Exposure

by James Lockhart Perry

  And Rudy roared with laughter and gave her the first hug of her sorry little sailing career. Another hour, and she could tell she was doing okay by the way he quit paying attention altogether.

  Any sailing photograph Sheri had ever seen featured tanned aristocrats and gorgeous blonds lazing around in the cockpit, gazing out at the horizon. Rudy must have missed that part of the sales pitch. He crawled around constantly to check on lines and stays and spars and furlers and a hundred other devices he forgot to name. Sheri would have adjudged him a nervous wreck, except the longer he went at it, the calmer he grew. Finally, he took a break and sat on the cushions beside her.

  "Well?" she asked. "How am I doing?"

  "You're getting it."

  "That's it? Just getting it?"

  "You know as well as I do, you're a fucking natural."

  Sheri smiled and took in the compliment minus the swearing. She had been meaning to bring that up again, but had something else on her mind. She gazed up at the main, tweaked the wheel, and kept her tone as nonchalant as possible. "Then answer me a question, master of the seas."

  "Ask me anything."

  "How is it you and I don't know each other any better?"

  That caught him unawares. He gazed at her with a faint suspicion, like she was getting ready to zing him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  But Sheri kept at it. "It means, where have we been the last three years? I've learned more about you in the few weeks, than in all that time put together."

  "Like what?"

  "Like who you are! I never met a man who talked so much and gave away so little."

  "You mean I'm not a chatterbox like you?"

  Sheri laughed. "Yeah, you're right. I'm not exactly running around all naked and vulnerable. But look at us! It's like we were a pair of strangers!"

  Rudy thought a minute and shrugged. "Way I see it, you don't like talking about you, I don't like talking about me, you don't like the way I talk about you, and I sure as hell don't like the way you talk about me..."

  He shrugged again. Sheri watched carefully while he spoke. There was no hostility in it—he was just telling the truth. "I think I want to get to know you," she said finally.

  "Really?"

  "Pretty sure."

  She let the thought hang out there between them, a connecting thread, not a flaming barrier like so many other things they had said. "But do I have one more question—"

  "Please!" Rudy held up his hands. "No more—"

  "But this is a seafaring sailor boy question!"

  Rudy sighed. "Fine, then go ahead."

  "With all the steering and tacking and coming about, where does the sex come in?"

  Rudy laughed and shook his head. "Sorry babe, but not until you graduate."

  "Oh come on!"

  "I'm serious! Right now you're still way too dangerous."

  "What do you mean?"

  Instead of answering, Rudy stood and took his tacking position in front her behind the mast. "For God's sake!" she said. "We already practiced that."

  "Come on! I'm waiting."

  So Sheri clamped her hands to the wheel and spun it to port, shrieking to the heavens, "Coming about!" Rudy leapt to the sails, and they executed a perfectly coordinated tack. The first of hundreds. Or thousands. Or millions. Or so it felt, when Sheri collapsed exhausted onto the bed that night, too weary to even dream about dreaming about sex.

  Chapter 20

  The more she thought about it, the more Lydia really wanted to like Gastro Dude. She was willing to forgive an egomaniacal load of sins, if it meant coming out of this episode with a live husband. Enemy of her enemy, something like that. But the man made it so damn hard. Like when she trotted out the standard cliché of a plea for encouragement, So is he going to recover? Ninety-nine percent of the doctors on the planet would have responded with a litany of soothing nonsense that neither side of the desk believed, but still allowed for comfortable fantasizing when things ran too gloomy.

  But not Gastro Dude. He had to be original, hip, modern, cool. We all died sooner or later—it was a philosophical issue really. Sam might last another ten years, but it didn't change the basic realities of human existence. For Lydia right now, the basic reality was that Gastro Dude was lucky the police had taken her Walther from her. And this made no sense, because from everything he was telling her, it sounded like Sam had dodged the intestinal cancer bullet—if only for another five, ten, fifty, or hundred years. So she should have wanted to kiss Gastro Dude, not kill him.

  At least she had found the sense to park Sam on the hospital floor, rather than bring him along to insult his gracious philosophical benefactor. Sam was already unpopular enough around here for his churlish manners and ingratitude to the medical establishment. Not that Lydia was exactly celebrated. When she walked out of Gastro Dude's office and returned to the ward where she had tried to shoot herself, she could have sworn the corridors emptied ahead of her. Sam waited in a wheelchair by the vacant nurse's station, a wry grin on his face.

  "The nurse's union is pushing for metal detectors," he said. "I told them I hid your shotgun under the bed, but it didn't seem to help their nerves."

  "I thought about looking there last night when you called me a liar."

  "Yeah, that probably wasn't the wisest of words to use on a shooter like you. So what's the prognosis?"

  "You're going to live until you finally piss me off. Apparently, they think they got it all. And because you're such a tough sonofabitch, they've been able to use a much stronger dosage than on most old farts."

  That surprised him. "So I'm done with the chemo?"

  "Hardly, you're just getting started. Three months at least."

  "Fuck."

  Lydia took the wheelchair to wheel Sam out to the elevators. She leaned down and whispered, "But after that, I might just have to pull out my cute little nurse's outfit without the panties."

  In the car, Sam sat back with his eyes closed while she buckled him in. He let out a long sigh that suddenly unnerved her. She had heard that corpses did that sort of thing when they finally gave up the fight. "You okay?" she asked quickly.

  "Million bucks. You want to go dancing?"

  Lydia laughed and climbed in. They took off out of the parking lot onto Torrance Boulevard headed for the beach. "I really don't want to go home," Sam said. "Any chance we can go for a ride?"

  "Sure, I guess so. Where do you want to go?"

  "The studio." Lydia glanced sharply across at her husband. "Don't worry," he said. "I'm not going to throw a tantrum and trash it. That's a young hoodlum's sport."

  "But it's not yours anymore, and the kids aren't there."

  "The kids?" Sam smirked at her. "You didn’t need my signature on the adoption papers?"

  "Whatever. They've been gone four days. I called again this morning."

  Something in her tone stopped him. "Something going on I should know about?"

  "I don't know. They didn't tell me where they were going."

  "Then fine, all the more reason to check. I know you've still got your keys. And just so we're clear, it'll always be my studio."

  "Not according to—"

  "Doesn't matter. I am the fucking studio."

  That ended that waste of conversation. Lydia drove south along the beach past Malloy's and toward the bluffs. She hadn't talked to Mac in days. She could just hear him complaining about it too. Something about ex-drunks no longer needing their bartenders. Oh well. She would get around to that later.

  Outside the studio, Lydia found a parking space and helped Sam out. She averted her eyes, deliberately distracted by a thread in her blouse, while he adjusted his pants and the colostomy bag underneath. She had yet to break the news to him about that sorry piece of misery, that he might have to carry it around forever. She shuffled patiently with him to the door and leaned down to unlock it.

  "Well it's about time!" a voice screeched behind them. Lydia turned, and there stood the Axelrod mother and daughter, twin mo
untains of jewelry, make-up, and bleached bouffant. Lydia had never seen so much flesh and silicone stuffed into so little steel and cloth. The screecher was Mrs. Axelrod, but only because her botoxed little chirper hadn't got to it first.

  "Mrs. Axelrod," Lydia said. "I'm sorry. Did you have an appointment?"

  "You know damn well we did. Yesterday!"

  Chirper chimed in, "We wanna see the photographer."

  "He's been out on an assignment the last few days," Lydia tried, then to Sam, "The Axelrods have hired us to do their wedding."

  If he laughs, I'll kill him, she thought, but Sam played it cool. He always was the smartest guy on the block. He read the situation, thought a beat, then faced the Axelrod wife. "You haven't met with Mr. Spavik?"

  "Not him!" Chirper chirped. "We want the real photographer, the one with the prizes."

  Sam glanced at Lydia, then shuffled across and took Mrs. Axelrod's arm in his weakest grip. The woman nearly jumped out of her skin. "Sam..." Lydia started, but he ignored her.

  "Then right this way, ladies. That would be me."

  Sam led the way in, shuffling and trembling in his best imitation of a zombie from some ancient black-and-white horror movie, stumbling against the reception desk and steadying himself along the wall. Lydia contained her laughter and brought up the rear. At the office door, Sam hitched his trousers. "Sorry," he apologized. "My colostomy bag. I don't want it to leak all over us." Mrs. Axelrod turned pale, then screeched with horror, when he stopped abruptly and let her run into him.

  "Take a seat," he said and sat down at the desk with a mild belch. "Lydia, coffee for the ladies, please. Prune juice for me."

  Lydia stood frozen in the doorway—no way was she going to miss this one. Neither Axelrod woman sat. Chirper stared, aghast, at the wartime photographs Rudy still hadn't removed. She must not have noticed them the last time she came here, with her nose pinned to the ceiling.

  "Yeah, I kinda like the black and whites myself, Miss," Sam said to her. "It helps hide all the blood."

  Mrs. Axelrod glared furiously from Sam to Lydia, then back to Sam. "This isn't what we paid for!"

  "Excuse me?" Sam asked, then to Lydia, "Were these ladies kind enough to pay up front?"

  "No, not that I recall." Lydia pretended to ponder. "I don't even think we got a deposit."

  Mrs. Axelrod leapt at the bait. "No way in hell you're photographing my daughter's wedding!" Chirper nodded along like an outsized dashboard hula girl dancing to her mother's voice.

  Sam ignored the older woman and addressed the younger. "Sorry Miss, but I do believe we have a contract."

  "Sonofabitch, just you try!" Mrs. Axelrod screeched and took her chirper by the hand to flee. The outside door opened and crashed shut behind them.

  Sam grinned up at Lydia. "So who's your studio now, babe?"

  Lydia fell into the chair, laughing with relief. "You know it'll cost Rudy business. Councilman Axelrod carries a little weight in these parts."

  "That's okay. The lines get any longer around here, you'll need cops for crowd control."

  "I suppose." Lydia was still giggling over it ten minutes later, when the outside door opened again. "Hello?" she called out. She was climbing to her feet, when the biggest black man she had ever seen filled the doorway. He was gorgeous, immaculately dressed in muted, tasteful, casual shirt and pants. He took his time surveying the room out of watchful eyes, so beautiful they took her breath away.

  "Can I help you?" Sam asked, less impressed.

  "We're looking for a photographer."

  "We?"

  The man nodded back over his shoulder. He passed by Lydia into the room to the vacant chair, then noticed the photographs on the wall. "Who the fuck took these?" He approached and peered at them, visibly impressed, taking his time.

  "I did," Sam answered.

  "You're the photographer?"

  "I'm the photographer."

  "Hey Gus!" the man called out to the corridor. A moment, then a pair of large black bruiser bodyguards rolled a wheelchair to the doorway. In the chair sat a carbon copy of Sam's new admirer. At least he looked like a copy, through what little of him wasn't covered with splints and bandages.

  "What the fuck happened to you?" Sam asked. Admirer tossed a quick warning glance back at him, then returned to the wall.

  "Ain't him," Gus gurgled through broken teeth.

  "I know I've seen this picture somewhere," Admirer said. He was pointing at the large photograph of the Lebanese boy with the gun.

  "Beirut, 1985," Sam informed him. "Firefight on the Green Line, Place des Martyres."

  "Fuck! You took that? You must have been one crazy-assed motherfucker back then. I take it you shot the kid."

  "Why would you say that?"

  "You're here, aren't you?" Admirer finally sat down in the chair. "It's what I would've done. Point a sorry piece-a-shit weapon like that at me."

  "So what do you need photographed?" Sam asked.

  "Working on it. You ever heard of the Smullen brothers?"

  "Can't say I have. I don't get out of Redondo much these days."

  Admirer nodded. That made sense. "Well, ask around while I'm making up my mind." He stood and motioned the others backward out of the doorway. "Nice meeting you," he said to Lydia.

  She nodded. "Nice meeting you."

  Admirer stopped next to her at the door, smelling powerfully of a cologne she hadn't noticed before, a thought entering his mind. "So you're Spavik?" he asked over his enormous shoulder.

  "Spaulding," Sam said.

  That caught the smooth giant's attention, and he didn't mind showing it. Apparently, he knew his Los Angeles criminal history and recognized the name.

  "Any relation to—"

  "Brother."

  The man nodded, impressed, then to Lydia in an entirely new light, "Nice meeting you, Mrs. Spaulding."

  Lydia smiled—it wasn't difficult. "Mr. Smullen. Come back anytime."

  Chapter 21

  The squall hit them after an early dinner on their fourth night out. Sheri was still below washing up, when Rudy spotted the storm heading their way out of the south, picking up clouds and dumping moisture as it approached. He figured they had an hour, so he called Sheri up to the helm and quickly set about making preparations. He went below and checked every room thoroughly for open portholes and potential flying objects. He returned topside, closed and latched the hatch, and started taking foul-weather gear out of the compartments under the seats.

  "Should I be getting worried?" Sheri asked, with a frown that radiated getting worried.

  Rudy cranked up his Donny imitation. "Hell, no. We just haven't had enough wind to do this exercise before."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  Rudy shortened the main and jib and checked all of the lines. He pointed ahead. "That front will give us a little rain and wave action, just enough to practice on."

  Sheri looked doubtful, but went along with it. Already, the storm was kicking at the waves ahead of it, slapping them into the oncoming Pacific swells. Foamy peaks were beginning to form here and there. Rudy took out the storm anchor, the big pillow-case-like last resort, and hooked it to the back of the boat.

  The good news was, Rudy's uncles had never got around to throwing out his teenager-sized gear. Sheri only looked faintly ridiculous by the time he dressed her in the bright yellow slicker suit with the bright orange life vest over it. He found the wetsuit Mischa had made him put on one time when things got a little hairy, but he was pretty sure that was overkill tonight. He hooked Sheri to the helm, then dressed and hooked in himself. The first waves were coming over the bow, as he pulled the slicker hoods over their hats and tightened them to four-inch circles.

  Sheri had morphed into a stone, staring straight ahead, feet planted, shoulders frozen. "Hey! Relax!" Rudy said. "You'll miss all the fun!" And he reached down to a switch and flipped on the loudspeakers.

  "What the hell is that?" Sheri shouted over the sudden explosion of orches
tra.

  "Beethoven! Donny used to do it. Said he was just reminding the Lord we're down here, in case he gets a little busy."

  And the Lord did get busy, quickly, and in a hurry. The crests came in, one after another, and the troughs grew deeper and deeper, until the boat speared heavenward and pounded back down into the water with a force that shook the teeth. Rudy figured eight or nine foot waves. He shouted at Sheri to keep her hands on the wheel, but by now, he was steering and she was hanging on. The waves fought him viciously, trying to turn the boat broadside so they could smash into its sails and send it over onto its side. Rudy fought back, leaning into the wheel, forcing the boat over, until water poured in over the gunwales. An hour like this, interminable, terrifying, and then the boat met a wave it couldn't crest. The bow cut into the liquid wall, and a tower of water came smashing down on their heads.

  "Isn't this great?" Rudy shouted. He pulled both of them back to their feet and latched Sheri's fingers back on the wheel. By now, he was bullshitting neither of them. The water filled the cockpit up to their waists and took its sweet time running out. Rudy nudged Sheri with the inside of his elbow. "You okay?"

  "Are you out of your mind?"

  "That was the worst!" Rudy shouted. And we're still fucking alive, he might have added.

  "Just shut up and get me out of this!"

  It took another hour before the Lord declared Rudy's exercise a success. The wind eased off to mildly scary, and the waves quit flooding the cockpit. Rudy brought the boat around to a reach that rolled it a little more, but at least eased the pounding and calmed their passage. He flipped off the symphony, and it actually felt something like silence in their ears.

  "So what do you think?" he asked Sheri as he untied and eased off her hood. He tried for a facade of adolescent, indestructible enthusiasm, but she wasn't giving up a thing.

  "I just want to go to bed."

  "Sure. Give it a few minutes, and you can go below."

  "No, I mean bed. A real bed with a fucking floor underneath me."

  Rudy gazed out ahead and confirmed that the storm had indeed been an isolated freak. As far as he could tell anyway. The sea was smoothing out to the size of swells he would have expected this time of night. The clouds were shrinking and dispersing into the black quarter-moon heavens. "Look, Sheri," he said, pointing up. "You can see the stars."