Ed McBain - Three Blind Mice

He opened the box of biscuits, and then took from the cooler a white plastic knife and a pair of translucent plastic cups. “I’ll pour if you fix,” he said, and handed her a white paper plate. She began spreading pate on the biscuits. He watched her, thinking how long and slender and elegant her fingers were, how studious she looked with her head bent, concentrating on the biscuits, evenly spreading the pate, moonlight catching her high cheekbones and perfect nose. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, he thought.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he said.

“That’s very nice of you,” she said softly, and looked up at him.

“These aren’t the best glasses for martinis,” he said. “Plastic.”

He seemed suddenly embarrassed.

“They’re fine,” she said.

“I forgot to bring olives,” he said.

“Who needs olives?” she said.

He poured the drinks.

“I love martinis,” she said.

“So do I.”

“Silver bullets,” she said.

“Mmm,” he said.

They put the lid back on the cooler, using it as a low table, the plate with the crackers on it, the orange juice bottle with what was left of the martinis. Moonlight touched her hair. Moonlight touched the sloping tops of her breasts above the skimpy green bikini top. He wondered if she would take off that top, this was a topless beach. He thought he would die if she took off the top. He hoped she would not take off the top. Somehow, that would be cheap, and Fiona Gill was not a cheap woman.

“Did you see From Here to Eternity ?” she asked.

“I think so. The movie, do you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, I saw it on television.”

“I don’t mean the mini-series they made…”

“No, no, the movie. With Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr.”

“Yes. These are very good, Warren.”

“Thank you.”

“Strong but good. This reminds me of that movie.”

“It does?”

“The scene in that movie.”

“Which scene, Fiona?”

“Where they’re on the beach making love,” she said, “and the waves are rushing in.”

His heart began pounding hard again.

“The waves rushing in,” she said, and looked out over the sea. “Have you ever noticed,” she said, “that there aren’t too many scenes with black people making love? In the movies, I mean. Well, forget television, can you imagine Bill Cosby making love? But you’d think in the movies …”

“Well, I think I’ve seen love scenes,” Warren said.

“Where’d you see them?” she asked. “These scenes.”

“I think I saw Gregory Hines doing some love scenes. I think.”

“Did you ever see Eddie Murphy kissing anybody?”

“I think so, yes. In the one where he’s this African chief coming to find a bride here. I think he kisses her.”

“Kisses her.”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you kiss me?” she said.

He kissed her. Long and hard. They put down their drinks. He lowered her to the blanket and kissed her again.

“I love kissing you,” she whispered.

“I love kissing you,” he whispered.

His hand moved under the flimsy green top, found her naked breast. The nipple was hard. From the water, he guessed. But the water wasn’t cold.

“It’s because they’re afraid of it,” she said.

“Of what?” he said.

“Of showing sex between two black people,” she said.

“I’ll bet that’s it,” he said.

“They’re afraid we’ll incite the populace to riot,” she said, and laughed softly.

He kissed the laughter from her mouth. And untied the top of her suit. Her breasts spilled free.

“Yes,” she said.

He kissed her nipples.

Her hand slid down inside his trunks.

“Do you suppose it’s true what they say about black men?” she asked.

Which meant she’d never been to bed with a white man, and had no basis for comparison. He hoped. For that matter, he hoped she’d never been to bed with anyone but her ex-husband, hoped she was a virgin except for him, knew this was impossible, almost asked her if it was possible, but didn’t. Instead his hand moved flat over her belly and down into the bottom of the green bikini, his fingers questing.

“It must be true,” she said, “what they say.”

“Mm-huh,” he said.

“About black men,” she said.

“Mm-huh.”

Finding her.

“That must be why they’re so afraid of doing a real sex scene,” she said.

“Mm-huh,” he said.

Touching her.

“They’re afraid black men’ll run out into the streets with their big cocks …”

Grabbing him hard as she said this, illustrating her point.

“… and rape all the white women in the nation.”

“I’ll bet that’s it,” he said again, breathlessly.

“Don’t you want to kiss me again?” she asked.

He kissed her again.

He got dizzy kissing her again and again.

“I think you’d better be careful,” he said.

“Mmm,” she said.

“What you’re doing,” he said.

“Yes,” she said.

“Because…”

“They’ll do all these steamy sex scenes between two white people,” she said, her hand moving recklessly, “but never between two blacks, yes, there it is, now you’ve got it, mmm. Oh maybe a little kissy-facy, mmm, yes, but never the real thing, oh no, oh yes , right there, oh God, yes, never a real sex scene, oh Jesus! ” she said, and suddenly lifted her hips to him. He yanked the bikini pants down over her thighs and her knees. She kicked them away onto the sand and spread herself wide for him on the blanket. He was naked in an instant, rolling onto her.

“Never anything like this ,” she said, “oh Jesus, never !”

You came down into the marina on a dirt road behind the Toys “Я” Us warehouse off Henley Street on the South Tamiami Trail, skirting the Twin Tree Estates development along the wetlands bordering Willowbee Creek, the pampas grass moving gently in the welcome early-morning breeze. You saw first the fenced-in boats up on trailers under the storage sheds, their tin roofs rusting in the sunshine. Beyond the sheds was the asphalt-shingled house in which Charlie Stubbs lived with his wife and a pet golden retriever named Shadrach. The house was on the water, and it commanded a good view of the twenty-one slips he rented to boaters. On the night of August thirteenth, Stephen Leeds was supposed to have climbed onto a boat named Felicity at a slip numbered twelve and cruised off into the night to do multiple murder.

“We had three of them, one time,” Stubbs told Matthew. “A female named Meshach and another male named Abednego.”

He was bending over to stroke, tug, scratch, and twist the ear of the big golden, who sat loving it all, his tongue hanging out and his eyes closed, his giant lion paws solidly planted on the wooden planks of the dock. They were standing just outside the marina office. Through the open marina door, Matthew could see boat keys hanging on hooks, each key identified by a slip number crudely painted onto the wooden rack. He wondered if the office door had been locked on the night of the murders.

“This was when we were still living up north, you familiar with a little town in Vermont called West Dover? Pretty country up there, but you can freeze your butt in the wintertime. Me and my wife come down here in ’forty-seven, looking to buy ourselves a motel, ended up with a marina, didn’t know a damn thing about boats. Anyway, one winter up there in Vermont the two other ones disappeared, Meshach and Abednego. We figured some skier up from New York had kidnapped them, there’s a big market in pedigreed dogs, you know. They were beauties, too, the pair of them. Figured they’d been stolen. My wife was brokenhearted. She loved them dogs, especially the bitch. Anyway, come springtime, I get a call from the caretaker at one of the lodges up there, he tells me he was cleaning some fallen branches and such out of the lake, and he looked down and saw what he thought was a couple of deer on the bottom, but it turned out to be two big dogs. He knew to call me ’cause of the tags on their collars. It was them, all right. The way we figured it, they must’ve been playing on the ice, you know, just frisking, and crashed on through. Couldn’t find a way to get up again, couldn’t find their way out , you know. It must’ve been a bad way to die, don’t you think?”