Randy White - Gone

No… the man wasn’t handsome. It was the same surly-looking face I’d studied before. Round dark eyes, and a leering expression that had a dirtiness about it. The same gaunt cheeks of a man who worked too hard with his hands and muscles to accumulate fat, but an otherwise ordinary face. Not good-looking, not even the oddball attractiveness that some plain-looking men have. I couldn’t understand how someone who worked for hourly wages, and wasn’t handsome, could have buried a hook so deeply into Mrs. Whitney’s heart. But he had.

“What’s the family’s name?” The woman had her hands on the table, leaning toward me. She was asking about Olivia Seasons, I realized.

“Like a lot of people on the islands,” I replied, “they’re real private.”

“I don’t really care what their damn name is!” the woman said, getting madder. “I’m trying to find out if they’re actually wealthy or just have a lot of money. There’s a difference.”

The way Mrs. Whitney said it told me the difference had to do not only with snobbery but also something that ran deeper. “You’d recognize the name,” I replied. “I imagine you and your friends go to the same parties, if-” I stopped myself before saying if you still go to parties . Instead, I finished “-which might help you sympathize with the girl’s situation. Knowing you have more in common than just him.” I tapped the photograph again, but she still wouldn’t look at it.

“What would you know about the people I socialize with? Outsiders and real estate bums crash parties all the time on Captiva. Tell me her goddamn name or you can waltz your big ass out of here!” The woman was being mean again, but not in the same way. This was more like a test, with some jealousy thrown in. Mrs. Whitney was dying to know who Ricky Meeks was with, which gave me hope she’d open up if I could win her confidence.

I stayed calm, just as I did with Loretta when she’s being stubborn, and named fund-raising parties in Palm Beach and Sarasota I’d heard about from some of my fishing clients, including Lawrence Seasons. Then I took a chance and added, “They’re part of the same group that goes to house parties and fund-raisers in Naples. A wealthy section called Port Royal-you know the place?”

The woman didn’t say anything for a couple of seconds. “How could someone like you know about parties in Port Royal?”

Thanks to what I’d overheard on my boat, I added other convincing details. “The girl’s family attends the big Valentine’s fund-raiser every year. The Wine Fest, too-which is bigger than the polo thing in Palm Beach. And why they don’t bother with it anymore.”

Until that instant, Mrs. Whitney hadn’t looked at me, not really. I’d been a faceless female who might have been hired to trim bushes or clean floors but who, instead, had invaded her privacy with pestering questions and some bad memories, too. Now the woman was assessing me, concentrating in a way that seemed to sober her. “You understand more than I gave you credit for,” she said finally.

I looked the woman in the eye but didn’t offer a comment.

After a few more moments, she said, “Okay. So you might possibly know the difference between wealth and flashy money. You know people in our circle, anyway. But, bottom line, you’re not going to tell me the family’s name. Are you?”

“If we decide to trust each other, I will-but only if I get their permission first. I won’t say I’ve never broken a promise, but it’s not something that comes easy.”

I learned something new about Mrs. Whitney from the way she misunderstood me. “Comes easily or comes cheaply?” she asked, pretending not to care much either way. “You expect me to pay for the name of a girl you want me to help? Just for laughs, name a figure. A thousand? Five thousand?”

The woman would have paid that and more to find out what she wanted to know. I could read it in her eyes. That’s how desperate being with Ricky Meeks had made her, which for the first time, caused me to feel spooked and wonder what I was getting into. But I stayed calm, and told her, “You took what I said wrong. No point in discussing it.”

“Honest and trustworthy,” Mrs. Whitney shot back with a sneer. “I suppose you’re brave and reverent, too.”

I had to smile at that. Mrs. Whitney didn’t have any psychic powers, that was for sure, or she’d have seen I was not the virtuous woman she’d just described. “Dependable,” I responded. “That’s about all I can claim. So you might as well drop the subject of money or the girl’s name.”

When the woman was angry, her nostrils flared. They flared now, spouting cigarette smoke. “You’re a stubborn little bitch. Know that?”

“If it was your privacy I was protecting,” I replied, feeling my face redden, “maybe you’d see it differently. I know you’re mad. If it helps you feel better talking that way, I don’t mind-as long as there’s a chance of helping the girl we’re discussing.”

The woman leaned closer, and I realized she had spotted the faint scars that had made life miserable in high school. My abdomen went tense, but it didn’t last. I’ve gotten over that embarrassment-more or less. Instead of providing another target for her meanness, though, my dabble of scars-mostly hidden by the way I wear my hair-caused the woman to soften for some reason.

“Pass that here, would you?” Mrs. Whitney was stabbing an ashtray with her cigarette but also looking at the photograph of Ricky Meeks. There was a shakiness in her voice that told me she was done being mad and giving in to something else. Plain weary of being mean was a possibility. Or maybe she’d been reminded of scars she had carried into adulthood, as all people must.

She took a breath, reached for the photo, hesitated, then finally held the face of Ricky Meeks an arm’s length from her own. “You son of a bitch,” she whispered. What felt like a minute later she said, “You filthy animal.”

After that, I didn’t watch. The woman was battling her emotions so hard I got up and went to the kitchen out of respect for her privacy. In the cupboard, I found Tetley tea bags and a can of Campbell’s chicken noodle, which I heated in a pan without adding water. Strong soup would be good for someone in Mrs. Whitney’s condition. Aside from some canned milk and stale crackers, there wasn’t much else in the cupboards but stacks of tinned capers, cocktail onions, rolled anchovies, and other stuff no one uses unless they’re making a pizza or having a party.

On the counter, there were also three more little bottles of whiskey, part of a six-pack Nathan had managed to find. I knew it would be wrong of me to get the woman drunker in hopes she’d talk about Ricky Meeks. The last thing a fragile little thing like her needed was more alcohol. So I wrestled with my conscience until I found just the right lie to excuse my sneakiness, then carried the soup, a cup of milky tea, and the whiskey into the main room.

Mrs. Whitney was old enough to make her own decisions-to ease my guilt, that’s what I’d told myself. But the lie didn’t help when I saw the state she was in. The woman’s face was so pale and makeup-streaked from crying, I didn’t think I could feel any worse than I did when I put that tray on the table.

I was wrong. Without hesitating, the woman moved the cup and soup bowl out of her way and went straight for the whiskey as I knew she would.

“You asked if he’s dangerous,” she coughed, the first miniature bottle down her. “ Yes. He’s dangerous. And what he does-the goddamn pervert, he’s a thief, too-he does it without breaking the law. He’s not smart, but he can smell weakness. It’s like an animal thing. And that’s a hell of a lot more dangerous than being smart.”