He told Kelly he’d be back in a while, don’t go away. He lowered his mask, bit down on the snorkel, and jumped in. The sea closed over his head in a froth of bubbles, and he sank into perfect silence.
Dan kicked slowly, moving along, watching a queen parrot fish with its beaklike mouth. The fish was bright turquoise now, but bring it to the surface, the color would fade as life ebbed away. Visibility was good all the way down. Patches of sand appeared bone white among the grayish rocks of the reef. The uneven terrain dropped into rocky holes between outcroppings of coral where purple fan grass waved in the slight current. The reef was alive with fish. Dan spotted a longnose butterfly, a blue tang, and gray angels. Rolling over, he took the snorkel out of his mouth and blew air. The bubbles floated upward, rocking side to side, then were lost against the bright surface of the water. He wanted to follow them, to climb back into the boat, sit in the sun and think of nothing at all.
Coming up again, Dan pushed his mask to his forehead and looked toward the boat. Kelly was dozing on the bow with the radio blaring. Her forearm was over her eyes, and one foot moved to the beat of drums and a screaming guitar. Her swimsuit top was off, and rosy nipples pointed skyward. There was a valentine tattooed on one breast.
Dan spat into his mask and sloshed it with sea water. He began to breathe deeply. Slowly. Pulling air into expanded lungs, then pushing it all out, purging the carbon dioxide. He was going to the bottom. He counted fifteen long breaths, took a look at his watch, then did a one-eighty.
On Dan’s long, lean body, his weight belt, eleven pounds of lead, would allow buoyancy to fifteen feet. Any deeper, he would sink. When he felt the subtle shift he stopped kicking. He glided down, eyes closed, ears popping. It would take about twenty seconds to reach bottom. He felt water flowing past, colder now. The mask pressed into his face, and a few bubbles squeaked out of his wet suit. He tongued the snorkel out and pressed his lips together.
There was a time when he’d been good at this, when he could stay under for a minute and a half. He wondered if he could still do it.
His father had told him to close his eyes—the brain consumes less oxygen that way. Dan didn’t know how it worked, but it did. On land Raul Galindo had been as ungainly as a wading bird. Underwater his body had achieved a sort of grace, his long fins curling, uncurling, flowing behind him like the tail of a fish.
The light through Dan’s eyelids dimmed, and he sensed the bottom. He flicked his eyes open once, then again. His watch showed twenty-five seconds had elapsed. With thirty to get back up, being careful, he would have thirty-five more to lie here. He settled on his stomach in a patch of sand, gloved fingers hooked on a rock to keep from drifting. The only sound was a slight buzzing in his ears.
To stay under a minute and a half would be difficult but possible. As a kid he had nearly grown gills, catching tropicals for spending money in high school, or going spearfishing on long weekends in the Keys. There were more good fish then. Big, meaty snapper, grouper, and yellowtail. Gradually, though, over-fishing and fertilizer runoff reduced their numbers. The new residents, with even fewer fish, were saying what a paradise they had found.
Dan clamped his teeth together and tightened his throat. Already he needed air. He opened one eye. The second hand on his watch gave him twenty-two seconds. Twenty-one … twenty.
The thought of not going back up drifted morbidly through his mind. In two weeks he would turn thirty-five. The number was somehow portentous. The halfway point. The zenith. And then what? Between hangovers and periods of generalized funk, when he dared to reflect on the tattered state of his psyche, Dan slammed up against the horrifying vision that he would never get beyond that ratty office where he worked now, with its cheap, cigarette-burned carpet and wheezing air conditioner. That one day he would be washed up, living on memories of better days, like the old lawyer who owned the place. If he drowned, what difference would it make, really? He had life insurance. His ex-wife’s mortgage would be paid off. Their son, Josh, would go to college on the proceeds.
Dan’s chest involuntarily heaved, and his lungs were burning. What if he hooked himself to the anchor with his dive belt? Kelly would haul on the rope, and there he would be, limp as a gaffed squid. Dan checked his watch. He tried to focus, to remember where on the dial it would reach thirty seconds. He decided to count down from fifteen. A black grouper came closer, checking him out, magnified slightly by the dive mask. Its undershot jaw opened and shut, and when Dan made a slight motion with one hand, the fish vanished into the coral.
Thirteen seconds left. Twelve … eleven. He closed his eyes again, seeing little dots of light that whirled and exploded in the darkness like miniature fireworks.
When Dan was ten, he and his father had gone spearfishing, Dan’s first time with his own gun. They were in the water off Marathon when a bull shark saw them, an eight-footer. Sharks usually swam on by. This one didn’t. Raul Galindo extended his speargun at arm’s length, pivoting, motioning for Dan to stay behind him. The shark glided closer, and he nudged it in the head—easy, not wanting to make it mad. With a flip of its tail, it scooted away. And then came back. Fast. Raul fired, hitting it just above the eye. The shark was a thrashing, twisting piece of meat, leaking red. Back in the boat Raul said they should leave the area because of the blood, but as soon as they anchored somewhere else, they would go back in. Dan screamed, No, Dad, no, but his father threw him in anyway. Don’t be afraid, I’m here. Two years later, Raul Galindo had been driving home from Key Largo when a drunk crossed the center line.
Dan felt dizzy. His entire body ached. He was sixty feet underwater. The height of a six-story building. If he passed out, he would stay down here, weighted by his belt, until his body bloated and the currents lifted him away.
Eight … seven.
Josh was seven years old. Brown hair and eyes. Like mine, Dan thought. Same neat haircut, though Josh’s was longer, flopping into his eyes when he ran. A sweet kid. Small for his age. He’d been premature, had to catch up. Played soccer. Lisa had mentioned a game tomorrow. Dan hadn’t planned to go, so Josh didn’t expect him. What a hassle, dealing with Lisa.
Dan remembered he’d promised to take Josh fishing this winter. Never got around to it. Son, I want to show you how to use a speargun. You’re not too young.
That was weird, Dan thought. The voice in his ears—it sounded like Raul’s voice.
His watch had stopped. Dan looked closer. No, another second ticked by. Why not go fishing? Not the bay, forget that. Too tame. They’d go to the Bahamas. Cat Cay. So many fish there. Beautiful. They’d go to Eleuthera, feel the sun and wind on their faces. The boat skimming over the water like a pelican with outstretched wings.
Dan’s vision dimmed. Oh, Christ. He was going to die. Heart slamming in his chest, he pushed off and began kicking frantically. The surface seemed dark now, impossibly far away, the boat tiny as a matchstick. He rose, feeling the pressure subside. No. He wasn’t going to make it. It was too far. He was too heavy, too tired. He would black out before he reached the surface and fall back to the bottom.
Dan thought of Joshua, and his chest lurched, almost a sob. Air burst from his lungs and he gagged on water. Too late, too late. His gloved hands fumbled for his weight belt. With his teeth he tore one glove off. He grabbed for the plastic clip. Then the belt dropped away and Dan kicked, no strength left, but the silvery light getting nearer.
There was a splash as he broke through. He dragged in a breath. The rush of oxygen made him drunk, almost euphoric. He rolled over, wheezing, barely keeping his face above the surface. The sun blasted his eyes. He kicked steadily for the boat, reached for it, then a wave lifted it away. When the boat fell back, Dan curled his extended fingers over the gunwale and hung on.
“Kel—!” He tried to scream her name over the music and went into a spasm of coughing. “Kelly, for God’s sake, would you wake up!” He pounded the hull.
She sat up squinting, looking around, not seeing him. “Dan?”
> “How stupid can you be? You have to pay attention when someone’s diving!”
“What happened?” She looked over the side and finally saw him bobbing in the water near the rear of the boat. “Oh, my God, did a fish bite you? Are you hurt?”
“I almost fucking drowned!”
“I’m sorry! Dan, I didn’t know!” Wearing only her bikini bottoms, she clambered through the gap in the windscreen.
Dan spat salt water. His aching sinuses were full of it. When he was fairly sure he had enough strength, he told her to move, he was coming in. He handed her his flippers and mask, stepped on the dive ladder, and shakily hauled himself up past the outboard engine and over the transom, scraping his shin. He flopped to the bottom of the boat, his sides heaving.
She crouched beside him, pushing her long hair behind her ear. “Dan? I’m sorry, okay? What can I do?”
He retched. After a while he sat up, leaning against the rear bench seat. All his life diving, he had never dropped a weight belt. He had never come that close. He took off his remaining glove and his booties.
“Let me have a towel.” He dried his face and hair, and when he had stopped shaking, he peeled off his wet suit and put his clothes back on. Kelly hustled around picking up beer cans and repacking his dive bag, not saying much. Dan caught her by the hand. “Kelly, I didn’t mean to yell at you. I was scared. It wasn’t your fault.”
She hugged him around the waist. “It’s okay.”
“Come on, let’s go back,” he said.
The outboard engine roaring, Dan turned the boat north. He stood up behind the wheel and let the wind rush into his lungs. The sky was incredibly, intensely blue, the water a sheet of silver. The boat danced over it. A gull dipped, then swung away. Dan laughed out loud. He was thinking of Cat Cay again.
CHAPTER 3
At the marina, a forklift raised Dan’s little outboard from the water on padded steel arms as if it were a toy. Dan stood on the dock watching. The driver backed up the machine to reach a garden hose at the rear of the marina office, a small, flat-roofed building with mildewed white paint.
“You have a good ride?” He was a young Cuban named Ramon. He aimed the nozzle at the boat and sprayed salt water off the hull.
Dan said they’d had a great time, thanks, and gave him a ten as a tip. He walked around the boat, taking a close look. The hull was in decent shape. He’d had the engine overhauled last year. For fooling around on Biscayne Bay, the boat was fine, but for a longer trip, living aboard? Not a chance.
“Hey, Ramon, do you know of a cruiser I could rent for a week or so? I want to go to the islands to do some fishing.”
Ramon gazed past the chain-link fence at the dry storage shed across the weedy road, then studied the motley collection of boats tied up at the wooden docks. A rotting houseboat lay on its side under the mangroves. “Maybe. I know a guy has a real nice Silverton.” Ramon flipped the hose back against the building and turned off the water. “Thirty-two-foot, twin engines, insurance, gas … You probably get it for three thousand.” He dried his hands on a towel.
“For one week?”
“Includes the captain.”
“What do I need a captain for? I can operate a boat.”
“You kidding?” Ramon laughed. “You gotta have a captain. Nobody give you his boat for a week if he ain’t on it, man. Why don’t you fish around here? Don’t pay nothing. That’s what I do.”
“No, I want the Bahamas. This is special.”
With a shrug Ramon hopped on the forklift, cranked the engine, and drove it across the road, the boat still dripping water.
Dan turned around to see Kelly sipping beer from a paper cup. He took the one she offered him, but didn’t feel like drinking. She was smiling, squinting into the sun. “So. A trip to the Bahamas.”
He hesitated, then said, “Well, this is for my son. I promised to take him fishing.”
“Oh, I get it. Doing the guy thing.” Kelly bumped him with a hipbone. She had put her jeans back on. Her bare shoulders had turned pink. “Let’s walk down to that end of the dock. Somebody just told me that a manatee comes over there sometimes.”
Dan looked at his watch. “It’s almost two-thirty. I want to go by my office this afternoon.”
“It’s not that late,” Kelly said. “You can spend five minutes. We’re here already.”
Through the forest of aluminum sailboat masts Dan could see the skyline of Miami glittering a mile across the bay. His office was just north of downtown, not in one of the high-rent glass towers, but in a relic from the thirties on Biscayne Boulevard. Kelly was strolling along the dock already, her rubber thongs slapping the wooden planks. She gazed into the brownish water and sipped her beer. Her hair hung in tangles past the thin strap of her bikini top.
With another glance at his watch, Dan followed.
Kelly kicked off her thongs and sat down. Leaning back on her arms, she tossed her head to get her hair off her face. The first time they’d gone out, she told him that her family came from old money. She had the look: delicate bone structure, big green eyes, thin lips. The gold nose ring had been made from an heirloom locket. Dan had once found it erotic. Now he didn’t know what he thought.
“I love the sunshine,” Kelly said, swinging her feet. “Did you ever notice how musicians only come out at night? That’s why we’re pale. Not like you. You’re so brown. Except for your butt. I did notice your butt is white.” She laughed, then reached into her straw bag for her cigarettes.
Dan smoothed his hair and resettled his ball cap on his head. “Listen, I called my secretary this morning before we left. She said Rick Robbins wants me to call him. Do you have any idea what that’s about? Anybody arrested lately for DUI? Possession of pot? Some major crime that requires my legal expertise?”
Between gigs and practice sessions, Kelly worked part-time for Dan’s former brother-in-law, the owner of a music production company. They’d had a falling out during Dan’s divorce, Rick taking his sister’s side, but since then Rick had sent a few cases his way. It was unusual, however, that Rick would make the call himself. He would generally give the client Dan’s phone number.
Kelly frowned, thinking about what Rick might want. “Martha Cruz. Bet you a dollar that’s it.”
“Who’s Martha Cruz?”
“I told you. You weren’t listening, were you?” She took a drag on her cigarette. “Martha plays keyboard in my band and sings backup. She was arrested on South Beach outside a club a few weeks ago. She hit a Miami Beach cop.” Kelly tapped ashes into the water.
Dan laughed. “Was she drunk? Or just suicidal?”
“No, she was just, like, trying to tell the cop to leave this guy alone, that all he was doing was drinking a beer on the sidewalk or something. I wasn’t there, but that’s what she told me.”
Dan had never met these people. Kelly had played him a tape, but she had said not to come to the rehearsals at the studio. The other musicians didn’t like strangers around.
Kelly looked up, shading her eyes with one hand. “Martha has an attitude, you know? I’m almost sorry I let her in the band. What I think is, Rick lets her get away with it because Martha’s boyfriend Miguel just spent like ten grand on promotion, so naturally Rick can’t tell him to butt out, and she’s taking advantage of the situation. Don’t you hate people who do that? Martha and I are friends, but she’s starting to be a pain.”
Dan looked toward the skyline again. “Kelly, I’ve got to go.”
“Why? You don’t work for anybody. You can take the whole day if you want to.” She suddenly sat straight up and pointed. “Shh! Look. There they are.”
He stepped closer, saw a shifting under the surface. Manatees. A female and her calf, peaceful gray creatures with rounded horizontal tails and dangling flippers. Algae grew on the mother’s broad back. This one had several nasty scars—boats hitting her before she could lumber out of the way. She raised her head for a breath, blowing air out of flared nostrils. She fixed her tiny, pa
tient eyes on Dan for a moment before submerging again. The calf stayed close by. Latticed sunlight played on their bulky shapes as they glided away. The water was murky, and soon they were lost to view.
“Manatees are so adorable,” Kelly said.
He wondered, standing in the blinding light of a Monday afternoon, what he was doing with this girl—besides getting laid. She had wandered into his law office about a month ago about a traffic ticket, and a half hour later he was asking her out. Why, for God’s sake? Out of nowhere Dan felt a leap of anxiety in his gut, the same lurch as in the recurrent nightmare he’d had lately—walking into court for opening argument and he couldn’t remember what the case was about. He poured the rest of his beer into the mangroves and flattened the paper cup.
Dan picked up his dive bag. “Sorry, Kelly, but really, I have to go.”
The area of Miami around Biscayne Boulevard and Thirtieth Street, a few blocks south of the expressway leading over to Miami Beach, had once been prime business property. Some of the royal palms that had lined the boulevard were still standing, but most of them had made way for storefronts, gas stations, and cheap motels.
The law office where Dan rented space was a one-story building with a Spanish-style facade and Moorish columns across the front. A sign on the front wall read, LAW OFFICES OF CHARLES DUNAVOY. Below that had been added, DANIEL R. GALINDO, ESQ.—Criminal Law. Dan drove around back and went in through the rear door, after unlocking the security gate. Bars kept out the occasional crack addict wandering through.
He picked up his mail and messages from Alva Dunavoy’s desk. She was married to Charlie. Dan waited to speak to her until she had finished typing a letter. In theory his rent included her services, but she had made it clear whose secretary she was—Charlie’s—and anyone else could stand in line. Dan shuffled through the envelopes. Bills, pleadings, notices of hearings. He went through his messages. A bail bondsman notifying him that a client had skipped town. A court reporter wanting payment for a transcript. And the message to call Rick Robbins. Now there was a second message attached. URGENT.
Criminal Justice Page 2