The Midnight Tour

There’s a thought.

Make guys pay big bucks...

Yuck. No way.

There’s gotta be something else I can do.

What am I good at? she wondered. I’m a hell of a Beast House tour guide. But that won’t do me much good here and I can’t exactly go back.

Besides, no matter what I can do, nobody’ll hire me for any sort of legit job without an i.d. and Social Security number.

Maybe there’s something I can freelance at. Something I can do part time.

Clean houses? Do yard work? Wash cars?

Beg on street corners?

Done with breakfast, depressed, Sandy parted with her money and went outside. She crossed the road and walked on the beach.

I’d better get to the store, she told herself.

Later. Just a link later

She always felt better about life when she walked on the beach. Something about the fresh breeze, the sunlight, the steady roaring wash of the surf, the feel of the sand under her feet. They gave her a feeling of freedom, of wonderful possibilities.

She took off her shoes and socks, the better to feel the sand.

I’ll think of something, she told herself as she strolled along.

This was obviously Fort Platt’s main public beach. Though it wasn’t exactly crowded, several people were sunbathing, stretched out on towels, napping or listening to radios or reading paperback books. Some kids played in the water. A gal was running with her Golden Retriever through the wet sand near the water’s edge. A couple of young guys were tossing a Frisbee back and forth. Off in the distance, an artist was busy at a canvas. His subject appeared to be a tawny young man standing beside a surfboard.

That’s it, Sandy thought. I’ll be an artist.

A stick-up artist—the Jesse James of the Fort Platt beach.

She smirked at the notion.

But then she remembered Harry’s pistol in her purse.

She could rob someone.

No way. I’d rather be a whore than a thief.

From another part of her mind, a voice chided, What’s a little armed robbery? You’re too good to be a thief? You murdered three people, remember? Four if you count slitting the throat of Lib’s husband.”

He shouldn’t count, she told herself. He was probably dead already.

Anyway, she thought, I’m not going to rob anyone. I won’t stoop to that. And even if I wanted to stoop that low, it’d be too damn stupid and dangerous. A stunt like that could get me thrown in jail. Then what would happen to Eric?

Nearing the artist and his model, Sandy realized that she would be walking between them if she didn’t change course. The guy posing with his surf board was right at the edge of the water. A wave would probably catch Sandy if she tried to walk behind him. Besides, she didn’t really want to go anywhere near the guy. She supposed he was handsome enough to be a movie star, but he looked a little spooky to her. He was oily, muscle-bound, brown from the sun, and all he had on was the skimpiest, clingiest white bikini swimsuit she’d ever seen on a guy in real life.

Maybe she’d better circle around behind the painter. He looked like a decent fellow. About fifty years old, she supposed. Somewhat frail but also vibrant. Tidy and dapper in his Panama hat, white shirt and white trousers.

Either go around behind him, or just turn back. She really should be getting to the store.

But as she stood there trying to make up her mind, the painter cast her a cheery glance and said, “Isn’t he just the most gorgeous specimen?”

“Sure,” she said. “If you say so.”

“Ha!”

The model, smirking at her, flexed a mound of bicep and made it hop.

“Oh, my,” the painter said. “Now you have him showing off.”

“I know I’m bowled over,” Sandy said.

“Fuck off, little girl,” the model said.

“Tyrone!” snapped the artist. He seemed aghast. “How could you!”

Tyrone answered with a snort.

“I’ll not have you speaking to people that way! Especially not lovely young ladies. Not while you’re in my employ! I won’t have it!”

“You won’t have it?” Tyrone asked, turning his smirk on the painter.

“No, I won’t.”

“Then fuck you, you old queer.”

“How utterly charming. Go away.”

“You owe me a hundred bucks.”

“I believe the deal was for fifty.”

“You believe wrong, asshole.” Tyrone let the surfboard fall to the sand, then strode forward.

“Well, I suppose a hundred...” The artist reached into the back pocket of his white trousers and pulled out his wallet.

Tyrone stepped around the easel, glanced at the canvas, then faced the older man and held out a hand.

“A hundred bucks,” Tyrone said, and snapped his finger.

“Don’t give it to him,” Sandy said.

The painter gave her a defeated look. “Oh, I believe I will.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I’d rather enjoy my health than...”

“I’m not even so sure you ought to give him fifty,” Sandy added. “I mean, you had to fire him. You’re not even done with the painting, are you?”

“No. I’d hardly gotten started on it.”

“Well, then...”

Tyrone turned on her. “Look here, bitch. I already warned you once. Now get the fuck outa here. Or do you want to me to hurt you?”

“You’re trying to rob this man,” Sandy pointed out.

“Ihat’s quite all right, dear. Please. I’ll pay him the money, and...”

“Just the fifty, then.”

“Okay, that’s it.” Tyrone trudged toward her, hunched over, arms out. “You’ve had it.”

But he lurched to a stop when Sandy pulled the pistol out of her purse, jabbed it straight out toward the middle of his chest and said in a low, calm voice, Just try it, bub. I’ll blow your ass to Kingdom Come.”

Tyrone gaped at her.

The painter, smiling gently, clapped his hands. “Bravo, young lady! Bravo!”

After accepting his fifty dollars, Tyrone hefted his surf board and trudged away, muttering.

“You are simply a marvel,” the painter told Sandy.

She put away the pistol, stepped up to him and offered her hand. “My name’s Ashley.”

“I’m Blaze.”

“Could you use a new model, Blaze?”

“Most certainly.”

“For fifty bucks, you can paint me.”

“I’d be most delighted.”

“Only thing is... What do you do with the paintings when you’re done with them?”

“Sell them. They afford me a modest income.”