mind seems half gone, private areas looted, policies and imprimaturs faded, old sureties hollowed out, schemes disassembled. Do you know me? is a question he could ask himself.
A man in long white shorts is throwing a rubber ball into the shallows for his dog. The dog, a sleek black retriever who knows his business, brings it back every time. He ’ s a retriever who’s gone off. He wants to put money on something, jai alai maybe, preferably on Zabala and his partner Bidarte, but it’s too early in the day. Feelings, like quivering animals, range in his body, nameless feelings on strange errands.
In a minute the phone rings. It’s Spane. “You have trouble,” Spane says.
“I know that.”
“You don’t have the stones.”
“I know that too.”
“The Big says he’ll give you forty-eight hours to find them and put them in his hand.”
“I’m on it right now. Mikey?”
“What?”
“Thanks.”
There’s a silence on the line. Through this silence Cot can feel Spane, solid as coral rock, feel him leaning toward him, the shadow of his presence reaching for him, the blank malfeasance, substance without form, no mercy involved. And Spane can hear him breathing into the line, breath traveling through the air 150 miles over water and stubby islands, faint as whispers, signaling to him, even a sigh expressive of everything a life is, sum and parts, and it’s as if he can lift the life out of the substrate it inhabits and hold it in his hand and pick at and ponder it and toss it aside when he’s done. There’s been a wariness between them for a while now, a displacement, a shift, but this changes nothing really.
“Don’t call me again,” Spane says.
Cot sits in the shade looking out at the ocean, a bleak expression on his face like that of a man marooned on an island nobody will discover for years.
3
H e caught up with Ordell at Sammy’s Lunch, but Ordell told him there were no new developments in the case.
“Not even whispers?”
“It’s a complete mystery.”
An orange cat sat up in a lime tree staring at some little black-faced birds flickering around in the top of a nearby manila palm. The birds didn’t seem to mind. Ordell’s dark thick hair like the mournful pelt of a just-extinguished species, strands of gray setting tiny trails in it, shifted as he turned to look from the patio they sat on at four hugely fat old men in ponytails passing on their Harleys.
“How about footprints and DNA and your CIs—all that,” Cot said, tapping Ordell lightly on the knuckles. “How about spoor and signs?”
“None such.”
“How about known criminals.”
“You’re the best known we got.”
“Come on.”
“We’ll catch them.”
“Them?”
“Whoever it is. You talked to Marcie?”
“Yeah.”
“Does she say anything about me?”
“Not really.”
“What does she say?”
“She thinks the world of you.”
“I got to elevate myself out of this.”
“Okay.”
Ordell squeezed a few drops from a greenish wedge of lemon onto his fingertips and patted them on his tongue. “You remember when people in Bahama Village used to raise goats?”
“They say before the big hurricane in the thirties it was a real agricultural paradise down here.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
Cot knew that Ordell was slightly homosexual, Marcella knew and others did too, but no one mentioned this to Ordell. Ordell, as far as anyone was aware, never mentioned it to himself. After lunch they walked back to the courthouse together. Cot’s phone rang. It was Marcella. “How’s he doing?” she asked when he told her who he was with.
“Maybe you ought to come see for yourself.”
“Don’t be mean.”
“He’s suffering.”
“That her?” Ordell said.
“She’s beside herself.”
Ordell made little grabbing motions for Cot to give him the phone, which he did.
“Honey,” Ordell said first thing, “I will do anything. Honey . . . ,” then he listened. Then he said, “But,
A man in long white shorts is throwing a rubber ball into the shallows for his dog. The dog, a sleek black retriever who knows his business, brings it back every time. He ’ s a retriever who’s gone off. He wants to put money on something, jai alai maybe, preferably on Zabala and his partner Bidarte, but it’s too early in the day. Feelings, like quivering animals, range in his body, nameless feelings on strange errands.
In a minute the phone rings. It’s Spane. “You have trouble,” Spane says.
“I know that.”
“You don’t have the stones.”
“I know that too.”
“The Big says he’ll give you forty-eight hours to find them and put them in his hand.”
“I’m on it right now. Mikey?”
“What?”
“Thanks.”
There’s a silence on the line. Through this silence Cot can feel Spane, solid as coral rock, feel him leaning toward him, the shadow of his presence reaching for him, the blank malfeasance, substance without form, no mercy involved. And Spane can hear him breathing into the line, breath traveling through the air 150 miles over water and stubby islands, faint as whispers, signaling to him, even a sigh expressive of everything a life is, sum and parts, and it’s as if he can lift the life out of the substrate it inhabits and hold it in his hand and pick at and ponder it and toss it aside when he’s done. There’s been a wariness between them for a while now, a displacement, a shift, but this changes nothing really.
“Don’t call me again,” Spane says.
Cot sits in the shade looking out at the ocean, a bleak expression on his face like that of a man marooned on an island nobody will discover for years.
3
H e caught up with Ordell at Sammy’s Lunch, but Ordell told him there were no new developments in the case.
“Not even whispers?”
“It’s a complete mystery.”
An orange cat sat up in a lime tree staring at some little black-faced birds flickering around in the top of a nearby manila palm. The birds didn’t seem to mind. Ordell’s dark thick hair like the mournful pelt of a just-extinguished species, strands of gray setting tiny trails in it, shifted as he turned to look from the patio they sat on at four hugely fat old men in ponytails passing on their Harleys.
“How about footprints and DNA and your CIs—all that,” Cot said, tapping Ordell lightly on the knuckles. “How about spoor and signs?”
“None such.”
“How about known criminals.”
“You’re the best known we got.”
“Come on.”
“We’ll catch them.”
“Them?”
“Whoever it is. You talked to Marcie?”
“Yeah.”
“Does she say anything about me?”
“Not really.”
“What does she say?”
“She thinks the world of you.”
“I got to elevate myself out of this.”
“Okay.”
Ordell squeezed a few drops from a greenish wedge of lemon onto his fingertips and patted them on his tongue. “You remember when people in Bahama Village used to raise goats?”
“They say before the big hurricane in the thirties it was a real agricultural paradise down here.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
Cot knew that Ordell was slightly homosexual, Marcella knew and others did too, but no one mentioned this to Ordell. Ordell, as far as anyone was aware, never mentioned it to himself. After lunch they walked back to the courthouse together. Cot’s phone rang. It was Marcella. “How’s he doing?” she asked when he told her who he was with.
“Maybe you ought to come see for yourself.”
“Don’t be mean.”
“He’s suffering.”
“That her?” Ordell said.
“She’s beside herself.”
Ordell made little grabbing motions for Cot to give him the phone, which he did.
“Honey,” Ordell said first thing, “I will do anything. Honey . . . ,” then he listened. Then he said, “But,
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