Текст книги "Lucas Davenport Novels 1-5"

Автор книги: John Sandford

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Текущая страница: 77 (всего у книги 105 страниц)

CHAPTER

15

Lucas was flat on his back, half asleep, when Fell called. The room was semidark; he’d turned out all the lights but the one in the bathroom, and then half closed the door.

“I’m downstairs,” she said. “If you’re awake, let’s get something to eat.”

“Anything at Bellevue?” Lucas asked.

“I’ll tell you about it.”

“Ten minutes,” he said.

He was fifteen minutes. He shaved, going easy over the bruises, brushed his teeth and took a quick shower, put on a fresh shirt, dabbed on after-shave. When he got down to the lobby, Fell looked him over and said, “Great. You make me feel like a rag.”

“You look fine,” he said, but she didn’t. She looked worn, dirty around the eyes. The dress that had been crisp that morning hung slackly from her shoulders. “There’s an Italian place a couple of blocks down that’s friendly.”

“Good. I couldn’t handle anything complicated.” As they were going out the door, she said, “I’m sorry about ditching you and going with Kennett, but this case really could mean a lot for me. And Mrs. Bedrick, she was mine . . . ours . . . and I wanted to be there to get the credit.”

Lucas nodded and said, “No problem.” On the sidewalk, he added, “You don’t sound happy.”

“I’m not. Bellevue’s a rat’s nest. They have a dial-in paging system, so now we’re trying to figure out if we can match up the calls. And we’re looking for people who might have been paging doctors who shouldn’t have, that somebody else might have noticed. There are about two thousand suspects.”

“Can you thin them out?”

“Maybe. We’re trying extortion. Kennett worked out a routine with an assistant D.A. Everybody we talk to, we tell them the same thing: if we find out who Whitechurch’s phone contact is before she comes forward, we’ll charge her as an accomplice in the Bekker murders. If she comes forward and cooperates, we’ll give her immunity on Bekker. And she can bring a lawyer and refuse to cooperate on anything else . . . . So there’s a chance. If we can scare her enough.”

“How do you know it’s a her?”

Fell grinned up at him: “That’s Kennett. He said, ‘Have you ever heard a male voice on a hospital intercom?’ We all thought about it, and decided, Not very often. If a male voice kept calling out the names of nonexistent doctors—that’s what we think she was doing, whoever she is, calling out code names—he’d be noticed. So we’re pretty sure it’s a her.”

“What if it’s just the switchboard?”

“Then we’re fucked . . . although Carter thinks it probably isn’t. A switchboard might start recognizing names and voices . . . .”

• • •

The Whetstone had an old-fashioned knife-grinding wheel in the window, a dozen tables in front, a few booths in back. Between the booths was a wooden floor, worn smooth and soft by a century of sliding feet. A couple turned slowly in the middle of it, dancing to a slow, sleepy jazz tune from an aging jukebox.

“Booth?” asked Lucas.

“Sure,” said the waitress. “One left, in the no-smoking area.”

Fell smiled ruefully at Lucas, and said, “We’ll take it.”

They ate spaghetti and garlic bread around a bottle of rosé, talking about Bekker. Lucas recounted the Minneapolis killings:

“ . . . started killing them to establish their alibis. They apparently picked out the woman at the shopping mall at random. She was killed to confuse things.”

“Like a bug. Stepped on,” Fell said.

“Yeah. I once dealt with a sexual psychopath who killed a series of women, and I could understand him, in a way. He was nuts. He was made nuts. If he’d had a choice, I’d bet that he’d have chosen not to be nuts. It was like, it wasn’t his fault, his wires were bad. But with Bekker . . .”

“Still nuts,” Fell said. “They might look cold and rational, but to be that cold, you’ve got to be goofy. And look what he’s doing now. If we take him alive, there’s a good chance that he’ll be sent to a mental hospital, instead of a prison.”

“I’d rather go to prison,” Lucas said.

“Me, too, but there are people who don’t think that way. Like doctors.”

A heavyset man in work pants and a gray Charlie Chaplin mustache stepped across to the jukebox and stared into it. The waitress came by and said, “More wine?”

Lucas looked at Fell and then up at the waitress and said, “Mmmm,” and the waitress took the glasses.

Behind her, the heavy man in work pants dropped a single quarter in the jukebox, carefully pressed two buttons, went back to his table and bent over the woman he had been sitting with. As she got up, the “Blue Skirt Waltz” began bubbling from the jukebox speakers.

“Jesus. Blue Skirt. And it’s Frankie Yankovich, too,” Lucas said. “C’mon, let’s dance.”

“You gotta be kidding . . . .”

“You don’t want . . . ?”

“Of course I want,” she said. “I just can’t believe that you do.”

They began turning around the floor, Fell light and delicate, a good dancer, Lucas denser, unskilled. They turned around the heavy man and his partner, the two couples caught by the same rhythm, weaving around the dance floor. The waitress, who’d taken menus to another table, lingered to watch them dance.

“One more time,” the heavy man said to Lucas, in a heavy German accent, as the song ended. He bowed, gestured to the jukebox. Lucas dropped a quarter, punched “Blue Skirt,” and they started again, turning around the tiny dance floor. Fell fit nicely just below his jaw, and her soft hair stroked his cheek. When the song ended, they both sighed and wandered back to the booth, holding hands.

“Sooner or later, I’d like to spend some time in your shorts, as we say around the Ninth,” Fell said across the table as she sat down. “But not tonight. I’m too fuckin’ dirty and miserable and tired and I’ve got too many bad movies in my head.”

“Well,” he said.

“Well, what? You don’t want to?”

“I was thinking, well, I’ve got a shower.”

She cocked her head, looking at him steadily, unsmiling. “You think it’ll wash away that woman rolling over this morning, with those eyes?” she asked somberly.

After a moment, he said, “No. I guess not. But listen . . . you interest me. I think you knew that.”

“I didn’t really,” she said, almost shyly. “I’ve got no self-confidence.”

“Well.” He laughed.

“You keep saying that. Well.”

“Well. Have some more wine,” he said.

Halfway through the second bottle of wine, Fell made Lucas play it again and they turned around the room, close, her face tipped up this time, breathing against his neck, warm, steamy. He began to react and was relieved to get her back to the booth.

She was drunk, laughing, and Lucas asked about the cop she used to date.

“Ah, God,” she said, staring up at the ceiling, where a large wooden fan slowly turned its endless circles. “He was so good-looking, and he was such a snake. He used to be like this Pope of Greenwich Village guy with these great suits and great shoes, and he hung out, you know? I mean, he was cool. His socks had clocks on them.”

“How cool can a Traffic guy be?” Lucas cracked.

She frowned. “Were we talking about him? I don’t . . .”

“Sure, at your place,” he said, thinking, As a matter of fact, you didn’t, Lily did, Davenport, you asshole. “I remember, mm, important details . . . .”

“Why’s that important?” she asked, but she knew, and she was flattered.

“You’re the fuckin’ detective,” Lucas said, grinning at her. “Have another drop of wine.”

“Trying to get me drunk?”

“Maybe.”

Fell put her wineglass on the table and poked a finger at him. “What the fuck are you doing, Davenport? Are you Internal Affairs?”

“Jesus Christ—I told you, I’m not. Look, if you’re really serious, my goddamn publisher’s not far from here and my face is on the game boxes. There’s a biography and everything, we could go over . . .”

“Okay. But why are you pumping me?”

“I’m not pumping you . . . .”

“Bullshit,” she said. Her voice rose. “You’re a goddamn trouser snake just like he was, and just like Kennett. I knew that as soon as you asked me to dance. I mean, I could feel myself melting. Now, what the fuck are you doing?”

Lucas leaned forward and said, trying to quiet her, trying not to laugh, “I’m not . . .”

“Jesus,” she said, pulling back. She went back to the table and picked up her purse. “I’m really loaded.”

“Where’re we going?”

“Up to your room. I’ve changed my mind.”

“Barbara . . .” Lucas threw three twenties at the tabletop, and hurried after her. “You’re a little drunk . . .”

“Fuckin’ trouser snake,” Fell said as she led the way through the door.

He woke in the half-lit room, a thin arrow of light from the bathroom falling across the bed. He was confused, a feeling of déjà vu. Didn’t Fell just call, didn’t she say . . . ? He stopped, feeling the weight. She’d fallen asleep cradled beneath his arm, head on his chest, her leg across his right. He tried to ease out from beneath her, and she woke and said, “Hmmm?”

“Just trying to rearrange,” he said, whispering, catching up with the night. She’d been almost timid. Not passive, but . . . wary.

“Um . . .” She propped herself up, her small breast peeking at him over the top of the blanket. “What time is it?”

Lucas found his travel clock, peered at it. “Ten minutes of three,” he said.

“Oh, God.” She pushed herself up, her back to him, and the sheet fell off. She had a wonderful back, he decided, smooth, slender, but with nice muscles. He drew a finger down her spine and she arched away from him. “Oooo. Stop that,” she said over her shoulder.

“Come lay down,” he said.

“Time to go.”

“What?”

She turned to look at him, but her eyes were in shadow and he couldn’t see them. “I really . . .”

“Bullshit. Come on and sleep with me.”

“I really need some sleep.”

“So do I. Fuckin’ Bekker.”

“Forget Bekker for a few hours,” she said.

“All right. But lay down.”

She dropped back on the bed, beside him. “You’re not still with Rothenburg?”

“No.”

“It’s over?”

“It’s weird, is what it is,” he said.

“You’re not saying the right thing,” said Fell. She propped herself up again, and he drew three fingers across the soft skin on the bottom of her breast.

“That’s because Lily and I are seriously tangled up,” Lucas said. “You know she’s sleeping with Kennett.”

“I figured. The first time I saw them together, she was dropping him off at Midtown South, and she kissed him good-bye and I had to go inside and put a cool wet rag on my forehead. I mean, hot. But then I saw you two talking to each other, you and Rothenburg, and it looked like unfinished business.”

“Nah. But I was there when her marriage came apart and she helped kill off the last of my relationship with a woman I had a kid with. We were kind of . . . pivotal . . . for each other,” Lucas said.

“All right,” Fell said.

“Lily was driving?”

“What?”

“You said she dropped off Kennett.”

“Well, yeah, Kennett can’t drive. That’d kill him, the Manhattan traffic would.” She sat up again, half turned, and this time he could see her eyes. “Davenport, what the fuck are you up to?”

“Jesus . . .” He laughed, and caught her around the waist, and she let him pull her down.

“The one thing I want to know—if you’re up to something, you’re not screwing me to get it, are you?”

“Barbara . . .” Lucas rolled his eyes.

“All right. You’d lie to me anyway, so why do I ask?” Then she frowned and answered her own question: “I’ll tell you why. Because I’m an idiot and I always ask. And the guys always lie to me. Jesus, I need a shrink. A shrink and a cigarette.”

“So smoke, I don’t mind,” Lucas said. “Just don’t dribble ashes on my chest.”

“Really?” She scratched him on the breastbone.

“I mean, it’s killing you, slowly but surely, but if you need one . . .”

“Thanks.” She got out of bed—a wonderful back—found her purse, got her cigarettes, an ashtray and the TV remote. “I gotta get some nicotine into my bloodstream,” she said. Ingenuously, genuinely, she added, “I didn’t have a cigarette because I was afraid my mouth would taste like an ashtray.”

“I thought you’d decided not to sleep with me, and changed your mind.”

She shook her head. “Dummy,” she said. She lit the cigarette and pointed the remote control at the TV, popped it on, thumbed through the channels until she got to the weather. “Hot and more hot,” she said, after a minute.

“It’s like Los Angeles, ’cept more humid,” Lucas said.

“Shoulda been here last year . . . .”

They talked and she smoked, finished the cigarette, and then lit up another and went around the room and stole all his hotel matches. “I never have enough matches. I always steal them,” she said. “When I’m working I’ve got two rules: pee whenever you can, and steal matches. No. Three rules . . .”

“Never eat at a place called Mom’s?”

“No, but that’s a good one,” she said. “Nope: it’s never sleep with a goddamn cop. Cops are so goddamn treacherous . . . .”

CHAPTER

16

Sunday morning.

Sunlight poured like milk through the venetian blinds. Fell woke at nine o’clock, stirred, then half-sat, looking down at Lucas’ dark head on the pillow. After a moment, she got up and stumbled around, picking up clothes. Lucas opened an eye and said, “Have I mentioned your ass?”

“Several times, and I appreciate all of them,” she said. She offered a smile, but weakly. “My head . . . that goddamn cheap wine.”

“That wine wasn’t cheap.” Lucas sat up, still sleepy, dropped his feet to the floor, rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll call Kennett, see if we can figure something out.”

She nodded, still groggy. “I gotta go home to change clothes, then back to Bellevue. There’ll be people around we wouldn’t see during the week.”

Lucas said, “This is really important to you, isn’t it?”

“It’s the biggest case I’ve ever been on,” she said. “God, I’d love to get him. I mean, me, personally.”

“You won’t get him at Bellevue,” Lucas said. “Even if you find Whitechurch’s helper, and she talks, I wouldn’t be surprised if Bekker’s using a pay phone. Then where are you?”

“So if we find the phone, we can stake it out. Or maybe he uses one on the block where he lives, we can look at the apartments.”

“Mmm.”

“Maybe we’ll get him tomorrow night, at the speech.”

“Maybe . . . C’mon. I’ll make sure you get clean in the shower.”

“That’s something I’ve always needed,” she said. “Help in the shower.”

“Well, you said your head feels weird. What you need is a hot shower and a neck massage. Really. I say this in a spirit of fraternity and sorority.”

“Good, I don’t think I could handle another sexual impulse,” Fell said. But the shower took them back to the bed, and that took them back to the shower, and Fell was leaning against the wall, Lucas standing between her legs, drying her back with a rough terry-cloth towel, when Anderson called from Minneapolis.

“Cornell Reed. United to Atlanta out of La Guardia, transfer to Southeast to Charleston. No return. Paid for by the City of New York.”

“No shit . . . Charleston?”

“Charleston.”

“I owe you some bucks, Harmon,” Lucas said. “I’ll get back to you.”

“No problem . . .”

Lucas hung up, turning it over in his head.

“What’s Charleston?” Fell asked from the bathroom doorway.

“It’s both a dance and a city . . . . Sorry, that was a personal call. I was trying to get through to my kid’s mother. She’s gone to Charleston with the Probe Team.”

“Oh.” Fell tossed the towel back into the bathroom. “You’re still pretty tight with her?”

“No. We’re done. Completely. But Sarah’s my kid. I call her.”

Fell shrugged and grinned. “Just checking the oil level,” she said. “Are you going to call Kennett?”

“Yeah.”

They ate a quick breakfast in the hotel coffee shop, then Lucas put Fell in a cab back to her apartment. He called Kennett from his room and got switched from Midtown South to a second phone. Kennett picked it up on the first ring.

“If we don’t get him tomorrow, at the speech, I’m heading back to the Twin Cities, see what I can find,” Lucas said.

“Good. I think we’ve got all the routine stuff pinned down here,” Kennett said. “Lily’s here, and we were about to call you. We’re thinking about a boat ride.”

“Where’s here?” Lucas asked.

“Her place.”

“So come and get me,” Lucas said.

After talking to Kennett, Lucas sat with his hand on the phone, thinking about it, then picked it up again, dialed the operator, and got the area code for Charleston. He had no idea how big the city was, but had the impression that it was fairly small. If they knew assholes in Charleston the way they knew them in the Twin Cities . . .

The information service got him the phone number for the Charleston police headquarters, and two minutes later, he had the weekend duty officer on the line.

“My name is Lucas Davenport. I’m a cop working out of Midtown South in Manhattan. I’m looking for a guy down your way, and I was wondering about the prospects of finding him.”

“What’s the problem?” A dry southern drawl, closer to Texan than the mush-mouth of South Carolina.

“He saw a guy get shot. He didn’t do it, just saw it. I need to talk to him.”

“What’s his name?”

“Cornell Reed, nickname Red. About twenty-two, twenty-three . . .”

“Black guy.” It was barely a question.

“Yeah.”

“And you’re from Midtown South.”

“Yeah.”

“Hang on . . .”

Lucas was put on hold, waited for a minute, then two. Always like this with cops. Always. Then a couple of clicks, and the line was live again. “I got Darius Pike on the line, he’s one of our detectives . . . . Darius, go ahead . . .”

“Yeah?” Pike’s voice was deep, cool. Children were laughing in the background. Lucas identified himself again.

“Am I getting you at home? I’m sorry about that . . . .”

“ ’S okay. You’re looking for Red Reed?”

“Yeah. He supposedly witnessed a killing up here, and I’m pretty hot to talk to him.”

“He came back to town a month ago, the sorry-ass fool. You need to bust him?”

“No, just talk.”

“Want to come down, or on the phone?”

“Face-to-face, if I can.”

“Give me a call a day ahead. I can put my hands on him about any time.”

• • •

Now he had to make a decision: Minneapolis, Charleston. Two different cases, two different leads. Which first? He thought about it. He wouldn’t be able to get down to Charleston and back in time. The New School trap was the next night; if they didn’t get Bekker, then the trip to Minneapolis was critical. Bekker was killing people, after all. Charleston might shed some light on Robin Hood, and Robin Hood was killing people, too—but those were mostly bad people, weren’t they? He shook his head wryly. It wasn’t supposed to matter, was it? But it did.

Lucas made one more call, to Northwest Airlines, and got a seat to Minneapolis-St. Paul, then a triple play, Minneapolis-St. Paul to Charleston to New York. There, that was all he could do for now. It all hinged on tomorrow night.

When Lily called from the front desk, he’d changed to jeans and blue T-shirt. He went down, found her waiting, eyes tired but relaxed. She was wearing jeans and a horizontally-striped French fisherman’s shirt that might have cost two hundred dollars on Fifth Avenue, and an aqua-colored billed hat.

“You look like a model,” he said.

“Maybe I oughta call Cruising World.”

“Yeah, you look kinda gay,” he said.

“That’s a sailboat magazine, you dope,” she said, taking a mock swipe at him.

Kennett was waiting in the passenger seat of a double-parked Mazda Navaho, wearing comfortable old khakis and a SoHo Surplus T-shirt.

“Nice truck,” Lucas said to Lily as he crawled in back.

“Kennett’s. Four-wheel drive must help testosterone production,” Lily said, walking around to the driver’s side and climbing in. “You’ve got one, don’t you?”

“Not like this: this is sort of a Manhattan four-wheel drive,” he said, tongue in cheek. To Kennett he said, “I didn’t think you could drive.”

“Got it before the last attack,” Kennett said. “I think the price is what brought the attack on. And don’t give me any shit about Manhattan four-by-fours, this is a fuckin’ workhorse . . . .”

“Yeah, yeah . . .”

They left Manhattan through the Lincoln Tunnel, emerging in Jersey, took a right and then followed a bewildering zigzag path back to the waterfront. The marina was a modest affair, filling a dent in the riverbank, a few dozen boats separated from a parking lot by a ten-foot chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Most of the boats were in concrete slips, halyards clinking softly against the aluminum masts like a forest of one-note wind chimes; a few more boats were anchored just offshore.

“Look at this guy, putting up his ’chute,” Kennett said, climbing down from the truck. Lucas squeezed out behind him as Lily climbed out of the driver’s seat. Kennett pointed out toward the river, where two sailboats were tacking side-by-side down the Hudson, running in front of a steady northwest breeze, their sails tight with the wind. A man was standing on the foredeck of one of them, freeing a garish crimson-and-yellow sail. It filled like a parachute, and the boat leapt ahead.

“You ever sailed?” Kennett asked.

“A couple times, on Superior,” Lucas said, shading his eyes. “You feel like you’re on a runaway locomotive. It’s hard to believe they’re barely going as fast as a man can jog.”

“A man doesn’t weigh twenty thousand pounds like that thing,” Kennett said, watching the lead boat. “That is a locomotive . . . .”

They unloaded a cooler from the back of the truck and Lucas carried it across the parking lot, past a suntanned woman in a string bikini with a string of little girls behind her, like ducklings. The smallest of the kids, a tiny red-headed girl with a sandy butt and bare feet, squealed and danced on the hot tarmac while carrying a pair of flip-flops in her hands.

Lily led the way through a narrow gate in the chain-link fence, Lucas right behind her, Kennett taking it slow, down to the water. Here and there, people were working on their boats, listening to radios as they worked. Most of the radios were tuned to rock stations, but not the same ones, and an aural rock-’n’-roll fest played pleasantly through the marina. Few of the boats actually seemed ready to go out, and the work was slow and social.

“There she blows, so to speak,” Kennett said. The Lestrade was fat and graceful at the same time, like an overweight ballerina.

“Nice,” Lucas said, uncertainly. He knew open fishing boats, but almost nothing about sailboats.

“Island Packet 28—it is a nice boat,” Kennett said. “I got it instead of kids.”

“Not too late for kids,” Lucas said. “I just had one myself.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Lily laughed. “I should have a say in this.”

“Not necessarily,” Lucas said. He stepped carefully into the cockpit, balancing the cooler. “The goddamned town is overrun with nubile prospects. Find somebody with a nice set of knockers, you know, not too smart so you wouldn’t have to worry about the competition. Maybe with a fetish for housework . . .”

“Fuck the sailing, let’s go back into town,” Kennett said.

“God, I’m looking forward to this,” Lily said. “The flashing wit, the literary talk . . .”

Lily and Lucas rigged the sails, with Kennett impatiently supervising. When he was bringing the sails up, Lucas took a moment to look through the boat: a big berth at the bow, a tidy, efficient galley, a lot of obviously custom-built bookshelves jammed with books. Even a portable phone.

“You could live here,” Lucas said to Kennett.

“I do, a lot of the time,” Kennett said. “I probably spend a hundred nights a year on the boat. Even when I can’t sail it, I just come over here and sit and read and sleep. Sleep like a baby.”

Kennett took the boat out on the motor, his fine white hair standing up like a sail, his eyes shaded by dark oval sunglasses. A smile grew on his tanned face as he maneuvered out along the jetty, then swung into the open river. “Jesus, I love it,” he said.

“You gotta be careful,” Lily said anxiously, watching him.

“Yeah, yeah, this takes two fingers . . . .” To Lucas he said, “Don’t have a heart attack—it just unbelievably fucks you up. I can run the engine and steer, but I can’t do anything with the sails, or the anchor. I can’t go out alone.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Lucas said.

“Yeah, fuck it,” Kennett agreed.

“What does it feel like?” Lucas asked.

“You weren’t gonna talk about it,” Lily protested.

“It feels like a pro wrestler is trying to crush your chest. It hurts, but I don’t remember that so much. I just remember feeling like I was stuck in a car-crusher and my chest was caving in. And I was sweating, I remember being down on the ground, on the floor, sweating like a sonofabitch . . . .” He said it quietly, calmly enough, but with a measure of hate in his voice, like a man swearing revenge. After another second, he said, “Let’s get the sails up.”

“Yeah,” Lucas said, slightly shaken. “I gotta pull on a rope, right?”

Kennett looked at the sky. “God, if you heard the man, forgive him, the poor fucker’s from Minnesota or Missouri or Montana, some dry-ass place like that.”

Lucas got the mainsail up. The jib was on a roller, with the lines led back to the cockpit. Lily worked it from there, sometimes on her own, sometimes with prodding from Kennett.

“How long have you been sailing?” Lucas asked her.

“I did it when I was a kid, at summer camp. And then Dick’s been teaching me the big boat.”

“She learns quick,” Kennett said. “She’s got a natural sense for the wind.”

They slid lazily back and forth across the river, water rushing beneath the bow, wind in their faces. A hatch of flies was coming off the water, their lacy wings delicately floating around them. “Now what?” Lucas asked.

Kennett laughed. “Now we sail up and then we turn around, and sail back.”

“That’s what I thought,” Lucas said. “You’re not even trolling anything.”

“You’re obviously not into the great roundness of the universe,” Kennett said. “You need a beer.”

Kennett and Lily gave him a sailing lesson, taught him the names of the lines and the wire rigging, pointed out the buoys marking the channel.

“You’ve got a cabin on a lake, right? Don’t you have buoys?”

“On my lake? If I peed off the end of the dock, I’d hit the other side. If we put in a buoy, we wouldn’t have room for a boat.”

“I thought the great North Woods . . .” Kennett prompted, seriously.

“There’s some big water,” Lucas admitted. “Superior: Superior’ll show you things the Atlantic can’t . . . .”

“I seriously doubt that,” Lily said skeptically.

“Yeah? Well, once every few years it freezes over—and you look out there, a horizon like a knife and it’s ice all the way out. You can walk out to the horizon and never get there . . . .”

“All right,” she said.

They talked about ice-boating and para-skiing, and always came back to sailing. “I was planning to take a year off and single-hand around the world, maybe . . . unless I got stuck in the Islands,” Kennett said. “Maybe I would have got stuck, maybe not. I took Spanish lessons, took some French . . .”

“French?”

“Yeah . . . you run down the Atlantic, see, to the Islands, then across to the Canaries, maybe zip into the Med for a look at the Riviera—that’s French—then come back out and down along the African coast to Cape Town, then Australia, then Polynesia. Tahiti: they speak French. Then back up to the Galápagos, Colombia and Panama, and the Islands again . . .”

“Islands—I like the idea,” Lucas said.

“You like it?” asked Kennett, seriously.

“Yeah, I do,” Lucas said, looking out across the water. His cheekbones and lips were tingling from the sun, and he could feel the muscles relax in his neck and back. “I had a bad time a year ago, a depression. The medical kind. I’m out now, but I never want to do that again. I’d rather . . . run. Like to the Islands. I don’t think you’d get depressed in the Islands.”

“Exactly what islands are we talking about?” Lily asked.

“I don’t know,” Kennett said vaguely. “The Windwards, or the Leewards, or some shit . . .”

“What difference would it make?” Lucas asked Lily.

She shrugged: “Don’t ask me, they’re your islands.”

After a moment of silence, Kennett said, “A unipolar depression. Did you hear your guns calling you?”

Lucas, startled, looked at him. “You’ve had one?”

“Right after the second heart attack,” Kennett said. “The second heart attack wasn’t so bad. The depression goddamned near killed me.”

They turned and started back downriver. Kennett fished in his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

“Dick. Throw those fuckin’ cigarettes . . .”

“Lily . . . I’m smoking one. Just one. That’s all for today.”

“God damn it, Dick . . .” Lily looked as though she were going to cry.

“Lily . . . aw, fuck it,” Kennett said, and he flipped the pack of Marlboros over the side, where they floated away on the river.

“That’s better,” Lily said, but tears ran down her cheeks.

“I tried to bum one from Fell the other day, but she wouldn’t give it to me,” Kennett said.

“Good for her,” said Lily, still teary-eyed.

“Look at the city,” Lucas said, embarrassed. Kennett and Lily both turned to look at the sunlight breaking over the towers in Midtown. The stone buildings glowed like butter, the modern glass towers flickering like knives.

“What a place,” Kennett said. Lily wiped her cheeks with the heels of her hands and tried to smile.

“Can’t see the patches from here,” Lucas said. “That’s what New York is, you know. About a billion patches. Patches on patches. I was walking to Midtown South from the hotel, crossing Broadway there at Thirty-fifth, and there was a pothole, and in the bottom of the pothole was another pothole, but somebody had patched the bottom pothole. Not the big one, just the little one in the bottom.”

“Fuckin’ rube,” Kennett muttered.

They brought the boat back late in the afternoon, their faces flushed with the sun. And after Lucas dropped the mainsail, Lily ran it into the marina with a soft, skillful touch.

“This has been the best day of my month,” Kennett said. He looked at Lucas. “I’d like to do it again before you go.”

“So would I,” Lucas said. “We oughta go down to the Islands sometime . . . .”

Lucas hauled the cooler back to the truck and Lily brought along an armload of bedding that Kennett wanted to wash at home.

“Shame that he can’t drive the truck,” Lucas said as Lily popped up the back lid.

“He does,” she said in a confidential voice. “He tells me he doesn’t, but I know goddamn well that he sneaks out at night and drives. A couple of months ago I drove back to his place, and when we parked I noticed that the mileage was something like 1-2-3-4-4, and I was thinking that if I only drove one more mile, I’d have a straight line of numbers: 1-2-3-4-5. When I came over the next day, the mileage was like 1-2-4-1-0, or something like that. So he’d been out driving. I check it now, and lots of times the mileage is up. He doesn’t know . . . . I haven’t mentioned it, because he gets so pissed. I’m afraid he’ll get so pissed he’ll have another attack. As long as it has power steering and brakes . . .”