Randy White - Gone

Which is why I wasn’t in a party mood as I strode along the seawall toward the dock where Sybarite was moored, its sleek hull and black windows glowing like molten metal, caught in the spotlight of a west-setting sun. On the vessel’s top deck, a few elegant-looking couples were already lounging against the rail, sipping drinks, while another half dozen guests made their way up the boarding ramp. Greeting them was a lean, busty woman in a white summer uniform consisting of slacks and a collared blouse.

It was Gabrielle Corrales, who had phoned me four times that afternoon, she was so excited about the party.

–

“ HANNAH? ” GABBY CALLED when she spotted me. “Hannah!” Soon the girl was galloping down the ramp, saying, “ ¡Mi mejor amiga! So glad to see you, honey!”

I didn’t expect my old classmate to fall into my arms so I could swing her around, but that’s what happened, which wouldn’t have bothered me if I wasn’t in such a sour mood. Worse, couples on the top deck were pointing at us and whispering, probably guessing that Gabby was either stoned or drunk.

I pulled away and blocked a second bear hug by stepping back to inspect the girl, saying, “You told me you weren’t wearing a uniform-not that you don’t look sharp. ’Cause you do.”

“It’s just temporary,” Gabby confided, but without much confidence. “Only until all the guests are aboard-I hope . Then I’ll change. It’s because most of the crew’s been invited, and Robert’s pissed off he’s so shorthanded.” The powdery smell of marijuana on the girl’s breath, I noticed, was as mild as her perfume.

Gabby was embarrassed about being dressed like hired help, not a guest, so I tried to reassure her, saying, “If I looked as nice, I wouldn’t bother changing. White’s such a good color on you.” The compliment had a purpose, but it was also true.

Gabby had been right about Sybarite ’stailored clothing. Creased slacks, crisp cotton blouse, sleeves the perfect length, and a firm starched collar that framed the girl’s pretty face. Buttons on the blouse, I noticed, had been spaced in such a way that it was impossible not to show cleavage-particularly on someone like Gabby, who was proud of the way success had improved her body.

“Aren’t they awesome?” she said, just a touch of Cuban accent. I wasn’t sure if she was talking about her uniform or her breasts until she explained, “I’ve got my formal blues in the crew quarters. Later, after we’ve had a few drinks, I want to watch you try them on just to prove how hot you’ll look. My slacks’ll be too short, but-” The girl hesitated, seeming to look at me for the first time. “Hey… why aren’t you wearing your cocktail dress?”

In my apartment, I’d spent twenty minutes admiring how the sheer black dress transformed me into a shapely woman who had taste but wasn’t afraid to show off a little or hint she might look even better naked, taking a bubble bath, or in some strong man’s bed. But I had decided against it. The fact I was traveling to Fishermans Wharf by boat wasn’t a problem-I almost always wear a dress to church. Problem was, the cocktail dress had a carefree look to it, which was the opposite of how I felt.

Instead, the photo of Barbara Stanwyck, in its brushed-aluminum frame, had told me what to wear. I’d chosen low-cut jeans tapered at the calves enough so as not to hide my Laredo boots of maple brown. The closest I could come to the actress’s wrangler blouse was a cross-dye shirt with Navaho patterns, copper and desert primrose, I’d bought with Uncle Jake at the Clewiston Rodeo, which is a big affair in Central Florida. I seldom wore the shirt because of its Western pockets and buttons, so I had forgotten how soft the material felt against my skin and how the Arizona earth tones and ancient symbols added a gloss to my black hair.

I couldn’t wear boots on my skiff, of course. Dark soles scuff white fiberglass. So I had carried them, changing out of my Top-Siders only after I’d reached the dock. Gabby was eyeing my boots now, but I was wrong about her reasons.

“I’ve got boat shoes,” I offered, “if you’re worried about those varnished decks.”

The woman laughed, hooked her arm around my waist, and walked us toward the dock. “We’re going to have so much fun together, honey. I was admiring your outfit, that’s all. Envious, really. I wish I had the balls to dress so butch. And I would if I thought I could pull it off. But I can’t-not like you. Think we could go shopping maybe Wednesday or Thursday? Weekends are bad for me, but I could sure use your help doing the jeans-and-boots thing because…”

As Gabby talked on about clothing, then switched to the wealthy guests we were about to meet, I felt her hand squeeze my waist, then slide to my ribs, which caused a moment of tenseness that my mind instantly blamed on Martha Calder-Shaun. My uneasiness didn’t last, though. What did Gabby’s intentions matter if I had my own thoughts under control? Besides, I liked her. She was a tad wild, true, but the woman was making her own way in a hard world, and she had proved herself fair-minded when it came to judging people.

Even when Gabby gave me a soft pat on the butt, it was okay. It felt comfortable to be with a girl I knew, especially with so many well-dressed strangers filing out of the parking lot toward Sybarite . I had never seen so many attractive couples in one small space-nor so many expensive cars. There were Bentleys, a bunch of BMWs, a Rolls or two, plus a few makes I couldn’t identify. Sleek luxury rockets as shiny as trophies, designed to impress, or as bedroom lures, not meant for practical transportation.

“They make my ’Vette seem sorta plain,” Gabby said when she noticed where I was looking.

“My legs wouldn’t fit into that little maroon job,” I observed. “Never mind fishing rods or grocery bags after shopping. How much you think it cost?”

“A Ferrari Testarossa?” The girl raised her eyebrows in a way that told me it was better not to know.

“I’ve got a Ford Explorer with a hundred thousand miles, so I’ve been thinking about a truck,” I said. “You seen the new GMC short beds?”

Laughing, Gabby squeezed me closer, which felt natural. Her family had been just as hard-up for money as mine back in school, so it was a sisterly bond we shared. “Robert gets his rocks off strutting through that lot before a cruise,” she smiled. “Just watch him! He does it every time. That’s why he makes the crew park way the hell down there.” She motioned toward a chain-link fence separating the marina from the road. A moment later, though, because I hadn’t responded, Gabby pulled away and asked, “What’s wrong? Hannah…? Hannah! ”

A rusty old pickup truck that I recognized was turning in to the marina, that’s what was wrong. A red truck I’d seen earlier that day in Caxambas, a lone man behind the steering wheel. Even from a distance, I could tell it wasn’t Eugene Schneider.

I took Gabby by the elbow. “Did anyone call this afternoon and ask if I was on the guest list?”

Flustered, the girl stammered, “I don’t know… and what’s it matter? You’re my date, no one’s going to care.”

“It matters, Gabrielle. Or I wouldn’t ask.”

On the shell road, the truck was kicking dust, the driver indifferent to speed signs, one hand on the wheel, the other holding what might have been a cigar.

Gabby said, “This is a private party, so I’m not even sure there is a guest list.” A moment later, she grunted. “Hannah, you’re hurting me!” then yanked her arm free. “Honey, who’s in that truck? What in the hell is going on?”

Ricky Meeks was driving the truck, which Gabby confirmed after watching him park among the expensive cars. “Oh, because of that creep. Now I get it. And… my God”-Gabby was staring at me-“you’re afraid of him, honey. Why?”