21
STONE LAY ON his back, panting. The ceiling fan was a blur above him. For the past two hours, off and on, he and Annika had explored every nook and cranny, every orifice, every nerve ending in both their bodies. To his credit, even she seemed tired.
“Tell me, Stone,” she said, “what do you do?”
They were going to have the first-date chitchat now? “Do you really want to know?”
“I don’t ask what I don’t want to know.”
“I’m an attorney.”
“Why do lawyers always say they are attorneys, instead of lawyers?”
“Because lawyers have a bad name with a lot of people.”
“And attorneys don’t?”
“Oh, no. Attorneys are a different class of people altogether. Much higher up the totem pole.”
“They are Eskimos?”
“Just a figure of speech.”
“Americans use a lot of figure of speeches.”
“Yes, we do. You will, too, when you’ve been here a little longer.”
“What possible business could an attorney have in Key West?” she asked.
“I was looking for a man.”
“Did you find him?”
“Finally.”
“Why was it so hard?”
“You know, today I asked the same question of another man who took a while to find him.”
“It was hard for him, too?”
“Yes.”
“Who is this man?”
“His name is Evan Keating.”
“Oh, Evan.”
Stone lifted his head from the damp pillow and looked at her. “You know him?”
“Of course.”
“What do you mean, of course?”
“It’s just a figure of speech.”
“How could you possibly know him?”
“All sorts of people come through an emergency room,” she replied. “We get drunks, criminals, brand-new quadriplegics and . . .”
“Hang on, what’s a brand-new quadriplegic?”
“A drunken college student who, during spring break, dives off the White Street Pier into shallow water and breaks his neck. We get about one a year.”
“Good God.”
“Exactly. And there’s a big sign saying, ‘Don’t Dive Off the Pier, Because the Water Is Shallow, and You’ll Break Your Neck.’ Or words to that effect.”
“How do you treat a brand-new quadriplegic?”
“You pack him onto a helicopter and send him to Miami, where they know better how to deal with these things.”
“What else do you deal with?”
“We treat a few gunshot wounds now and then.”
“Yeah?”
“Usually in the foot, which is where people often shoot themselves. If somebody else shoots them, they’re often dead.”
“I know. I used to be a cop, and in New York people shoot each other somewhat more often than in Key West.”
“It must be interesting to be an emergency room physician in New York,” she said.
“I used to go out with one, until she married a doctor.”
“Is her job still open? I’m thinking of moving on.”
“As far as I know, she didn’t leave her job. You’re thinking of moving to New York?”
“Why not? I was there once, and I liked it.”
“Annika, if you moved to New York, I would be dead in a month.”
She laughed. “No, I would keep you alive,” she said, fondling him. “I would chain you to the bed and fuck you until you were at the edge of death, then I would revive you with Swedish meatballs until you were ready again.”
“That’s pretty much what you’re doing here,” he said.
“I suppose it is. Oh, look, you’re coming up again.”
“I don’t need to look; I can tell.”
“Where would you like me to put it this time?”
“You choose.”
“I choose everywhere.”
“Again?”
“Again and again.”
Stone groaned.
“It’s just a figure of speech,” she said, throwing a leg over him.
“Wait a minute,” he said, but it was too late; he was already inside her. “How do you know Evan Keating?”
“I treated him in the emergency room,” she said, moving slowly.
“For what?”
“He said it was some sort of boating accident, but it was a knife wound.” She began moving faster.
“Who cut him?”
“That wasn’t one of the questions on the admitting form,” she said, then she exploded in climax.
Stone hung on for dear life, though that was just a figure of speech.