King Tide

by A. J. Stewart

  “And the other days are hurricanes.”

  “You’re a pretty cheery guy, you know that?”

  He let out a little guffaw, and then caught himself.

  “Let me ask you something. Did you play tennis to become famous?”

  “No.”

  “To earn lots of money?”

  “I’d have paid to play.”

  “Me too, with baseball. I loved it. So what don’t you get now that you would have gotten if you were on the tour? And remember, you said money and fame weren’t that important.”

  “Respect.” He glanced over his shoulder. I wasn’t sure at whom.

  “I’ve known a few guys in the major league and the NFL. NBA, too. Guys who wanted respect. Some gave their money away to buy it. Some ended up sitting around at Thanksgiving with just their manager to crack a wishbone with.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Why did you come this weekend?”

  “My friends are getting married.”

  “But you weren’t that keen to stay.”

  “Um, have you noticed the hurricane?”

  “I have. I also noticed that your former agent—sorry, sports management consultant—was chatting to you before we tried to get off the island.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t care about that.”

  “I think you do. I think it’s deep in your craw that she took you on as a client until a better option came along, and I think you’re still trying to get her respect. ”

  “They don’t care about you, man. They’ll tell you anything. They love you forever when you’re hot, and they forget you ever existed when you’re not.”

  “Like baseball GMs. But you know what? You’re right. They move on. It don’t make it right and it don’t make it nice. But it’s life, kid. And the only one who gets hurt by you drowning yourself in your pretzels is you.”

  “Pretzels? What are you talking about? This is Marlborough sauvignon blanc.”

  “It’s a song. Neil Diamond.”

  “Who?”

  Now I was losing the will to live, so I took another tack.

  “So you went to Case Academy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “If you could have gone to school and played baseball six hours a day, would you have liked it?”

  “That would have been heaven, or maybe even better.”

  “Exactly. It was better. It was hard, don’t get me wrong. We didn’t just mess around. We trained hard, we played hard. But I loved it.”

  “What about Anton?”

  “Anton? He loved it, too. He doesn’t like to show it, he’s Mr. Cool. Like nothing’s hard work at all. But it’s a front. He loves playing and he works hard. I know it’s driving him crazy with his ranking right now.”

  “What about his ranking?”

  “It’s going backward. He broke into the top ten last year. Now he’s at thirty-six.”

  “Why? ”

  Sam shrugged. “Who knows. I know he still works hard, and he’s still got the shots. Maybe the wedding is on his mind. I don’t know.”

  “I bet his agent isn’t happy about that.”

  “Of course not. That’s why she’s here. Looking for an upgrade.”

  “Upgrade? To what?”

  “Anton’s going backward, Shania’s a shot at number one. Who do you think?”

  “Her dad represents her, is that right?”

  He nodded.

  “That gonna change?”

  “No. He watches her like a hawk. Carly would need something pretty good to get in there.”

  “But no harm in trying.”

  “That depends on your point of view.” He took a long swill of his wine.

  I gave him a minute. I had no drink in front of me, and I found it disconcerting to be sitting at a bar without one. It would never happen at Longboard Kelly’s. Muriel took her bar custodial duties very seriously. And Mick would give her the dagger stare if he ever found Ron and me with an empty glass. Product turnover was everything.

  “When did you decide to go professional instead of going to college?”

  Sam shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “I heard you guys won a big junior team tournament when you were at Case.”

  “Yeah. That was pretty much the end.”

  “The end?”

  “We all went our own ways after that win.”

  “Good times,” I said .

  Sam smiled the way people do when remembering a kidney stone they had passed.

  “You ever think what happens if you don’t win that tournament?” I asked.

  “Wouldn’t have changed a thing for me. I was already into qualifying for Wimbledon.”

  “Maybe you go to college instead.”

  “Maybe. I doubt it. I just wanted to play tennis.”

  “What about Anton or Shania?”

  “It was just one junior tournament. I don’t think anyone’s career revolved around it.”

  “What if you got disqualified?”

  He frowned at me. “Why would we get disqualified?”

  “Any number of reasons. Let’s say for argument’s sake you failed a drug test.”

  “Listen, mister. I don’t know what you’re getting at but I’ve never taken drugs in my life. And I don’t need you spreading that kind of trash talk around. I might not play anymore, but I still have a reputation that’s worth something.”

  “Okay, it’s cool. Let’s say it wasn’t you, specifically. Let’s assume one of your teammates.”

  “Who?”

  “Hypothetically. Anyone.”

  “They’d do time, I guess.”

  “But they’d come back?”

  “Maybe. Could do. Guys have served a couple years and come back.”

  “Girls?”

  “You mean Shania? What do you think you know? She’s clean, I guarantee it. ”

  “I’m not saying she’s not. But if one in the team went down, you’d all get disqualified, wouldn’t you? Tainted with the same brush.”

  “Suppose. It would have hurt her.”

  “Why her?”

  “It’s harder for the women. Particularly then, with us just starting out. Expectations are higher for the women. Especially with the sponsors.”

  “How so?”

  “You know. The sponsors expect them to be pure. Being a bad girl is cool and all, but it doesn’t get you on a cereal box.”

  “So it would hurt Shania most of all.”

  “Probably. But this is hypothetical, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Is this something to do with Paul?”

  “No. Paul just dropped something heavy on himself.”

  Sam looked at me like he wasn’t buying it. Then Andrew Neville appeared between us.

  “Gentleman, I have advised our guests that Chef will be serving late supper at 10 p.m. If you would like to take a rest in your room we will provide a wake-up call, or you may relax here in the lounge.”

  He didn’t wait for questions, dashing away toward the kitchen. I swung around on my stool and watched the room. Ron offered me a nod as he and Cassandra headed out. Leon stood and wandered out, leaving Anton by himself with a drink. Shania had moved to sit with Deshawn, which made me think about Cassandra’s summation of them.

  I tossed around my options. I could stay at the bar. That wasn’t going to happen without a beverage in my hand. And drinking too much in a hurricane was certainly a viable plan. I knew guys who had woken up with raging hangovers to find themselves under a mattress and the mattress under a collapsed roof, with no memory of the storm that raged through. But it really wasn’t a percentage play.

  I had woken that morning, sandbagged and prepped Longboard Kelly’s for a battering, sandbagged my own house and then taken a dip in a raging torrent to fish a young woman out of the Intracoastal. I figured I could do with a power nap.

  I made to say bye to Sam but he had resumed staring at his wine. He was i
n no danger of drinking too much at that pace, so I left him to his demons and headed for the fire stairs.

  Chapter Eighteen

  There are few things in life as empty as an empty hotel room. Having concertina storm shutters pulled across the windows didn’t help any. Neither did the howling wind that sounded like a freight train that ran on and on.

  I took off my linen jacket and trousers and wandered into the bathroom to splash some water on my face. The lighting was not flattering. That was my theory and I was sticking to it. I toweled off and wandered back into the room. It was small but sumptuously appointed. The kind of place wealthy people came to escape the daily grind, the humdrum of life. To build memories, as the ads liked the say. As if the important moments, the ones that really stuck with you, only happened on a package vacation.

  I flopped down on the bed. The sound of the driving wind was putting me on edge, roiling around in my soul, disturbing my chi. Or something like that. I missed Danielle. I had never had someone before that could truly be called part of me. But she was. Of that I had no doubt. And when part of you is missing it leaves one hell of a hole. Like the veteran who scratches a leg that was lost years ago, the feeling left me restless.

  I took out my phone and found I had no bars. No coverage. No one to talk to but the angels and devils in my mind. And those conversations rarely ended well. I set an alarm on my phone for a half hour. I wanted a nap, not a good night’s sleep. I was a world champion napper. When you play minor league ball, you see a lot of down time. Long bus trips along boring interstates, rain delays in cold locker rooms. I learned to nap anywhere, anytime. I could probably have graduated with a degree in English literature with the time I spent napping, but I found the naps more useful.

  Anything more than thirty minutes sent me into REM sleep, and coming back from that was a long, groggy process. I just needed to recharge my batteries so I could see the night through. The eye of the hurricane was just to the east, between us and the Bahamas, but the hotel was a solid structure so the whole thing was likely to be uneventful until the cleanup began.

  I woke up thirty minutes later to the sound of Sheryl Crow telling me something about Santa Monica Boulevard. I had been there once and traveled a mile in thirty minutes in the back of a super shuttle. Even South Dixie Highway in the middle of snowbird season moved quicker than that.

  I checked my cell phone bars, still none, and washed my face again. My ears felt plugged, like a scuba diver, so I held my nose and blew and popped them. The wind still howled.

  I dressed and wandered down to the bar. The check-in desk was vacant but the bar was not. Anton was perched on a stool, sitting over a brandy. He liked the hard stuff and could hold his liquor. He didn’t seem to have left at all. His hair looked wet, but it always seemed to look that way so I wondered if he wore some kind of product in it. I took a stool at the other end of the bar. I had no desire for small talk with him. He didn’t acknowledge my presence.

  The door out to the kitchen swung open and Andrew Neville came out. He looked a little more flustered than usual. Not Black Friday shopper flustered, but he was patting down his hair and sighing. He saw me and collected himself in an instant.

  “Mr. Jones, what can I offer you?”

  “Coffee?”

  “Just putting on a fresh pot now.”

  “Did everyone go for a nap?”

  Neville shot a look at Anton. “Not everyone, sir.”

  Neville made a Bunn flask of coffee and then poured the coffee into a silver carafe, which I figured was one step too many. He brought the carafe to the bar and poured some into a delicate vessel that looked like Grandma’s china. The coffee was strong and hot and tasted like the back end of a bus.

  I sat and sipped my brew in the relative silence. The old building groaned. Ron and Cassandra wandered in, looking tired. They hadn’t slept. They weren’t world-class nappers. Not everyone plays professional baseball, or serves in the army.

  “I can live without the sleep, Miami,” said Cassandra, “but the sound of that infernal wind is getting under my skin.”

  I didn’t think she was alone. Emery Taylor and Rosaria the maid came in. They both wore somber faces, as if the atmosphere were affecting their physical being. It was a deep train of thought for so late, and I made a mental note to check the research on that while simultaneously knowing I would do no such thing.

  Emery gave me a smile that might have been a stunner in Manhattan but in Florida looked like a cloudy day. She told Neville that she had called all the rooms but had gotten no responses. Neville suggested a door knock. Emery took off to do that and Rosaria placed cups out for Cassandra and Ron. Ron took coffee, Cassandra hot tea.

  Ronzoni wandered in. His hair was wet like he’d had a shower, or maybe just washed his head like me. He was back in his suit. Somewhere during the course of events Emery had found time to launder it. It looked new, like Ronzoni had just pulled it from the rack. He sat next to me at the bar and Neville poured him a coffee without asking, as if Ronzoni were a regular.

  When Emery returned to the bar she told Neville she had gotten hold of Mr. Maxwell but no one else. Then Leon wandered in. He had wet hair but appeared to have forgotten his comb. He nodded at us but didn’t approach the bar, preferring a club chair. Rosaria offered him coffee.

  “I’m sure our remaining guests will be with us shortly,” Neville said. “I’ll ask Chef Dean to serve supper.”

  Ronzoni said to me, “You were with Venturi before. Did he say he was going to bed?”

  “He was staring at his drink when I left,” I said.

  “Detective,” said Emery. “I spoke to Mr. Venturi when I was at the front desk. Just after Miami went to his room. He was also going for a sleep. I suspect he’s either just waking or was in the shower when I knocked.”

  “Who else is missing?” asked Ronzoni.

  “Just Ms. Pastinak.”

  “She go for a sleep?”

  “I didn’t see her.”

  “Maybe she went for a hot tub,” I said.

  “Why would she do that?” asked Ronzoni.

  “She was tense, said she wanted a massage but I didn’t figure there was anyone in house to do it during a hurricane. So I suggested a hot tub. ”

  “I don’t think so,” said Emery.

  “Have you taken a hot tub?” asked Ronzoni.

  “Not lately,” I said.

  “But you told her to take one?”

  “She was finding solace in the bottom of a cocktail glass, and although I can advocate for that now and again, I didn’t think she was going to end up in a good place. Hot tubs don’t usually leave you waking up in the morning full of regrets.”

  Ronzoni looked at Emery. “You have a hot tub?”

  “We have two,” said Emery. “But I don’t think she took a hot tub.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the hot tubs are outside.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Emery explained that there were two hot tubs. One was outside on the pool deck. The second was in a purpose-built hut on the far side of the pool. But both were accessed via the pool deck, which itself was accessed by the lobby doors, which were locked tight.

  “Or the south emergency exit,” I said. “That’s how Ron and I got back in after putting up the shutters around the gym.”

  Ronzoni shrugged. “No one is going out for a hot tub in this weather.”

  “Not sober,” I said, looking at Emery.

  She got my point. “Perhaps I’ll knock on her door one more time.”

  “Do more than knock.”

  Emery left and Ronzoni and I sipped our coffee. He was right. No one took a hot tub in a hurricane. Except in Florida. Between spring breakers, alcohol and humidity there was no shortage of people stupid enough to do pretty much anything. But I didn’t put Carly Pastinak in that company.

  Emery came back alone.

  “I went into her room. She’s not there. ”

  Ronzoni shifted in his seat. I
knew where his mind was headed. He’d just gotten his suit back all nice and pressed, and he didn’t fancy going outside for no good reason at all.

  “She might have gone for a walk,” he said.

  “Walk where?” I asked him. “Around the gardens?”

  “Maybe she had a nap and is on her way down.”

  “Detective, her bed hasn’t been slept in. It doesn’t appear to have even been laid upon.”

  Ronzoni’s shoulders sagged. He knew he was going to have to go have a look and he knew it was pointless, and he knew he was going to get drenched again. I should have felt sorry for him. But I didn’t.

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s go have a look.” He slipped off his stool and looked at me.

  “What?” I said.

  “You’re coming, hotshot.”

  “This really sounds like police business.”

  “You told her to take a damned hot tub, so you’re coming.”

  I shook my head in vain and slipped off my stool. We walked out into the lobby and headed toward the south end of the building. Emery came out to the lobby with us and then walked in the opposite direction. I wanted to follow her. I was no more keen to get drenched all over again than Ronzoni was.

  We walked across the lobby and down the corridor, and we both glanced at the frosted glass on the gym as we passed. We reached the end of the line at the heavy emergency exit door. We could hear the wind pounding the landscaped palms on the other side.

  “Where’s this hot tub?” asked Ronzoni.

  “I have no idea.”

  “You don’t even know where it is? ”

  “No. Deshawn mentioned it when Ron and I were putting up the shutters in the gym. I mentioned it to Carly. But I haven’t seen it.”

  “Well, I’m not wandering around the grounds looking for it,” he said.

  He had my full agreement on that.

  Emery strode up behind us. “Here,” she said, passing each of us a small plastic packet. Disposable rain ponchos. The kind of lightweight item that one wears at a football game instead of cutting holes in a trash bag.

  “Where are these hot tubs?” asked Ronzoni.