“He’s a reporter. You’ll have tons to talk about,” she said.
Ratay extended a hand and he and Behr shook.
“Frank Behr. I’ve read you,” Behr said. Ratay was a crime reporter who delivered a steady supply of terse, informative descriptions of home invasions, domestic beatings, and drug murders to the Star’s readership.
“Pleasure,” Ratay said, putting his cigarette between his lips. “Have I heard your name?” he asked, breathing out a cloud of smoke.
“Could have. Couldn’t have been recent,” Behr said. Ratay just shrugged.
Lindsey, followed by some of the others, all carrying beers, made his way down to the dock. “First flotilla’s leaving. Who’s aboard?” he shouted.
“I’m in,” Susan called. She turned to Behr. “You coming?”
“You go ahead,” he said. “I’ll go change and get on the next ride.” She nodded and went after the group, which included Chad.
Behr went back to the car and took his time about it. He stood behind the open trunk and changed into shorts. He strolled back down to the picnic table where the landlubbers were congregated. Across the way, Ratay was finished smoking but didn’t rejoin the group. Instead, he sat down on a stump and watched the boats zip back and forth on the lake.
“You’re a strong-looking boy, you’re drafted,” the nearly sixty-year-old Claire Lindsey said, pointing to a big bag of Kingsford briquettes. He hadn’t been called a boy in some time. Amused, Behr hefted the bag, dumped it into a nearby Weber Kettle, and made a pyramid as directed by the hostess. He doused it with lighter fluid, tossed a match, and then grabbed a beer. Ratay drifted over and offered Behr a cigarette from his pack. Behr declined. Ratay lit his own by waving the end through the orange flame that leaped out of the grill. Behr sipped his beer, Ratay smoked, and they both settled in to watch the charcoal whiten.
Before long the boat returned and Susan and Chad came up the dock together laughing over some office joke.
“Holding down the fort?” Chad asked.
“Yep. All taken care of,” Behr said. Susan gave him a “be nice” look.
“Late enough for you yet?” Chad asked Susan, opening a fresh beer. She shrugged and accepted the bottle, though she didn’t drink from it. She set it down in front of her, Behr noticed.
“You’ve gotta come out on the boat, Frank. It’s awesome,” she said.
“Okay,” he said, “in a while.”
Claire was hovering over a cooler pulling out hamburger patties. Susan saw it and went to her. “Let me help you get those going, Claire
…”
Chad leaned against the table near Behr. “So what do you do, dead eyes?” Chad asked. Behr turned and stared into Chad’s silver-framed sunglasses, the word “Armani” stenciled on the left lens.
“I’m a librarian,” he said. Behr felt Ratay smirk over his shoulder.
“Yeah? Interesting work. Dewey Decimal and all,” Chad tried to play back. Maybe he was just making conversation.
“Right.” Behr walked away. He found a spot that looked out over a glen of trees and toward a cove that held a few luxury houses that shared a common dock. He stood there for a while thinking about Aurelio, and how to get a toehold in his investigation.
“Beautiful isn’t it?” Susan said, putting a soft hand on the small of his back. Behr nodded. More than that, he appreciated the gesture. “Wouldn’t be too bad having a place out here,” she said.
“Nope,” he agreed, “sure wouldn’t.” He figured he might as well keep it positive, but that was the ten years between them talking. At her age, he’d have thought, “Why not?” just like her. Now he knew why.
“Let’s go out on the boat and get a burger when we’re back,” she suggested.
“Sure thing, Suzy Q.,” he said.
“Oh, stop. He’s harmless.” She elbowed him.
Behr followed her and a few others down the dock. He felt Chad walking behind them without even looking back, and as they boarded, he saw he was right.
“Hang on, my babies,” Ed said, behind the wheel, and he pushed the throttle forward, jumping the big Evinrude outboard to life. Behr could see what looked like a large rubber banana with handles tied to the port side. As they reached the middle of the lake, Ed throttled down to an idle. He moved to the side and untied the yellow float, letting it pay out behind the boat on a long nylon rope. “All right,” he said, “who’s up for a ride?”
“I’m first,” Susan said, letting her skirt fall to the floor of the boat.
“No thong, Suze? Awwwww,” Chad said. Behr looked at him and considered punching him in the face.
“Shut it, Chad,” she said, jumping into the lake. A moment later she surfaced with a “Yeow! Cold.”
“How many does it hold, Eddie?” Chad said, peeling off his shirt. Behr saw Chad had a suntan over hairless washboard abs. It looked like he shaved or waxed himself down like a triathlete.
“Four,” Ed said, “unless Frank wants to go. In that case we should hold it to three.”
“I’m good for now,” Behr said as Chad hit the water with a splash. Jenny, a chunky thirty-year-old from layout, stripped down to a one-piece and lumbered over the gunwale.
“Wait up,” Jenny said, swimming toward them as Susan and Chad slipped and slid over the inflatable, finding their spots.
“Come on, Jenny-girl,” Chad said. Behr tried to spot a look of disappointment on Chad’s face at the intrusion, but the glare off the lake was too bright.
“Hold on,” Ed yelled and powered up. The boat cut the lake. Behind them the inflatable bounced and churned in their wake. The three riders howled and held on.
“Thanks for having me out, Ed,” Behr called over the roar of the engine. “Real nice spot.”
“Sure thing, Frank. The more the merrier. Been wanting to meet you. Susan always talks about you so-” Ed looked forward and turned the boat and his last words were carried away on the humid summer air. Behr didn’t bother asking him to repeat it and instead leaned against a rear-facing seat and looked behind them.
Susan’s smile traveled back to him over the forty-foot distance of the towrope. The sun bounced golden off her hair. Behr took a seat in the stern, his beer between his knees, and watched for a moment, then turned his face straight up at the sun until it burned white in his eyes.
FOURTEEN
Peanut Marbry sat in Killah, his stock-to-shock Dodge Neon, and fucked with the bass setting on the Alpine, waking up the Bazooka tube mounted in the back window. The car started to thump and shudder to “Soulja Boy.”
“When they come, I’m gonna go with them,” Peanut said over the music. “You follow. You know where we going. Let us back on down first, then you come next. Back on down too, don’t front in. Keep it runnin’, won’t be long at that point.”
Nixie Buncher, sunk low in the Katzkin leather passenger seat, nodded one time. Peanut knew he had the drill. Nixie only needed to hear a play once and he was locked on. That was why Peanut ran with him, even though homey was skinny as a greyhound track dog.
“You notice bad shit always go down when them Schlegels around?” Nixie asked.
Peanut said nothing.
“Hear they walk some dudes out they bar one night and nobody see ’em since?” Nixie said.
“Bad shit happen to good people, yo,” Peanut answered. “Ever notice we get paid when they around?”
“Shit-talking white boys,” Nixie said, tsking through his teeth. “What you oughta do is take him out. Charlie. Bim-bam,” he went on, sticking out a left-right combo. “The minute any one of ’em say shit. Once Charlie Boy’s on the ground, them others scatter.”
Nixie reached out a long arm and slapped the crown-shaped pump bottle on the dash two, then three times, filling the car with the scent of Tropical Rainbow.
Peanut shook his head. “Nah, man, first off that’s bad fiscals. Second, them Schlegels’d just keep
