Crime

BELIEVE in big maroon letters.

Lennox looks out into the street and sees a white van, brilliant magnesium sunlight reflecting from it as it pauses at traffic lights.

Trudi lowers her magazine, watches him go through his suitcase. His movements have the attractiveness of the awkward man who has learned to circumvent this condition by slowing everything down. Catlike in his languid movements, with his slightly hunched shoulders, hands a little too big for his body, like he’s never quite known what to do with them. Legs perhaps a tad short for the frame; in tandem with the slouching tendency and his hairiness, they could occasionally hint at something simian. But he’s always carried the air of a large wounded mammal; how the potentials of vulnerability and violence never seem far from him.

It is easy for her to relate to grace as a destination rather than a state. A few years back she’d decided to shed the sugar and carbohydrates in her diet, do a regular gym programme, spend more money on decent clothes and make-up and invest time in her appearance. It came as a shock to her that new cheekbones and a slim, athletic body quickly began to emerge. The blonde tints followed, and the biggest surprise was that the world could so lazily reclassify her as conventionally beautiful. It was a disappointment to learn just how much perceived female beauty was about diet, exercise and grooming.

Nonetheless, Trudi had become entranced by the shallowness of it all; the easy power it conferred. The exalting attentions of others; how men in groups at bars would graciously part for her like the Red Sea for Moses. How spite would sting the eyes and tongues of other women who saw only the make-up, clothes, diet and exercise; the effort they couldn’t or wouldn’t make. How men and women at the public utility where she was employed gave up chairs for her at crowded meetings. She’d be the first to be asked by the new start in the office what she wanted brought back for her lunch. Handsome Mark McKendrick, a young senior executive, challenging her to lunchtime games of squash. Then the several workplace promotions came easily, fast-tracking her all the way up to the glass ceiling. That relentless evolution of Trudi Lowe: from office junior to corporate female managerial icon.

And now back with Ray Lennox. A broken boy soldier. She watches his muscular but lithe body negotiate his clothing, a pair of long canvas trousers and the Motorhead T-shirt. Notes a slight thickening around his waistline; no, she isn’t imagining it. The gym would sort that out.

The TV programme changes emphasis, discussing Miami’s museums and monuments. Lennox can’t believe it when they get to a Holocaust memorial, which is situated here in Miami Beach. — So that we never forget, the presenter says sincerely, patently more downbeat than when he talks about condominium prices. — A place of healing.

— Why the fuck do they have that in Miami Beach? he asks incredulously, pointing at the screen. — It’s like having something tae commemorate the Rwandan atrocities in Las Vegas!

— I think it’s great. Trudi puts down the magazine. — There should be one in every city in the world.

— What’s Miami got tae dae with the Holocaust? Lennox raises his eyebrows. Sunlight suddenly rips through the blinds, casting tight, gold bars across the room. He can see the dust particles floating in them. He wants to be outside: away from the air conditioning.

— It’s like the guy said; a place of healing, Trudi contends. — Besides, I think the Rough Guide mentioned that there were a lot of Jewish people in Miami. She reclines back on the bed. That is what she does. He knows that recline. Used to love it. But, please God, not now.

— I need to get some air, Lennox says, avoiding contact with her hopeful eyes. Instead, his wrapped hand depresses some slats on the blind and he looks across to the sun-reflected, smiling facades of the vanilla apartments opposite. They seem to be beckoning him to come out and play. He picks up the phone on the dark glass table. — I said I’d call Ginger Rogers. He’s a good mate. He hears the plea in his voice. — No seen the old bastard in yonks.

— Does it have to be right now? An internal tautness distorts Trudi’s sexy purr into something quite high and fey. She turns her head and glimpses at the empty side of the bed. Perhaps sees the phantom climax that could chill her out. — I don’t want to sit nattering with old people. I’ve nothing to say to them.

— Me neither. But let’s get the boring shit oot ay the way while we’re jet-lagged, Lennox says, shaking the phone.

— Okay, Trudi concedes, — I suppose we’ve got plenty time.

— Attagirl, he responds, instantly aware of the strange in-appropriateness of the term. Lennox can’t look at her, as he calls his friend Ginger. Trudi can hear the voice of the old retired cop through the receiver: grating and loud, charged with the dangerous enthusiasm of Scotsmen bonding.

Lennox puts the phone down. Informs Trudi that Ginger will pick them up later on, and that they’ll get a drink and a bite to eat. Watches something sink inside her. Defensively, he looks across to the table. The glass of water seems to have shifted a few inches to the right.

Then, Trudi’s elevated sigh of resignation: — I’ll only come if you promise not to talk about police stuff.

— Deal. Lennox feels his face muscles relax in relief. — But we should go down for that cocktail first. It’s complimentary, he picks up the voucher they had given him at the desk during check-in. Displays it to her.

A South Beach welcome:

Complimentary afternoon cocktail: 2–4 p.m.

— You have to watch the drinking, Ray. It’s so silly. You put in so much work at NA…

He moves over to the table. The glass from this angle seems normal. — I just want to drink socially. I don’t want to be in recovery all the time. It’s not as if I’m going to get cocaine here, he shakes his head, realising where he is, adding tamely, — even if I wanted to, which I most certainly don’t.

Her eyes roll. She changes tack. — Why don’t you phone your mum? Just to tell her that we got here safely. She’ll be worried.

— No way, Lennox says emphatically. — Let’s grab that cocktail, he urges, trying to keep the need out of his voice.

During the check-in Lennox had already decided that the boutique hotel was not to his taste. The slick metal-and-chrome surfaces, exuberant artwork on the walls, draped mirrors and lean chandeliers didn’t bug him; he has nothing against luxury and decadence. It just felt too public, and when they get down to have their cocktail it’s become very busy at the bar. Lennox kills his vodka Martini quickly. Then he’s struck by an inkling that, with her marginally deeper breathing, and control over her glass so that it makes no sound every time she sets it back down on the marble table, Trudi is as tense as he is. Her behaviour frays his nerves more effectively than any violent outburst, and makes him want to go outside. The people, both staff and customers, strut and preen like catwalk models, everybody sneakily checking out everyone else while all the time cultivating an air of studied aloofness. He looks to the door. — Let’s explore a bit before Ginger comes tae pick us up.

Outside it is hot. He recalls the TV forecaster saying it was unseasonably warm for winter. It was usually only around seventy-five degrees in January, but it has soared into the mid-nineties. Lennox is baking. That is how he feels. Like he is baking in a big oven. His brains a stew in the casserole dish of his skull. It’s too hot to walk far. They sit down on the patio of a bar-restaurant. A flashbulb-smiling girl flourishingly hands them a menu card.

— It’s roastin, he says lazily, from behind his shades as he and Trudi sit al fresco sipping another cocktail, this time a Sea Breeze. They have only gone one block. Collins Avenue on to Ocean Drive. Strutting holidaying youths pass by, enjoying the bounty of their years and wealth; waxed macho boys pumped up with muscle, giggling and pouting girls in bikinis and sarongs, older women trying to emulate them with some help from pills, scalpels and chemicals. Tropically smart Latin men in white suits smoke Cuban cigars the same colour as their girlfriends. Salsa and mambo music fills the air, and a programmed bass pulses out from somewhere. The sea is close, across the busy two-way street. Behind a couple of Bermuda-grass verges, some tarmac and a few palm trees is a strip of sand and then the ocean. You can’t see it, but you know it’s there.

— Ray! Trudi’s hand scalds his forehead. He winces. Like she’d branded him with a heated iron. — You’re burning up!

Rising and skipping off towards the shop next door, Trudi returns with a New York Yankees baseball cap. She pulls it over his head. It feels better. — Sitting frying your brains out! With that haircut you’ve no protection in this sun!

She delves into her straw bag, producing a tube of sunblock and swathing it on his neck and arms,