Gone by Randy Wayne White Page A

bastard hasn’t seen a fine pair of young breasts in years. With me so far?”
    I said, “My God, you’re something,” which didn’t stop Nathan, of course.
    “That’s when you and the great man make eye contact. When he’s at the window—only for a second, though. It’s an electric moment—for him, at least—then you turn so you’re in profile. That’s when you let your bikini top drop to your feet. Don’t even look at it—your top, I mean. Like it’s all accidental, but he knows it’s your private way of thanking him. A personal gift to a lonely old man who has too much money to count.”
    Nathan was grinning again, but then the grin faded because of what he saw in my face. “Oh, now you’re mad . What’d I say? Usually, you like it when I talk dirty. Lord knows, it’s the only sex thrills either one of us gets.”
    “I am not mad,” I replied, my tone formal, pretending to concentrate on what was inside the computer bag. “It’s not professional to speak ill of clients, that’s all.”
    “Speak ill? Christ, Hannah, all I said was you should let the old guy have a peek at your goodies. There’s nothing bad about that—unless you think it might give him a heart attack or something.”
    I was tempted to point out that Nathan was thirty years younger than his famous photographer friend but didn’t. “That’s not the way you talk about a person who’s paying for your livelihood,” I told him sternly. “Besides, Mr. Seasons can’t be much more than forty-five or . . . or so. A lot of people consider that middle-aged.”
    Nathan was looking at me like I was nuts. “Sure—if we lived to a hundred. I wait on Mr. Seasons sometimes when he comes into the bar. That’s how I know he’s unhappy and his wife’s a bitch. Trust me, the man’s closer to sixty than forty.”
    “He is not.”
    “You can’t be serious. I know grandfathers younger than him. And a lot happier, too.”
    I snapped, “Lawrence Seasons is not a sad old man !” raising my voice and turning—which is when I noticed that Mr. Seasons was inside the cabin of the Marlow, door open now, looking at us from only thirty yards away.
    I whispered, “Shit,” a word I seldom use. It was because I know how sound carries across water, so the man had definitely heard me. I shoved the computer bag into Nathan’s hands, then slammed my boat into gear, eyes locked straight ahead. Because I’d surprised Nathan, though, the bag dropped to the deck, which caused the sheaf of papers to spill around our feet.
    I didn’t care. Putting distance between us, that beautiful boat, and Mr. Seasons was all I could think about. Even when Nathan knelt to gather the papers, asking me over and over, “What’s wrong? Hey, what’s the problem?” I ignored him and drove.
    A couple of minutes later, though, when he said, “Does this guy have anything to do with the missing girl?” I had calmed enough to stop behaving like a statue, so I turned and gave him my attention. Nathan had gathered the papers Mr. Seasons had given me and was looking at a photo. I recognized the photo easily enough. I had spent time memorizing it the night before.
    “He’s the man they hired to build the seawall,” I said. “They can’t be sure Olivia went off with him, but it’s what they suspect. His name’s Ricky Meeks.”
    Nathan was still examining the picture but was now pursing his lips. “His name’s not Ricky. Or maybe it is, but Mrs. Whitney called him something else. Mike . . . Matt . . . it began with an M .”
    “You know him?” I said, startled but also pleased because Mr. Seasons put a lot of stock in the value of local knowledge. Maybe I was already earning my money.
    “Mick,” Nathan said. “Yeah . . . Mick, I’m pretty sure that’s it. A woman named Mrs. Whitney used to bring him to the restaurant sometimes. This was back around New Year’s. For a week or so, those two came almost every night, usually just drinks. She always