life as vividly
unsettling as a drunk man in his underwear with a gun.
"Where are your clothes, Marty?"
"Under the bed."
"Under the bed."
"Yeah. I was..."
The brief silence swirled with implications so bizarre, could hardly
keep up with them. "Put them on and let's get out of here. I think maybe
we need to talk."
While Marty got dressed, I checked
the shower and tub. No one had used them in the last few hours, unless they'd
wipe them out. Amber's peach-colored towels were dry. The sink was dry, too, no
moisture under the plug. I went back into the bedroom, pulled a few threads
from one tassled end of the new throw rug, and slipped them between two bills
in my wallet. I got up close to the walls and saw the fresh paint covering the
old writing. Amber's suitcases were still near the walk-in. I looked through
them at the unremarkable travel provisions. Where had she been going? Marty,
tucking in his shirt, watched me. Overwhelmed by curiosity, I knelt down and
looked under the bed. I saw nothing but a small, flat rectangular object just a
few inches from my nose. I picked it up by one corner, stood, and took it into
the bathroom. It turned out to be just what it felt like: three pull-apart
plastic ties, like you get with trash or lawn bags. I put them in my wallet,
too. A considerable chill blew through me. Running my hands over the carpet
near where Amber had lain, I found by touch something I could never have
spotted with my eyes. It was a tiny screw, the kind used by jewelers and
watchmakers, half buried in the Berber mesh. I extracted it with my
fingernails, examined its copperish color, and dropped it into the casing of
the pen I always carry. There was a collection of them in there be cause my own
glasses are always falling apart and I need spares.
I got us down
from the hills and into a bar on the beach. The place was right on the sand and
you could look out at the white water, the dark horizon, the clear,
star-shimmering sky. The white water wasn't white at all, but a faint,
luminescent violet.
I'd been drinking, and I'd sobered up the second I parked my car near
Amber's. But Marty had been drinking, and he didn't want to stop. He
ordered a double brandy. I got coffee.
"You first," I said. "How come you
were there last night?"
Marty drank half the snifter in one gulp. "I couldn't stop thinking
about her," he said. "I think maybe I didn't quite get her out of my
system." He looked at me, raising his glass again. He had a Band-Aid on
his thumb. The shaving cut was still there, a lateral scab on the tip of his
Adam's apple. "So I called her and got nothing, just the machine. Then I
drove by just for the hell of it. JoAnn and I aren't real good now. I used to
love her, but I don't know anymore. I'm fuckin' sick of worrying about
us."
It was good that Marty was drunk, I thought. "Fifteen years since
you and Amber," I said.
"Yeah. Twenty for you. I got to admit, I hated you back then,
Monroe."
"I know. But she married you, not me."
"One great year, that was. Then she left."
"That was Amber."
Marty drank down the rest of his brandy and pointed to the waitress for
more. He waited until she brought it. "So last night, I parked down from
her house and sat in my car. There was another car, right in front of the
house, a Porsche convertible. Red."
"Get the plate numbers?"
"Don't need plate numbers. It was Grace's."
Grace, I thought.
Lovely, uncontrollable, unrepentant Grace—her mother's daughter, from her
perfect olive skin to her errant spirit.
"She came out of the house at about eleven-thirty. Got in her car
and drove away."
"Jesus, Marty—then she saw what we saw."
Martin drank again, fumbled for a smoke. I lighted it for him. "She
must have. She was in a hurry. She tossed her head back when she came through
the gate—that way she always did—then walked straight to the car. She stood
there beside for a second, getting out her keys. I don't want to believe Grace
could kill her, but she was there. And
unsettling as a drunk man in his underwear with a gun.
"Where are your clothes, Marty?"
"Under the bed."
"Under the bed."
"Yeah. I was..."
The brief silence swirled with implications so bizarre, could hardly
keep up with them. "Put them on and let's get out of here. I think maybe
we need to talk."
While Marty got dressed, I checked
the shower and tub. No one had used them in the last few hours, unless they'd
wipe them out. Amber's peach-colored towels were dry. The sink was dry, too, no
moisture under the plug. I went back into the bedroom, pulled a few threads
from one tassled end of the new throw rug, and slipped them between two bills
in my wallet. I got up close to the walls and saw the fresh paint covering the
old writing. Amber's suitcases were still near the walk-in. I looked through
them at the unremarkable travel provisions. Where had she been going? Marty,
tucking in his shirt, watched me. Overwhelmed by curiosity, I knelt down and
looked under the bed. I saw nothing but a small, flat rectangular object just a
few inches from my nose. I picked it up by one corner, stood, and took it into
the bathroom. It turned out to be just what it felt like: three pull-apart
plastic ties, like you get with trash or lawn bags. I put them in my wallet,
too. A considerable chill blew through me. Running my hands over the carpet
near where Amber had lain, I found by touch something I could never have
spotted with my eyes. It was a tiny screw, the kind used by jewelers and
watchmakers, half buried in the Berber mesh. I extracted it with my
fingernails, examined its copperish color, and dropped it into the casing of
the pen I always carry. There was a collection of them in there be cause my own
glasses are always falling apart and I need spares.
I got us down
from the hills and into a bar on the beach. The place was right on the sand and
you could look out at the white water, the dark horizon, the clear,
star-shimmering sky. The white water wasn't white at all, but a faint,
luminescent violet.
I'd been drinking, and I'd sobered up the second I parked my car near
Amber's. But Marty had been drinking, and he didn't want to stop. He
ordered a double brandy. I got coffee.
"You first," I said. "How come you
were there last night?"
Marty drank half the snifter in one gulp. "I couldn't stop thinking
about her," he said. "I think maybe I didn't quite get her out of my
system." He looked at me, raising his glass again. He had a Band-Aid on
his thumb. The shaving cut was still there, a lateral scab on the tip of his
Adam's apple. "So I called her and got nothing, just the machine. Then I
drove by just for the hell of it. JoAnn and I aren't real good now. I used to
love her, but I don't know anymore. I'm fuckin' sick of worrying about
us."
It was good that Marty was drunk, I thought. "Fifteen years since
you and Amber," I said.
"Yeah. Twenty for you. I got to admit, I hated you back then,
Monroe."
"I know. But she married you, not me."
"One great year, that was. Then she left."
"That was Amber."
Marty drank down the rest of his brandy and pointed to the waitress for
more. He waited until she brought it. "So last night, I parked down from
her house and sat in my car. There was another car, right in front of the
house, a Porsche convertible. Red."
"Get the plate numbers?"
"Don't need plate numbers. It was Grace's."
Grace, I thought.
Lovely, uncontrollable, unrepentant Grace—her mother's daughter, from her
perfect olive skin to her errant spirit.
"She came out of the house at about eleven-thirty. Got in her car
and drove away."
"Jesus, Marty—then she saw what we saw."
Martin drank again, fumbled for a smoke. I lighted it for him. "She
must have. She was in a hurry. She tossed her head back when she came through
the gate—that way she always did—then walked straight to the car. She stood
there beside for a second, getting out her keys. I don't want to believe Grace
could kill her, but she was there. And
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