“You just might at that.”
“You love to bluff people. Try me.”
“No, thank you. One week.”
She took a deep breath and let it out. “Lovely! Time in transit doesn’t count, of course. Can we leave … day after tomorrow?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you know?”
“I just found out that an old friend might be in trouble. It just seems to me that if she was in trouble, she’d come to me.”
Jilly wiggled and thrust away from me and sat up. “She?”
“Frowning makes wrinkles.”
“So it does. She?”
“A respectable married lady.”
“If she’s so respectable, how is it she knows you?”
“Before she was married.”
“And I suppose you had an affair with her.”
“Gee, honey. I’d have to look it up.”
I caught her fist about five inches from my eye. “You bahstid,” she said.
“Okay. An affair. A mad, wild, glorious liaison which kept us in an absolute frenzy of passion.”
Her look was enigmatic. “You are perfectly right, of course, darling. It is none of my business. What’s she like? I mean, what physical type?”
“In general, a lot like you, Jilly. Tall, slender brunette. Dark hair, takes a good tan. Long legs, short waisted. She would be … twenty-eight or -nine by now. Back when I knew her, she didn’t race her motor the way you do. More of a placid, contented person. She really enjoyed cooking and scrubbing and bed-making. She could sleep ten or twelve hours a night.”
“You damned well remember every detail, don’t you?”
I smiled up into her leaning, earnest face—a small face but strong of feature in the black, bed-snarled dangle of hair. I looked at her limber, brown body in the rose glow of the lamp ten feet away, noting the way the deep tan above and below her breasts decreased in ever more pallid horizontal stripes and shadings down to that final band of pale and pure white which denoted her narrowest bikini top.
“Why are you laughing at me, you dull sod?”
“Not at you, Lady Jillian.”
“I am not Lady Jillian. That usage is improper. If you are not laughing at, then you are laughing with. And if you are laughing with, why is it that I am not amused?”
“But you are, darling.”
She tried to keep her mouth severe but lost the battle, gave a rusty honk of laughter, and flung herself upon me.
“I can’t stay angry with you, Travis. You promised me a week. But I’ll punish you for that dark-haired lady.”
“How?”
“On our way to St. Kitts there will be at least one day or night when we’ll spend hour after hour quartering into an ugly, irregular chop.”
“I don’t get seasick.”
“Nor do I, my love. It would spoil it if either of us became ill.”
“Spoil what?”
“Dear man, when the chop is effective, one cannot stay on this bed. You are lifted up, and then the bed and the hull drop away from you, and when you are on your way down, the bed comes up and smacks you and boosts you into the air again. It is like trying to post on a very bad horse. When that happens, dear, you and I are going to be right here, making love. We’ll see how well you satisfy a lady in midair. I shall have you tottering about, wishing you’d never met Mrs. Whatever.”
“Mrs. Broll. Mary Broll. Mary Dillon Broll.”
“You think she should have come to you if she’s in trouble? Isn’t that a little patronizing and arrogant?”
“Possibly.”
“What sort of trouble?”
“Marriage trouble. Her husband cheated, and she caught him at it and left him back in January.”
“Good Lord, why should she come galloping to you?”
“It’s an emotional problem, and when she had one sort of like it years ago, we got together, and she worked her way out of it.”
“And fell in love with you?”
“I think that with Mary there would have to be some affection before there could be anything.”
“You poor dumb beast. You’re so obvious.”
“What do you mean?”
“You can’t for the life of you comprehend why she doesn’t come scuttling back to Dr. McGee’s free and famous clinic. Your pride is hurt, dear. I suspect she’s found some other therapist.”
“Even if she had, I think she’d have let me know the marriage had soured. I get the feeling something happened to her.”
She yawned and stretched. “Let me make one thing abundantly clear, as one of your grubby little political types says or used to say. Once we have our design for living, if we have any doleful visits from one of your previous patients, my dear, I shall take a broom to them and beat them through the garden gate and down the drive.”
“Don’t you think you ought to type all these rules up and give me three copies?”
“You’re so damned defensive! Good Christ, am I some sort of dog’s dinner?”
“You are a lively, sexy, lovely, sexy, well-dressed, sexy, amusing, sexy, wealthy, sexy widow lady.”
“And some very tidy and considerate men come flocking around. Men with all the social graces and very good at games. Not knuckly, scabrous, lazy, knobbly old ruins like you, McGee.”
“So grab one of those tidy and considerate ones.”
“Oh, sure. They are lovely men, and they are so anxious to please me. There’s the money, and it makes them very jumpy and nervous. Their hands get cold and damp. If I frown, they look terrified. Couldn’t you be more anxious to please me, dear? Just a little bit?”
“Like this, you mean?”
“Well … I didn’t exactly mean that.… I meant in a more general sense … but … now that you bring it up.… God, I can’t remember now what I did mean.… I guess I meant this. Yes, darling. This.”
The narrow horizontal ports above the custom bed let a cold and milky morning light into the stateroom at the bow of the center hull of the Jilly III. As I looked up, 6:31 became 6:32. Jillian’s small round rump, her flesh warmer than mine, was thrust with a domestic coziness into my belly. My chin rested against the crown of her head. Her tidy heft had turned my left arm numb. My right hand lay upon the sweet inward curve of her waist.
Worse fates, I thought. A life with Jilly Brent-Archer wouldn’t be dull. Maybe it is time for the islands. In spite of all good intentions, all nervous concern, all political bombast, my dirty two-legged species is turning the lovely southeast coast into a sewer. On still days the stinking sky is bourbon brown, and in the sea there are only the dwindling runty fish that can survive in that poisoned brew.
It happens slowly, so you try not to notice it. You tell yourself it happens to be a bad day, that’s all. The tides and the winds will scrub it all clean. But not clean enough anymore. One life to live, so pop through the escape hatch, McGee. Try the islands. Damned few people can escape the smudge and sludge, the acids and stenches, the choking and weeping. You have to take care of yourself, man. Nobody else is going to. And this deft morsel, curled sleeping against you, is a first-class ticket for all of the voyage you have left. Suppose you do have to do some bowing and scraping and fetching. Will it kill you? Think of what most people have to do for a living. You’ve been taking your retirement in small installments whenever you could afford it. So here’s the rest of it in her lovely sleep. The ultimate social security.
I eased my dead arm out from under her and moved away. She made a sleep-whine of discontent. I covered her with the big colorful sheet, dressed, turned out the rosy light, and made sure the main hatchway locked behind me when I left.
Back aboard the Flush I put on swim trunks and a robe to keep me warm in the morning chill. The sun was coming up out of the sea when I walked across the pedestrian bridge over the highway and down onto the public beach. Morning birds were running along the wet sand, pecking and fleeing from the wash of the surf. An old man was jogging slowly by, his fac
e in a clench of agony. A fat girl in a brown dress was looking for shells.
I went in, swam hard, and rested, again and again, using short bursts of total energy. I went back to the Flush and had a quart of orange juice, four scrambled eggs along with some rat cheese from Vermont, and a mug of black coffee.
I fell asleep seven and a half inches above my oversized bed in the master stateroom, falling toward the bed, long gone before I landed.
Four
Thursday, when I got up a little before noon, the remembered scene with Harry Broll and his little gun seemed unreal. Six loud whacks, not loud enough to attract the curious attention of people on the neighboring craft. The Flush had been buttoned up, the air-conditioning on. No slug had gone through glass.
I found where five had hit. At last I spotted the sixth one in the overhead. It had hit tumbling and sideways and had not punched itself all the way out of sight, so by elimination it was the one that had grooved the leather sole of my sandal and numbed my heel.
I had rolled to my right after going over backward in the chair. It gave me the chance to kick a small table over, creating more distraction and confusion, and it also forced him, being right-handed, to bring his arm across his body to aim at me, which is more difficult than extending the arm out to the side. Two into the deck, one into the chair, one into the table, one into the overhead, and one into my stereo amplifier.
So maybe the clip held six, and he had not jacked one into the chamber until he got to the parking lot at the marina. If he’d put one in the chamber and filled the clip all the way, there would have been one left for the middle of my face.
Dead then or a long time in the institutional bed with the drains in place and the pain moving around under the sedatives like a snake under a blanket.
Don’t give yourself any credit, Mr. Travis McGee. The fates could have counted to seven just as easily. You had an easy shot at him with the ashtray, but your hand was sweaty and the fingertips slipped. You missed badly.
Meyer could be right. I had depended on instinct. It had been my instinct that Harry Broll had not come to kill me. Then he had done his best, and I had lucked out. So was instinct becoming stale? When it stopped being a precision tool, when it ceased sending accurate messages up from the atavistic, animal level of the brain, I was as vulnerable as if sight or hearing had begun to fail. If soft, sloppy, nervous Harry Broll could almost do me in with a pop gun, my next meeting with professional talent could be mortal.
There was another dimension to it. Once I started doubting my survival instinct, I would lose confidence in my own reactions. A loss of confidence creates hesitations. Hesitation is a fatal disease—for anyone in the salvage business.
There are worse careers than houseguest. Or pet gopher.
Too much solitary introspection started to depress me. I was ready for Geritol and cortisone. I pulled all the plugs and connections on the Marantz and lugged its considerable weight all the way to where I’d parked Miss Agnes, my ancient and amiable old blue Rolls pickup. I drove over to town to Al’s Musicade. He is lean, sour, and knowledgeable. He does not say much. He took it out back himself and found bench space in his busy service department. I watched him finger the hole in the front of it. He quickly loosened the twelve Phillips screws that hold the top perforated plate down, lifted it off, found more damage, reached in with two fingers, and lifted out the deformed slug.
“Somebody didn’t like the programing?”
“Bad lyrics.”
“Week from today?”
“Loaner?”
“Got a Fisher you can use.”
We walked out front, and he lifted it off the rack, a used one in apparently good condition. He made a note of the serial number and who was taking it out.
I put the borrowed amplifier on the passenger seat beside me and went looking for Harry Broll’s place of business. I had seen it once and had a general idea where to find it. I had to ask at a gas station. It was west of Lauderdale, off Davie Road, over in an industrial park in pine and palmetto country. All of it except the office itself was circled by high hurricane fencing with slanted braces and three strands of barbed wire on top. There was a gate for the rail spur and a truck and equipment gate. I could see a central mix concrete plant, a block plant, big piles of sand, gravel, and crushed stone. I could see warehouses, stacks of lumber, piles of pre-stressed concrete beams, and a vehicle park and repair area. This was a Thursday at one thirty in the afternoon, and I could count only ten cars. Four of those were in front of the office. The office was a long, low concrete-block building painted white with a flat roof. The landscaped grass was burned brown, and they had lost about half the small palm trees planted near the office.
There were too many trucks and pieces of equipment in the park. It looked neat enough but sleepy. BROLL ENTERPRISES, Inc. But some of the big plastic letters had blown off or fallen off. It said:
ROLL E Terp Ises, Inc.
I cruised slowly by. I was tempted to turn around and go back and go in and see if Harry was there and try once more to tell him I’d had no contact whatsoever with Mary for over three years. But he was going to believe what emotions told him to believe.
I wondered how Meyer was doing, using his friends in the banks, brokerage houses, and investment houses to find out just how sweaty Harry Broll might be. The tight-money times and the over-building of condominiums and the pyramiding costs had busted quite a few able fellows lately. Harry probably hadn’t come through that bad period without some ugly bruises. I could tell Meyer how idle Broll’s place of business looked, if he hadn’t found out already.
When I got back to Bahia Mar, Meyer was still missing. I felt restless. I set up the Fisher, hooked up the tape decks, turntables, and the two sets of speakers. It checked out all right. I turned it off and paced. The itch you can’t quite reach. Familiar feeling. Like the name you can’t quite remember.
I looked up the number for Broll Enterprises and phoned. The girl answered by reciting the number I’d just dialed.
“Maybe you can help me, miss. I’m trying to get a home address for Mrs. Harry Broll.”
“In what regard, please.”
“Well, this is the Shoe Mart, and it was way back in November we special-ordered a pair of shoes for Mrs. Broll. It took so long she’s under no obligation to take them, but they’re more a classic than a high-style item, so I figure she probably wants them, but I’ve been drawing a blank on the home phone number, so I thought maybe they moved or something.”
“Will you hold on a moment, please?”
I held. It took her about a minute and a half. “Mr. Broll says that you can deliver them here to the office. Do you know where we are?”
“Sure. Okay. Thanks. It’ll probably be tomorrow.”
I hung up, and once again, to make sure, I dialed the home phone number for Harry Broll, 21 Blue Heron Lane. “The number you have dialed is not in service at this time.”
I scowled at my phone. Come on, McGee. The man is living somewhere. Information has no home number for him. The old home number is on temporary disconnect. The new number of wherever he’s living must be unlisted. It probably doesn’t matter a damn where he’s living. It’s the challenge.
Okay. Think a little. Possibly all his mail is directed to the business address. But some things have to be delivered. Booze, medicine, automobiles. Water, electricity … cablevision?
The lady had a lovely voice, gentle and musical and intriguingly breathy. “I could track it down more quickly, Mr. Broll, if you could give me your account number.”
“I wish I could. I’m sorry, miss. I don’t have the bill in front of me. But couldn’t you check it by address? The last billing was sent to 21 Blue Heron Lane. If it’s too much trouble, I can phone you tomorrow. You see, the bill is at my home, and I’m at the office.”
“Just a moment, please. Let me check the cross index.”
It took a good five minutes. “Sorry it took me so long,” she said.
“
It was my fault, not having my account number, miss.”
“Broll. Bee-are-oh-el-el. Harry C.?”
“Correct.”
“And you said the bill went where?”
“To 21 Blue Heron Lane. That’s where I used to live.”
“Gee, Mr. Broll, I don’t understand it at all. All billing is supposed to be mailed to Post Office box 5150.”
“I wonder if I’ve gotten a bill that belongs to someone else. The amount doesn’t seem right either.”
“You should be paying $6.24 a month, sir. For the one outlet. You were paying more, of course, for the four outlets at Blue Heron Lane before you ordered the disconnect.”
“Excuse me, but does your file show where I am getting the one-outlet service? Do you have the right address?”
“Oh, yes sir. It’s 8553 Ocean Boulevard, apartment 61. I’ve got the installation order number. That is right, isn’t it?”
“Yes. That’s right. But I think the billing is for eleven dollars and something.”
“Mr. Broll, please mail the bill back in the regular envelope we send out, but in the left bottom corner would you write Customer Service, Miss Locklin?”
“I will do that. I certainly appreciate your kindness and courtesy, Miss Locklin.”
“No trouble, really. That’s what we’re here for.”
Four o’clock and still no Meyer, so I went out and coaxed Miss Agnes back to life and went rolling on up Ocean Boulevard. I kept to the far right lane and went slowly because the yearly invasion of Easter bunnies was upon us, was beginning to dwindle, and there was too little time to enjoy them. They had been beaching long enough so that there were very few cases of lobster pink. The tans were nicely established, and the ones who still burned had a brown burn. There are seven lads to every Easter bunny, and the litheness and firmness of the young ladies gamboling on the beach, ambling across the highway, stretching out to take the sun, is something to stupefy the senses. It creates something which is beyond any of the erotic daydreams of traditional lust, even beyond that aesthetic pleasure of looking upon pleasing line and graceful move.
A Tan and Sandy Silence Page 4
