Victor Gischler - Suicide Squeeze

“The boat’s right there, for Christ’s sake. Let’s just get it.”

“It’ll be dark in a few hours. Does Teddy have a gun or anything? Is he violent?”

She bit her lower lip, looked back at the boat and the bungalow. “Probably not.”

“I don’t think I’ll risk it,” Conner said. “We’ll come back when he’s asleep, scull the boat out with a paddle or push it out with the boat hook. Then crank the engine and take off when we’re a safe distance away.”

“What if he leaves in the meantime?”

Good point. “Okay. The bait place where we rented the canoe has a little motel. We’ll get a room facing the water and keep watch. We’ll get some sandwiches.”

They paddled back. (Actually, Conner noticed he did most of the paddling. Jenny rubbed suntan oil over her body.) He paid the rental guy to keep the canoe until the next morning. The motel rooms were not fancy. They’d been designed for boaters and fishermen, and the motel’s main feature was that it was right on the water. Conner paid the forty-eight bucks and went to the room while Jenny hit the bait shop.

The room was clean but dismal, cheap wood paneling, two shabby chairs. Conner flipped on the air-conditioning, a small window unit, and it rattled and coughed out something akin to cool air. He pulled back the drapes so he could see the river. They were into the long days of summer, so even though it was past dinnertime, they still had a good two hours to kill until dark.

Jenny knocked once, then walked in with a paper bag under her arm. She looked the room over. “Not exactly the Plaza, is it?”

Yeah, but I’m the one who paid for it. Conner sat on the bed and flipped on the TV, looking for a ball game. No cable. He switched it off. The money Derrick James had given him was running low. He was glad they’d found the sailboat. Conner reluctantly admitted he owed Jenny some gratitude. He didn’t admit it out loud.

She pulled a six-pack of Bud and two sandwiches out of the bag. “Not much of a selection. Egg salad or tuna salad.”

“I’ll take the tuna.”

She frowned. “There’s also egg salad.”

“Fine.” Conner could take a hint.

They chewed sandwiches, sipped beer, watched the window.

The sun faded to dirty orange, and the boats made their way down the river-speedboats, party barges, and the occasional sailboat. Some pulled into the bait shop for gas or a last-minute six-pack. College kids, families, old men buying bait for night fishing.

Some boats were coming up the river, back to waterfront homes after a long day of fishing. There weren’t many sailboats. They all had to get in before the County Road 25 bridge-

“Aw, crap,” Conner said.

Jenny looked up from her beer. “What?”

“The bridge,” he said. “The operator knocks off at seven. We won’t be able to get past it until morning. The Jenny ’s mast is too tall.” It was one of those old, swing-to-the-side bridges that hadn’t quite fallen apart yet. Sooner or later the county would probably hand it over to the state, then the state would tear it down and build a higher bridge so the boats could fit underneath. Conner cursed himself for forgetting about the damn bridge.

Jenny said, “I told you we should have done it while we were there.”

“Shut up a second and let me think.”

She pouted, lit a cigarette.

“Here’s what we do,” Conner announced. “We’ll grab the Jenny tonight as planned, sail her downriver. There are a dozen places I can pull in, little branches and hidey-holes. We’ll stash the boat, come back in a day or maybe two and get her then.”

“Fine.” She smoked, propped her feet up on the bed next to Conner. Her legs were tan and firm. She’d unbuttoned the top of her denim shorts, the zipper halfway down.

She might’ve caught Conner looking again, so he decided to start some conversation.

“So…” That was about all he had.

“You look in shape,” she said. “You work out?”

“I used to play a little ball.”

“I go to the gym almost every day,” she said. “That’s one of the reasons I’m so pissed. I kept in good shape, you know? He didn’t need another girl.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Conner said. “That’s not how men decide things about women.”

“How do men decide?”

“I don’t know, but not like that.”

She lifted one of her legs. “Feel that calf. It’s as good as a twenty-year-old’s.”

He took her ankle in one hand, felt her calf with the other. Taut. Good tone. “Nice.”

“Damn right.” She swigged beer, stood up, and shimmied out of her shorts. She wore the bottom half of the American-flag bikini underneath, cut high on the hips. “The good thing about the bridge being closed is we don’t have to keep watch.” She turned to close the curtains, showed Conner the backside of her bikini, a thong. Firm and tan all over.

Conner began feeling a little twitchy.

She came back to him on the bed, straddled him. She rubbed his places. He rubbed her places in return. Then their places started bumping against one another. She peeled Conner out of his clothes. He untied her bikini top. Tan lines, stark white triangles around pink nipples.

Conner thought of Tyranny, how she kept working him into a frenzy until he was crazy, then pulling away, leaving him hot and bothered. So he swung Jenny underneath him, entered her hard, pounded, fucking her angry, her grunts and moans working into a steady rhythm, her nails digging into his back, ankles locked behind his knees. Conner clenched his teeth as he thrust. Like it was some kind of punishment.

She squealed, and Conner was right behind her. They collapsed into a pile of sweat and beer breath and coconut oil.

After, they lay there under the sheets in the dark, both awake but not talking.

Finally, she asked, “Was that… did you like it?”

“Of course.” He might not have liked it the way she wanted him to, maybe it wasn’t so much to do with her, but he’d needed it.

“Then why-” Her voice caught. “I thought I hated Teddy so much. I thought… what did I do wrong? Why did this happen?”

Conner thought she might be crying, but in the dark, he wasn’t sure. He tried to think of something to say, but nothing seemed helpful, so he moved in close, draped an arm over her. Soon her breathing was easy and regular like she was asleep. Then he drifted off too.

The cab dropped Teddy Folger in front of his bungalow. He went inside, a little tipsy and a lot depressed. The depression segued to a grumpy, simmering, insulted anger. He’d been rudely and abruptly rebuffed by Misty, and now that he’d stocked the Jenny, there was nothing to keep him in Pensacola. It was late, but he could flop into bed and get a few good hours of sleep. Then it was up early to catch the morning tide to a bright new future.

Teddy flipped the light switch in the living room. The two guys in dark suits sitting on his rattan furniture startled him. He squeaked surprise and fear, started backing toward the door.

“Mr. Folger,” said the one with the long sideburns. “I represent a party interested in your Joe DiMaggio baseball card.”

So that was it. Teddy looked more closely at the two men. The one guy had spoken with a thick accent. “You’re not from around here.”

“We flew in from Tokyo. My name is Toshi.”

Toshi looked lean and wicked and had a hard dark gleam in his eye that might have been a warning not to mess with him if Teddy hadn’t been slightly drunk.

Teddy said, “Well, I don’t know how they do things in Tokyo, but around here people don’t go into each other’s homes without an invitation. It’s pretty damn rude.”