underpants and that was all.
'Nice outfit,' I said.
'You're under arrest for, for, uh…'
'For what, Marty? Put down the gun.'
'Breaking and…'
I reached up and, purely on speculation, cupped the gun barrel away from my face and walked past Marty Parish, back into the bedroom. When I turned to look, Marty was standing in front of the mirror, hands to his side, shoulders slumped, and an expression of absolute bewilderment on his face.
'B and E shit,' I said. 'If you're going to arrest me for anything, it ought to be for the murder of Amber. But then you'd have to explain what you were doing here tonight-and last night, too. I saw you, Martin.'
Parish turned to face me. He had the look of a man whose eyes are only looking about one foot into the world. 'This is not what it appears. You don't understand what you're seeing.'
I had to smile. 'What the fuck am I seeing, Marty?'
'I didn't do it. I swear to God, I didn't do it.'
'Who did?'
'I swear to God, I don't know.' He lifted up his gun-a. 44 Magnum with a two-inch barrel, a stupidly big gun, I have always believed-and studied the end of it. In a flash, I thought, He's going to shoot himself. But he let his hand drop to his side again. There are few sights in life as vividly unsettling as a drunk man in his underwear with a gun.
'Where are your clothes, Marty?'
'Under the bed.'
'Under the bed.'
'Yeah. I was…'
The brief silence swirled with implications so bizarre, could hardly keep up with them. 'Put them on and let's get out of here. I think maybe we need to talk.'
While Marty got dressed, I checked the shower and tub. No one had used them in the last few hours, unless they'd wipe them out. Amber's peach-colored towels were dry. The sink was dry, too, no moisture under the plug. I went back into the bedroom, pulled a few threads from one tassled end of the new throw rug, and slipped them between two bills in my wallet. I got up close to the walls and saw the fresh paint covering the old writing. Amber's suitcases were still near the walk-in. I looked through them at the unremarkable travel provisions. Where had she been going? Marty, tucking in his shirt, watched me. Overwhelmed by curiosity, I knelt down and looked under the bed. I saw nothing but a small, flat rectangular object just a few inches from my nose. I picked it up by one corner, stood, and took it into the bathroom. It turned out to be just what it felt like: three pull-apart plastic ties, like you get with trash or lawn bags. I put them in my wallet, too. A considerable chill blew through me. Running my hands over the carpet near where Amber had lain, I found by touch something I could never have spotted with my eyes. It was a tiny screw, the kind used by jewelers and watchmakers, half buried in the Berber mesh. I extracted it with my fingernails, examined its copperish color, and dropped it into the casing of the pen I always carry. There was a collection of them in there be cause my own glasses are always falling apart and I need spares.
I got us down from the hills and into a bar on the beach. The place was right on the sand and you could look out at the white water, the dark horizon, the clear, star-shimmering sky. The white water wasn't white at all, but a faint, luminescent violet.
I'd been drinking, and I'd sobered up the second I parked my car near Amber's. But Marty had been drinking, and he didn't want to stop. He ordered a double brandy. I got coffee.
'You first,' I said. 'How come you were there last night?'
Marty drank half the snifter in one gulp. 'I couldn't stop thinking about her,' he said. 'I think maybe I didn't quite get her out of my system.' He looked at me, raising his glass again. He had a Band-Aid on his thumb. The shaving cut was still there, a lateral scab on the tip of his Adam's apple. 'So I called her and got nothing, just the machine. Then I drove by just for the hell of it. JoAnn and I aren't real good now. I used to love her, but I don't know anymore. I'm fuckin' sick of worrying about us.'
It was good that Marty was drunk, I thought. 'Fifteen years since you and Amber,' I said.
'Yeah. Twenty for you. I got to admit, I hated you back then, Monroe.'
'I know. But she married you, not me.'
'One great year, that was. Then she left.'
'That was Amber.'
Marty drank down the rest of his brandy and pointed to the waitress for more. He waited until she brought it. 'So last night, I parked down from her house and sat in my car. There was another car, right in front of the house, a Porsche convertible. Red.'
'Get the plate numbers?'
'Don't need plate numbers. It was Grace's.'
Grace, I thought. Lovely, uncontrollable, unrepentant Grace-her mother's daughter, from her perfect olive skin to her errant spirit.
'She came out of the house at about eleven-thirty. Got in her car and drove away.'
'Jesus, Marty-then she saw what we saw.'
Martin drank again, fumbled for a smoke. I lighted it for him. 'She must have. She was in a hurry. She tossed her head back when she came through the gate-that way she always did-then walked straight to the car. She stood there beside for a second, getting out her keys. I don't want to believe Grace could kill her, but she was there. And she didn't report it.'
'So were you, and you didn't.'
'And so were you. Maybe you ought to tell me why.'
So I told him. It paralleled Marty's story in a way that made me sound as if I was mocking him. When I explained myself, the whole thing with Amber seemed so puerile, so sentimental, so treacherous. I was suddenly ashamed of myself, of submitting to my own self-created temptations. For a moment, I saw us from the outside- Marty Parish and me-two former lovers of a beautiful woman, nurturing their little hurts, nursing along their little hopes, fueling the ancient torches, dragging around every lost moment of an idealized time so we could remember how good it felt to be heartbroken by Amber Mae. It was disgusting. In that moment, I hated myself.
'Maybe Amber picked us because she knew we'd miss her like this,' said Marty.
'Maybe Amber was just a selfish cunt we should have steered clear of.'
Marty nodded drunkenly. 'Funny you'd mention that now that she's dead.'
'What in hell is going on here, Marty? Someone move her.'
'Cleaned the carpet and brought in a throw rug.'
'Painted the walls.'
'Cleaned the mirror.'
'Closed the sliding door and the screen.'
'Took her away.'
In trash bags, I thought. 'Made the bed.'
'Gad, Russ-and she was all packed up to leave. What am I gonna do? I've got a marriage I'd like to save. I got a job I'd like to keep. I find my ex-wife dead and I can't say a word or the shit's gonna hit every fan there is. I'm not going to lose everything I've worked for because of Amber Mae. She took it all once already. I paid my dues. Christ, do I need a drink.'
'Think I'll join you.'
Marty ordered up a couple more doubles. I've known only one man who could drink as much as Martin Parish and still function. I saw Marty make a bet once at a party that he could drink a fifth of Black Label in one sitting, do a hundred push-ups, and not puke. He did all those things but still lost the bet, because I drank a bottle, did 150 push-ups, and held. I also went home that night, after Marty had fallen asleep, with the date that he had brought to the party-Amber Mae Wilson, of course. We were young and stupid then.
Now we're just older. 'Marty, can you explain… uh… why you weren't fully clothed when I barged in on you?'
Marty drank more. 'I still couldn't believe what I saw last night. It was like if I closed my eyes and got under
