Max Collins - Carnal Hours

“Mr. Christie-beautiful night. Speaks well of these islands of yours.”

He frowned. “Yes. It is a lovely night. Excuse me.”

I put a hand on his arm. “Let’s just step over here and talk for a moment.”

“You’re hurting my arm.”

I guess I was gripping it a little tight. I let go. “Sorry. Say, you remember my mentioning a fellow named Lansky, in your office last week?”

“Not really. Excuse me….”

I grabbed his arm again; just as hard as before. “You’re not still denying you know him, are you? I have friends in Washington, D.C., who say otherwise.”

He shook free of me, then smiled perhaps the least convincing smile I’ve ever witnessed. “Perhaps I did run into a man of that name, back in my rum-running days.” And now he chuckled just as unconvincingly. “You know, a lot of people around here prefer having lapses of memory where those days are concerned….”

“I hear Lansky’s Hotel Nacional in Havana is running into some trouble. Seems his dictator pal Batista is on shaky ground, lately.”

“I really wouldn’t know.”

“Expanding into the Bahamas with gambling would be a nice way for Lansky to hedge that bet….”

He sighed heavily. “Gambling will come into the Bahamas after the war, Mr. Heller. But if you think any of this has anything to do with Sir Harry’s death, I’d say you’re gravely mistaken.”

“You mean, Sir Harry wasn’t against gambling here?”

Christie snorted. “He couldn’t have cared less about it. Now, good evening, sir.”

And he moved quickly into the ballroom.

I stood in the breeze, wondering what the hell Lansky could have to do with this, if casino gambling wasn’t in the picture. Of course, Christie might be selling me swampland; wouldn’t be the first time for a real-estate agent like him.

By shortly after midnight, the guests had all gone home, and I’d found my way to the guest cottage that was my Nassau home, now. The cottage was one big room with bath, not unlike Marjorie Bristol’s, but bigger, with a living-room area, a fancy console radio and a fully stocked wet bar. I got out of my tux and sat on the soft cushions of the wicker couch; I was in my shorts with my shoes and gartered socks on, drinking a rum and Coke of my own design, and figured the night was over. I’d already thanked Lady Diane for possibly the hundredth time.

But I’d had a few too many drinks tonight to make much sense of the various conversations I’d had. What the hell had I accomplished? Christie seemed guilty of nothing more than boffing Mrs. Henneage; HRH David Windsor actually had acceptable reasons for bringing in the Miami dicks; and Harold Christie claimed Sir Harry didn’t give a shit if gambling came to the Bahamas.

“Heller?”

She was silhouetted in the side doorway.

“I’m not decent,” I said.

“I know that,” she laughed, and came on in, a bucket of iced champagne in her arms, two glasses in hand.

She was wearing a sheer robe over a sheer nightgown; you could see everything and nothing, the swell of her breasts, their rosy tips, sort of, a dark blond triangle between her legs, maybe. She came over, set down the bucket on the bamboo coffee table before us, and poured herself a glass.

“There was bubbly left. Want some?”

“No thanks.” I raised the rum and Coke. “I’m all set.”

She clinked her glass against mine, turning my gesture into a toast.

“How did you do tonight, Heller?”

“I’m not sure. Anybody indicate they were unhappy with you for having me as a guest?”

“No one dared. Not even David. I’m a law unto myself, you know.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

She smelled good; it was a familiar scent.

“What’s that perfume?” I asked.

“My Sin.”

Marjorie had worn that, the day we met.

I stood. I walked over to the double glass doors along one side of the cottage and studied the dark shadows of the palms and ferns. Listened to the caw of exotic birds and the roar of the ocean beyond.

Then she was at my side, touching my arm. “You look charming in your shorts, Heller.”

“The shoes and garters are a nice touch, don’t you think?”

She slipped an arm around my waist. “You’ve got a nice body.”

I swallowed. “All the girls think so.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

She took me by the chin and reached up and kissed me; it was a hot, sticky kiss, lipstick and booze and cigarette smell, kind of sickening and wonderful at the same time. Those soft, bruised lips of hers played my mouth like a cornet.

When the kiss was over, I said, “It’s just too soon, Di.”

“Too soon for us?”

“You don’t understand. I’m…I’m not ready. I’m trying to get over somebody.”

“Well, you know, my brother used to play rugby.”

“Really.”

“And he told me what a good coach always says.”

“What’s that?”

“Pick yourself up, get back into the game.”

She dropped to her knees and her hand slipped inside the front of my shorts and she took me out and held me. Stroked me. Kissed me.

“Oooo,” she said. “What a sign of good luck this trunk makes….”

“I…I’m not sure you should…”

“Shut up, Heller.” Stroking me. “I just love a man on the rebound.”

And then I was in her mouth. And then more of me was in her mouth, and she worked me, and worked me, and worked me some more….

Then I was panting like a winded runner, looking down at her and she was looking up at me smiling whitely, and it wasn’t her teeth.

She stood, smoothed her robe out primly, withdrew a handkerchief from a pocket and touched it to her lips, dabbing politely, as if she’d just finished a petit four.

Then she regarded me with amused eyes.

“They say once a woman does that for a man,” she said, “she owns him.”

I could hear the surf crashing out there. A bird cawing.

“Okay,” I said.

Under a cloudless midafternoon sky, on the patio balcony behind the ballroom at Shangri La, a pleasant-looking if intense middle-aged man in a tropical sport shirt, tan slacks and sandals knelt over a hairy coconut about the size of a man’s head, holding high above it, in one tight hand, a white fence picket, its pointed tip pointed down. Modestly handsome, with dark hair, a high, scholar’s forehead and round, wire-rimmed glasses, the slender figure seemed about to perform some strange native ritual, the picket poised like a spear about to strike.

And then with sudden, surprising force, it did strike-only the picket splintered, leaving the coconut intact, its hair barely mussed.

“You see!” Professor Leonard Keeler wore a triumphant little smile. He pushed his glasses up on his nose. “And I guarantee you the mastoid bone is stronger than that coconut’s shell.”

“Could any blunt instrument have caused those four wounds behind Sir Harry’s ear?” I asked. “What if a demented old miner Harry screwed over in the Klondike sneaked in, and took four swings with a pickax?”

Keeler, shaking his head no, said, “His whole damn skull would have shattered!”

Coconut in hand, he took a seat next to Erle Stanley Gardner at one of the wrought-iron tables with a view of the elephant fountain and the brilliantly colorful tropical garden that surrounded it. Tropical birds were calling; a humid breeze was whispering.

I had run into Gardner at Blackbeard’s pub, where I’d spent the morning chatting with several prosecution witnesses-Mrs. Clark and Mrs. Ainslie, as well as the American Freddie, Freddie Ceretta-who were sympathetic to the defense. All of them confirmed that they had been taken to Westbourne for questioning on the 9th of July, and all of them confirmed de Marigny’s assertion that he’d been taken upstairs by Melchen at eleven-thirty a.m., contradicting police testimony placing that time at three-thirty p.m.