She placed the laptop on the table and sat, but she felt no interest in developing her notes. She leaned back and watched the golfer.
Off and on all day, she had wondered how Charlie would react to Naples. He had done well himself, but she thought so much conspicuous wealth would put him off. Noelle had shown her neighborhoods full of mini-mansions lifted out of Tuscany, Paris, the French and Italian Riviera. Along Davis Boulevard, they had passed a condo-retail development called Bayfront. Facing the Gordon River, it looked as though the whole thing had been transported from the Grand Canal in Venice.
Then Noelle had driven south to Port Royal. Here was where Sweeney said Naples’s Old Money lived. Brenda caught glimpses of actual mansions blinking through giant banyan trees, safely removed from “riffraff.” If Port Royal’s your heart’s desire, Noelle said, you need your hedge fund to be doing gangbusters.
None of it would impress Charlie Schmidt. Sometimes he was self-conscious, but not for reasons of class or money. At ball games or movies, she caught him checking people’s faces, looking for signs they disapproved of the difference in their ages. It amused her because it meant nothing to her.
Nothing, she thought. Nothing was just a word, but it weighed on her.
A sudden, mingled sense of fear and loss made her reach into her skirt pocket. She got out her phone, flipped it open and looked at his number. What could be the harm in calling? They had never hurt or disappointed each other. But that didn’t matter. He hadn’t called because he knew she was right. There was no future for them.
She stared at the phone’s brightly lit menu of speed-dial numbers. Your life in list form, Brenda thought. Charlie first, then her mother, her brother, five magazine and two book editors. Joyce Delarossa from her days in TV. Ned Chambers, her cameraman. Marion Ross, Tina Bostwick.
Nothing, she thought. Because you killed a man.
But she had never felt guilt over what she’d done. In all the times Brenda had relived the moment, not once did anything like doubt come to her. She hardly considered it a crime. It doesn’t matter, she thought, looking down at the small screen. You killed someone. And then you forced Charlie Schmidt to help cover it up.
She pressed with her thumb and deleted his number.
“See, like I can tell you’re into organic.”
Stuckey drew on the joint and held it for several seconds. “It’s a thing you can see.” He sucked more air and handed the joint to the girl.
She took a small hit “Wow—” and another. “How’s that work?”
“The eyes are real clear, like yours. The skin has this quality.”
It was hard working all day with old people. Either they kept wanting something, or wouldn’t shut up. Stuckey was sure the stress screwed up your electrolytes and biorhythms. You had to get away, be with people like yourself who were normal.
“Wow,” the girl said again. “That’s so cool. Like you can see from someone’s eyes and skin how they eat.”
“If you’re trained,” he said. “I don’t do auras, but I know there’s a difference. You can feel it right away. You see someone with really bad skin? Scarring and acne, a lot of blackheads? You’re always, I mean always looking at animal protein. Eat organic, and it doesn’t happen.”
“But you’re drinking,” she said. “Isn’t alcohol empty calories? Like, just carbs? And if you drink, doesn’t that, like, fuck up the good chemistry?”
As soon as the nurse arrived at four, Stuckey had left the Burlson condo and come to the beach. Usually he didn’t drink anything but micro-brewed beers made with natural ingredients and few preservatives. Bobo’s was more your no-neck type jock bar that catered to students. All they had was shit like Bud and Miller Lite, but girls came here to hook up.
“This is just Absolut and Evian with lime,” he said. “See, it’s all about metabolism. If you’re into an active lifestyle, it doesn’t matter.”
“Active is cool—”
Seated on the sand and listening to music coming from inside, the girl did her Limbo thing with her arms and shoulders, wiggling her ass. She was in a tube top and terry cloth shorts, cut off to show the bottom fold of her ass. Also to give you a peek at part of the tattoo on her inner thigh. Stuckey thought it was a dragon’s tail, the actual dragon part somewhere near her goodies, breathing fire or some shit. Shelley, her name was. The thing with her arms was like her signature move, to tell you she was hot. Plus, she was now feeling the Jamaican gold.
Girls liked Bobo’s. It was on Barefoot Beach north of Naples, what the locals called a Chickee bar, with a thatched roof open on three sides. They were sitting on sand still warm to the touch, looking out at the Gulf. Boats offshore rose and sank as music thudded behind them.
A nice vibe, Stuckey thought. Not the best but good enough for Florida. The best vibe was in a hot spring, like the ones in Oregon. With good dope and others like yourself. You just met them and read the signs with others who were into nature. Into respecting your body and expanding ideas by being with people who had seen and traveled a lot like yourself. People who could pass on and share their wisdom.
Bobo’s had these little plastic tables with a screw on the base you turned into the sand, like a drill. He had bought Shelley tequila and Corona beer, the shitty Mexican lager no one who knew anything ever touched. She liked shoving the piece of lime into the bottle, thinking it was cool. Two shots of Cuervo Silver inside, three here, the glasses lined up on the screw table,
