by James Burke
Morley looked up. He was about to walk right up the heels of a lady walking in front of him. He was that lost in his thoughts. Then he became conscious that the heels led up to a pair of beautifully shaped legs and a scenically rounded bottom, the latter shielded from the sun, breeze, and Morley's eyes only by a narrow triangular band of dark material. By this time, Morley had pulled out properly to the left and passed her. She was looking out toward the ocean, and since she made no effort to look at or greet him, Morley just walked on, resuming his cogitation.
He felt he had to have about two weeks more to complete all his arrangements. Earlier than that, or without some of the facts he was still awaiting, he stood too much chance of botching the deal. There was too much at stake to let himself be panicked into any premature motion. He was not making the mistake, again, of underestimating his opposition; on the other hand, any premature move against him on their part risked goofing up their objectives, too. They needed him alive, well, and rational - after they decided that he was their man. Morley wondered what kind of person was running this show for them. He was smart, no doubt about it. And methodical. He moved quickly to the heart of problems. And he was probably highly trusted by his top management. This was a very important and sensitive operation, of that Morley had no doubt, so the boss had to be first team.
The wind started to pick up, so he decided to turn around and walk with it. He'd covered only about a quarter mile when he saw the lady with the lovely legs - it had to be her, there were no others in sight - sitting on a palm trunk that had washed up on the beach. She was looking alternately at a bunch of shells at her side on the log and at the whitecapped surf of late afternoon. The rest of her was a worthy complement to those legs, and when she looked up as he approached he saw the face get better and better as he got closer. She was a very pretty lady, so he figured "what's to lose." He smiled his friendliest neighborly smile and said, "Hi. Gettin' a bit chilly."
She returned his neighborly smile. "Feels great to me."
"You must be from Alaska."
She chuckled. It was musical. Really musical. "Not quite, but you're getting warm. Or should I say cold."
She loosed the throaty chuckle again, and this time Morley joined her. "Minneapolis?"
"Warmer; now don't say St. Paul."
"Hmmm. Lemme see. You've got that 'big city look.' How about Chicago?"
"The young man on the beach wins the box of bonbons on his third try." She turned her smile into an exaggerated "stage" frown. "What's a 'big city look'?"
"Oh, not to worry. It's good. Very good. It's just clothes and hair and grooming. Yo know, all those kinds of things. They do 'em better in the big cities, and their ladies show it."
"I think you made that all up." She glanced down at her bikini. "Especially the part about clothes."
"Scout's honor. Besides I used to be a Chicagoan myself and I can spot the Chicago 'big city look' quicker'n most old men."
She raised her eyebrows in a saucy way that was more effective than any of the vulgar vernacular expressions of disbelief popular these days, but Morley only noticed those huge dark eyes, with laughing lights deep inside, that looked right at him. "Guess I should say 'small world,' but I've always met so many people from Chicago when I'm on vacation; it must be that we all go to the same places whenever we leave home. But you look like a native Floridian. I might say you have that 'big beach' look."
"Okay. Fair is fair. What's the 'big beach' look?"
"Oh, it's just the casual look: tan, windblown, fresh, relaxed-all that."
"Fresh?"
"Yeah. Fresh. Did you really live in Chicago?"
"Well, no. I did live in Evanston, went to school there, but I lived a lot in Chicago."
''I'll bet you did. I won't ask why you left. I can think of a lot of reasons, all good."
"I won't ask why you left in February. Even I can figure that out."
"You're right. Chicago froze to death last week and slipped under the ice into Lake Michigan. I got the last sled out of town."
This time they laughed together again. It was easy and friendly. Morley queried, "Where're you staying?"
"The Rutledge Inn." She turned and pointed, unconsciously giving him a profile that made his pulse pick up a few more numbers. She turned back. "It is getting a little chilly, though it hurts me to say it. Guess I'd better get back." She stood up. Barefoot, she came to a point almost even with his chin. About five six, he thought. She was some pretty lady. Again, what's to lose? "Mind if I walk with you?"
"It's a public beach," she teased. Then the smile came on stronger. "I don't mind at all."
By ten o'clock that night Morley had discovered two items of monumental importance: one, he loved baked stuffed pompano; two, the girl came to just above the tip of his nose with heels on. The first he'd discovered in the Rutledge dining room when he let her order both dinners; the second when they danced to a little combo in the Rutledge lounge.
Her name was Dana - soft a's - Kelly. She worked as a secretary/receptionist for an insurance firm in downtown Chicago and shared an apartment with two other working girls on the near North Side. She was in Florida for two weeks with an other secretary from her office, and they'd picked Singer Island and the Rutledge out of a travel folder. They'd arrived two days before, and Morley had just missed meeting the "roommate," who was having dinner with friends in Palm Beach. Morley thought that the "roommate" might be nonexistent, a "security" invention, but he went along with the gag.
He'd been impressed when they'd arrived back at the Rutledge that afternoon and he'd asked her to have dinner with him; she hadn't hemmed or hawed or been coy. She'd just said she'd like to very much. She had insisted that they have an early night and suggested dining at the Inn, and Morley was glad she had. When he'd offered an after-dinner drink in the lounge, she'd accepted, and then the rhythmic and talented combo had enticed them into dancing.
She was light as a feather. Morley had heard the expression for years, but he'd never really known before what it meant. She was pleased when he mentioned it and explained that she'd worked as a professional dance instructor when she was in college. This brought on some personal talk and he learned she was originally from Ventura, California, northwest of L.A. She had gone to UCLA, but dropped out in her third year to get married. Then she was widowed eighteen months later by a Vietcong mortar shell and left California and its memories to come East. She lived for a while with an aunt in Racine, just up the interstate towards Milwaukee, but Racine was no job heaven, so she'd eventually ended up in Chicago, hoping (delivered with a coy smile) to acquire that "big city look."
Dana liked Chicago and liked her job, but she didn't want to spend her life in that city doing that work; on the other hand, she admitted that she wasn't sure what she did want to do, much less where she wanted to do it. Before there could be any deeper discussion on that subject, she insisted that she'd been monopolizing the conversation. How about him?
Morley complied with an honest but sketchy background, underemphasizing his years of military service and overemphasizing his interest in and acquaintance with the travel business. Shortly after eleven she said she must say good night and asked him to escort her to her room. The roommate wasn't back yet, so she had to use her key. She opened the door, brushed her lips lightly across his cheek, thanked him for a lovely evening, and went inside.
Morley couldn't sleep. He kept seeing that perfect face framed by that casual black hair and lit by those luminous eyes. He kept feeling the soft warmth of her back and hand as they danced and her subtle exotic perfume, which was almost narcotic. But most of all he kept wondering whether she was for real or whether she was syndicate bait. Was she Dana Kelly, Chicago secretary out of Ventura, in Florida on vacation or was she somebody, name unknown, whose only interest was to set him up for a syndicate killer? In just a few hours, she'd awakened in him ideas, desires, and needs that he thought had died forever with Monnie. He hoped to God that somehow she was real but damn i
t, the odds were long. Timing, coincidence of place, availability - the whole schtick reeked of setup. But that's just it: wouldn't they be more subtle? Maybe they relied on the girl's attraction to deaden the victim's reflexes, and maybe they were right. If she couldn't do it, nobody could. He found himself hoping again, almost but not quite praying (he hadn't done that for some three years) that he was wrong. And that was why Morley couldn't sleep: he was too anxious to see if he could prove himself wrong.
In the morning, after a quick visit to the office in Palm Beach and a phone call to Terry to request Chicago and California traces on Dana Kelly, he drove back to the Rutledge and called Dana's room on the house phone. A woman answered, and after finding out who he was, identified herself as Felicia Martin, Dana's roommate. She said Dana was down on the beach.
Morley was annoyed with himself. He felt elated as a schoolboy after his first kiss, elated simply because he'd found that his girlfriend hadn't lied to him on the minor point of the roommate. He wasn't even sure that was why he was elated; he was only sure that he was elated.
Dana was lying on her front on a huge beach towel, reading a book that was propped up on a mound of sand at the tip of the towel. Her bra strap was undone in back for full tanning exposure. Her figure was superb. Every time he looked at her he saw two or three other things he liked. Her skin was smooth, unblemished satin, and there wasn't a line, bulge, curve, or angle that was out of place. The tiny strip of material across her bottom could hide no faults; obviously, there was no need for it to.
He came up behind her. "It is two below zero in Chicago at this moment."
She answered without looking around or even moving. "Liar, I saw the TV news this morning. It was two above."
"I was close."
"Counts only in horseshoes."
"Come on. Haven't you ever watched your friendly, over paid TV weatherman? Close is the name of the game."
"In Chicago it's called hindsight - consists of long explanations of why yesterday's forecast never happened."
"Anyway, it's nice here, you have to admit."
She reached back, snapped her bra strap together, and rolled over, braced on one elbow. Any doubts that her womanly charms were anything but real were dispelled forever, as the motion of her torso tested the scanty bra cups and bikini bottom. She smiled her big smile. "I give up. You must be a frustrated ambulance chaser. Ever consider it?"
"Only as a callow youth. Decided the money was badly outweighed by the hours, which just ain't my bag."
"Hmmm. Speaking of hours, you get fired?"
"No. The boss thinks I'm out drumming up business, trying to entice lovely young ladies into a harem cruise ship down the Nile. Or is it up the Nile?"
"Who cares? Up or down. If it's the Nile I volunteer. Has to top secretarial work.''
"You wouldn't like it. The women bathe in olive oil and the men not at all. I've got a better idea for you."
"If it doesn't involve bathing in olive oil I'll probably agree. What is it?"
"How about lunch and a tour of Palm Beach?"
"Sounds enticing. Sure you haven't been fired?"
"On a day like this, who cares? What about it?"
''I'd love to. Let me change - say, half an hour. Meet you down front. No, better yet, why don't you pick me up at the room and I'll introduce you to my roomie. Okay?"
"Okay."
So started day two. It ended, or more correctly, blended into night two, with a few long embraces at the door of her room, but Felicia was home early so they didn't go inside. Morley was infatuated; he knew it, but he didn't care. It had been so long. Lunch at an exclusive Worth Avenue restaurant, with Roger's phone call paving the way for a super table in the most picturesque corner of the garden area. Then a tour of the unbelievable world of Palm Beach. Dana shared his wonderment that so many people could have so much money, and they played a silly game of guessing how the various owners had prospered. They went down AlA all the way to Pompano, then had dinner on the way back and ended up at the Rutledge again for after-dinner drinks and dancing. When he drove home that night, his mouth still savoring the feel and taste of hers, he was convinced she had to be for real.
The next day was even better. By now, she said, she was certain he was either unemployed or blackmailing his boss. He had explained that he had considerable time off in repayment for some recent European business trips on which he'd worked through weekends, and that, besides, they only worked a half day on Saturday. She had nodded, raising her eyebrows, but he wasn't sure she bought it. They swam and sunned for a while, ate a late lunch, toured up north for miles, and returned at dusk. A little later, still not hungry enough for dinner, they decided to have a stroll on the beach. It was a gorgeous night with the almost-full moon scheduled shortly to rise. First they stopped at the Rutledge, where Morley shed his jacket, shoes, and socks and mixed a pair of drinks while Dana changed into slacks and a cotton pullover. Then on to the beach.
The night was fantastic. The moon was just coming up off the water, huge and bright, bathing the sand and the trees in a pale, silvery glow. There was hardly any breeze, and the whole place seemed unearthly still and quiet. They walked north hand in hand, past the hotels and an outcropping of beach where the sand had ·almost covered what had once been an offshore reef, finally stopping and laying a beach towel on the sand in the shelter of a dune. Then they sat, hips and shoulders touching, looking, fascinated, at the rising moon, the surf, and the night. She turned her fate toward Morley, catching the light on one side. He thought she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. He told her so. She lowered her eyes demurely. ''I'll bet you say that to all the girls on the beach in the Florida moonlight."
"No, I usually just mumble nonsensities."
"Yeah. I'll bet. It is a gorgeous night, Pat. Chicago was never like this."
"Well, not in February anyway."
"I could name a few more months."
"Eleven?"
"Yeah."
"I thought so."
"It really is spectacular. I mean it. Balmy breezes, swaying palms, whispering surf, moon-washed sea-and all the magic of a South Sea island."
"That sounds poetic. You could write travel brochures, as well as pose for them."
"Hmmm. You sure know how to turn a girl's head, Mr. Morley, don't you? Guess I've always been fascinated by tales and pictures of South Sea islands. When some place looks like this, I get all melty. I saw South Pacific five times."
"I know what you mean. I feel the same way. Guess I'd say I'm ape for islands, oceans, boats, and all that stuff. 'Spose that's why I settled here-closest thing to a South Sea island, where you can still afford gasoline, see pro football, and have supermarkets.''
''I'd really love to see one, some day, and I'm not sure I'd miss the gas or the football, or even the supermarkets. I really would."
"Let's do it. Let's go tonight."
"Sure. Give me ten minutes to pack." She giggled at the thought, while Morley filed it away under future reference. They watched the surf and the heavens and talked about life and places and things, but mostly about each other. Dana's maiden name was Hayes; her black hair and brown eyes came from her Italian-American mother. She'd studied languages and international relations at UCLA and had hoped to get into some kind of foreign service with the government, but Raymond Kelly had changed all that. Then, after the telegram that told her she was alone again, she tried going back to school but it didn't work financially or academically, so she came east. Her aunt was still fluent in Italian, so Dana had been able to keep it up - the Foreign Service idea was still in the back of her mind -but the Spanish went down the drain pretty fast. Chicago. Fun at first, but then the routine of work and the cold, cold months got boring, until she felt like screaming. There were times when she would have taken almost any job, as long as it was out of Chicago.
Dana didn't pump or push in any way, but Morley soon found himself talking about personal things he hadn't even thought of for years. They were bo
th intrigued by the many similarities in their backgrounds. South-central California origin; early loss of parents. Her father had died when she was twelve, and although her mother had remarried, it had never been a happy situation for Dana. She admitted that she was partly to blame, having never been able to reconcile herself to the good but colorless automaton who replaced the warm, successful father she'd adored. Then too, both she and Morley had moved to the Midwest, both of their marriages had ended tragically, and both had started that search for an unknown "something" they wanted out of life.
Although Morley had skimmed through the marriage section of his life, he had told her the essentials: how he'd met Monica in Washington shortly after his first military tour in Europe, the whirlwind courtship, the society marriage, the struggle against his rich father-in-law's effort to tie him to a brokerage desk in New York. Monnie had been on his side all the way, and it had become an unreasonably bitter bone of contention between the two men. Then Monnie had been killed in an airplane crash in Europe on the way back to join him for Christmas. They were stationed in Beirut at the time. She'd been visiting her sick mother, and her visit had been prolonged by the old lady's death and funeral; she'd left despite her father's entreaties to stay for Christmas. Of course, the father would never forgive Morley for this final wound.