Rolling his head back and fourth as she worked the muscles of his neck with her thumbs, Hector said, “Probably our last chance to venture out, Rache. Any special destinations in mind...anything we want or need?”
Over her objections, Hector had purchased for Rachel two, moderately-sized canvases, paints, brushes and an inexpensive easel. So far, she hadn’t touched them.
But then, Hector figured he shouldn’t complain about that as all Rachel’s time had been spent drinking and eating with Hector...or with Hector inside of her.
Rachel squeezed the back of Hector’s neck and slapped his shoulder. “How about if we return to the scene of the crime? Where we met, I mean? Just go there and have some of your mojitos and maybe some big Cuban sandwiches? Maybe some oysters.”
Hector winked. “I favor this plan.”
“Why shouldn’t you?” she said, smiling. “It favors you.”
***
It was quiet in Josies’s joint.
To Hector’s relief, old toothless, one-eyed Tito was nowhere in evidence.
The bartender smiled and nodded as they stepped into the darkened cool of his saloon. Hector pulled out a chair for Rachel and then scooted it in behind her. He strode up and put an elbow on the bar, one foot on the brass rail. “Two mojitos, Josie, and a couple of Cuban sandwiches and some fried plantains. And an order of oysters on the half-shell.”
“Done,” Josie said. He winked and smiled meanly. “Jesus, Hec, that skirt looks like she’s been gang-banged by a Hun regiment. And more, she looks like it agrees with her.”
Hector shrugged, in no mood to make dirty jokes about Rachel. He took that as another disquieting sign that she was weaving her way into his heart and head...getting past all of his guards. Hector said simply, “She’s a real sweet kid.”
He returned to the table with two mojitos and they sipped those, using the rum drinks to wash down the cold, coppery-tasting fresh oysters that Josie had brought them on a bed of crushed ice. Rachel, teasing said, “Those are a start.” She pointed at the oysters. “But maybe you should have some conch chowder, too.”
Hector shook his head, grinning. “You’re talking aphrodisiacs, honey. We don’t need those. Stamina is looking to become more the issue for us.”
She reached across the table and squeezed his hand.
Their Cuban sandwiches arrived, and as they ate, they heard the wind begin to play a bit harder across the roof of the saloon. Newspapers and severed palm fronds whipped by the open doors and the palm trees were beginning to bend in the wind. Across the street, an agile islander had shimmied up one of the palm trees with a machete to cut off the coconuts before the storm could turn them into cannon balls.
Hector heard a familiar, gruff voice. Ernest grinned as he saw Hector and Rachel. Hem spread an arm and stepped aside. Bishop Blair, and his wife, Harriet, smiled and waved to the couple as they ducked into the cool of the saloon.
Bishop was wearing white deck pants, a short-sleeved, floral print shirt — untucked — and a ridiculous-looking white Panama hat. Hector said, “Going native, huh? It looks real good on you, Bishop.” Except for the fact that the little painter was also wearing highly-polished black dress shoes and black socks with his tropical attire.
For her part, Mrs. Bishop wore a light blue print dress covered with erupting volcanoes and lush, exotic flowers. She had on big round black sunglasses and a huge, floppy white straw hat. Ernest was his usual slovenly-dressed self — khaki pants held up with a rope, a bloodstained Polo shirt and sandals. He still looked relatively clean though, his hair slicked back and just the hint of a five o’clock shadow shading his jaw.
Uninvited, he gestured at the two empty chairs at Rachel and Hector’s table, then pulled up a fifth chair for himself. “How were the heads after the other night, kids?”
“Fine,” Hector said. “Yours?”
“Not bad...slept the sleep of the dead. Then wrote a thousand words the next morning. A new story about the island, here.”
Hector joked, “Not something I said, I hope.”
Ernest gave him a sour look and said, “Based on the updated reports, we’re playing it safe and moving Bish and Harriet into our place for the night. Sounds like the worst is going to be over Matecumbe, but us being seventy-five miles miles from the eye, gotta figure things are going to be plenty tough here, too.”
“Plenty,” Hector agreed. He smiled at the little painter and his wife. “Hell of a way to spend your holiday.”
Mr. Bishop shrugged and said, “And Miss Harper, too. But we’re treating it as an experience...not quite an adventure, but something akin to that.”
“Me too,” Rachel said.
Hem called, “Josie, two more of those mojitos for Harp and Lasso, and a daiquiri for me. Bishop?”
The little man smiled and called to the bartender, “Highbalito con Aqua Mineral.”
The bartender stared at Hem, uncomprehending, who replied, “He means a Highball, Josie. Made with whiskey.”
Hem said to Harriet Blair, “And yours?”
“Campari and Gordon’s.” Ernest ordered for her and said to Hector, “So, when do you think?” He gestured outside at the wind-driven debris whipping by.
Hector ordered another serving of oysters and said, “Midnight...or just after. Figure by five or six tonight, we’ll all want to be indoors. The wind and the rain should be fairly intense by then.”
Hem said, “I plan to go out to the base tonight and see the Pilar through.”
“That’s nuts,” Hector said. “You’ve got her lashed down. What happens, happens. You can’t do anything for her, standing by. And if you tried to get out to her, you’d get yourself killed. Hell, you could get yourself killed being out in the storm when it truly gets here...one tree branch...a stray coconut...a piece of planking or some empty bottle discarded by a rummy...maybe a rummy himself, or what’s left of him. You’ve got the safest house on the Key, Hem. Stay there with your wife and boys and guests.”
“All the same,” Ernest said. “Want to sit out with me?”
Hector looked at Rachel and back at Ernest. If she weren’t there, he’d probably be game for it. Just sit out all night in the lashing rain with Hem, getting drunk and trying to justify the craziness of being out there by kidding themselves it was something akin to research. They’d have themselves a high-old time or die trying.
“Hell no,” Hector said. “I mean to be warm and dry and tight.” He paused then said, “What about that critic friend of Pauline’s, Quentin? You throwing him a lifeline, too, Hem?”
“You mean Wind? Christ no,” Hem said. He accepted his daiquiri and drained it by half at a pull. “Wind can go down with the goddamned Concha if the world turns that way. That said, the son of a bitch is supposed to be joining us in a few minutes.” Hem drank some more of his frozen drink and then said, “Sorry, Lasso.”
“It happens.” Hector lit a cigarette and said, “Bishop, I’ve been looking over Le Minotaure some more. What exactly is it with the bulls...the Minotaur thing? What’s the significance to you surrealists?”
Bishop pulled out one of his own cigarettes and then fastened it to the end of a long, black cigarette holder. Hector lit the little man’s cigarette with his Zippo and then lit another for Rachel. Hem, a nonsmoker, scooted his chair around a little closer to Harriet, who also wasn’t smoking.
“Partly, I think it’s just a preoccupation of our times, driven in no small part by this man, here.” Bishop gestured at Hem. “First with The Sun Also Rises, and now with Death in the Afternoon. Hem has made us all fascinated with the myth and ritual of the bullfight. And many of us in the surrealist movement are Spainophiles and aficionados in our own rights. But it is also the myth of the Minotaur that fascinates us and made us choose the Minotaur to serve as our kind of surrealist emblem.”
Hector said, “I’m just an old boy from Southern Texas. My Greek mythology is, well, it ain’t great. I mean, I know it involves something about a maze, or something, and some
fella going into to kill the half-human, half-bull who lived at the center, but...” He shrugged. “But that’s as far as I go.”
Bishop said, “Harriet here is quite an avid folklorist. You tell Hector, dear.”
She smiled and blushed, her gaze darting around the table. It was apparent the little woman was intimidated by her story-teller company, but she pressed ahead:
“The story goes that Poseidon, the sea god, gifted the king of Crete — Minos — with a white bull. Minos was supposed to sacrifice the white bull, and when he didn’t, Poseidon retaliated by making the king’s wife, Pasiphaë, fall in love with and actually couple with the bull. Their offspring was a hideous creature, the Minotaur, a giant human hybrid with a bull’s head. Minos then hired Daedalus to construct the labyrinth to contain the Minotaur. Once a decade, Minos sent seven men into the labyrinth to their deaths — and to be food for the beast inside. Finally, a hero, Theseus, volunteered to be one of the seven sent to their deaths. Theseus was in love with Minos’ daughter, Ariadne. He planned to kill the Minotaur. Ariadne provided Theseus with a long spool of thread, so that after he had killed the monster, Theseus could follow the thread back out of the labyrinth.”
Hector blew a smoke ring and said, “Things went to plan, and then this Greek boy and the king’s daughter, Ariadne, they lived happily ever after?”
“Oh no,” Harriet Blair said, shaking her head. “Theseus abandoned Ariadne soon after. He was off on his next adventure.”
“In that, it sounds like one of my books,” Hector said. “But I see now — the myth, I mean. It’s a psychological minefield.”
Hector did a double-take. He suddenly realized Quentin Windly was sitting beside him. He hadn’t heard the critic arrive.
Hector shook hands with the critic — at least the bastard had a firm grip. Hector signaled to Josie and asked, “What’s yours Quentin?”
“Planter’s Punch,” Quentin called to the barkeep.
Hector nodded slowly. “Exotic sounding. You may have to give old Josie instructions on making that brew.”
Quentin winked and said, “So, you all were talking a lot of bull.”
Hector let that one pass. “Minotaur stuff, yep. You into bulls, Q?”
The critic smiled and helped himself to an oyster. Swallowing, he said, “As it happens, I’m a recent convert. Been reading Hem’s book and caught the fever. Soon as the weather clears, I’m headed across the Gulf. Going to start with the Mexican bullfights. Then, once I’m grounded, I’ll move onto Spain. Think I’m going to spend a couple of years working as a bullfight reviewer...gather material for my own book on the bullfight.”
Hector glanced across the table at Ernest. Hem looked vaguely nauseous...this twisted smile of derision on his face. But it was early yet, and Hem’s alcohol consumption relatively light, so he was, so far, able to hold his tongue.
Bishop Blair, indignant, said, “Surely that book’s been written. Death in the Afternoon is the final word, I think.”
Rachel said, “You’re a bullfighting enthusiast, Mr. Blair?”
“For many many decades now. Sometimes, when there’s a particularly fine young fighter, Harriet and me will follow the circuit. But really, Quentin, what else is there to say after Hem’s book?”
Quentin accepted his drink and sipped at it through the large paper straw Josie had provided, perhaps mockingly. The critic said, “Ernest had a hidden agenda. That book of his is as much about the craft of writing as it is about the bullfight. He used the matador as metaphor for the writer. Used the rituals of the bullfight as an excuse to explore his own beliefs about writing. And he used it to settle literary scores.”
Hector was toying with scooting a bit away from the critic, not certain whether Hem would hurl something across the table, or maybe just flip the table aside to get his hands around the critic’s throat.
But Hem was struggling to remain on best behavior, probably because the critic was one of Pauline’s friends. Hem said, “You go to Mexico, Wind. Go see what passes for a bullfight there. Then, Wind, you go on to Spain. I’ll give you some names of bullfighters who’ll show you the ropes. Give you the insider’s view. Sidney Franklin and the like. You’ll love ’em Wind.”
Hector had to smile. Franklin was light in the loafers — one of an increasing number of maricón matadors de toros.
“But you should get your ass moving now,” Hem said. “September is the month of the great feria. Get out of here in the next few days, and you might still make the subscription season in Madrid...in Jerez de la Frontera, Castuera and Tomelloso.”
Quentin said, “Thanks, Hem — for the letters of introduction. That would be swell of you. And goddamn sporting.”
Hem winked and raised his glass. “Anything for a fellow writer, Wind.”
Surely Quentin couldn’t have missed that sarcasm. But he just smiled and sipped his planter’s punch. Impulsively, Hector said, “Q, you been to Miami lately? Must have passed through on your way down here...”
“I did,” the critic said, smacking his lips. “But I didn’t really stop for more than some fuel and a drink in a Cuban-run bar there that I favor.”
“South Beach?”
“Yeah.”
“I may know just the place,” Hector said. “Was reading the Miami papers this morning. Authorities there are investigating a death that occurred a few days ago. A woman’s naked torso was found on a South Beach park bench — posed, you might say.”
“Like the woman here,” Harriet Blair said softly.
“Yes, but worse,” Hector said. “This would have taken some real effort and some muscle. The woman’s head and arms were missing. Her legs cut off high at the thigh. And her torso was cut apart in the middle and then put back together, though artistically askew...going for the effect, you might say.”
“I just can’t believe this is happening,” Bishop Blair said, wringing his hands.
Quentin said, “If you’re trying to insinuate something, Lassiter...”
“I’m just inquiring, Quentin. You hear anything about it while you were there? The papers, necessarily, are a bit vague. I crave more of the true gen.”
“Looking for more source material for your potboilers, Lassiter, is that it?” Quentin drained his drink. “Word’s out on you, Lassiter — ‘the man who lives what he writes and writes what he lives.’ Shit. How long until Rachel here ends up between the covers — of your books, I mean — as one of your femme fatales or luckless roundheels victims?”
Hector couldn’t check himself. He stomped down on the critic’s foot, then, as Quentin howled, Hector got a handful of Quentin’s blond hair and drove the man’s face down against the table, making cocktail glasses jump. Still clinging to a handful of hair, Hector lifted the critic’s face up off the table and tipped his head back. Blood was streaming from Quentin’s nose.
Hem said, unperturbed, “Wind, in the bullfight game, they call a move like that tapando la cara con la muleta. You’ll want to squeeze the bridge of your nose, Wind — to staunch that bleeding, I mean.”
Hector was braced for a counter-attack, but the critic was wadding up a napkin to his face. Quentin stood up quickly, turning over his own chair. “You’re going to fucking regret that, Lassiter!” Quentin was backing out of the bar, one hand pressed to his nose, the other pointing at Hector.
Nodding — ashamed to look at the Blairs or at Rachel — Hector sipped his half-spilled mojito and said, “I already do.”
Hem, grinning broadly, said, “Set ’em up for everyone, and pour one for yourself, Josie.” Hem toasted Quentin’s back with his daiquiri. “So, it’s gone with the Wind!”
———————————
From official weather advisories:
(Monday, September 2)
Advisory 10:00 p.m. (Key West temperature = 81, direction = NW, velocity = 34mph.) Northeast storm extended north of Sarasota to Carabelle Florida and hurricane warnings north of Everglades to Punta Gorda tropical disturbance of full hurricane
intensity but rather small diameter central 8:00 p.m. near Matecumbe Key moving northwestward accompanied by shifting gales and hurricane winds near center. Northeast storm warnings are now displayed from Titusville to Carrabelle and hurricane warnings from West Palm Beach to Punta Gorda. NAR 10:00 p.m.
———————————
“If there is a special Hell for writers it should be in the forced contemplation of their own works.”— John Dos Passos
STORM SURGE
11
“Just forget about it, Hector. It’s over and you can’t undo it. Besides, Quentin didn’t even try to swing back.”
Hector stroked Rachel’s breasts, his fingertips wrinkled and slippery with the bath water. “He’s not the kind to strike back directly,” he said. “He’s a critic. They don’t fancy face-to-face confrontations. He’ll more likely avenge himself in print.”
Tipping her head back to search his eyes, Rachel said, “You really think he might be the one who’s killing these women? Quentin seemed to think you suspect him.”
“I’m not sure that I really do,” Hector said. “Though I think I could mount a good enough circumstantial case against the bastard. Hell, he’s a critic...nothing’s beneath him. Bishop Blair, too, is certainly an odd duck and a logical enough character to have committed these crimes...if he weren’t so frail.”
“Character...” Rachel murmured. “Interesting word choice.”
The wind was tearing along the roof now, and the palm trees surrounding Hector’s house groaned and creaked in the wind. The rain lashed the windows and the electricity was flickering with the wind gusts. Rachel shivered against him. The rain pounded the tin roof, sounding almost like hail.
Hector had already set out and lit several candles in anticipation of a blackout. He said, “We should probably get out of this tub and get some clothes on.”
Toros & Torsos (The Hector Lassiter Series) Page 8