through for Tuesday."

  "To stay at that lodge?"

  "Let's save that until we get a look, if he's there. Next, see what you can dig up about a Mr. and Mrs. Vance M'Gruder. Their home could be in Carmel. Ocean racing type. It's a small fraternity, so it shouldn't be rough." I went over and sat beside her and handed her my notes. "These are the names and numbers of all the players, as much as she could remember." I identified them in the pictures for her. "All clear?"

  "Yes sir."

  "Yes, Trav. Can we do it that way, Dana?"

  "Of course, Trav. "

  "When will you get loose?"

  "Actually tonight, about midnight. The new girl is taking my accommodations at the Sultana at Miami Beach. Suppose I check in Monday morning with you right here. Nine?"

  "Make it ten. Or you can come right here tonight when you're through. There's an extra stateroom. With a lock on the door."

  She nodded. "It would be simpler. Lock or no lock, Trav, that's one problem I don't expect to have, and know how to handle if I do." I went to the desk drawer, tossed the extra key to her. She caught it with a deft twist of the wrist. I explained it was to the lounge door, in case I was asleep when she got in. I took her on the tour. She said it seemed very comfortable. I was glad that with a morning attack of the neats, I had made up the Skeeter-tossled bed afresh. She went to the galley and rinsed her glass and set it out to dry. She went to my desk, wrote Gabe's check, altered my dwindling balance, and presented me the check for signature, saying, "Perhaps you would like me to deposit some of that cash tomorrow? I made a note of the account number."

  "Half of it, I guess. Thanks. Remind me tomorrow."

  I was asleep when she arrived. The little bong of my warning bell alerted me. When anybody comes aboard it rings. Once. That is always enough. I hate unfriendly surprises. I had left a light for her. Gun in hand I prowled naked to the interior door to the lounge, opened it an inch and looked through, out of darkness, saw her open the door, reach back and get a big suitcase and come in with it, moving quietly. It was ten of one. I went back to my bed, behind the closed door to the master stateroom.

  She was a quiet woman. A thread of light appeared under my door. In time I heard water running in the head. The thread of light went out. Soft click of latch of the other stateroom. Night silence. A faint music from some other boat. Grumble of a truck on the drive. Distant whistling scream of a jet.

  A woman aboard, quite unlike any I could remember. This was a staunch one. A lot of people can be gutsy when there is a tiny morsel of hope. Damn few keep plugging when there is none. The human animal is basically selfish. Neither the damaged kid nor the lost husband could know what degree of care they were getting. Society could not let them perish if she ceased her support. They could not accuse her. But she had a moral obligation so strong, any other course was inconceivable to her. They were her family. There was no other consideration for her. Life had burned her out, but what was left was considerably more woman than was Lysa Dean.

  The night thoughts of Dana Holtzer depressed me. Self-evaluation. It is the skin rash of the emotionally insecure. I felt as if I had spent a lot of years becoming too involved with some monstrously silly people. McGee, the con artist. I would fatten myself off their troubles, and then take the money and coast for a time, taking my retirement in early installments. I was not a very earnest nor constructive fellow.

  But, I thought, what are the other choices? I am not a nine to five animal. I cannot swallow the myths which say that nine to five is a Good Thing because that's the way nearly everybody else gets stuck. I cannot be an orderly consumer, with 2.3 kids and.7 new cars a year, and an after-hours secretarial arrangement. I am not properly acquisitive. I like the Busted Flush, the records and paintings, the little accumulations of this and that which stir memories, but I could stand on the shore and watch the whole thing go glug and disappear and feel a mild sardonic regret. No Professional American Wife could stomach that kind of attitude.

  I went to sleep feeling critical of the restless animal called Travis McGee, and awoke to the sun-brightness of nine in the morning coming through the small shaggy draperies in the stateroom, awoke to a scent of coffee, and some furtive clinking sounds from the gallery.

  After I showered, I went out to find her as full of utterly impersonal morning cheer as a waitress in a good hotel. She said she had slept well, thank you. It's a lovely day. The wind has stopped. It's much warmer.


  She said she had taken a chance on the eggs. I said scrambled was just fine. The juice was cold, coffee fragrant, bacon crisp, eggs medium. She served us in the booth. It was a pleasure to watch her move. She gave no impression of haste. Yet each movement was sure, and flowed into the next one without hesitation, and so things got done with a fascinating quickness.

  She was wearing gray flannel slacks and a yellow sweater. She looked better in slacks than I would have guessed. She did not look really good. That long-waisted figure was a shade too hearty in the seat and hefty in the thigh to look splendid in slacks. Venus de Milo would have looked like hell in stretch pants. They look just fine on the gangly just-ripening teenagers, or on the calculated slimness of a Lysa Dean. But there is something forlorn and slightly touching about the rump of the mature female who fills them all too well. Dana could not have managed stretch pants, but she did sneak by with the beautifully tailored slacks. They were high-waisted enough to fake a little figure correction, and she was wise enough to wear sandals with about an inch and a half of heel to get her center of gravity a little further from the deck.