Max Collins - Carnal Hours

I laughed a little. “Some precautions: he left every door in the house unlocked and every window open.”

“I know, I know. But still…he was takin’ precautions like I never see him take before.”

“Such as?”

She sighed, shaking her head slowly, thinking about it. The beads of her wooden necklace made brittle music. “One night, he would sleep in one room. The next night, another room, next night, another. Always a different room.”

“Well…that’s a little odd, but I don’t know that it means he was necessarily taking precautions….”

“Maybe, but he took to always sleepin’ with his gun next to his bed- that’s a precaution, isn’t it?”

I sat up a little. “That’s a precaution, all right. That’s definitely a precaution. What became of that gun?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I see it on his nightstand, when I put his clothes out, night of the murder. That’s the last I saw of it.”

“Jesus. This could be important, Marjorie. What sort of gun was it?”

“Oh…I don’t know much about guns. I don’t know anything about guns….”

“Was it a revolver or an automatic?”

“What’s the difference?”

I explained, briefly.

“Revolver,” she said.

“How big?”

She thought about it, then held her hands apart about six inches.

“A.38, maybe. You’ll have to tell Colonel Lindop about this.”

“I already did.”

“Oh. Well. Thanks for telling me about it. The prosecution sure as hell isn’t likely to.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t mention it sooner….”

“That’s okay. There’s a lot to keep track of in this crazy case.” I checked my watch. “It’s almost ten. We’ll have to leave in forty-five minutes or so, to meet Arthur.”

“Okay. You want to take a swim?”

“Well…sure. You got any spare trunks in your place?”

She looked at me with what might be irritation. “Do I look like the sort of girl who keeps a man’s swimmin’ things in her house?”

“No-not at all, I just…”

She rose, and undid something, and the dress fell to the sand.

I was looking, dumbfounded, directly at a dark triangle between her legs when the white of her blouse fluttered past me. Then I looked up and her body rose like the perfect statue of a woman, modeled in milk chocolate by some lascivious confectioner. Her breasts were round and high, not large, not small, the sort of overflowing handfuls that would outsmart gravity for decades; the waist seemed impossibly small, legs muscular and endless, a dancer’s legs, spread apart boldly, unashamed; this modest girl had her hands on her hips and was laughing down at me.

“Why is your mouth open like that, Nathan?” She wore nothing but the wooden beaded necklace. “Are you still hungry?”

Then she ran into the surf, laughing, legs kicking, globes of her behind perhaps too large for some tastes, but not mine; I was scrambling out of my clothes and scampering into the surf like a horny land crab.

She splashed at me, giggling like a young girl, and I splashed her back; the moon was playing on the water, washing her with ivory, the water’s surface a ripply mosaic of white and blue and black and gray. She dove and splashed me and swam out a ways and I followed her. Treading water, I looked back at the shore. We weren’t incredibly far out but we could see the country club and her cottage and Westbourne and palm trees silhouetted against the sky.

“It doesn’t look real,” she said. “The world looks like a toy world.”

“It doesn’t seem real to me, either,” I said. “But you seem real.”

She smiled, arms and legs moving, keeping her afloat. But it was a bittersweet smile. “Oh, Nathan…we shouldn’t. We’re from different worlds.”

“There’s only one world,” I said. “Just different places and different people. Sometimes they make war on each other. Sometimes they think of something better to do….”

That took the bitter out of her smile, leaving the sweet, and she dove back in and swam to shore and sat half in the water, half on the wet sand, looking up at the moon, basking in it, as if sunning herself.

I sat next to her. I was a little out of breath. She was in better shape.

“You have scars,” she said, and touched one.

“I been shot a few times.”

“The war?”

“Some of it’s the war. Some isn’t.”

“Your life is dangerous, isn’t it?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes it’s more dangerous than others….”

And I took her in my arms and kissed her, I kissed her hard, and she returned it, our tongues finding each other, my body on hers, the surf crashing over us, her skin wet and hot and cold and willing under me; I slid down, and was about to bury my face between her legs when I said, nastily, “If I can eat my enemy, the least I can do is…”

But then I was doing it, kissing her there, licking her, tasting the coarse hair, sucking the inside of the pink sweet bitter fruit and she cried out, as if in pain, but she wasn’t, and then the tip of me was in her mouth, and then more than the tip of me, and when I couldn’t endure the ecstasy any longer, I pulled her up on me, and rolled back on top of her, put my hands on her breasts, hard soft cold wet warm breasts, tips of them hard and sweet and salty when I suckled them, and then I was inside her, the mouth between her legs suckling me, and she moaned and I moaned and we moaned, and we churned gently together and then not so gently, and when I pulled out of her, whimpering with pleasure, her hand gripped me as I spilled into the sea….

We collapsed together on the wet bed of sand, clutching each other with a mingled urgency and tenderness, staring up at the moon. There were a few wisps of cloud drifting in front of it, now; it didn’t look like a poker chip anymore: it looked alive; it seemed to glow, almost burning, the clouds like white smoke. And we basked in its glow as the tide lapped over us.

I’d almost fallen asleep when she tugged my arm, saying, “Nathan! Time to see Arthur.”

She ran to her clothes and I watched with a smile.

Then I hauled my sorry ass over to my own clothes and shook the sand off and put them on.

Some gentleman.

On the way to Lyford Cay I filled Marjorie in on my experience this afternoon with the obvious police tail.

“Do you think they were following us last night?” she asked, sounding worried.

“When we drove over to Grant’s Town? Naw. I would’ve noticed.”

She glanced behind her, into the blackness. The sheltering palms made a tunnel of the narrow, unlighted road into the Lyford Cay development area. “What about now?”

“No. I gave ’em something to study in that alley. They’re probably still standing there, watching that chalk circle, waiting for something to jump out at them.”

The wharf at the tip of Lyford Cay wasn’t much of one: a finger of wood extending into the sea with a few rowboats tied there, a couple posts with life buoys draped on nails, a kerosene lantern on another post, giving the scene a jaundiced cast. The road stopped and opened into a small graveled area near the mouth of the dock; we got out of the Chevy and walked over to Arthur’s shed, which resembled an oversize outhouse-a four-seater, maybe. His bike was propped up against the side.

“No light on,” I said.

“Maybe Arthur has rounds he makes,” she said. “He’s caretaker, you know.”

“Right. Let’s peek in, anyway.”

We did. There was a chair, a table, a water jug, and no Arthur.

“What time is it, Nathan?”

“About five after eleven. We’re late, but not much. I’m going to have a look around.”

“I’m stayin’ right with you. This place doesn’t feel good.”