John D MacDonald - Travis McGee 01 - The Deep Blue Good-By

by The Deep Blue Good-By(L

  And then I'd for sure never get a nickel back.

  And... it would have messed up what you're fixing to do, Trav. It could have messed you into a police thing."

  What is there to do about one like that? I lifted her hand and kissed the roughened knuckles and said, "You are something, Cathy."

  "I feel next door to nothing at all."

  "Some good news anyway. There's no way to find out who the money ever belonged to, and no way to get it back to them anyway."

  "What was hid there?"

  "We'll talk when you get out of here."

  "They won't tell me when. But I was on my feet some today. Hunched up and dizzy, but walked all the way to the john holding onto a lady. So maybe it won't be so long."

  When I said good-by to her she said, "It was nice of you to come to visit me. Thank you very much."

  I talked a long time with Lois that evening, giving her an edited version of my adventures.

  I went to bed. As I dropped off I could still hear her in the shower.

  She came into my sleep and into my bed, awakening me with her mouth on mine, and strangely there was no shock or surprise in it.

  My subconscious had been aware that this would happen. A lady is a very special happening, so scented and delicate and breathless and totally immaculate. She wore a filmy something that tied at the throat and parted readily, presenting the warm length of her, the incredibly smooth texture of her, to my awakening embrace. Her breath was shuddering, and she gave a hundred quick small kisses.

  Her caresses were quick and light, and her body turned and glowed and glided and changed in her luxurious presentation of self, her mouth saying darling and her hair sweet in darkness, a creature in endless movement, using all of herself the way a friendly cat will bump and twine and nudge and purr. I wanted to take her on her basis, readying her as graciously as she had made herself ready, with an unhurried homage to all her parts and purposes, an intimate minuet involving offer and response, demand and delay, until the time when it would all be affirmed and taken and done with what, for want of a better name, must be called a flavor of importance.

  But suddenly it was not going well. She would fall away from sweet frenzy, and then lift herself back up, but to a lesser peak. We were not yet joined. She was trying to hold onto all the wanting, but it kept receding, the waves of it growing smaller, her body becoming less responsive to each touch.

  Finally she sobbed aloud and flung herself away, clenching her body into the foetal curl, posture of hiding, her back to me. I touched her. Her muscles were rigid.

  "Lois, dear."

  "Don't touch me!' 'Please, honey, you just

  "Rotten, rotten, rotten!" she said in a small leathery howling voice, dragging the vowel sounds out.

  I tried to stroke her, Her body was like wood, that great tension which comes with hysteria.

  "Ugly rotten,' she moaned. "You don't know the things, the ugly things. it can't ever be nice again. I let things happen. I did things. I stopped fighting."

  "Give yourself time, Lois."

  ... love... you!" she wailed, protest and lament.

  "You tried too soon."

  "I wanted you."

  "There's time."

  "Not for me, I can't turn my mind off. It will always come back."

  I laced m hands behind my head and y thought about it it was very touching. Such a total preparation. All plucked and perfumed, scrubbed and anointed, all tremulous with the reward for the heroic rescuer. Then, in the darkness, Junior Allen smirked at her and that sense of her own value, which a woman must have, was gone. She had packed and wrapped the gift with greatest care, labeled it with love, but suddenly it was a gift-wrapped flagon of slime. She had tried too soon, but had I tried to turn her away at the first touch, it might have been more traumatic than what had happened. I wondered if shock would be better than soothing.

  "Terribly terribly dramatic, dear Lois."

  "So sad. Forever soiled, stained, lost, hopeless. The corrupted trollop of Candle Key. Gad, what drama?"

  She uncurled herself slowly and cautiously, keeping her distance, furtively tucking the covering up under her chin. 'Don't be a cruel disgusting bastard," she said in a flat voice. "At least try to have some empathy."

  "For whom? A thirty-one-year-old adolescent, for God's sake? Do you think I'm so starved for a woman I take anything I can get?

  Sometimes I get a little foolish or a little depressed, and I do just that, but it leaves a bad taste. The bad taste comes from my being an incurable romantic who thinks the manwoman thing shouldn't be a contest on the rabbit level. The rabbits have us beat. My dear, if I thought you a bundle of corruptions, what feast is that for a romantic? No, dear Lois, you are sweet and clean from top to tippy toe, fresh and wholesome in every part, and pleasantly silly."

  "Damn you!"

  "I didn't tell you one little item, dear. it was Junior Allen who beat up Cathy. In her words, he grappled holt of her neck with one hand and pounded on her face with the other. Until she doesn't seem to have much of a face at the present time. And she didn't turn him in, not because she was scared, but because she thought because I'm trying to help her I might be brought into it somehow and the police might mess me up somehow. I keep stacking that up against your dramatics, and somehow you don't come out too well. Try it yourself and see."

  She was silent for a long time. I could not guess how she would respond, but I knew it was a critical moment, perhaps the moment upon which her whole future was balanced.

  And I despised myself right along with all other amateur psychiatrists, parlor sages, barstool philosophers.

  "But I've been sick!" she said in a teeny, squeaky, ludicrous voice, and after a shocked moment I recognized it as the tag line of that ancient mouse joke, and I knew this girl would be well. My laughter exploded, and in a moment she joined in. Like children, we laughed ourselves into tears. it kept dying away and beginning again, and I was glad to see she did not water it down by trying to repeat it.

  Then she got up, a pale and slender shape in darkness, and found the diaphanous wrap and floated it over her shoulders and was gone in silence, but for the small click of my door latch. Water ran. There was a thread of light under my door. After a long time it went out.

  I thought I knew by then how her mind would work, and I waited. The door made the smallest sound. The timid ghost drifted to me. And it began as before.

  Often she faltered, and I brought her back. A lot of it was gentleness and waiting. And being kind. And telling her of her sweetness. At last there came the reward for patience, her tremendous inhalation broken into six separate fragments, her whole body listening to itself then, finding, being certain, and then taking with hunger.

  Later she lay curled languid against my chest, her heart and breathing slow. "Wasn't too soon," she said, a blurred drone.

  "No, it wasn't."

  "Sweet," she said. 'Ver' sweet." And she nestled down into the sleep of total exhaustion.

  I could have gone to sleep at once if I could have convinced myself that everything was just peachy fine. But I felt I had maneuvered myself into a rather nasty little corner. Where does responsibility stop? Do you buy the cripple a shoeshine box and send it out into the traffic?

  I had the feeling I now owned this sleeping thing. True, it was a splendid specimen, good bones, a true heart and a marvelous pelt. it could cook and adore and it had a talent for making love. Sew it into burlap and roll it in the mud and it would still be, unmistakably, a lady. You could take it anywhere.

  But I wasn't built for owning, nor for anything which lasts. I could mend her spirit, only to go on and break her loving heart. And she would probably think it a poor bargain when the time came.

  All the little gods of irony must whoop and weep and roll on the floors of Olympus when they tune in on the night thoughts of a truly fatuous male.

  And I hold several international records.

  DID not know how she would be in the morning. I coul
d only hope that she would not be bubbly, girlish and coy.

  She was pouring juice when I went into the galley, and she turned gravely to be kissed, knowing it her due. A little tilt to the dark head. A flicker of appraisal in slanted eyes.

  "Temperature normal, pulse normal, patient starving,' she said.

  "What?"

  "McGee's clinic. Morning report. I'm having poached."

  "Scrambled medium."

  "Yessir."

  The breakfast was rather silent, but not with strain.

  After pouring second coffees, she sat and looked at me and said, "I'm being a hell of a problem to you, Trav."

  "I worry about it every minute."

  "Thank you for patience and endurance. You have won the Lois Award."

  "Hang it with my other plaques."

  "I watched the dawn from your sun deck. It was a nice one, with thunderheads. I came to the astonishing conclusion that I better not try to give anything until I've built up something to give. Otherwise, it's just taking."

  "In the morning I'm often anti-semantic."

  "Any future aggression, if there is any, will have to be yours."

  "Sounds valid."

  "And if there isn't any, don't go around worrying about what I might be thinking, Last night I collected on my assurance. In advance."

  Okay."

  "Finish your coffee and come see what unskilled labor has done to your barge."

  The work was worth the admiration I gave it. I shooed her off to the beach, with all her gear. She was back in three minutes just to tell me that she couldn't guarantee she wouldn't get a little nutty from time to time, but she felt she was past the pill period, and then she headed back toward the beach, a lissome broad in her mirrored sunglasses, walking on good legs, and she was far younger than her years, yet old as the sea she approached.

  The operator tracked down Harry in New York, from one number to the next.

  "In answer to your questions, laddy boy, it is mostly a yes. A few months back some very fine items made an appearance here and there, you might say classic items, the kind you expect there should be a description, like perhaps on an insurance list. But they are clean, I am told. All Asiatic items, with, as usual, some of the faceted stuff cut freehand enough to take a smidgen off the value. They have appeared here and there and worked their way up through the Street, everybody taking the small edge a quality thing brings, and they are by now mostly in the hands of the top houses being mounted in ways worthy of them, and you can find one advertised in The New Yorker as of present, page eighty-one, a retail to curl the three hairs I have remaining. It was a goodly number of top items, a minimum of ten, and perhaps no more than fifteen, unless somebody is holding tight. As to source, laddy boy, on the Street I found a word here, a word there, adding up to a smiling savage man, not by any means a fool, unloading one at a time, without haste, for cash, known to slam one man against a wall, and having no trouble thereafter, claiming he'd be back often with more of the same." "What did he walk away with?"

  "Forty thousand minimum. These are important items, laddy boy. And he would wait so proof could he had they were not hot. Cash sets up a certain discount situation, of course, but he'played one against another, and did well."

  "Could you do as well if you had the same kind of merchandise? Five percent for your trouble?"

  "You take my breath away. I might do even better. For ten."

  "If I had them, we could dicker."

  "You should not put such a strain on this ancient heart."

  "Harry, can you get me a big blue star sapphire, say as big as the average he peddled, a fake that would slow an expert down for a few seconds?"

  "There are only two kinds of fakes in that area, laddy boy, the very bad ones and the very good ones, and the good ones come high."

  "How high?"

  "Offhand, one large one."

  "Can you rent one or borrow one and airmail it to me?"

  "Switching is very unhealthy."

  "It isn't what I have in mind."

  "I might be able to arrange it."

  "That isn't the question. I have faith in you.

  Can you arrange it today?"

  "Dear boy!"

  "I would hate to have to deal with anyone else, particularly if I get hold of anything genuine later on."

  "My arm is twisted."

  And then, with a thumb in the Yellow Pages, I began checking the marinas. All this great ever-increasing flood of bronze, brass, chrome, Fiberglas, lapstreak, teak, auto pilots, burgees, Power Squadron hats, nylon line, all this chugging winking blundering glitter of props, bilge pumps and self-importance needs dockside space. The optimum image is the teak cockpit loaded soft with brown dazed girls while the eagle-eyed skipper on his fly bridge chugs Baby Dear under a lift bridge to keep a hundred cars stalled waiting in the sun, their drivers staring malignantly at the slow passage of the lazy-day sex float and the jaunty brown muscles of the man at the helm. But the more frequent reality is a bust gasket, Baby Dear drifting in a horrid chop, girls sunpoisoned and whoopsing, hero skipper clenching the wrong size wrench in barked hands and raising a greasy scream to the salty demons who are flattening his purse and canceling his marine insurance.

  But they have to park.

  And while the outboarders have infinite choice, those that can house forty-footers are merely legion. I made over an hour of phone calls with the simple query, "Had the Play Pen in there lately, forty-foot Stadel custom?"

  The assumption was he'd put the damned thing somewhere handy when he'd visited the Mile O'Beach, but that assumption began to grow wan under the negative chorus. So somewhere unhandy, and I began to get into the toll call area, questing up and down the Waterway.

  Lois came back from the beach. I sat glowering at the phone. She came back pinked, sun-dazed and slow moving, with spumesalted hair and a sandy butt, displaying upon a narrow palm, with a child's innocence, a small and perfect white shell, saying in a voice still drugged with sun and heat, 'It's like the first perfect I ever saw, or the first shell. It's a little white suit of armor with the animal dead and gone. What does it mean when things look so clear and so meaningful? Silly little things."

  I sat on a low stool, hating the phone.

  "What's wrong?" she said, and leaned a hip against my shoulder, a weight oddly warm and heavy and luxurious for such slenderness. It was an uncontrived gesture and in a moment she was aware of it and moved away quickly, startled by herself.

  "Where did Junior Allen like to tie up?"

  She moved uneasily away, sat on a curve of the couch. 'Little places, mostly. Not the great big marinas. I think he liked places where his boat would be biggest. A hose connection and power outlet and fuel. That's all he had to have. And privacy. He liked finger slips where he could tie up with the bow toward the main dock."

  "I've been trying the small ones too."

  "But after what he did to Mrs. Kerr, wouldn't he go away?"

  "I would think so. But where was he beforehand? He couldn't have known that was going to happen. I'd assume he'd move along, thinking she would tell the police."

  "Back to the Bahamas?"

  "Maybe. I thought I could find where he was, and ask around and get some idea where he was headed. Did he ever say anything about things he wanted to do, or places he wanted to go?"

  "He said something one time about going around the Gulf Coast and over to Texas."

  "Oh fine."

  "Trav, you know he could be tied up at some private place, like he was tied up at my dock."

  "That's a lot of help too."

  "You asked me. I'm trying to help."

  She looked at me with gentle indignation.

  She was what we have after sixty million years of the Cenozoic. There were a lot of random starts and dead ends. Those big plated peabrain lizards didn't make it. Sharks, scorpions and cockroaches, as living fossils, are lasting prettywell. Savagery, venom and guile are good survival quotients. This forked female mammal didn't s
eem to have enough tools.

  one night in the swamps would kill her. Yet behind all that fragility was a marvelous toughness. A Junior Allen was less evolved. He was a skull-cracker, two steps away from the cave.

  They were at the two ends of our bell curve, with all the rest of us lumped in the middle. If the trend is still supposed to be up, she was of the kind we should breed, accepting sensitivity as a strength rather than a weakness. But there is too much Junior Allen seed around.

  "Find me that boat," I told her.