P. Parrish - The Little Death

Two days ago, Louis might not have been attuned to the difference. To his eye, the homes they were passing now as the Mustang drove along North Ocean Boulevard were pretty damn nice. But after being in Sam’s bedroom last night-lying in her soft Egyptian cotton sheets, sated and sticky with salt spray, listening to the ocean hiss in the blackness-Louis understood with a sensory clarity that there were two worlds within this larger Palm Beach one.

“I heard you banging around in the dark last night,” Mel said. “Where did you go?”

Louis glanced over at Mel, then back at the road. “I couldn’t sleep. I went for a walk on the beach.”

“At four in the morning?”

“Yup.”

Louis was glad Mel let it go. He didn’t want to have to tell him about Sam. Or about the phone call with Joe. He didn’t even want to think about it too much, because he knew if he did, he would overthink it and overanalyze it. He would maybe start listening a little too closely to that voice gnawing at his ear.

You cheated on Joe.

Screw that. She’s the one who ended it.

You love her.

I’m not a fucking monk .

None of this had been in his head last night. Sex with Sam had been just a white heat of need, not just of physical desire but to cauterize the wound Joe had left.

“What road am I looking for?” Louis asked.

“Reef Road,” Mel said. “Reggie said to look for a white house with portholes.”

Louis spotted the white house on the corner by the small round windows. He pulled into the circular drive and cut the engine. Reggie came out through the front door. He was wearing crumpled white linen pants and a loose shirt the color of the ocean. He was barefoot and holding a tumbler of what looked like lemonade.

“Welcome to my humble little castle,” he said with a smile. “Come on in. I hope you haven’t eaten lunch yet. I’ve set out a little snack.”

Louis followed Mel inside. It wasn’t a big house by any Palm Beach standard, and though it had none of the overwrought luxury of Sam’s guesthouse, it was a place designed for comfort and with great taste. The living room of white tile and walls opened up to a small dining room with a rattan dining table and chairs. Beyond that, the open sliding-glass doors offered a view of the ocean. The furnishings looked slightly dated-a light blue sectional sofa and Danish modern chairs and teak tables. The place smelled of salt spray, mustiness, and French cigarettes. The walls were covered with paintings, gaudy Technicolor tropical landscapes.

Reggie noticed Louis staring at a painting of two panthers surrounded by fruit trees.

“Do you like it?” Reggie asked.

“Yeah, it’s very… colorful,” Louis said.

“It’s by Jean-Claude Paul,” Reggie said. “He’s Haitian. These are all Haitian. I’ve been collecting them for years.”

Mel was standing close to a painting of a nude, squinting. “Nice,” he said, turning back to Reggie.

Reggie shrugged. “People here wouldn’t be caught dead with this sort of thing on their walls. But I love them.” His eyes lingered on the panthers for a moment, then he smiled. “Let’s go out on the lanai, shall we?”

Reggie led the way out onto a small patio. It was surrounded by orange bougainvillea hedges and crowded with potted flowering plants. Over the top of one hedge, Louis could see a construction crane and the skeleton of a three-story mansion.

“What are they building over there, a bank?” Louis asked.

Reggie turned back from the buffet table, a pitcher of lemonade in his hand. “Oh, that,” he said. “It’s my new neighbors. I think they are Russian. They bought four lots, tore down the houses, and are putting up that monstrosity. What can you do? Some people have all the money but absolutely no taste.”

Louis thought that it didn’t look any worse than some of the other places he had seen on the south end of the island last night, but he kept quiet.

“What can I get you to drink?” Reggie asked.

“A beer?” Louis asked.

Reggie grimaced. “I’ll have to check. I might have-”

“Lemonade’s fine,” Louis said.

“Same here,” Mel said from the chaise in the corner where he had stretched out.

Reggie handed them each a slender tumbler, and they took seats near Mel. Louis took a drink of the lemonade. It was heavy with vodka.

Reggie’s mini-buffet was set up on the table between them. The centerpiece was a glass bowl set in ice and filled with what looked like mud. Also on the table were tiny cups of minced onion and chopped egg and a carefully arranged assortment of toast wedges.

“Please, help yourself,” Reggie said.

Mel sat forward and picked up one of the tiny pearl-handled spoons and began to heap some caviar onto a toast wedge. Louis watched him, surprised. Louis had never seen him eat anything but bloody steaks, grouper sandwiches, and tacos.

“Is this osetra?” Mel asked.

Reggie’s face reddened slightly. “Yes. I’m sorry, but beluga is a bit out of my price range these days.”

“Don’t apologize,” Mel said, helping himself to another toast wedge. “It’s good. Tastes like nuts.”

Reggie smiled. “I’m glad you like it. This one is from Iran. I first tasted it at a birthday party for-”

“Excuse me,” Louis interrupted. “If you two are done comparing culinary experiences, can we talk about the problem at hand?”

Reggie stared at him for a moment, tiny spoon in midair. “Yes, you’re right, of course,” he said. He carefully spread some caviar on a toast wedge. “Where do we start?”

Louis leaned forward. “We start, Mr. Kent, with you. You’re not exactly leveling with us.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that we aren’t going to take your case if you don’t start telling us the truth.”

Louis felt Mel’s eyes on him but didn’t look at him. They hadn’t talked any more since yesterday in the cattle pen, and Louis had decided he needed to push Kent before he agreed to take this on.

Reggie looked at Mel, as if he expected him to intervene on his behalf.

“Louis is right, Reg,” Mel said. “I want to help you, but if you don’t tell us what we need to know, we’re out of here.”

Reggie sighed. “Okay, ask me what you must.”

“Let’s start with your relationship with Mark Durand and why you lied about that,” Louis said.

Reggie shifted in his chair, an unlit cigarette dangling from his fingers. “I didn’t really lie,” he said.

“Were you lovers or not?” Mel asked.

“We were,” Reggie said softly. “But it ended months ago.”

“How and when did it start?” Louis asked.

“I used to occasionally go to a club over in West Palm,” Reggie said. “I had been alone for quite some time, and when I saw Mark that night at Kashmir’s, I knew he was someone I could fall in love with.”

Reggie stared out at the ocean, a sad wistfulness in his eyes. Louis let him have a few more seconds, then prodded him.

“He felt the same?”

“No,” Reggie said. “Like I told you, he was a lot younger. And at the time he was seeing this rich lawyer from Fort Lauderdale. The man was married and used to drive up to West Palm looking for anonymous, one-night encounters. He was paying Mark money for seeing him on a regular basis.”

“So Durand was a prostitute,” Louis said.

Reggie cringed. “Well, he was arrested in Miami for that once,” he said. “But to me he was simply a beautiful young man in need of direction.”

“How did you convince him to leave the other guy and hook up with you? You’re not rich, are you?”

“Heavens no,” Reggie said. “In fact, I usually rent this place out during the season to make money.” When he saw the look on Louis’s face, he went on. “I rent it out, pocket twenty grand a month, and go live in someone’s guesthouse until Easter.”