Randy White - Gone

Returning to the chair where I’d been sitting, I said, “While we’re on the subject of pictures, you mind taking a quick look at this?” I opened the grocery bag I’d placed on the floor beside me.

Nate said quickly, “I don’t think Darre would be interested,” sounding nervous, and then waited through several seconds of silence before asking me, “Where’d you get that?” The bag, he meant.

Aside from a manila envelope with the photo of Ricky Meeks, the grocery bag, which read Bailey’s Store , contained a few things Mrs. Whitney had given me, including the Chantelle bra, and a beautiful blouse that I’d hand-washed in Woolite while waiting for a load of wash to finish and after putting away bags of groceries and liquor that had been delivered. The woman had behaved almost fondly toward me at the end when she saw I was willing to work to help clean up the mess her life had become. That work included phoning her attorney and her doctor, alerting both that the woman needed some assistance. The fact that Mrs. Whitney and I wore the same bra size-34D-had helped, too. It created a sisterly feeling that is often the reward when women share private matters they wouldn’t entrust to a man.

Closing the bag, I said to Nate, “Just some things,” then walked the manila envelope across the room and placed the photo in front of Darren. “You mind? Maybe the camera lens sees something my eyes don’t.”

Darren had some snobbery in him when it came to photos but appeared to relax when he realized the wrinkled eight-by-ten was just a picture, not someone’s attempt at art.

“A snapshot,” he shrugged after a glance. “What do you want me to say? Is this a relative of yours?” Darren patted the pockets of a white guayabera he’d bought on a trip to Cuba. “Where’d I leave my glasses, Nate? Damn it, in the bedroom, I bet. Would you be a dear?”

Nathan stood, face reddening, and it was still red when he returned.

The famous photographer’s reaction was much different, once he had his glasses fixed low on his nose. I watched him take another fast glance and do a double take. After several seconds of scrutiny, he looked at Nate and asked, “How do you know this person?” which sounded like an accusation, and also contained a hint of distaste.

“We don’t,” I said. “Nate saw him a few times at the Rum Bar, that’s all. There’s something about the picture that upsets you, I can tell. Is it what the camera shows? Or maybe you’ve seen that man before.”

Darren knew something about Ricky Meeks, I felt sure of it. Maybe even met him. Either way, it wasn’t surprising. Darren wasn’t wealthy by Mrs. Whitney’s standards, just rich with money he’d earned on his own. Even so, he moved in the same social circles-when he wanted. At parties and fund-raisers, being famous is better than being wealthy as far as a guest list is concerned. This was something else I’d learned from fishing clients.

Darren picked up the photo, thought for a moment, then placed Ricky Meeks’s face down on the counter. “He was my neighbor’s boy toy for a while. I saw him around a few times.” The man used his glass to indicate the photo and then lit a cigarette. “She gave this to you? I wouldn’t be surprised, the sad, pathetic old bitch. She probably still has the hots for him.”

I felt a tightening in my head that was anger, but showing it wouldn’t keep Darren talking, so I asked, “Does the picture tell you anything different from what your eyes saw?”

“No… and yes.” He touched the photo as if to take another look, then decided it wasn’t necessary. “The guy’s white trash. A vicious little animal who isolates rich, lonely women, then screws them into submission. That’s my guess. Even a cheap camera tells part of the story. The rest I know because I have incredible instincts for people. Human sexual drive is the ultimate power-weren’t we just talking about that?”

I started to dig for useful details, but Darren interrupted, saying, “Why the questions? More important-if we expect to have any fun tonight-who’s going to join me?” The man raised his empty glass, his face masked with another smile, but suspicious. From Darren’s tone and the way he eyed me, I could tell he expected drinking company-if I expected him to confide what he knew.

I replied, “My uncle found a good mojito recipe in Havana. Otherwise, I stick to red wine.”

The photographer, not listening, was already lining two fresh rocks glasses on the bar, the bottle of scotch nearby.

WALKING ME TO THE DOCK THROUGH SHADOWS, NATHAN took my elbow and said, “Are you sure you’re okay to drive? I hate you crossing that bay by yourself. It’s so damn dark.”

He was right about that. Through an opening in the foliage, I could see my skiff, the dock, then a horizon of water so black that a heaven of stars did not brighten it, nor a crescent moon, new and waxing, that was drifting west over palm trees toward Mexico.

“You’ve got to make Darren quit smoking,” I replied, sniffing a strand of my hair, then my shirt. “It stinks even worse than his whiskey. I’ll have to wash everything and take two showers. Where else can I do it but home?”

“ Here… please? Seriously, Four. You can’t see a goddamn thing out there. When Darre drives me home later, he’ll drop you off. He already said so.”

Later? In my opinion, Darren had no intention of taking Nathan home. No matter what the man pretended, his patient manipulation and gentle words only made his intentions more obvious. Nate might be shy, but he isn’t dumb, and I suspected he knew the truth, too.

It was already 9:45, an hour after sunset. Amazing how fast time had passed after I’d sipped down a glass of liquor that, at first, tasted like peat moss soaked in vodka. After that, it had tasted smoother, but I’d been too focused on what Darren was saying to risk getting drunk. So I’d dumped most of the next two glasses into a potted palm, determined to remember details about the life Mrs. Whitney had lived while she was under the spell of Ricky Meeks.

After I’d explained to Darren about Olivia Seasons-without naming names, of course-he was eager to help and knew more than I could have hoped. It wasn’t because he was chummy with Mrs. Whitney. It was because he was fond of booking a cabin on an overnight luxury yacht that sailed four times a month to Key West, then back again the next day. Twice, he’d seen Meeks and Elka Whitney aboard that vessel, which is how he’d learned so much without even exchanging a word. Or so he claimed.

The boat, named Sybarite , was moored at Fishermans Wharf, near Fort Myers Beach, and was unlike any luxury cruiser I’d ever heard about. For one thing, the price of a one-night cabin cost more than I make during a month of fishing, even at peak season. Another oddity was that a regular person couldn’t buy passage, even if he offered twice the fare. New passengers had to be recommended by established clients or invited aboard by the owners. Or they had to be someone obviously special in a rock star sort of way.

It had taken Darren an hour of hinting around, and several more whiskeys, before he’d finally described those cruises in plain words-but only after reading the definition of sybarite to us from the dictionary.

“Hedonist… sensualist. Voluptuary, libertine… pleasure seeker!” Darren had spoken each word in an alluring way as if reciting a list of fine wines, each delicious. The dictionary did nothing for me, but I will admit that I began to feel my body changing when his low voice detailed some of the scenes he’d witnessed. Not at first, of course. It was a slow feeling that came over me-a heated restlessness made more intense because of the whiskey I was sipping.