chalk.
“Like kids use?”
“Right-it doesn’t have to be colored or anything.”
“I think we do.”
“And you wouldn’t happen to have a magnifying glass?”
“Like Sherlock Holmes?”
“Exactly.”
She smiled; nice dimples. “I think we have that, too.”
I bought both items, while the cop in the bright shirt pondered the varieties of aspirin on a nearby shelf.
Back outside, I found the nearest alleyway and ducked in. I stood before the brick wall that was the side of the pharmacy and studied it; out of the corner of my eye, I watched for the cop to peek around.
He did.
I studied that wall carefully, like I was an art critic and it was a would-be Picasso. Then I began examining portions of the wall with the magnifying glass. Touching the brick here and there…
“Hmmmm,” I’d say from time to time, rubbing my fingers together, as if examining a suspicious substance.
Finally I drew a large chalk circle on the brick wall, put my chalk and magnifying glass away and stood smiling at my artwork, rubbing my hands in satisfaction.
“Yes!” I said. “Yes.”
The shadow stayed behind as I walked back to the B.C., where I called Marjorie from the phone in my room.
“Nathan,” she said. “Before we go out doing things tonight, I was thinkin’ about makin’ some supper for you….”
I heard a click on the phone line.
“Marjorie, that’s great. I’ll be over in half an hour.”
“That’s a little early, but I don’t mind….”
“Good,” I said. “See you.”
And I hung up; it probably seemed a little sudden to her, but that click had made me wonder. I was being shadowed-was I being bugged, as well?
I picked up the phone, got an outside line, and dialed a random number.
“Hello, Watkins speaking,” a thickly British voice said.
“Don’t say another word,” I said. “I’m being watched. Meet me at Fort Charlotte in half an hour. Have the evidence with you.”
I hung up.
On my way to Marjorie’s in the Chevy sedan, I swung around by Bay Street; it wasn’t on the way, but I wanted to have a look. I almost started crying with laughter, at the sight of the half-dozen black coppers, in their fancy dress uniforms, and pudgy Captain Melchen, all standing there, baffled, gazing at that circle I’d drawn on the alley wall.
As I passed by Fort Charlotte, on my way to Westbourne, I thought about pulling in so I could watch the cops show up for my nonexistent rendezvous.
But I was more anxious to see Marjorie Bristol.
15
I drove past Westbourne and doubled back before pulling into the country club parking lot, just to make sure I’d shaken my tail. Apparently I had, but I got out of the Chevy and ducked behind a palm, anyway, and waited to see if anybody else pulled in. Nobody did.
As I watched, however, I had one of those stupid moments that I assume others must occasionally have, of which I have more than my share: I wondered why it had gotten so dark out so early, before remembering I was still wearing my sunglasses. I slipped them into my sport-shirt pocket-I wore no coat with my slacks, and was hatless, wearing sandals with no socks, looking more like a tourist than a detective, I supposed. Maybe
Only a few cars were in the graveled lot, and I walked toward the tennis courts and the subtle thunder of the ocean beyond, a cooler, less humid breeze ruffling the trees and the grass and my hair. At dusk, the palms positioned against a gray sky, the beds of colorful flowers muted now, had an otherworldly beauty; I felt alone, but it was a nice feeling, solitary not lonely.
Even in twilight, the beach looked ivory; the gun-metal sea looked peaceful, tide rolling lazily in. I stood staring for a moment, hands in my pockets, thinking about the invasion that was under way somewhere across these vast waters-the Allies were moving across Sicily, and in the paper today the Pope was bitching about us bombing Rome-but I couldn’t make it anything but abstract.
Then a land crab scuttled across my path, and I jumped back, and shivered. Closed my eyes. Breathed slowly.
The little bastard had made it real for me again.
Through Marjorie’s open windows the smells of cooking drew me toward her cottage like I was Hansel and she was a wickedly delicious witch and as for Gretel, well, to hell with Gretel.
I knocked once and waited, to give my hostess a chance to put lids on the steaming pots I pictured her tending. When the door opened, she looked a little harried, her brow pearled with sweat under a white bandanna; she grinned, though, and motioned me in. She wore a white blouse with an inadequately aproned wide blue-and- white-checked skirt that swirled over petticoats as she moved back to the stove.
“Smells wonderful,” I said, and it did, the spicy fragrances a virtual culinary aphrodisiac. I sat at the round table, where two woven sisal place mats waited, along with the usual bowl of cut flowers.
“I hope you like this,” she said. “I been workin’ on it all afternoon. The main course isn’t so hard, but dessert is gonna be real special.”
Watching her slim graceful form, as she moved from this pot to that, I could think of something that would make a real special dessert, myself.
That lecherous thought aside-and despite the lingering memory of last night’s sweet kiss-I was determined to be a gentleman this evening. Marjorie Bristol was as intelligent as she was lovely, and as vulnerable as she was ladylike; hurdling the racial barrier between us, not to mention the cultural one, was a peril I didn’t wish to subject her to.
Or me either, for that matter. Friendship, possibly mild flirtation, was the limit, here.
“You said you weren’t sick of conch,” she said, serving me a small bowl of chowder, “and I took you at your word.”
“Out of this world,” I said, savoring a spoonful. The spicy soup was thick and the chunks of conch mingled with diced potatoes, tomatoes and various other vegetables. I didn’t even dip into the oyster crackers she provided.
She seemed to spend more time watching me eat than eating herself, and her childlike smile at my enjoyment was infectious. Halfway through the soup, she added an appetizer to the table, crunch-battered, mild- tasting fish fingers.
“Grouper,” she said.
They didn’t serve this at Billy Ireland’s back in Chicago; but they should have.
The main course was a plate of well-spiced rice with onions and tomatoes and big white tender chunks of meat.
“Crab?” I said, and smiled a little.
“Your enemy,” she said. “I thought you might like to triumph over him.”
I had a bite and said, “He tastes a hell of a lot better than he looks.”
She ate a bite herself, then studied me, those huge long-lashed brown eyes turning soulful. “You don’t look like a man who’s much afraid of anythin’. Why does a little animal give a big man like you such a start?”
