Under Water

by Casey Barrett

  I settled onto a bench along the side of the pool and watched them swim. They moved with such splashless ease, stroking and flipping and streamlining up and back, lap after lap, with languid carelessness. I wondered what Marks saw when he watched these kids: flaws and critical assessments in every movement, picking out certain ones for special attention. And perhaps others for private attention that had nothing to do with their performance in the water?

  Anna led the workout with Eastern European efficiency. She did not smile, did not praise, and did not raise her voice. She delivered her commands and then stalked the deck, watching their strokes like an impatient piano teacher hearing all the wrong notes. If she was aware of her sexuality, she did not show it. Her body was an aggressive fact, and she carried it as such. There was no reason for me to stay. I didn’t expect Marks to show. But I liked watching Anna, and she knew it.

  At the end of practice, she released them, and the swimmers filtered away, wet and exhausted, to the showers. Anna approached. We hadn’t spoken since we walked together onto the pool deck two hours earlier.

  “How did they look, Mr. Duck?”

  “Very impressive,” I said. “Tired just watching them.”

  “It was not so good, the effort, I think. When head coach is gone, kids, they do not work as hard.”

  “Guess that’s inevitable.”

  “Inevitable for American children, yes. They need their hands held to be good at anything, it seems.” She erased the workout in quick swipes from the white board. Then she gathered her warm-ups and pulled them back on and looked back at me. “I am very hungry, Mr. Duck. Would you like to join me for breakfast?”

  I was too quick to accept.

  * * *

  She insisted on cooking. Her apartment was in Soho, and we made the two-mile walk in the rain, huddled under cheap deli umbrellas that covered little but our heads. The city was coming alive for the workday, the sidewalks a brigade of black umbrellas. Harried men crouched beneath them, eyes on iPhones. Well-dressed women waved down cabs or teetered down steps to the subway in their heels. This was the part of morning workout that I always liked best: the afterglow. The smug satisfaction in knowing that you had already done something worthy with your day, while the rest of the world yawned and sucked at their coffee and fought their way to their little beehive offices. Of course, I had done nothing but sit on a bench and watch a few dozen teenagers slog through their sets.

  “Do you have a very busy day ahead?” she asked.

  “We’ll see.”

  “Well, you will give me just a little bit of your time, won’t you? I am excellent chef. I will make a special Ukrainian hash. You are not a vegetarian, no?”

  “Not a chance,” I said.

  “Yes, good. I do not understand those who do not eat meat.”

  We walked in rainy silence past the perpetual construction on Houston. Then she steered me onto the cobblestones of Mercer Street and stopped half a block down in front of a classic cast-iron loft building. “This is me,” she said.

  The keyed elevator opened onto a cavernous expanse. Gray rain light filtered through tall, arched windows, giving the space a sorrowful sense. Her aesthetic was minimalist to the point of irony. It was furnished like she lived in a jewel box studio that had mysteriously come with an extra two thousand square feet that she wasn’t quite sure what to do with. A loveseat where there should have been a sprawling sectional; a four-top dining table where there was space to seat a dozen; a small thirty-inch flat-screen on a wall sized for a movie projector. The rest of the walls were artless and empty.

  “My father works in petrol,” she said by way of explanation. “I know what you are thinking—this is not the apartment of an assistant swim coach, is it?”

  “No one knows where the money comes from in this city,” I told her. “We just assume.”

  “Not like where I come from,” she said. “There, everyone knows.” We reached the back of the loft, and she pushed open a door. “And this is the bedroom,” she said with pride. It was the one area that had been appointed with care, in dimensions that suited the space. There was a king-size bed set into an ornate wrought-iron bed frame. A large antique chest sat at the foot of the bed. There was a burgundy high-backed chair in one corner, an imposing mid-century armoire in the other.

  “I see where you spend most of your time,” I said.

  She gave a wicked grin and led me back out. “Come, Mr. Duck, I am hungry. First, we must eat.”

  Anna was good to her word: she knew how to cook. The Ukrainian hash was outstanding. She served it with a dense, dark, braided bread and good strong coffee. Her appetite surpassed mine, and we said little as we ate across from each other at her little table. She sat with well-bred posture; after each bite she wiped the corners of her mouth and took a sip of water with quiet formality. When our plates were clean, she stood and gathered our dishes and went to rinse them in the sink. “Tell me,” she said, turning on the faucet. “When will you find this girl, Madeline McKay?”

  “Wish I knew,” I said. “I was hoping you could help me with that.”

  Anna refilled our coffees from the French press, splashed more milk, added heaps of sugar, and returned to the table. She looked across at me with frank, unblinking eyes.

  “And how would I help with this? I have only seen her maybe two, three times at practice since I began coaching. I know nothing of this person.”

  “But I think you know plenty about Coach Marks,” I said.

  “And why do you think such a thing? Because you found me at his apartment that night?” She smiled to herself, sipped her coffee. “You were quite a sight. So beat up and crazy-eyed.”

  “Why were you there?”

  “To discuss a private matter with my boss.” She shrugged, bored by suspicions.

  “I hear your young colleague has fallen hard for you.”

  “Nicholas?” She gave a guilty smile. “I am surprised Teddy told you this, but yes, it is true. American boys are so eager, like untrained puppies. And sweet, you are all so sweet. But this is not something many women find attractive, yes?” She picked up the cloth napkin in front of her and absently folded and unfolded it. She looked deep in delighted thought.

  “What about Marks?” I asked. “Is he that way? Overeager for your affections?”

  “I am not sleeping with him, if that is what you are asking. Besides,” she said, “I think I am not Teddy’s type.”

  “What type would that be?”

  She considered this for a moment. She tipped her Slavic face to the side and pressed her full lips together. “He can be very flirtatious with the girls, you know.”

  “I’m told it might go beyond flirtations.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe it has. It is not my business. I had a coach, once, home in Ukraine. He was this way. He had sex with my friend when she was fourteen. Some coaches, they are like this, yes? But, no, I think with Teddy it is only flirtation. Besides, he is with Mrs. McKay, yes?”

  “I didn’t know that was common knowledge,” I said.

  She gave a sudden laugh at this. “People like to talk, you know?”

  “That they do.”

  Again, that laugh, darker this time. “What does this have to do with finding this girl, Mrs. McKay’s daughter?”

  “Maybe Teddy’s taste runs in their family?”

  Anna leaned back in her chair, examined her pink nails. “Mother and daughter? This would be very scandalous, Mr. Duck.” She reached for her water glass, dipped her fingers in, and brought out an ice cube. She placed it against her lips and sucked at it. Then she slipped it into her mouth and crunched it between her teeth. I held her eyes.

  She rose and crossed the table and leaned across me with lazy intent. She picked up my empty cup, gazing down at me. “Would you like anything else?” she asked. “Something stronger, maybe?” She did not wait for my reply. She went and removed a frosted bottle of Stolichnaya from the freezer. She took down two shot glasses and filled them both
with the cold, clear liquid and brought them over.

  “Nasdrovie,” she said, standing over me. She knocked hers back without waiting for our glasses to touch. I swallowed mine down. I felt the delicious warmth sliding past my breastbone, down into my stomach. Then I felt Anna’s fingers on the back of my neck. She stood behind me and began to dig into my flesh. “You are very stiff, Mr. Duck. Very sore,” she said. She let her hands slide down my back to my waist. They slipped beneath my shirt. My entire body quivered at the sensation.

  I turned and kissed her hard on the mouth. Her breath was fresh and tasted of icy vodka. She returned the kiss with hunger and drew back and laughed lightly into my mouth. “You taste very good,” she whispered. “Come with me.” She took my hand and led me off toward the bedroom like an unhurried huntress.

  I was stripped without words and pushed onto my back on her bed. Anna shed her clothes with a solemn air. She was one of those women who looked much nicer in nothing, without effort, and who looked foolish when they spent too much time in front of a mirror. Her body was thick and powerfully built; the pink nipples on her full chest were hard and pronounced. She stood before me without self-consciousness. She was the sort who feels most comfortable naked, who wants the lights left on. Then she allowed herself a private smile, and she climbed across me.

  Anna straddled my waist and guided me inside. She pressed herself down hard, forcing me up into her as deep as I could go. Her hands pushed down on my chest, and she arched her back as her eyes closed. I watched her find her rhythm, a self-contained motivated grinding against my pelvis, knowing precisely how to bring herself close. My hands reached around and tried to clutch her but she swatted them away. Instead, she grabbed my wrists and leaned forward and pinned them over my head. Her breath quickened; her nails dug into my skin.

  * * *

  It was after eleven when I woke in her bed. Anna was seated in the high-backed burgundy chair in the corner, watching me slumber, empty shot glass on the low table beside her. Outside the bedroom window, the rain had stopped. Sunlight streamed across the room like I’d awakened in a new Technicolor reality. The air was still, suspended. Anna sat with an eerie calm. She wore a light blue silk robe that fell open as she crossed her legs and revealed acres of smooth, hard skin beneath.

  “Nice rest?” she asked.I said.

  “Mmm, nice morning,” I said.

  She nodded at this with unemotional agreement. “Yes, I am glad you decided to come by the pool this morning.” Anna stood and tied her robe tight around her waist. She took a step toward the bed and regarded me with a look that said it was time to go.

  “We should do this again,” I said. It elicited no reply. She watched as I gathered my pile of clothes at the foot of the bed and then scurried off to the bathroom like a scolded dog. I made the usual silent sweep of the medicine cabinet, was unsurprised to find no prescriptions of interest. When I emerged, she had left the room. I heard the clinking of glasses in the kitchen.

  Anna did not turn as I walked down the hall. She was wiping down countertops with vigor, indulging an apparent passion for cleanliness and order. I watched her bend in concentration, scrubbing at a stubborn stain, as her robe inched up the backs of her thighs. I had the urge to go to her, to press myself against her and coax her back toward the bedroom. She must have sensed my motives. She turned to face me.

  “Thank you for your visit, Mr. Duck,” she said. “I enjoyed myself very much.” She managed a smile; it lacked warmth.

  “Any word from Coach Marks?” I asked.

  She resumed her cleaning. “No, I have not heard from him. Not since early this morning.”

  “If you do, would you mind letting me know?”

  “I do not think I have your number,” she said.

  “Would you like it?”

  She shrugged. “You may leave it if you like. My phone is dead, it is charging, so I cannot enter it now.”

  I slipped a business card from my wallet and set it in a dry spot on the kitchen counter. As it left my fingers, I remembered her pocketing an identical card when we first met, on my way out of the pool. Now she had two. I doubted she’d keep either.

  “You mind giving me yours?” I asked.

  Her body tensed: another overeager American boy. She turned and, without looking up, scribbled it on a Post-It note and handed it over. We kissed awkwardly on both cheeks as she called for the elevator. Then I was thrust out into the too bright Soho sunshine.

  Chapter 15

  The bar at the Old Town was mostly full with the early drinking lunch crowd, but I found two open stools in front of the taps, with just enough space for a pint glass on the stained wooden bar. It had once been named one of the “coolest bars in America” by a men’s magazine, a dubious honor that was now taped to the front window. It brought an unfortunate crowd of tourists during the holiday season and was usually too crowded for peaceable drinking in the after-work hours, but during weekdays it remained a fine, comfortable place of wide-bellied regulars and boozy publishing types who worked nearby. The tin ceilings were high and the porcelain urinals were huge; it often functioned as my office.

  I was a few minutes early and found a discarded Post for company. The Fealy murder had been pushed from the front page, thanks to a school shooting in the Bronx. On page ten, there was a story about the grieving Fealy family, how they were still holed up in the Hamptons, with father Max on indefinite leave from Soto Capital. The piece made no mention of Charlie’s monster day in the markets. It noted that the police continued to search for Madeline McKay as a person of interest, but reported that sources indicted the NYPD was pursuing other suspects as well. Thankfully, I received no further ink.

  When Cass came in through the swinging saloon doors, I was finishing the box scores and taking the first sip of a second pint of Paulaner. I saw her before she saw me. She was at the front of the room, dressed in a long-sleeved black lace dress and combat boots, pretending not to notice the usual stares. Her face was made up in scarlet lipstick, rouge, and heavy black eyeliner and mascara. It was clear she had just come from a session; she had that lingering look of high heat, like water coming down from a boil. I raised an arm, and Cass came toward me. We did not greet each other.

  “What’s with the shit-eating grin?” she asked.

  “Huh?” I didn’t realize I was smiling. “Guess I’m just happy to see you.”

  “Bullshit. You look like you just got laid.”

  My face told her good guess.

  “Well then, good for you,” she said. She slid onto the stool and motioned to the bartender. “You certainly needed it. Who was she?”

  “I went to see Marks this morning, early, at the pool. I’ve got some stuff to tell you about. Anyway, he wasn’t there, but his assistant coach was, the Ukrainian girl I mentioned? The one who was at his place the other night?”

  “So, after practice, she dragged you back to her place for a little morning lay? Nice.”

  “Something like that. What about you? You look like you just tamed a tiger.”

  “Not so far off,” she said. “Had an intense session this morning. Guy was a masochist to the extreme. I can wield a whip, but nothing I could give him was hard enough. He was a big bastard too, a former NFL lineman.” The bartender set down her Pinot and pretended not to eavesdrop. “Anyway, guess he missed the pain.” She took a sip and set down the wine and wiped her top lip. As usual, the red lipstick stain on the glass stirred something in me. “So, what do you have to tell me? I’ve got a bunch for you too.”

  We decided on our lunches: tuna melt for me, a Cliff bar from her purse for her. She waited until my meal came, and then she peeled open the wrapper and chewed each bite slowly as I told her about my meeting with Charlie. When I mentioned his allegations about Marks, she did not seem surprised.

  “So the guy has an affair with our client, the mother, scores a two-million-dollar apartment out of it, then starts messing with the teenage daughter?” Cass nodded to herself, as if she�
�d heard this story before. “And the perfect son is wise to both relationships, but he doesn’t say a thing?”

  “Marks was like a father to him,” I reminded her. “Not to mention the man who coached him to all those gold medals.”

  “I’d say someone has some conflicted feelings about the paterfamilias,” she said.

  I chose not to relate.

  “You mentioned a bodyguard or a bouncer at the pool before?” she asked. “Some kind of rent-a-cop stopped you when you first went by there the other day?”

  “Yeah, guy’s name was Fred Wright. That was bizarre. Marks brushed it off, told me it was because stuff was being stolen from the locker rooms. Apparently, Fred’s an old Navy SEAL buddy. Charlie seemed to think it was just Marks putting on airs.”

  “Was the guy there this morning?”

  “He was not.” It hadn’t occurred to me. I’d been too busy taking in Anna.

  “Is it possible that Teddy Marks is being threatened?”

  We looked at each other’s reflections in the high mirror above the amber bottles. I stared at the rows of whiskey before me, standing shoulder to shoulder like soldiers, proud to serve. I resolved to order just one when my beer was gone.

  “Threatened by someone who knows and resents his secrets?” I asked.

  “Uh huh.”

  “Perhaps, but it’s not like Charlie was the only one who knew. According to him, everyone knew what Marks was up to. Sounds like it was an open secret on the team. It wasn’t like Madeline was the first swimmer he set his sights on.”