The Deep Blue Alibi

Junior said the club was reachable only by a private bridge from the southern tip of Big Pine Key. He'd lowered his voice to tell Steve the password, 'Kon-tiki,' which they were to say to a guard at the gatehouse. It was all a little too Skull and Bonesy for Steve's taste. A rich man's private retreat, fat cats congratulating one another over rum and colas. Junior chuckled on the phone, saying he was sure they'd enjoy the 'ambience.'

Ambience, my ass. The phony bastard.

'So what's your plan?' Victoria asked.

Steve gave her a smile. 'I'm going to tell Junior to be a man. Save his father by turning himself in. Plead to manslaughter. Ten years, out in seven. Not too bad. Of course, he'll lose his tan.'

The man in the gatehouse wore a pith helmet and a navy shirt with epaulets. He smiled broadly when Steve whispered, 'Kon-tiki.'

'Have a good day, sir, ma'am,' the guard said. 'And watch out for sunburn.'

They crossed the bridge, and Victoria parked the Mini Cooper next to a silver Hummer with a trailer hitch. Junior's, she told Steve, as he unfolded himself from the little car. On the back bumper of the Navigator was a bumper sticker: 'Divers Do It Deeper.'

'Tacky,' he said. 'Very tacky.'

'You're one to talk. With those juvenile T-shirts.'

'Mine have meaning. They're not idle boasts.'

'You're all adolescents,' she said. 'All of you.'

They headed toward a clubhouse with bamboo walls and a thatched palm roof. Standing by the front door was an eight-foot carved wooden tiki, the Polynesian god. A long red tongue hung from his open mouth, looking distinctly obscene.

Steve heard the thwack of racket on ball. He took a closer look, first seeing a flash of movement, then a flash of flesh. Half hidden behind a row of sabal palms was a tennis court, two middle-aged couples playing doubles.

'I think the laundry workers are on strike.'

'What are you talking about?'

'The tennis players aren't wearing shirts. Or shorts, for that matter.'

Victoria peered between the trees.

A man shouted, 'Out? Out, my ass!'

Then a woman's voice, 'C'mon, Al. It was out. Forty love.'

'They're naked,' Victoria whispered, as if the tiki god might be eavesdropping.

'That's what I'm telling you. Junior wants us with our pants down. You, anyway.'

'Don't freak out. It's got to be one of those clothing-optional resorts.'

'Nothing optional about it,' said the young woman behind the rattan counter in the clubhouse. Woven tapa cloths hung on the bamboo walls, and in the corner, a red-and-blue mynah was perched on an artificial tree. 'Everyone's in the buff. Members, guests, staff.'

The woman had one of those Disney World smiles, as if she'd overdosed on nitrous oxide. Her name tag said 'Honey' and hung on a cord that snaked through the cleavage between her oversize, suntanned breasts. In Steve's estimation-based both on firsthand experience and defending Dr. Irwin Rudnick on med mal charges-Honey's grapefruit-shaped boobs had been surgically enhanced. 'Once you cross the bridge, it's all nude, all the time,' Honey emphasized. 'Even the luncheon buffet.'

'We're meeting a member,' Victoria said, and Steve refrained from making a really bad pun.

'Who would that be?' Honey inquired.

'Junior Griffin.'

'Oh, Mr. Grif-fin,' Honey purred. 'He's a big man around here.'

Again, Steve stifled himself.

'I'm an intern,' Honey volunteered. 'Hotel management at Florida State. Mr. Griffin is my mentor.'

'You're in good hands,' Victoria said.

'Both of them,' Steve remarked. A man can only resist so much temptation.

Honey pointed toward the locker rooms. After they disrobed-Honey confided that Junior-the-Mentor advised her never to say 'stripped'-they should follow the Tahiti Trail across Volcano Bridge and the Koi Lagoon. They'd pass the swimming pool and find Junior Griffin on the croquet court.

'Mr. Griffin swings the best mallet at the club,' Honey breathed, dreamily.

'Golly, is there anything that man can't do?' Steve said, agreeably.

'When he's got a clean shot, he always scores,' Honey said, her eyes aglow.

SOLOMON'S LAWS

8. If a guy who's smart, handsome, and rich invites you and your girlfriend to a nudist club. . chances are he's got a giant

shmeckel.

Thirty-one

SIZE MATTERS

'Do you think I'm flat-chested?' Victoria said.

'Absolutely not. You're well proportioned.'

'Is that like saying a plain girl has a good personality?'

'You're tall and sinewy and athletic with boobs that are perfect for the rest of your bod.'

'But small.'

'Not small, not big. Just the way I like them.'

'You're sure?'

'More than a handful is a waste.'

'So why were you staring at Honey's humongous bazooms?' she demanded, having trapped him on the road of cross-examination.

'Because looking away would have stamped me as a rookie.' Slipping out of the trap.

Naked and self-conscious, they passed a row of stone tikis that Victoria thought resembled the Easter Island gods. The path cut through a stand of mangrove trees, providing cover and a sense of security, for now.

'If a woman's a nudist, she wants you to look,' Steve continued. 'Proper etiquette requires a gaze. Not a long stare, but a look sufficient to appraise and appreciate.'

'Great excuse. You really are a good lawyer.' She'd been staring straight ahead, but now glanced at him. 'What's with the newspaper?'

'It was in the locker room.'

'And why are you holding it over your crotch?'

'No reason. I've been meaning to catch up on world affairs.'

'Really?' She grabbed the paper. Diario Las Americas. 'What's new in Tegucigalpa?'

A noise startled her. Just off the path, a woodpecker-as naked as they were-hammered at a bottlebrush tree. Victoria tried breathing deeply, inhaling the moist air laden with salt from nearby tidal pools.

She never considered herself an exhibitionist. If anything, she was shy about her body. But this posed a test, like competing for a spot on the law journal. She was determined to overcome her inhibitions, to win whatever was at stake.

I have a good body. And there's nothing wrong with nudity, right?

She was starting to convince herself. What was there to be embarrassed about?

Junior.

Junior would be naked, too. One gorgeous hunk of a man. What would he think of