I went home, grabbed a canned Coors Light, and sat outside by my pool. Sat on the edge of it, put the lower half of my legs, from the knees down, in the water. It felt good, cool, relaxing. And the visual of it relaxed me too. The last of the day’s sunlight sitting on its smooth purple surface.
So, Marlon tells me that the whole tropical fish thing could be a cover for drugs. Okay. I guess. Maybe. So could that connect to Andrea Cogburn? Like, she and Keaton started doing drugs together way back when and then, with or without her, he got more and more interested in them over time, to the point that eventually he got involved with some real dealers? Real dealers who may or may not be the Prestige Fish people?
Again. I guess. Maybe.
Add to that Andrea’s death, or maybe even suicide. So where does that fit in?
“John?”
Or does it fit in? Maybe her death is simply a very unfortunate side trail to this story. Which makes me think of Greer’s story, the Pig Hunt story. How does that connect? Or does it not connect? Is it just a sad, not to mention weird, element that ultimately doesn’t have anything to do with Keaton’s murder?
“John?”
Or, shit—maybe her death, or suicide, is connected somehow more directly.
“John!”
And then there were the high-dollar fish. The clarion angelfish, the Neptune grouper. And there was that sinister look on Lee Graves’s skeletal face. And there was Craig Helton, and Sydney Scott, and Muriel Dreen, and Heather Press . . .
“John!”
I looked over at Nancy. She’d come out of the house a little while ago to join me; her legs were now dangling in the water like mine. I’d seen her come out, of course, and had greeted her with a smile. But I had no idea what she had asked me, what she was talking about.
“Yeah, babe,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Don’t you agree?”
It seemed that we were in the middle of a conversation. Nancy looked at me with some fire in her eyes. It wasn’t exactly anger. It was more that she looked disappointed, even betrayed.
She said, “I thought we decided to be present when we’re around each other.”
“Sorry, I was thinking about—”
“I know what you were thinking about. Your case. I know that.”
Balance. Life balance. It’s something that people talk about a lot these days. You can’t constantly be thinking about work. You can’t be overly consumed by one thing. You need balance. I’ve never been very good at it.
Truth is, I don’t believe in it. You know why? Because I don’t think it works. I’ve never gotten anywhere on a case unless I thought about it all the time. But, beyond me, does anyone get anywhere with anything when they’re “balanced”? Were the Stones balanced when they made Exile? Or were they all in? Was Robert Pirsig balanced when he wrote Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance? Somehow I doubt it.
But, look, I’m not just talking about exceptional artists. Were you balanced the last time you accomplished something you were really proud of? Something important at work? A big physical achievement? A personal project you really cared about? Maybe you were. But I bet you weren’t.
Now, does not having a ton of respect for balance fuck up my life sometimes? Well, it sure looked like it right now. I’d made a promise to Nancy that I wasn’t keeping. Not cool. And not good. Because I love her.
I said, “Nance. What was it that you were asking me?”
“John,” she said calmly, but with some bite, “I could think about my patients, or my career, or a million other things while you’re talking to me, and sometimes I’d like to. But I don’t. I make an effort not to.”
I nodded. “I’m sorry. What did you ask me?”
She said, “The sunlight looks pretty sitting on the pool like that, don’t you think?”
I smiled and said, “Aha. You asked me a question simply because you knew I was thinking about my case. And you knew I wouldn’t be able to answer it. You didn’t really want the answer to the question. You just did it to bust me.”
Remember how I said Nancy gives me shit sometimes when she thinks I deserve it? This would be one of those times.
She smiled and said, “Maybe.”
“Well, don’t you think that’s kind of unfair? I mean, you set me up. You didn’t even really want my answer. You already know I like the way the sun sits on the pool. We’ve talked about that a bunch.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re still not present, and you should be.”
“I need to be present for questions that aren’t really even real questions?”
“That’s right.”
I put my arm around Nancy and kissed her on the cheek. She looked at me with her brown eyes. Soft and now forgiving, but I could still see a flicker of that Nancy fire.
And so I said, again, “I’m sorry.”
“Let’s make dinner,” she said.
“Wait, what? I was just thinking about something else for a quick second.”
“Not funny,” she said.
“A little funny?” I said.
“No. Not at all. Not even a little bit.”
“Let’s make dinner,” I said.
“Oh. So you did hear me,” she said as she looked right at me. “I like that, John. I like that a lot. When you hear me.”
I nodded. We stood up. I gave her a kiss, this time on the lips, and we walked inside.