Mickey watched them out of the corner of his eye, noticing that one girl put cream on the other, and took her time with it. He thought they might be lesbians, but they were very kissy face with Carlyle, so that didn’t seem right, either. They seemed very nice and made an effort to check on the three men sharing the bridge, bringing up drinks or sandwiches as needed. They were beautiful girls, whatever they were.
He was keeping an eye on things. Oliver was comfortable with his boat, and very knowledgeable. It turned out that Phillip Carlyle was just as good. They were real boat people, not week-enders, Mickey decided, and relaxed a little bit. He liked these people. They were rich, not like him, but they weren’t painful about it, and never made him feel like the hired help.
A hundred miles down the coast, at nearly lunch time, Mickey throttled back and took the boat off plane. The starboard engine had dropped a smidgen on the oil pressure. Oliver shut that one down and they went down to check. The engine room was like a long closet with a low ceiling, and it was hot in there. Mickey checked and added some oil from the case on a shelf. The pressure went back to normal when the engine restarted.
“Not a big problem,” he said. “But she’s using a little. Better keep an eye on it.”
“Never did this before,” Oliver said.
“It’s not smoking,” Mickey said. “You have a flashlight?”
He found a leak on the far side of the pan where it was hot as blazes, and squirmed back there with his teeth gritted to tighten the bolts. Oliver passed him clean shop rags to wipe up some of the mess over there, and then an emulsifier to dump into the bilges.
“We’ll pump to the waste tank,” he said unhappily. “Don’t want to be dumping oil over the side.”
They shut the port engine down to check it over and it was dead solid. When they came out of the engine cubbies, Nadine and Motýl were in the galley making sandwiches. Mickey dove over the side to cool off, and had a look at the props, which glinted in the crystalline water like knives. He sluiced off with the freshwater wash down hose on the back deck and Oliver threw him a towel.
“Good job,” he said. “Let’s hit the road, Mick.”
“Yes, sir,” Mick said, and they went.
Working together made them pals, apparently. Oliver told jokes about the court system, where he’d spent his working life as an attorney and then as a judge. Carlyle talked about the house he’d built somebody on Jupiter beach in the north end of Palm Beach county. And then Mickey, to his utter amazement, told them about Linus Davidson.
“Call the district attorney,” Oliver said without a pause. “They might not be able to hang him for what he’s done, but they will damned sure put him on the radar.”
“It’s...personal,” Mickey said, uncomfortable.
Phillip Carlyle tipped a beer up and drank, looking at Mickey over the upended bottle. He took it down again and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Has this guy got you for something?” he asked after a minute.
“Not me,” Mickey said, making fists unconsciously. “Not exactly.”
“Somebody close to you?”
“Yeah, you could say that.”
Phillip cocked an eyebrow at him. “Friend, cousin...?”
Mickey sighed. “Closer,” he said, and it felt like he had a rope around his neck, trying to get those two syllables out.
“Your wife?” Pete Oliver said, and reached out to clamp a hand on his shoulder. “Christ Jesus, Mickey. I hope it was you put the son of a bitch in traction.” He held the hand up like a cop at an intersection. “Don’t tell me. I’m an officer of the court, in case you yahoos forgot. The less I know, the better.”
Carlyle grinned at him. “Might want to ease on down and talk to my ladies, Judge. Got something to say you might not want in on.”
“Good man,” Oliver said, and went to clamber down the teak and stainless ladder to the main deck.
Mickey sat behind the wheel with his feet braced against the juddering of the boat, and thought he’d never seen a more beautiful day on the water in his life. The clean sea air had cleared his sinuses, and the second degree burns on his arms and the one on his chest from the hot engine didn’t feel like punishment, they felt like rewards for a job well done.
“What are you going to do?” Phillip asked after a minute.
“No idea.”
“But you can’t let it go.”
“If I do, he gets away with it.”
Carlyle polished his sunglasses on a shirttail and put them back on. “More than that,” he said thoughtfully.
“Yeah, he’ll do it again to somebody else. Doesn’t seem fair, letting him do that.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
Mickey sighed. “My girl doesn’t know that I know,” he said finally. “She finds out, then I’m screwed. She’ll figure it was me put him down.”
“Which he deserved, I might add,” Carlyle said. “I got to tell you, Mick. It takes serious balls to go after somebody like that.”
“Just takes a baseball bat,” Mickey said.
“Most men would just curl up, though. You didn’t.”
“Could have done it another way.”
Carlyle looked at him. “No you couldn’t,” he said. “You did the right thing.”
Mickey turned in his seat to look back at those sunglasses. “You think it’s a good thing, busting somebody up over...?”
“Damned right I do,” Carlyle said crisply. “The question isn’t about good and bad, anymore. It’s about consequences.”
“Truth or consequences? You mostly get both, been my experience,” Mickey said. “I’m kind of stuck in between here, Phillip. Damned if I can figure out which way to go on this deal.”
“You want some help?”
“Don’t get mixed up in this.”
“Wasn’t thinking about me,” Carlyle replied. “Just think about it.”
He fished two cigars out of his pocket and passed one to Mickey. They shared the love of good smokes. Both men bit the heel off and spit them out through the side curtains, Phillip to port, Mickey to starboard. They lit up and sat back again, and didn’t talk about fishing, and Phillip’s house at Marathon Key, and maybe a job for Phillip on a construction job coming up.
The boat was tied up at the Turtle Kraal in Key West just after six. Next to it was a slightly larger boat called
Spinnaker’s Gold
that Phillip seemed to know about, and ahead was a handsome, old fashioned wooden boat called the
Gulf Streamer
that he owned and wanted to show Mickey. They went over for beers and ate fried everything, and then Mickey went back to Oliver’s boat for the night while everyone else went to the Pier House.
Sandy called at nine, kind of breathlessly excited. “I did something kind of weird today,” she said. “Want me to tell you?”
“Sure,” Mickey said, half afraid it would be something about Davidson.
“I walked on the treadmill, and then I cut the grass.”
“Weirdly?”
She laughed nervously. “It was so silly, but I put Cindy down and read her a story and then I went back to work in the lab, but all I could think about was you.”
“Take a breath, Sandy.”
Her laughter came again, softly this time. “I...well...the sun was going down, but it was still kind of light out, you know how it is. I was on the patio, feeling sort of...you know, lonely. And I started...um...playing with myself a little bit.”
Mickey felt the relief wash through him like a cool drink. “Like to have seen that,” he said.
“It was weird, honey. I did some things I’ve never done before.”
“What things?”
“Christ, this is embarrassing.” She laughed self-consciously again, almost giggling. “You remember how you tied my boobs the other day?”
“With the cord?”
“I did that to myself. Not as tight as you, but pretty tight. And I used some of that orange rope from the garage and made one of those crotch rope things. You know, where you tie me around the waist and pull the rope up between my legs?”
“I remember,” he said. “It sounds real pretty, hon, but what was it about the grass you were going to tell me?”
“It needed cutting,” she said. “But wait a minute, I’m getting to that. First I tied myself up like I told you, and then I got some clothespins, too.”
“And?” He was getting warm, thinking about it.
“I put one on each nipple, Mick. And then I clipped some more between my legs like you did yesterday. Damn, but it hurt.”
“You nasty girl, you.”
“And then I cut the grass,” she said.
“With the clothespins on?”
“And the rope. I put on my house dress, because I was afraid to be naked out there without you, and I had to walk bowlegged because those things hurt like the dickens, but I did it, and I cut the whole yard like that without stopping, all by myself.”
“You’re a wonder,” he said. “Now you’re really making me wish I’d been there. Maybe with the paddle, because of the dress.”
“We don’t have a paddle,” she said, almost laughing. “But there’s always that spoon, right?”
“I still owe you nine, plus one more, now,” he said. “So tell me the rest. I’m getting horny, hearing about this.”
“That’s why I called,” she said in a voice gone low and whispery. “I’m finished with the yard, and I’m back on the porch, but I’ve still got the clothes pins on. I thought you might like to hear me take them off. They’re really hurting now. I mean
really
hurting, if you know what I mean. “
“You squeal some when they come off,” he said.
“And I’m nearly...you know...nearly ready to...”
“Cum?”
“Yes,” she said, like she was ashamed of it.
So he listened while she yipped and sighed, taking those pins off and talking to him in little catchy breaths. She rubbed the spots where they had been, telling him how much it hurt and how good it felt, and then unwinding the cords from her breasts, and masturbating afterwards until she came with a grunting little sigh of release.
“There,” she said, finally. “Could you hear me?”
“How am I supposed to ride the bus home tomorrow with a hard-on?”
She laughed softly and said she loved him and to hurry home. They hung up, and Mickey went to clean the starboard engine room on Judge Oliver’s boat. Nobody had asked him to, but the leak happened on his watch, and he felt like he ought to do it. The big green engine was still pretty hot, but not so you couldn’t touch it. He worked for almost four hours to clean it, and the spatter on the walls, and the dirty tub ring on the floor. Damned mess is what it was.
Chapter Eighteen
At something after eleven, Mickey heard sounds on the boat and went out to investigate, carrying a big wad of oily rags with him. Phillip Carlyle was in the fish well with a second man who was probably not much older than Mickey. He had shaggy dark hair, good shoulders and watchful green eyes.
“Want you to meet a friend of mine,” Phillip said. “This is John Willis, who specializes in taking care of problems, among other things.”
“More of a hobby, really,” Willis said with a self-deprecating smile. “Phillip here tells me you’ve got something right up my alley.”
“It’s not up any alley I ever heard of,” Mickey said cautiously.
“Maybe not,” John Willis said, “but I’ve got some resources you might not have, Mickey. You want to talk about it a little bit?”
Mickey made a face. “I’ve talked about it more than I should already,” he said. “It’s the kind of thing that’ll put me in deep shit, if I’m not careful.”
“You
are
being careful,” Willis said, nodding to Carlyle. “Phillip won’t tell me a thing except it’s something I might be able to help with. And I’m not saying anything to anybody because it’s all hearsay evidence, right?”
“Why would you do that?”
Willis grinned. “Like I said, assholes are kind of a hobby with me. Every once in awhile the opportunity comes up to take care of one, and when it does...” He shrugged with his palms out and turned up, like he couldn’t help whatever came next.
“Well...” Mickey said. “Maybe we better sit down and talk then. Damned if I know what else to do.”
“Got a beer on this tub?”
Willis sat in one of the fighting chairs. Mickey got three beers and brought them out and sat on the fantail to talk. Phillip finished his beer and said he’d be on his way. Mickey watched him go, and the two women that worked for him got up from a bench. Mickey hadn’t even seen them.
In the dock lights, he saw very clearly that each woman had a chain hanging from their nose rings. They handed the tag ends to Phillip, who led them away like a pair of beautiful dogs.
“Interesting threesome, that,” Willis said.
“I like the nose rings,” Mickey conceded. “Don’t know how my wife would like being led around by one, though.”
“Only one way to find out,” Willis said with a laugh.
Mickey sat down again and found that he wanted to talk, to unload the pile of shit he had on his shoulders. He meant to be careful, to try to not lay a bunch of stuff on Sandy, but it didn’t work out that way. Willis was a good listener and they talked for three hours. Mickey told him everything, like it was a confessional. When Willis left, Mickey laid down on the couch in the salon and slept for six hours without moving.
The next morning at seven, he was on a Greyhound headed north. The ride home took almost as long as the boat trip. They made three station shops on the way up through the Keys, and then there seemed to be a Greyhound sign about every fifteen or twenty miles from Florida City all the way to Mickey’s stop.
They did get there by supper time, as promised, but after a day on the water at full charge and another day on the road, Mickey was feeling like he might need a bed next to Linus Davidson and maybe a dose of something with codeine in it.
Cindy hugged him like she hadn’t seen him in a year and he picked her up for a kiss and hugged Sandy with the other arm. Sandy was stunning in the black dress with the red roses around the hemline and flat sandals. Mickey thought she looked like a million dollars, and she seemed very pleased.
Mickey had four hundred dollars in his pocket from Judge Oliver, which was what was owed plus a tip and an extra hundred for the engine room clean-up. The judge had promised to call when he got ready to take the boat home maybe in August, and said Mickey could bring his wife for that one if he wanted. More importantly, Mickey had an ally. Willis had promised to look into things, and Mickey wanted to believe that. He wanted it a lot.