“What?”
“I was at the Met looking at Corridor in the Asylum, and I reached out and touched it with my finger.”
“Isn’t it behind glass?
“No.”
“Are you allowed to?”
“No…but I had to. I don’t know what came over me. I feel completely awful about it. It was unprofessional and disrespectful.”
“But you’ll never forget it, will you?”
“Never.” She told me about how Van Gogh had lost his mind in Arles, hanging out with Gauguin. That’s when he cut his earlobe off. Then he committed himself to an asylum in Saint Rémy, where he painted Corridor to show his brother the hall where he lived. “I just couldn’t help touching it. He made me do it.”
“Ah, the power of Van Gogh.”
“You’ve no idea. So can I ask you something personal?”
“Okay.” I took a sip of beer, preparing myself.
“How’d your father die? Is that okay to ask?”
I thought about it. “Yeah, it is. He was murdered.”
She didn’t say she was sorry, which I appreciated. (Why do people do that? Did they have something to do with it? Did they shoot him?) And she did not say, You don’t have to talk about it. I’d been hearing that one, too—all my life. You know what? I know I don’t have to talk about it. The truth is, I rarely do. But it was time I started letting Liz into my life.
“I was eighteen,” I continued. “About to graduate. I’d just accepted a scholarship to play soccer at UVA. He took me to see Michael Brecker at Blues Alley in Georgetown to celebrate. He’d been dragging me to those shows for years, and I went more for him than me.” I sighed. “There was something about that night, though. The tone of Brecker’s sax and the registers he used and…the soul. The way Jeff ‘Tain’ Watts and James Genus locked in, and then Calderazzo, the pianist. They played so far back on the beat I nearly fell out of my chair. I fell in love with jazz that night. But it ended up being the worst night of my life.” Liz took my hand.
“After the show, we were walking back up toward M Street in the snow. A man stepped out from behind a trash bin with a gun. His name was Shawn Philips. He was high out of his mind. He asked for money and we both handed over our wallets. Then he asked for my dad’s watch.” I lifted up and turned my wrist to show her my Dad’s IWC. “This is it.”
“It’s gorgeous,” Liz whispered.
I half-smiled. “My dad started to unclasp it. Said he’d be happy to. Then the man fired into his stomach. One shot killed him.”
Liz squeezed my hand.
“They found the man an hour later. He didn’t remember doing it. He’s doing life in Virginia now.” I paused, waiting for a response from Liz. But before she could say anything, a bearded man with no shoes or shirt came running off the dock towards us.
“Hey! That your Key West out there?”
“Sure is.”
“She’s floatin’ down the river.”
“What? You’re kidding me.”
“No, sir.”
I jumped up and ran past him and across the wooden planks to where I had left the Tate’s boat tied up. She was gone. Someone had cut both lines. A foot-long piece of rope hung from each cleat. I looked out across the Stono River. The boat was floating fifty yards off, running with the current, about to pass under the John’s Island Bridge. The longer ends of the lines drifted behind her.
Liz and the shoeless man caught up. “Is that her?” he asked.
“Yep,” I said. “Did you see anyone around her?”
“Nope, I sure didn’t. You wanna ride out there?”
“I’d appreciate it.” He ran me over to the boat on his little Carolina Skiff. I hopped on board and thanked my new friend and motored back to where I had originally tied up.
Liz was waiting. “What do you think happened? Who would do this?”
I tossed her the bow line. “Maybe someone didn’t like the fact that I’ve taken you off the market.”
“Or maybe someone actually took your financial advice.”
“Ouch.”
She re-cleated the line. “Anyway, that’s kind of brazen of you to think you’ve taken me off the market.”
“Haven’t I?”
She put her hands around my neck, drew me close, and gave me a long, soft kiss that I knew would stay with me during the lonely nights in Savannah.
“You’re getting closer,” she said. “I wouldn’t give up now.” I’m not one hundred percent sure, but I think the saltwater below us began to boil.
We went back to the restaurant and finished our meal, searching the whole time for someone’s guilty eyes peeking around a corner. We were back on board thirty minutes later, zipping across the water. “Will you stay with me tonight?” I asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“I don’t think you should drive after drinking.”
“Right. I’m sure my safety on the road is exactly what prompted your invitation.”
When we got back, she asked me to play for her. We went upstairs to my bedroom and I took the banjo from its case and started to strum an open G. The low D sounded slightly flat. I turned the peg and strummed again. There it was.
I’d heard Béla Fleck do a tune one time, I think it was “John Henry,” and the whole time he kept the bass line going on the third and fourth string. He got that bass line going and then played the melody over it. It sounded like two banjos. I stole the idea and worked out the Beatles tune, “I’ve Got a Feeling.” It had been a while, but as I started to roll, the music came out with ease.
She clapped as I finished. “I’m gonna call MUSC in the morning. You have to play for the kids.” I told her I’d love to, and she asked for another tune.
I thought of one that Béla’s teacher, Tony Trischka, wrote. The modal melody sounded particularly good on my banjo, especially if I kept my right hand closer to the neck, pulling out a more hollow sound. I could have played for Liz all night.
But as I was picking the last note, Liz approached me. She took the banjo from my hands and gently set it back in its case. Her eyes full of desire, she straddled me. Finally, it was happening. Her dress rode up, exposing soft flesh, which teased my skin. She brought my lips to hers and ran her tongue along them until I opened my mouth to obey. Her tongue glided in and out, exploring and caressing the inside of my mouth. The penetration made me grow hard and I felt myself pressing against my shorts.
I slid the spaghetti straps off her shoulders and reached for the zipper of her yellow dress. The top fell forward, and I touched her tan-lined breasts. I grazed my fingers across her dark nipples, feeling them harden with excitement. I would’ve been happy not to see or touch any other breasts for as long as I lived. Our breath deepened in unison. Her lips came up to my ear and she licked the inside of the lobe before whispering, “Oh, T.A.”
“How am I so lucky to be here right now? I’m dreaming.”
Ravaged and hungry for love, I lifted her up and carried her to the bed. Cradling her in my arms, we collapsed, and I stretched myself on top of her. Indulging in all of my senses, I explored every inch of her body. I was intoxicated, drunk on every part of her.
She pulled off my shirt, and the skin of our upper torsos touched for the first time. I took the waist of her dress and started to tug. I could see the soft pink lace of her panties and a clench of pure desire gripped me.
She put a hand below her waist, stopping my progress. “We don’t need to rush.” She ran her fingers through my hair. “We’ll always wish we could recapture these moments.”
“You’re right.” I knew exactly what she meant. I willed myself to calm down. But I couldn’t help saying, “So we’ll wait until the morning. Good idea.”
She gave me the evil teacher eye, like I’d just tried to make a bad joke in class. “You just bought yourself another month of wishing my dress would come off.”
“What! A lot can happen in a month. Hurricanes. Heart attacks. I could even get stuck at sea.”
“A month? I feel like you’re putting me in jail.”
“Well, maybe you’ll get out early for good behavior.”
“You mean get in?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, you won’t get off until I do.”
She hit me in the head with a pillow. “You’re ridiculous. Will you please give me a ride home?”
“You’re being serious?”
“Of course.”
“As long as you will note my objection.”
“Objection noted.”
12
I was sitting at my kitchen table eating some poached eggs and toast, scanning an article in the morning’s paper on the Redskins’ new coach. Something about looking to the future…that it wasn’t quite our time yet. I live for Redskins football, and it eats me up to read about the promises of a young team. I want to read about the present. About a trip to the Super Bowl in February. As I was about to start ripping the paper into a million pieces, my cell phone rang.
“Jack wants to meet you,” Kado said.
I punched a fist in the air. “Well done.”
“Jesus, I thought I was going to blow it.”
“You’re a little shaken up. You did fine. The worst is over.”
“I hope so. Jack’s no fool. He asked all kinds of questions. Wants to meet you before you touch his coke to make sure you’re legit.”
“I don’t blame him. When does he wanna get together?”
“A couple days. He said he would line up something and give me a call.”
“You’re doing a good thing. You’ll be a hell of a CI.”
“A CI?” he asked.
“Confidential Informant. You’re CI 543 in the books, and you’re part of my team. Trust in that. I have your back now. I will count on you and trust you with my life. You can do the same.”
“He finds out, he’ll kill us both, Agent Reddick. I promise you that.”
“If you don’t tell him, he’ll never know. And Kado,” I said. “My name’s Travis.”
I dialed Chester to tell him the good news and let him know I wouldn’t be in until after lunch. Before my work ethic is judged, it should be said that agents don’t work banker’s hours. I might go in at lunch one day, but you can bet I’m working late. Crime doesn’t follow a schedule. Besides, Liz was coming back over to take a run with me.
A lawnmower cranked up outside. Assuming it was Beau Tate, I went to say hello. The humidity hung in the air like molasses. He cut the engine, and we met where his grass abutted a grouping of shrubbery in my yard. His shirt was soaked.
“I don’t know why you don’t pay somebody to do your yard.”
“The day I stop cutting the grass is the day Cindy’ll try to move us to one of the those retirement communities. Make me play bingo. Hell, I like doing it.”
“I’d rather have my front teeth pulled out with pliers,” I said.
“Twenty years from now, it’ll be what you do.”
We were interrupted by an approaching car. It was Liz pulling into my driveway in her Mustang.
“Uh-oh,” said Beau. “This one getting serious?”
“We’re having a good time.”
We both watched as she crossed my yard. She was dressed in yoga pants and a running bra.
“Good God, almighty,” Beau said. “Jesus criminy, shepherd of Judah. My pacemaker’s gonna burst out of my chest.”
I laughed but I didn’t have any words. Had he forgotten that I’d been engaged to his daughter less than a year ago?
“Hi, I’m Liz,” she said, offering her hand.
Beau raised his in the air. “I’m all sweaty, sweetheart, but the pleasure is mine.”
“Guess what T.A.’s doing tonight?” she said, like I wasn’t there.
“What’s that?”
“Playing banjo at the Children’s Hospital.”
“Oh, am I?” I replied.
She put her arm around me. “Seven o’clock. They can’t wait.”
“Me, neither.” Did I mention my issue with ankle-biters? Still, I appreciate someone who does what they say they are going to do. Liz had said she was going to call the hospital, and I bet it was the first thing she’d done this morning.
Beau interrupted. “Isn’t that Stephanie pulling up?”
I turned so quickly my head nearly spun off.
There she was, pulling into my driveway in her Honda. This was getting absurd—like restraining-order absurd. She marched over, her lips tightly pressed together, and I hesitantly introduced her.
“Be careful with this one,” Stephanie said to Liz, pointing her finger at me. “He doesn’t know what he wants.”
“Oh, boy,” Beau said. “I’ve gotta get this grass done. You folks have a nice day.” He hopped back on his lawnmower and escaped into the backyard.
“Liz,” I said, “can you please give us a few minutes?”
“Sure. It was good meeting you, Stephanie.”
“And it was great meeting you, too,” Stephanie replied. She could not have been more insincere.
Once I saw that Liz was safely in the house, I turned to Stephanie and demanded, “Why are you here?”
“I need to talk to you,” she pleaded, her eyes filling with tears. “What did I do wrong? Why don’t you want to be with me anymore?” A tear slid down her face. “Were you seeing her while we were together?”
“You and I were never ‘together.’ We went out once.”
“What’s so great about her?”
Beau made a pass on his mower, and we moved further into my yard.
“Look, Stephanie,” I said, crossing my arms, “you need to get a hold of yourself. Don’t make me—”
“Don’t you dare threaten me! We can both play that game. Does Liz know you’re a DEA agent?” It was hard to believe the mind behind those dimples was so sinister.
“Leave it alone.”
Out of nowhere, she swung at me. I couldn’t believe it! She was resorting to brute force.
I caught her fist with my hand. “Stephanie,” I snapped, “what has gotten in to you?” She swung again. I caught that hand, too, and twisted both arms behind her back. I stood behind her and held her arms down as she struggled to get free.
“You gotta get a hold of yourself,” I demanded. I held her until she stopped fighting me. “Are you done? Can I let go of you?”
She nodded. I let go and she turned around. She began to cry. “It hurts so badly. I don’t know what to do.” She cried harder. I reluctantly let her put her arms around me.
“You have to move on,” I whispered.
“You’re going to come back to me, and it’s gonna be too late. I’ve got plenty of men who would love to be in your position.”
“I’m sure, and I think it would be a good idea if you explored those options.”
She let go of me. She didn’t like that. Beau shut off the engine, and the sudden silence overwhelmed us.
Suddenly, Stephanie surprised me with a knee to the midsection. A searing pain ran through me. I bent over and tried to yell, but couldn’t. Damn, it hurt. I prayed Liz wasn’t watching from a window.
“Don’t patronize me!” she said, stepping away. “This isn’t over.”
“It sure is!”
“Or what?”
“Look, I’m not threatening you, Stephanie.”
“This is so far from being over,” she replied. “You have no idea what I know.”
She strutted back toward her car and got in without another word. She sped off, spinning her wheels as she tore out of the driveway.
I stood there for a moment, thinking about her last comment. You have no idea what I know.
I realized I had no idea what she meant.
13
You can’t really understand Charleston unless you embrace its history, and I’d been doing my best to pick up on the more interesting bits since I’d moved here. Most of them came from Beau. The peninsula had many great stories
to tell and you could walk through time without even knowing it. Today, I had a meeting on Broad Street. In May of 1791, President George Washington had marched up Broad Street past thousands of South Carolinians who lined the sidewalks and hung out of windows cheering their beloved leader. Dodging a horse-drawn carriage full of tourists as I crossed the street, I met Ches and Anthony Baroni, the surveillance expert, for our 1 p.m. meeting with AUSA Cannon.
Anthony Baroni hailed from Brooklyn and burned through a couple packs of Merits a day. And he had the teeth and voice and alligator skin to prove it. He was one of the guys who’d been giving me a hard time ever since I’d walked into his territory. Now, the tables were turned. He had to do what I said.
The three of us wandered into the courthouse. The man up front immediately led us into AUSA Cannon’s office. Cannon came around his grandiose Cypress desk to greet us. He wore a tailor-made gray suit and expensive shoes. He was the man who would lead the prosecution against Jack Riley and any others we hauled in.
We shook hands, and he resumed his position behind the desk as we each took a seat opposite. He noticed me looking at a picture of him standing next to the bridge on the eighteenth green of St. Andrews in Scotland and asked, “You play, Agent Reddick?”
“I used to. Quit a little while back, right after a round in the wind at Wild Dunes. I left my clubs with the cart attendant.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
He tossed a hand up into the air. “I guess that course will do it to you. I try to play Patriot’s once a week. It’s a little easier to negotiate. You should pick it up again. Get some lessons. When you get my age, a round under eighty is better than a night with a hooker in Bangkok. Shot a seventy-six that day in Scotland.” He tilted his head down and raised his eyebrows. “Damn wind was blowing people over, and I still shot seventy-six.”
I nodded my head, trying to look impressed.
He picked up an unlit cigar and stuck it between his teeth. “I understand we’re in,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I believe we are. He wants to meet me.”
“That’s good to hear. I like the list of players. I know Jack’s father. It’s going to break his heart. And Tela Davies. Who-boy, I’d like to drive my cattle into her corral.”
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