11:59 p.m. EST
The day’s events roiling his thoughts, pacing, writing notes, talking to himself, sipping, smoking, around 3:00 a.m., Zackary stretched out on the sofa and, moving in and out of sensual fantasy—Veracity full throttle, the feel of her wheel, the song of her engines, the smell of the ocean slapping her sides—he closed his eyes and dreamed.
a noise, he looked up, Mary stood in Veracity’s cabin entrance. A cut-off white T-shirt revealed her navel, faded blue denim shorts revealed her slender thighs. Barefoot, she held a basket of large purple grapes.
What are you doing? Zack sat up and looked at her.
Hanging around. Did you doze off?
Just taking a catnap.
How’s that ear? She came to him and sat. Want some grapes? I’ll peel them for you.
I don’t think so.
She ate a grape, put one in his mouth, said, Let’s go for a swim.
You have a suit?
No. She smiled and stepped to the cabin door, her back turned to him she pulled off her T-shirt and dropped her denim shorts, then turned to him. Come on, chicken.
The ocean became Mary.
Zack swam free with fleeting glimpses of her soft lips smothering his face. Swimming in her saltwater warmth, her skin white satin, he touched it, pressed it, caressed it…riding dolphins, Mary raced ahead and around him, then slid off her dolphin and swam to his side, sunlight rippled across the watery surface, he reached to touch her hair and it all became a clanging buoy
Zack opened his eyes to his video phone ringing. He sat up and looked at his wristwatch—7:45 a.m.
Yawning, he maneuvered to the ringing phone and flipped it on.
Mary, much awake, perky, asked, “Nice dream?”
Paused, he was about to say how did you know? but stopped. “Good morning.”
“How’s your ear?”
“Fine.”
“We still on for eleven?”
“I’m certain.”
“See our special edition?”
“Not yet, I”
“Get a copy, its good.”
“Before or after coffee?”
“Before. Did you put iodine on that ear?”
“Bye.”
Potent images of the spent dream still in him, he sat at the bar. Fogged thoughts moved through yesterday, last night, the news. His weekend plans shot, he pushed the port window’s orange drape aside and—sure enough—sun, green water, blue sky, puffy white clouds.
“Nuts,” he said.
Since christening Veracity three years before, his cherished Saturday routine had been to rise early, pack ham sandwiches, ice a case of Bohemia, get out on the water, fish, drink, think, commune, talk, write anything down that made sense. Come in around five, hot shower, shave, dinner at The Bimini Road, talk with Joe Case—even that was now gone. The Tea Company was okay but just not the same.
And this particular weekend, this special Labor Day weekend, he had planned to think a thing through. Namely, his relationship with Ms. O’Brien—past, present and/or future.
“Butsome things are not to be,” he said.
He sighed, stepped to the galley, started the coffee maker, picked up his TV remote and clicked on the TV.
Same news channel still on from last night—he watched video of a reporter standing in front of the Miami Beach Ocean Resort. He turned up the sound.
A petite Latino lady reported “a homicide at the Miami Beach Ocean Resort. Victim is a male Caucasian, found by house cleaners this morning. It appears he was murdered sometime last evening. The police are investigating what they called ‘peculiar circumstances’. Back to you”
He click to another channel—Road Runner cartoon.
“It’s all a cartoon, makes more sense that way.”
While stripping his clothes off, commenting along the way, he surfed TV channels: [Click] “FOX—Detroit, nice fire.” [Click] “NBC—L.A., good crowd control.” [Click] “CBS—Philadelphia, demonstrations.” [Click] “MSNBC—there’s that Channel 10 tape again.” [Click] PBS—Sesame Street.
He clicked off.
Nude, silence strong, wiping his face with his palm, he felt that uncanniness he had experienced last night, driving home. The morbid feeling moved over him like a giant hump back whale at the water’s surface, eclipsing sunlight below. Strange how reality ends, fear begins, he thought. He caught a whiff of that familiar dank smell that associated itself with the anxiety.
“You! You magnificent bastard, you.” He looked around, paused, sniffed. Nothing. “It’s all in your mind,” he said.
He retrieved a mug of coffee, poured, sipped, thought about taking a shower, shaving but chucking the idea, pulled on a fresh outfit—black T-shirt and Wrangler jeans—and slipped into his deck shoes.
At the “head’s” mirror, he pulled the Band-Aid off his ear and studied the nick. I heal quick, he thought, and decided to let the world see his badge of
Of what? he wondered. “Courage? Close, but no cigar.”
Leaving, he caressed the mahogany of Veracity. “Don’t blame me for not going out today.”
He ambled up the three steps that led to the aft deck, sniffed the balmy, humid air. Deceivingly serene, he thought then looked out at the green-blue water of the bay.
The calm surface reflected the sun in a million directions; further out the sea breathed. He paused then stepped to the dock and made the familiar trek to the end of the wharf and the metal newspaper dispensers. He kicked The Boca machine just below the money slot. The front dropped and he retrieved a paper. My paper, he rationalized. No guilt whatsoever.
He scanned The Boca’s front page headline: CHIEF DENIES IT
“Not bad, Jimbo, not bad, Mary even liked it.”