Shadow Bay

Introduction to Shadow Bay

2010-03-07T14:27:00.001-08:00

Now available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

Welcome to the home of Shadow Bay, the noir-crime-blog-visual-novel by writer Donald J. Rothscild & artist William T. Ayton. Please note that you can access the first chapter from the table of contents box directly to the right of these words.

Teaser Music Video

2010-02-08T08:35:00.001-08:00

In order to give you an abbreviated idea of Shadow Bay we've added the teaser video below. The video takes illustrations from the first chapter and sequences them with a voice-over from the chapter accompanied by our musical "score".

Chapter 18

2010-01-22T03:36:00.000-08:00

It looked as if a hurricane had blown through the Sloop's office. Sarah's body was laying spread eagle on the floor, one exposed breast flopped out of her suit jacket.

She spent half her life waving her tits at the world, Jo thought as she bent over the body, not surprising she died doing the same. For old time's sake she slipped Sarah's breast back inside her jacket and then pulled the envelope out of the pocket.

They were all there. Negatives and photos.

“Police would've said she was killed trying to rob the office,” said a man standing in the doorway. “They would've said he was killed trying to stop her. They killed each other. Police would have said that...”

“...but he never showed. I waited, but he never showed,” Stan repeated.

Jo nodded. She knew Stan was disappointed, how much he had wanted to kill Fisher for her as well as Sarah, but the plan had changed. Now they would sail the High Water far out into the Gulf and dump Sarah's body in the deep blue sea. The office she would leave as is. She needed the apparent robbery to account for that missing fifty-thousand. The safe was empty and the gym bag was stuffed with newspapers not cash. Fisher had secreted the money out of the office when he supposedly went back to check if the sledge hammer was in place before they left for the expo. A sleight of hand she had missed while plotting his elimination. "Touche, my love," she whispered to herself.

“What do you want to do about him?” Stan asked.

Jo tore the photos and the negatives into small and smaller pieces before piling them in an ashtray shaped like a clam. She snapped open her lighter and set the remains of the photos on fire.

“Forget,” she said.”

Fisher drove to the airport in a daze, having no idea of what he was going to do. When the woman behind the ticket counter asked him for his destination, Fisher said “Where would you suggest?”

“I hear Martinique is nice.”

“Done,” he said, taking out an envelope stuffed with cash.

"Any bags?"

"None."

As he passed a postal-drop, the thought briefly crossed his mind that he should mail half of the fifty-thousand back to Jo for sparing him. But he got over it. He bought toiletries and adhesive tape at a terminal shop and entered the Men's room by the water fountain. Finding a vacant stall he dropped his pants and taped the envelope inside his thigh.

He checked the airport departure board. The flight to Fort-de-France, scheduled to leave at 7:35 a.m., was on time. The early morning inched along. He watched the jets taking off to points unknown. One hour to go, he thought, and I'll be up there too. Just sixty more minutes. He felt exhausted, drained by the events of the last twenty-four hours, but he couldn't afford to fall asleep and miss his flight. He needed a cup of coffee. He walked past a group of religious cultists with shaved heads canvassing the terminal for donations.

He found a spot at a stand-up-table. There was a man next to him in a sweat stained shirt, eating a sausage and egg sandwich. Fisher was relieved to see the suitcase by the traveler's feet.

“Heading somewhere, Detective?”

“Yeah, back home,” said Paduano, wiping his perpetually sweating face with a napkin. “How about you, Fisher? You going or coming?”

“Going. Little vacation.”

“By yourself, or with Mrs. Landy?”

“Fisher. Mrs. Fisher.”

“Yeah. Never seemed to get that right.”

“I'm... on my own.”

“Umm.”

“Any luck finding Robin Grant?”

“No. How about you?”

“I wasn't looking.”

“Ah. I saw you at the track at Troyers last night.”

“Didn't know you were a fan of the ponies, Detective. Why didn't you say hello?”

“I tried, but you left in a hurry.”

“Not my favorite track.”

“Whose car was that you were driving?”

“Car?”

“The black Jeep.”

“I have no idea.”

Paduano opened his notebook. “Stan Fredrickson, 414 Tamiami Drive. Ring any bells?”

“Nope.”

“Also owns a boat. 'The High Water'. Sails out of the Manatee Marina.”

Fisher flinched and his tired eyes popped open. “The High Water?”

“You know the boat?”

Yeah he knew it. He'd seen it everywhere; outside of the Sloop, in the Bahamas on their honeymoon, even cruising the river past their condo.

Stan. Sure. His boat, his Jeep, his ponytailed-fuckface butting into their fight outside the recreation hall. His shoulder to lean at all those morning "meetings". Her "Stan-by-me". Her next fool.

Sensing Fisher's guard was down, Paduano came in for the kill. “She betrayed you. She's been cheating on you from the start, playing you like a chump. Wake up! She and Grant killed Landy. Now dollars to doughnuts she and this Fredrickson killed Grant. She's dirty as hell, Fisher, and you know it. Give her to me. Give her to me now.”

Fisher shook his head.

“Damn it, Fisher! Come on. She's played you for a fool. You don't owe her a thing.”

“I'm sorry, Detective.”

"Damn it, Fisher..."

Paduano's instinct told him to keep leaning on Fisher, press him hard, over and over... but his flight left in ten minutes, and nobody else seemed to care about a closed case. He was a one-man-band playing to a deaf crowd. Small potatoes, his chief had said. And the rotten stay rotten. “All right. All right.” He sighed. He hated to let this one go. But was homesick and couldn't wait to get out of the God damn state. “Give you a little advice, Fisher?”

“Yeah?”

“Don't come back to Rosehill.” When Fisher laughed, Paduano jabbed a finger in his side. “Think this is a joke? I'm serious. Put you away before your foot hits the tarmac.”

“I'm sorry, Detective. Just, Rosehill is the last place I'd go.”

“All right, all right." Paduano licked a piece of egg off his upper lip. You know, Fisher, you're a lucky son-of-a-bitch.”

As Paduano walked away he was set upon by the group of religious cultists asking him for donations in exchange for their pamphlets. He waved them off with a “Go get a job,” and disappeared around the corner.

Fisher heard the first call for his flight, but he didn't move. He took his time sipping his coffee, making sure Paduano was gone for good. There was no reason to let anyone see where he was heading. “Lucky son-of-a-bitch?” He didn't know about that. But Paduano didn't understand. Fisher couldn't give him Jo without giving up himself. Even separated, they would always be tied together. Landy, Sarah, and Stan Fredrickson, all collateral damage, killed in a walk-in, or in a fake robbed office, or, unless Fisher missed his bet, shot and shoved overboard this morning out at sea. For whatever reason, Fisher was the one to get away. “I'd never give you up, Fish,” she said.

To that, she was true to her vow, her addiction. “Till death do we part.”

“Caribbean Airways Flight Thirty-three to Fort-de-France, now boarding at gate number three,” called the P.A.

As Fisher was walking to the gate, one of the cultists approached him and offered a pamphlet. “Have you heard the word of God, today?”

Fisher was about to give the young man the Paduano treatment when he realized he knew him.

“Aren't you Mickey Salmanowitz, the football player from Rosehill High?”

“Yes.” His docile round brown eyes, reminded Fisher of a stabled horse.

“How are... how did... what are you doing in Florida?”

“I had a scholarship to play football. But I met some people and realized I needed God in my life.”

“Was it a girl?”

“What?”

“Did you do it for a girl?”

“I don't understand,” said Salmanowitz with a beatific smile.

Join the club, thought Fisher. He heard his flight called again. He took a pamphlet from Salmanowitz and handed the boy twenty dollars.

“Thank you. God loves you,” said Salmanowitz.

Walking away, Fisher looked back and noticed the remnants of the backwards swastika tattoo inked into the shaved head of the disciple.

His seat was by the window and Fisher briefly closed his eyes as the jet soared up off the runway. But he opened them to watch the the houses and condos shrink into toy towns. The inland canals looked like varicose veins angling through the green and brown flatlands. Blood was running down there, he thought, running through the every day lives behind white picket fences, through the bedrooms, shower stalls, hospitals and restaurant offices, running down Route One to a shack in the Sugarloafs and all the way up the East coast to Rosehill, running out to the deep blue of the Gulf of Mexico where a lone boat was anchored far at sea and where it was too far away for Fisher to see the orange flash, hear the shot or see the body splash into the water. But he could feel it like the cool of Jo's pistol shoved up against his ribs.

Fisher grunted.

"Did you say something?" asked the passenger in the next seat.

Fisher shook his head "no" and closed his eyes. There was nothing to say. And even if there was, he thought, I'm not telling. I'm not telling them a thing.

Chapter 17

2010-01-15T03:41:00.000-08:00

Monday evening they were already running late when Fisher couldn't remember if he had moved the sledgehammer into the office. He ran back to check.

“Was it there?” asked Jo on his return, using the visor vanity mirror to finish her makeup.

“Yeah, it was. Sorry.”

“Let's go. Let's go.”

They drove across the drawbridge out to Siesta Key past the high-rise condos, hundred foot yachts and private homes hidden behind iron gates manned by guardhouses. They turned onto a winding private drive lined by giant palms. The road ended on a huge field of a great estate. The field had been freshly mown to accommodate the large number of cars expected.

The estate, now the property of the county, consisted of a forty-seven room mansion and a number of out-buildings spread on along sixty-six acres above Manatee Bay. All had once been the home of a famous circus impresario. In his memory the entire staff manning the expo, including the valets driving the golf carts ferrying people from the field to the main grounds, was dressed in circus costumes. Jo, wearing heels and a bright red dress, was glad for the ride.

Monday was the first day of the week-long event. Representatives from restaurants and food purveyors from all over the county flocked to the expo to display their wares. The estate's carriage house was ringed with food booths and kiosks offering grilled kabobs of fish and fruit, mimosas made with fresh squeezed orange juice and stone-crab puffs while jugglers, stilt-walkers and circus bands paraded through the throng.

Jo introduced Fisher to sales-reps, chefs, fellow restaurateurs... They wanted to be witnessed together by as many people as possible. They waited on line to officially establish their presence by having a newspaper photographer take their picture standing at the base of a ten foot granite statue of a laughing clown called “Master of Mirth”.

A crescent moon rose over the grounds and the bulk of the crowd gathered on the great lawn to watch the fireworks launched from barges on the bay.

“Where's the car?” Fisher asked.

“On Grove, between Fourth and Fifth. It's about half-a-mile from the wall behind the sculpture garden.” She dropped the keys in his free hand. “It's a black Jeep.” Fisher coughed, almost choking on a crab-puff. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” he said hoarsely, raising his arms above his head to help the lodged piece pass down his esophagus. “Whose car is it?”

“A friend.”

A friend, right. More likely a sister. For all Fisher knew, Sarah was watching them right now wearing one of her clown get-ups. Jo brushed a crumb off the lapel of his jacket and leaned against him. “Be careful,” she whispered and kissed him softly on the lips. The kiss of death, thought Fisher. He looked into her eyes, but they revealed nothing. A loud firework boomed overhead and he ducked off, glancing back once to look at Jo. This is the last time, he thought. I'll never see her again. When he turned back, he nearly bumped into a waiter dressed as a clown.

“Excuse me,” Fisher said, wondering if this could be it. But the clown was clearly a man and not sister Sarah. He frowned at Fisher from beneath his make-up and moved on. Fisher was beginning to hate clowns. Discretely he slipped away from the crowd into the sculpture garden and followed a service path through to the wall. No one saw him climb off the property.

He jumped off the wall and suddenly felt weightless, far above the ground, the tangled web of his world looked miles away. Maybe he could free-fall forever and never have to touch down, or maybe he would land somewhere else where Jo and he had never crossed paths. If he turned his body slightly maybe the gulf stream would catch him and carry him to a soft landing in a safe place. In the background music was playing, what was the song? A calypso calling him to an island?

No, it was the expo-circus band from behind the wall. The ground was below coming up fast. He landed on a root and felt the pain shoot through his leg.

He found Grove street and walked with a slight limp to Fourth. The Jeep was parked exactly where Jo said it would be.

Paduano watched and waited from his Corolla in the parking field. His suitcase was in the trunk. Having again lost Robin Grant's trail, he'd been ordered back to Rosehill by his chief. Without Grant there was nothing solid to go on, plus he had no jurisdiction in Manatee or, for that matter, anywhere outside of Nassau County. But his instincts told him something was going on.

The smell of fried delicacies wafted from the main grounds to the field making Paduano's stomach grumble. He was starving. But this was a one man stake-out. He knew if he left his car to eat, he might miss Jo and Fisher. One of the parking valets passed by in a golf cart.

“Need a lift to the festivities, sir?”

“No thanks, I'm waiting for somebody. But listen, are you driving back up there?” Paduano said, pointing to the house.

“Yes sir.”

“I wonder if you could do me a favor?”

Fisher parked the Jeep on the far side of the marina. There was no registration in the glove compartment, but he was sure it was Sarah's car. The gym bag, as planned, was under the seat. He checked his watch. Less than two hours to trash the office, take the cash, drive to Troyers, make the drop, drive back to the estate and slip into the mansion in time for the wine auction where he and Jo would be bidding conspicuously. “Be careful” she said. Go damn right. Fisher wondered where and when it would come from? Not at the track, too many people. Inside the office? Would Jo do that? Have him killed in cold blood? Paduano warned him. “...I don't know the kind of shit you're swimming in...” Deep. Deep, deep shit. “I know you,” Jo said to him. What did she know? What would be waiting for him when he turned the knob and walked through the door; the lady or the tiger? Or both.

Fisher felt exhausted. He needed to close his eyes for a moment. In the haze of half-sleep he watched himself cross behind the Sloop to the rear entrance to the office. His hand turned the door knob, he entered and heard Sarah laugh just before she shot him between the eyes.

Heavy odds pointed to this scenario; practically a sure thing. Practically. All his life he played the long odds. Should he play them one more time? Paduano could be wrong, or he could be playing Fisher, trying to make him do something stupid. And Sarah? Why should he believe a word she said when everything she said was lies? He could walk up to the door, turn the knob and find the office was exactly as he'd left it, not a paper out of place, the large black safe untouched with the sledgehammer leaning against it. Sarah wouldn't step out of the shadows, because she'd be waiting for him at the track. And when he paid her off, Sarah would vanish from their lives. He would find Jo at the auction, take her hand and squeeze it as she bid on the Bordeaux. So there was the bet. Long shot or heavy odds. Lady or the tiger. Fisher opened his eyes. He felt resurrected; he had made his choice. He grabbed the gym bag and opened the door of the Jeep.

Inside the office a manic laugh was followed by two muffled gunshots that sounded for all the world like fireworks.

Troyers Grove, a former dog track recently converted to harness-racing, crammed in twelve races a night, seven days a week along with half-priced beer and free-admission to children under twelve. Mondays, women entered free of charge. The place was packed.

She sensed she was being followed so she ducked into the ladies room. The third stall was free, she locked the door behind her and sat on the toilet changing into a pair of shorts and a sweatshirt. She tucked back her hair and put on the Devils Ray baseball cap she'd borrowed for the night. Pulling the brim of the cap down over her face, she exited the restroom behind a fat lady with three girls.

After stuffing the dress in a garbage can, she reversed her direction, taking the long way around the stands, weaving past the vendors and the program hawkers, keeping in the shadows.

The P.A. announced the official results of the sixth race. A couple leaped for joy screaming “we won” over and over. Obliviously happy, the man swung his date in the air, nearly knocking into her. The man tried to apologize, but she waved him off, pulling down the cap even further. She checked the section of the grand stand. Twenty-six. Seven to go. The place gave her the chills. She realized she hadn't been at a track in more than a year.

After waiting outside the restroom for ten minutes, Paduano knew he'd lost her. She'd surprised him earlier at the Expo, scurrying across the mowed lot with her shoes in her hands while he was finishing off the fried scallops the parking valet had cart-delivered. With Fisher nowhere in sight, she drove off the grounds. Paduano, tailing from a distance, followed her to the lot at Troyers and into the grandstand. She'd been easy to follow in that red dress, but obviously she changed clothes while in the Ladies. Paduano kicked himself for falling asleep at the wheel. Troyers was a huge anthill crawling with ants. He was going to have to get lucky.

It was less than five minutes to post by the time Jo reached section thirty-three, but she couldn't find the binocular rental. The last thing she wanted to do was to ask someone where it was. She needed to be invisible, nothing to connect her to this place when they'd find his body. Where in hell was the damn stand? She couldn't see a thing with the the cap pulled so low.

“Hello Jo,” a voice said from behind her.

“Fish!”

“Who did you expect,” he said, “...someone from the Rotary?”

“Thank God, you're still here.

“What do you mean 'still'?”

“Are you leaving with her? Are you going with Sarah?”

“No.”

“Thank God,” she said. “I was so afraid. The way you looked at me at the expo. Like we would never see each other again.”

Fisher had to smile. She was so good.

“Let's go, Fish. Let's get out of here.”

“What about the money, Jo?”

“We don't give her the money. We don't give her a thing.”

“What about the pictures, the negatives?”

“She's bluffing, Fish. Let's get out of here."

“She told me, Jo. She told me how she went to jail for twenty-seven months. Paduano verified it. Twenty-seven months. And the whole time she kept her mouth shut, she never said one word about being partners with you and Landy. More than two years and she kept you two out of jail. No why would she do that? Why should she?

"Fish..."

"You know why. Becasue she's your sister."

“What?”

"Stop it Jo. It's over. Paduano showed me a copy of the lease from the Sugarloaf Key with both your names on it. Johanna and Robin Grant. She's your sister Jo. She's your fucking sister."

"Fish, let me explain..."

"Explain what? How your sister did time for you? How your sister did break-ins for you? What else is your sister going to do for you?

"Fish..."

"But I'll tell you something, Jo. Your sister, your lovely little sister has this idea in her head that she was set up. Set up for deal in the Keys. All this time she thought it was Jack who let her get caught. But now she has come around to thinking maybe it was you.”

“She's a liar.”

“Jesus, Jo, you lie to me this whole time and you're calling her a liar?"

"Fish..."

"Stop it Jo. Just tell me one thing. One true thing. Did you set her up, Jo? Did you send her to jail?"

The P.A. announced “One minute to post.”

“Fish, let's get out of here. I'll do whatever you want. Please, let's go.”

“Where? Back to the office where Sarah is waiting to put a bullet in my brain?”

“What are you talking about? You said she's coming here.”

“Make it look like a robbery, place already trashed. I walk in...

'boom' she shoots me. Shoots me for you. Like you wanted me to do with Landy.

“That was both of us.”

“Both of us? Both of us, what, Jo? Been turning around in my head for days like some tumor gonna explode all over. Both of us, what?”

“Loved each other.”

“Jesus, Jo.”

The bell rang the horses were off.

“I told you Fish, I would never give you up. Never.” Jo eyes filled with tears. “Sarah... She was fucking Jack, O.K.? She was fucking my husband right in my face. So did I give a shit when she went to prison? No. But when she came out she went right on fucking him. And then she fucks you... Oh, Fish please...”

“If I was setting you up, why would I be here? Why would I come?”

“For the kick, Jo.”

“What?”

“That the kick you get here isn't out there.”

“I'll do whatever you want. But we've got to get out of here.”

“I want to see if she shows.”

“Fish...”

“If she shows, then I know I'm wrong and you're right.”

Fisher sets the gym bag on the ground between them and said “Care to make a bet?”

On the track as the horses raced into the far turn the P.A. made the call.
“Bobby's Baby in front. Big Shorty in second, Rainy Day Woman moves into third, The Sandman in fourth...”

A low roar rose from the crowd as the horses battled for the lead. The trappings of the world they once shared spun all around them.

Jo reached in her bag for the gun.

So that's the way it's going to be, thought Fisher, as Jo stepped close, planning to time the shot when the crowd roar was at it loudest.

“And down the stretch they come,” yelled the P.A.. “Big Shorty to the front, Rainy Day Woman in second and here comes The Sandman!”

“You're right, Fish,” Jo said. “She's not coming.”

“How many meetings you go to before you picked me? A sucker like me.”

“You were, Fish," she said. "You were the kick.”

Fisher closed his eyes waiting for the shot.

“It's The Sandman taking the lead. The Sandman by two lengths,” said the P.A. over the roar. “Sandman pulling away...”

When Fisher opened his eyes, Jo was gone along with the bag.

Paduano cursed under his breath. The shirt was suppose to last him through his flight home, but dark circles were spreading from under both arms, a two front sweat invasion. He chugged through the lot half a football field behind, the fried scallops bouncing in his gut. Jo was long gone, but he caught a glimpse of Fisher, leaving the stands by the escalator. Running at full tilt, he'd barely made a dent in Fisher's lead. He wished he had his son's speed and stamina, but he wasn't going to get there.

The best the detective could do was to double back to the exit road and catch the license number of the Jeep on its way out of the lot.

Chapter 16

2010-01-08T04:36:00.000-08:00

“Fifty thousand by Monday! She's out of her mind. What did you tell her?”

“I told her that she was out of her mind.”

“God damn right. It'll kill the restaurant.”

“The restaurant! The restaurant? Fuck the restaurant, Jo. She sends them to Paduano, we go to jail.”

“She's bluffing. If she sends them to Paduano what does she get?”

“I don't give a shit. She sends the photos...”

“She gets nothing.”

“What are you saying? Give her nothing?”

“No. I don't know." Jo punched up figures on the computer. "Fifty thousand.”

“How much do we have?”

“Cash? Right now? Fifteen.”

“Another ten in the tax account.”

“And by Monday night?”

“I don't know.”

“You got a band playing this weekend, right?”

“That's all of our cash. It'll kill us.”

"Kill the restaurant. Not us."

"What?"

“She said we should rob ourselves. That it's your specialty.”

“She said that? She can go straight to hell and burn. What does she know? Never owned a thing in her life.”

“It's not the worst idea. We'd get it back in insurance.”

"Fish, it's not that easy."

"Why? It was easy at Edgar's."

"It wasn't. It was a mess. You think you cry "robbery" and they just write you a check? It takes months if you're lucky. And how do we know this is it? How do we know she won't be back in a week, a month wanting more? She always comes back. It's her specialty."

“She's giving us the negatives.”

“Giving you,” said Jo.

“What?”

“I said she's giving the negatives to you."

“What are you saying, Jo? I'm gonna take the money and go?”

"And at a track. Where you had your first date and fucked her. Isn't that sweet"

“I didn't fuck anybody,” Fisher said. Jo snorted with disbelief.

“Look at these! The Photos are of me, Jo. Of me at the scene. Where in the world am I going to go?”

Jo looked haggard, there were circles under her eyes from lack of sleep, she was skinny as a rail. She smiled like a joker in a deck of cards. “He's laughing at us, Fish.”

“Who?”

“Jack. Wherever he is, he is laughing his ass off.”

"The way I see it," said Fisher, "she only leaves us two choices. One: Fake a robbery and pay her."

"And two?"

"Kill her."

Fisher heard Paduano before he saw him. The Rosehill detective, huffing like a freight train, plopped down in the seat next to Fisher and wiped his brow with a handkerchief the size of a towel.

“Getting to be a regular Floridian, Detective.”

“Just trying to tie up this Landy business.”

“How's that coming?”

“I found Robin Grant.”

“Oh yeah?”

“She been staying at a series of motels. The last one being 'The Manatee'. Unfortunately she ran out before I got there. But I know she's around.”

“Huh.”

“The Manatee is not far from your restaurant. Did she come by?”

“I wouldn't know her if I tripped over her,” said Fisher.

“Mrs. Landy mention seeing her?”

“Mrs. Fisher, you mean.”

“Sorry. Mrs. Fisher.”

“No. She didn't mention it.”

Fisher did his best to concentrate on the game, but he could feel Paduano's stare boring through him. Let him stare, Fisher thought, if he didn't have Sarah, he didn't have a thing. He was just rattling the cage. On the field the manager was slowly strolling out to the mound. The sparse crowd, growing impatient, started to clap for action.

“You know Fisher,” Paduano said, “I think you're in trouble. Matter of fact, I know it.”

“I'm doing fine, Detective.”

The manager finally signaled to the bullpen.

“There's a warrant being sworn out against you in Nassau County for assaulting a man named Savulage outside of Windward Horse Track.”

“Bunch of shit,” said Fisher watching a tall lean kid run in from the bullpen.

“Pat Davis, he's the head of security out there at Winward, he and Mr. Savulage remain convinced that you are their man. Now, I could have that warrant disappear. Davis and I do each other favors now and then.”

“Why would you do that?” said Fisher.

“Because you're going to give me Robin Grant. And I'm not bullshitting.”

The Public Address announced the new pitcher. “Gaston, number 45, Gaston.”

“I'd ask your wife, but she's been telling some stories,” said Paduano.

“Like what?”

“Like she doesn't know Robin Grant.”

“She does?” Gaston's first pitch was lined into the left-center field alley. Fisher instinctively rose to his feet.

“She knows her,” said Paduano. “I got a friend on the force down here used to work narcotics in the Keys. He tells me Grant and your wife were running together for years. Even before Jack Landy.”

“I don't believe it”, said Fisher, sitting back down.

“I can give you my friend's number. He's in Coral Gables.”

“What did he say?”

“He said for three, four years, Grant and Mrs. Landy cohabited a bungalow in the Sugarloaf Keys, dealing pot out of a vegetarian take-out stand out on U.S. 1. I went down and checked it out with the landlady. I made a copy of the lease. Both Grant and your wife's name were on the lease.

"Sisters!”

“That's right. When Landy came on board, they expanded the operation, dealing by car all the way up the coast. They were doing steady business until my buddy got a tip and busted Robin Grant. She ended up serving twenty-seven months, but because she kept her mouth shut no charges were ever brought against the Landys. I take it this is news to you?”

Fisher managed to nod. On the field, Gaston was being lit-up like a Christmas tree, line drives careening off the walls, runners circling the bases.

“So now Robin Grant...” Paduano continued, “someone your wife has known all her life is suddenly a mystery to her. Grant's car is seen outside the restaurant the night Mr. Landy has a very odd and fatal accident, and when we ask Mrs. Landy, all she can do is say 'never heard of her.' ”

Fisher had stopped correcting Paduano as to his wife's new last name. Intentionally or unintentionally, Paduano was leaving him out of all of this. There was no reason to dissuade him.

“You're saying Robin Grant killed Jack Landy?”

“Let's try it out,” said Paduano. “Robin Grant killed Landy. Mrs. Landy gets the restaurant, Grant gets... paid off? I don't know. But Mrs. Landy sells the restaurant and moves to Florida. She opens a new restaurant and her sister shows up looking for whatever she thinks she has coming. She did the time for the Landys in the Keys, she did the killing in Rosehill, so she figures her sister owes her bigtime. But now Mrs. Landy has taken on a new partner. You. But these two have always been the real partners. Before Landy, who is now dead. And... before you.”

“What if Robin Grant killed Landy on her own?”

“Yeah, but why? What does she get? No, I like my way better. And if I'm right...”

...“Well, Fisher, I don't know what kind of shit you're swimming in, but I'd watch it.”

Fisher drove the long way home. Paduano had worked it all out for him. The lentil connection. Sister Sarah/Robin was “the friend who got busted”, the one whose arrest convinced Landy to get out of the dope business. Sarah kept her mouth shut and Jo and Landy went free. So, Jo owed Sarah for much more than faking a robbery at Edgar's. The whole time, it had been Jo and Sarah the whole time. Yeah, Paduano had it worked it all out, worked out everything except for the jerk who killed Jack Landy. Jo needed someone else to do that. And she picked him. She picked him at the track. She picked him as she watched him brutally beat Savulage.

A siren wailed off in the distance. There's a baby crying somewhere, thought Fisher, the boils of life start early.

He remembered how good it felt when he reared back and kicked Savulage, feeling his shoe going deep into the man's flesh until it met bone. "Laugh at me, will you?"

What did Jack Landy call him in the basement of Edgar's? “Smalltime.” He called him “smalltime”. The last losing thought of a loser.

Who is “smalltime” now? Let him know how the wheel comes round, how justice means getting even. “Smalltime”.

Now the facts of the conspiracy played over and over on the interior loop in his mind. “I know Jo,” Sarah said. Damn right she did. What else was she doing there that night outside of Edgar's? With a camera? A camera? Like she carries it around with her everywhere she goes. You don't have a camera unless you know, unless you're there to document. They're setting me up, thought Fisher. They're lining up my balls like a putt.

He waited for Jo at the condo. If she had walked through the door right then, he would've killed her, choked her by the neck until her head flopped back and forth like a doll. But she didn't come. He drank a shot of tequila, and then another, and then another. He walked into her closet. He went through her clothes dress by dress until he found the one he wanted, the killer dress she wore that night at the harness track.

He was addicted to her; if ever in his life he told himself the truth, this was it. What were those twenty questions they asked you at meetings? “Has your addiction caused you to committed an illegal act?” “Has your addiction made you careless to your own personal welfare?” He curled up into a ball on the floor of the closet and prayed for all of it not to be true. “Please, please, please,” he begged the gods he never believed in. “Make it not be true.” If she asks me to do it, I'll know, he thought. If she says “You do it”, then he would know his prayers had not been answered.

Jo came home past midnight with steamed Cajun shrimp and Pacifico beer from the Sloop. They ate off paper plates in the kitchen and calmly planned the fake break-in.

“In order to collect the insurance,” Jo said, “ it has to look real. It can't be half-assed or they'll see right through it.”

“Uh-huh.” Through the kitchen window, Fisher watched a boat cruising along the Manatee River, the green of its running lights glowing in the starless night.

“The safe has to be bashed in, completely smashed. The office has to be physically turned upside down, everything everywhere. Trashed.”

“Trashed, bashed and smashed,” said Fisher.

“The thing is,” Jo said. “...who is going to do it? I mean it's got to be one of us. No one else. No more outsiders.”

“No outsider,” Fisher agreed. On the river, the boat had cleared, the waves from its wake lapped against the bank.

“You want the last shrimp?”

"No you take it.”

He watched her peel off the shell, cool as a shadow, they could have been talking about the price of pickled peppers.

“So, who is going to do it? I mean, I could. I could do it. I can trash the hell out of the place. I know what files to throw, you know, stuff I have duplicates of.”

“So, you.”

“Good. Fine. Good.” Jo held the beer bottle half-way to her mouth, as if she was thinking about something.

“What?”

“Just, the thing is... the safe.”

“What about it?”

“To smash it in, to really smash it in... I mean it's a big safe. It's not like at Edgar's. You got to really...”

“Smash it.”

“Exactly And the thing is... maybe I'm not strong enough.”

“So you're saying?”

“I think it's got to be...”

“Me,” said Fisher.

“Yeah. With the safe and all. Got to be you.”

Chapter 15

2010-01-01T07:05:00.000-08:00

As he drove across the Palmetto drawbridge, Fisher replayed in his head all Jo had said: “I should have told you, she was the one I used to trash Edgar's, yes, I paid her, paid her a couple of times...” Of course! That was the reason Sarah always seemed to be around: at the harness track, at Winward the time Jo showed up late, and now in Manatee lounging around the track bar. She was looking for the next payoff for covering Jo's ass. And he had slept with her! What a brilliant move. Now Sarah had something on both of them.

Fisher noticed a black Jeep trailing behind him. He switched lanes and took the service route into Desota, but the Jeep was still there. Damn. The last thing he needed today was to be followed . He bypassed the clown school and headed for the park. The registrar had already told him that there was no one named “Robin Grant” or “Sarah Dupre” at the school, but he had planned to ask around. Not now, not with that Jeep shadowing him.

He drove to the park's commemorative fountain and stopped. Ten plump ducks waddled over from the shade quacking for freebies. Fisher climbed out of his car and tossed them the remains of his corn muffin. The ducks fought each other for the crumbs like linebackers going after a loose ball.

Fisher caught a glimpse of the Jeep's driver but all he could see was a pair of sunglasses beneath a Devil Rays baseball cap. It wasn't Paduano, not unless he had sweated off fifty pounds in a day. The Jeep circled the park one more time before driving out the west gate. Fisher waited, making sure the Jeep had gone for good while the ducks nipped at his pant legs for more feed. He dug into his pocket, found an old throat lozenge and tossed it into the scrum. A one-eyed male caught the menthol drop on the fly and flapped its wings in celebration. Satisfied his company had gone, Fisher climbed back into his car leaving the ducks to their own devices.

Fisher zig-zagged through town before taking the back route to the motel. Noticing two cars in the sandy lot, he decided to park behind the office. Neither of the cars was a Jeep but for the life of him he couldn't recall what kind of car Sarah drove the night he followed her here. Horny, drunk and stupid; now there was a winning trifecta.

The motel manager didn't seem to remember Sarah, but when Fisher mentioned the clown paraphernalia, the man laughed.

“Oh, yeah. The clown girl. Crazy.”

“But she's not here?”

“Oh, no. She checked out a while ago.”

“Say anything about where she was going?”

“Said something, I think, about going to the islands somewhere.”

“Was it Martinique?”

“Might have been. Yeah. Martinique. Crazy. Guess they need clowns everywhere.”

The Jeep was nowhere in sight as Fisher drove back to the condo. Gone to Martinique? God, Fisher hoped so. Go Sarah, go. Take Paduano with you. Lead him to the other side of the earth, far, far away. Let them be, let he and Jo have a chance. An ex-gambler's chance. A siren was going off someplace. Cars were pulling off the road. An E.M.S. vehicle and police car sped by on his left. It had nothing to do with them. Nothing at all.

“What is it?” Fisher said turning on the light.

“He's here! He's here.”

“Who?”

“Jack. He was standing right there.”

“Where?”

“Right there,” she pointed next to the bed. “He was leaning over me, he had his hands on my throat.”

Jo sat there, shaking her nightgown stained with urine.

“There's nobody there, Jo.”

“I saw him. Standing right there.”

“It was a dream, Jo. A bad, dream.” Fisher climbed out of the bed and turned on all the lights in the room. He stood with his arms wide open. “See. Nobody here.”

“There. Behind the curtains!”

Fisher pulled opened the curtains.

"See?"

He opened the closets, and looked under the bed. “See? Nobody, Jo.”

“He's in the condo.”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“We would hear him.”

“How do you know?” When Fisher sighed and put on his robe, Jo cried “Where are you going?”

“To search the condo.”

“Wait. Don't leave me here.”

They combed both floors, opening every door, closet and hamper. They checked the deck and the garage, Fisher shoving aside boxes to show Jo no one was there. They doubled back, re-checking everywhere they had been, making sure the specter hadn't re-materialized in the bedroom. But still Jo wasn't satisfied. Fisher held her trembling body.

“It was a dream, Jo. A bad, bad, dream." Her body was damp from the urine. Take a shower. A nice shower.”

“Come with me,” she said.

“Leave the door open. I'll be right, here.”

He was stripping the wet sheets from the bed when he heard her shrieking. He ran to the bathroom.

She looked so small in the hospital bed, more like a girl than a woman.

“It's going to be O.K.” he said. The doctor said that there was nothing physically wrong, nothing to prevent you from having another child.”

Falling asleep from the sedative, Jo mumbled in a tiny voice, “Maybe God didn't want us to have a baby.”

“No.” He told her “no”, but she was asleep.

He sat and watched her. He hoped she heard him. This had nothing to do with Jack Landy. Nothing. Not one fucking thing.

But what if it did? What if this was the way the Gods stacked the deck? These faceless powers playing “even-Stephen” with lives. An eye for an eye. It couldn't get more biblical. Didn't they see this wasn't fair? Their baby. Their little girl for that piece of shit? God damn it! Fuck the unforgiving gods! Fuck them!

He had lived his life as a shadow, completely unaffected by things like marriages, pregnancies, miscarriages and now he was crying like a baby. Baby. His stomach hurt again. He was beginning to think he had an ulcer. Never in his life had he ever ponied up this kind of emotional investment. If this was the pay-off... Christ. He wanted to get Jo home. He hated hospitals. Nothing good ever happened in them.

Fisher went down to the ground floor to buy flowers. Through the window of the gift shop, he saw a black Jeep pulling out of the parking lot. He banged on the shop windows screaming out “Leave us alone, God damn it. Leave us alone!”

Paduano shielded his eyes from the sun and looked up at the wooden tower on Lower Sugarloaf Key. Built in the late 1920s, the structure was intended to be a roost for bats. The bats, in turn, were intended to eat the mosquitoes that were causing malaria. But when the bats were placed in the tower, they flew away. After driving for a hundred miles across the look-alike series of mangrove islands dotted with seedy motels and trinket shops, Paduano agreed with the bats.

Henrietta Schumer, the landlady for the two room bungalow three hundred yards from the tower, had lived in Sugarloaf Shores for over forty years. She could remember some of the house's tenants, but she couldn't remember the name Paduano mentioned even when he showed her the copy of the old mug shot provided by Paduano's friend from the Key-West police. However, she did keep accurate account books and the detective was clearly surprised when he found a second name along side of the one he had been looking for.

“They were living together!"

“If that's what it says,” Schumer said smacking a mosquito on her arm.

Jo didn't want to talk about the miscarriage, at least not with Fisher. Whatever she had to say, she saved for the G.A. meetings she religiously attended five mornings a week followed by long hours at the Sloop. Business was flourishing, Jo had applied for and received a cabaret license that would permit live music to be played on the premises and construction had begun for a deck outside the second level dining room.

Unless he went to the Sloop, Fisher rarely saw Jo, and if he tried to talk to her she always doing five things at once with a phone in her ear and by the time she came home at night he was asleep. Lonely as hell, Fisher took any assignment Phillips offered, criss-crossing the county two and three times a day grabbing meals on the fly or in the greek diner on Tamiami.

A white-faced clown with a red rubber nose and orange mouth was making the rounds between tables, handing out promotional balloons for a local store. The clown stopped at Fisher's booth.

“Balloon?”

“No thanks” said Fisher without looking.

“This mean you don't love me anymore, David?” the clown said opening the blouse of her uniform.

“Sarah!”

“By my tits alone. You are a sweetheart.” Sarah buttoned up her clown suit.
“Mind if I sit down? I promise not to spill anything on you.” Without waiting for him to answer, she tied the balloons to the hat rack and sat across from Fisher in the booth.

“I've been working on my face. What do you think?”

Close enough to see sweat running her face paint, Fisher thought she looked like a crayon in heat, but he was too stunned to say a word; he sat looking at her with his jaw agape.

“Close your mouth, David, you're catching flies.”

The waitress, a food and beverage lifer with lunch-lady arms, brushed past the balloons with a menu for Sarah.

“Get you something to drink, honey?” The waitress asked.

“A shot of Cuervo Gold. And one for my friend.”

“No, that's...” Fisher tried to protest.

“Coming, right up.” The waitress scurried away.

“So David, how's life?” said Sarah, playing kneesies under the table. “How's that restaurant?” She started singing. “Down on the Sloop John B./ My grandfather and me/ around Nassau County we did roam...”

“All right, all right,” said Fisher.

It was hard to be inconspicuous with a clown at the table, but with a singing clown? The waitress returned with the Tequila shots.

“Here you go. Get you something to eat?”

“What's the soup today?”

“Fish chowder, or lentil,” said the waitress.

“Lentil,” said Sarah. “Is there any bacon in the spinach salad?”

“Not if you don't want it.”

“I do not.”

“Lovely. Anything for you?” the waitress asked Fisher

“Just a check.”

“Lovely,” said the waitress. She picked up the menu and headed for the kitchen.

“Five-to-one, she gets it wrong,” said Sarah. She lifted the shot glass. “What do you think we should drink to, David? I know. Partnership? A person can never have too many partners, don't you think? I understand you're partners now with Johanna. That's sweet. You two getting together down here in the land of the orange juice. Sad thing about what happened to Jack, though. In his own freezer? Man, that's cold.” Sarah laughed and pounded the table. “No disrespect for the dead, but that is cold.”

“For Christ's sake, keep it down,” Fisher said.

Still chuckling, Sarah nodded and downed the shot. Fisher wanted to knock her rubber nose into the Gulf of Mexico, but he needed to know what she knew. He leaned across the table and whispered, “There was a Rosehill cop looking for you.”

“Oh, yeah? Say what he wanted?”

“He wanted to know what your car was doing outside of Edgar's on Thanksgiving night.”

“Maybe, I was watching you, David.”

“I wasn't there.”

“Oh, that's right. You were at your little friend's house.” Sarah slid her right index finger in and out of the circled fingers of her left hand mimicking coitus.

The waitress arrived with the soup.

“Here you go. Salad is coming.”

“Lovely," said Sarah.

Oblivious to Sarah's mock impersonation of her, the waitress placed the check on the table. “You can bring it to the register when you're ready.”

Sarah blew on the soup and waited for the waitress to leave before saying in a low voice, “I know you killed him.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Let's cut the shit, David. I've been on to you and Johanna from the start. And after I saw you two get together at the harness races? I even told Jack. ”

“Told him what?”

“To watch his ass. I knew something was cooking. And I know Jo. I know how she likes to find someone to fake rob her restaurant for her. I figured that's what you were up to on Thanksgiving. Then I read about poor old Jack turning into a frozen T.V. dinner?”

“It was an accident.”

“Hey, it was fine with me. Man was a lousy lay. Couple of grunts, shot his jizz and sent you on your way with cab fare. Not like you sweetie.” She poured salt from the shaker on to the back of hand. “He was a prize prick too. For a long time I thought he was the one....”

“He was the one, what?”

"Another time, another place." Sarah licked salt off the back of her hand and drank the second shot of tequila. “Ever do any time, David?”

“No.”

“I have. No fun. Let me tell you, you get your ass in jail you do some serious thinking, thinking about who put you there.” Sarah pushed an envelope across the table.

“What's this?”

“Holiday snaps,” she said. “Click, click.”

Fisher hesitated before sliding two photographs out of the envelope. His hand went over his mouth. “Jesus,” he said. “Jesus.”

He felt the half-digested breakfast rising up his esophagus. Trying to keep his voice under control he asked, “What do you want?”

“Remember I was telling you about going to Martinique and getting a house and...”

Fisher grabbed Sarah by the arm. “What do you want?”

“Fifty thousand dollars cash should cover it.”

“Fifty...! You're out of your mind.”

“I've seen the restaurant, David. It's worth a lot more than that.” She eased out of his grip and took Fisher's hand. “And we're going to need something to live on.”

“We?”

“Come with me. Martinique is so beautiful.” She put his hand inside her costume on her breast.

He yanked back his hand. “You are beyond fucked.”

“Why? What's left for you here? Going to G.A. meetings with Johanna, covering zitty-faced kids playing ball? That's a life? Face it, you're a dead man walking. You know it. So you, me, we take the fifty-thousand and live. It will last a long time down there.”

Fisher looked back at the photographs, the burning was knotting around his heart. How many copies did she have? Where were the negatives? Had she shown them to anyone?

Reading his mind, Sarah said “Don't worry. No one else has seen them.”

“Fifty thousand?”

“Uh-huh. Monday.”

“Monday! No way. Can't get that kind of cash in hurry.”

“Of course you can,” Sarah smiled. “Rob yourself. It's Johanna's house special." She let this idea bang around inside his head for a moment. "You know the track at Troyers Grove?”

“Troyers? Yeah.”

“Monday night, bring the money in a bag. I'll meet you behind the binocular stand in section thirty-three before the seventh race. You give me the money, I'll give you the negatives. And come alone. I'll be watching you. If there's anyone with you, I'll send your little candids to the Rosehill cop.”

“Ought to bash your fucking skull in”, muttered Fisher

“What can I tell you, David,” said Sarah. “Life is a bitch with a harelip, and sometimes you gotta pucker up.”

Chapter 14

2009-12-25T08:43:00.000-08:00

Fisher had to wait for more than an hour outside the office, but he didn't care. He just wanted the job. In all his life he had never wanted a job this badly. He couldn't account for all the years he had wasted skating by, years of not given a shit. That was history. Today he needed to work. He needed to prove his worth to his wife and to their baby growing inside of her. The revolution starts now. Phillip's freckled face poked out from behind the door.

“Sorry to keep you out there so long, Fish,” said Phillips.

“No problem, Red.”

The office, like Phillips, was small and neat. The computer monitor's screen saver showed a photo of a red haired young man in uniform and Fisher remembered hearing that Phillip's son was in the service.

“How's your boy, Red?”

“Good, Fish, thanks for asking. How are things at the restaurant? Keep meaning to come on over.”

“The restaurant is fine. But I have no business working there. You know it, I know it, the customers certainly know it. Am I really the one you want to talk to if you think your fish is overcooked?”

“I guess not,” Phillips said with a laugh.

“I'm a sportswriter. That's what I've always been, and I think I'm pretty good at it.”

“You are, Fish. There's never been any question about that.”

“I want to get back to work, Red.”

Phillips rolled a pen in circles on his desk and pursed his lips as if he was about to whistle "Dixie".

“The trouble is, Fish, there's not much to offer you. I mean there's work, but not what you're qualified for.”

“I'll take whatever you got.”

Phillips continued to roll the pen.

“Well, at best it'd be high school ball, mainly. Time to time some Junior College.”

“That's fine,” said Fisher. “Whatever you got.”

“And the pay... not what your used to.”

“It's fine. It's the work. I want to work.”

Phillips rolled the pen off the desk. “Here's the thing, Fish,” said Phillips bending down to retreive the ballpoint. “We've known one another, what?”

“Long time.”

“So we know that I know all about... the past. What's done is done and I shouldn't have to give you any lectures about 'just do the damn job.'”

“No.”

“So the ponies...”

“It's not gonna be a problem. That's... no more.”

Phillips rolled the pen again, a pointer on a wheel of fortune. Finally he snatched the pen and said “All right, Fish. You've got yourself a job”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You telling me I'm making a mistake?”

“No,” Fisher laughed. “I'm... that's great.. Thanks Red, thanks.” Fisher reached across the desk and shook Phillips hand.”

“You still drink, right?”

“Sure.”

“All right.” Phillips pulled a bottle of Johnny Black from his desk drawer and filled two football stenciled shot glasses. “Hey, didn't I hear you got married?”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

“You dog.”

“Yeah, well. What can I tell you?” Fisher said nothing about the pregnancy. He and Jo were keeping it quiet until after the amniocentesis.

“That's great, Fish.”

“Thanks.”

“Congratulations.”

Beyond checking how much time was left before the next race, Fisher never thought about the future. He never considered the singularity of his life, he never considered the consequences either for himself or anyone left in its wake. He was like a cat, he lived in the immediate, he dealt with the needs right in front of his face. He leapt from the stove when it got hot, only worrying about where to land when in mid-air. If he had lost some of his nine lives along the way, he wasn't counting. But it was different with Jo. She was the first person he wanted to share with, the first he'd come running home to with his catch still in his mouth. He wanted her to be proud of him, he wanted to see her smile.

For the first time, he was thinking ahead. He was thinking about what is was going to be like to be a family, to come home from work and tell Jo what had happened, what he saw, what he wrote. He was thinking how now he wasn't alone in life, how he had someone to lean on through the bad times, someone to laugh with about the odd, and someone to celebrate with when fortune shone; “The normal life.”

A step up in class, thought the detective, looking at the two tiered restaurant. Mrs. Landy had made out all right. Paduano wiped his brow with a handkerchief. He was sweating like a pig. Once before he'd been in Florida in summer, and he'd soaked through a week's worth of shirts in two days. He packed double this time.

His police chief told him “It's a closed-case, Paduano. They're small potatoes. Stop wasting the department's time and money.” Maybe the chief was right about the size, but a rotten potato was still rotten. Two witnesses has reported seeing a grey-green Chevy turn on to Shore Drive at one-thirty the morning of Landy's “accident.” Mrs. Landy's phone call, recorded on the answering machine, corresponded to that time. A mere coincidence everyone agreed. Everyone except Paduano. The cop son of a cop, Paduano didn't believe in coincidence.

On the recorded call, Mrs. Landy was heard asking Jack Landy when he was coming to the party. But all of the Edgar's staff Paduano spoke to said everyone knew that Landy was never coming to the party. More than likely the call was a signal to whomever Mrs. Landy was working with. Never for a moment did Paduano believe Jo wasn't neck deep in her husband's demise. Look at this new place, this double-decked "Sloop John B". Clearly she had benefited from the turn of events. And now she was married to a former Rosehill sports reporter named David Fisher who, like like Mrs. Landy, appeared to have an air-tight alibi. Spent the night in the sack with his editor. His car didn't match the description of the Chevy. But now a car matching the description had turned up. It had taken a month to trace down the previous car ownership, and if the owner was in Florida, Paduano was going to find her, regardless of what “a wild goose chase” his chief thought of the whole business. He wiped his face one more time and walked up the stairs to the restaurant.

When he saw the stocky man sitting at the bar with Jo eating a of plate hush-puppies, Fisher immediately thought “cop”. But before he could discretely back out the door, the man turned and looked Fisher in the eye.

“Fish, this is Detective Paduano, from Rosehill,” said Jo. This is my husband, David Fisher.”

Fisher put the flowers and champagne on the bar and shook hands.

“Hello, Detective. Long way from home.”

“Yeah,” said Paduano. “Forget how warm it is here. My blood's too thick.”

Yeah, that and stuffing you face with free fried food, thought Fisher. Deep down where fear never completely disappears he knew eventually someone was going to show up; why the fuck did it have to be today? Christ. Time to play dumb.

“Here on vacation?”

“No, I'm following up on Jack Landy's, uh, accident.”

“Oh, I thought that had all been...”

“No.” Paduano finished the last hush-puppy and washed it down with a gulp of Bart's root beer. “Excuse me,” he said. “Weakness of mine, fried food. I've got the cholesterol of a sperm whale.” He wiped his face with a napkin. “I was bringing Mrs. Landy...

“Mrs. Fisher,” Fisher corrected.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Fisher... I was bringing Mrs. Fisher up to date on some new information concerning the car.”

“What car?” asked Fisher.

“The grey-green Chevy Malibu that was seen driving out of the restaurant lot the night of the accident,” said Paduano.

“We were never able to chase anything down,” Paduano continued. “But last month a car matching the description was reported in a minor traffic accident. We were able to trace back the ownership of the car to the night of Mr. Landy's accident.”

“Huh,” said Fisher.

“The car was registered to a Robin Grant, of Sugarloaf Shores, Florida.”

"Robin Grant?" Fisher looked at Jo. "Do you know a Robin Grant?"

"No," she said.

"I'm sorry. You probably want to talk to Jo about it."

“That's all right,” Paduano said. “I'm about finished for now.”

A small cabin cruiser slowly motored along the inlet as Fisher walked with Paduano back to his white rent-a-car in the marina parking lot. Jo had left them to take a call with someone from the buildings department.

“You the David Fisher used to write for the Dispatch?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so. You covered my kid on the basketball team at Rosehill. Jimmy Paduano. He was a sophomore then. That old fart Coach Reed mostly made him ride the pine.”

“Jimmy Paduano...”

“Yeah, he came off the bench and scored eleven in the second half against Lakewood.”

“I remember,” Fisher lied.

“You spelled his name wrong.”

“I'm sorry.”

“That's O.K., they always get it wrong.” Paduano smiled at Fisher; just a couple of Rosehillians talking sports a thousand miles from Nassau county. “I spoke to your editor at the Dispatch, Claire Richardson.”

“You did? Why?”

“Oh, I saw that your name came up as a co-owner of this restaurant.”

“Uh huh. Yeah.” So what, thought Fisher, but he didn't say it.

“Ms. Richardson said you'd been fired.”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Too bad. I liked the way you wrote.”

“Well, I'm working down here. The Palmetto Star. Maybe I can get you a subscription.”

“Mrs. Richardson said you knew Jack Landy?”

“Knew? I don't know about that. I met him once or twice doing an article about his golf.”

“And... his wife?”

“I met her when I was doing the article. What are you getting at?”

“Ah, don't worry. Ms. Richardson told me you were staying at her house on Westview, Thanksgiving night.”

“That's right. Listen, I thought that thing with Landy had all been closed.”

“Umm.” Paduano kicked at the tire of his car. “The department, the County for that matter, made a judgment based on the evidence at hand. But...” He looked at Fisher. “...there's always been some un-answered questions.”

“About what?”

“Well, anytime a man gets knocked down in a freezer there are some questions.”

“What do you mean 'gets knocked down' ?”

“Umm?”

“You said 'anytime a man gets knocked down in a freezer.'”

“Did I? Huh.” Paduano was like a fisherman waiting for his fish to catch itself. “I meant 'knocks himself down'. Sounds funny, doesn't it? Anyway you say it. 'Man knocks himself down'.

“What do you mean?”

“Well... He owns the place, he walks in the freezer every day without knocking himself unconscious. Suddenly one day he forgets?”

“So what are you saying? You saying it wasn't an accident?”

“I don't know. Just being a cop.” They stood in suddenly tense silence broken only by the sound of boat motor revving from the marina.

“Did I tell you my kid is starting now?”

“That right?”

“Yeah, he's the second leading scorer. Twelve-point-two points-per-game. The Dispatch has got a girl covering the games now, can you believe it?

“Huh.”

“Least she spells 'Paduano' right.”

Fisher climbed the office walls waiting for Jo to finish her call with the building inspector. Out of nowhere this God damn car and this gum-on-your-shoe cop.

“Yes, I sent the original to you Friday,” Jo said to the inspector.

“Get off the phone, Jo,” Fisher was shouting at her in his head. “We need to talk. Get off the fucking phone!”

“No. I'm sure it was the original. Could you check on that? Great. Thanks. Right. Good-bye.” Jo hung up.

“Robin Grant? Who the fuck is Robin Grant? Nobody, right.”

“I should have told you,” said Jo.

“Told me? Told me what?”

“That's Sarah,” said Jo.

“Who is?”

“Robin Grant. That's Sarah, Sarah Dupre or whatever she was calling herself.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute. You're telling me Sarah was driving outside of Edgar's that night?”

“Her car was.”

“What? You're saying she saw me come out?”

“I don't know, Fish. They told me there was a car, somebody saw a car on Shore Drive. They never said it was her car, they never said that until today.”

“I don't understand. What the hell would she be doing there?”

“She's... She's the one I used to trash the, you know... after I lost all that money. She's the one who helped me fake the break-in at Edgar's.”

“Her! You used her?”

“Who would you have used? Someone from the Rotary?”

“And what. You paid her?”

“Of course I paid her.”

“What do you mean of course? How do I know?”

“Fish..”

“One time?”

“Fish...”

“Jo, I'm just trying to understand. You said you paid her. How many times did you have to pay her?

“A couple of times.”

“What? Two? Three?”

“I paid her after. And then I paid one other time.”

“When?”

“When she needed some money.”

“Jesus, Jo!”

“What did you expect me to do?”

“Every time she needs money...”

“Fish, She kept her mouth shut.”

“Are you sure?”

“You heard the detective. He doesn't even know who she is.”

“He knows she owned a God damn grey-green Malibu that was outside of Edgar's on Thanksgiving night. What the hell was she doing there?”

“I don't know. Maybe she was stoned, or drunk... Maybe she wasn't even in the car.”

“Then who the hell was? Come on. It had to be her. You know what she wants, don't you? She wants more money, more money to keep her mouth shut. That's why she's here.”

“Who's here? Sarah?”

“Uh...”

“You've seen Sarah in Manatee?”

“I...I... Yeah.”

“Where did you see her?”

“I ran into her at the track.”

“The track? When? You didn't tell me about it. When did you see her, Fish?”

“It was when you were... when you were giving me all that shit about the bounced checks and...”

“Did you fuck her?”

“What! Where did that come from?”

“When you came home with the flowers? You fucked her.”

“Not at all.”

“Jesus, Fish! What, you won a race, then you, you... Jesus Christ, do you sleep with everyone you win a race with?”

“I'm not fucking anybody. She told me she was living down here. Going to... I don't know. Clown college. Some shit. I had no idea about you paying her off. None.”

“You should've told me, Fish.”

“I had no idea you were paying her off. She was just some twat at the track. I swear to fucking God”

“You see her again?”

“No! No. Just that one day. Ran into her, hello, and that was it.”

“Paduano must think she's here.”

“Why? Did he say something?”

“No. But he didn't come all the way from Rosehill just to ask about a car.”

“He doesn't think it was an accident.”

“He said that?”

“He said 'he's always had questions'.”

“If he finds Sarah... Do you know where she's staying?”

“Me? Why would I know where she's staying?”

The phone rang, Jo let the answering machine pick up.

“You tell her about the Sloop?”

“No. I didn't tell her a thing.”

“Oh God, Fish. What are we going to do?"

"Nothing. We calm down. Car gets in an accident, everyone goes a little ape shit."

"Fish, you don't know this detective."

"I know him."

"No, you have no idea. He's going to stick his nose in every hole from here to Rosehill."

“The case is closed and he's got nothing. He comes all the way down here, he doesn't have the car, doesn't have Sarah. He doesn't have a thing.”

The phone rang again, Jo hearing it was the building department, picked it up. “Hello, this is Jo Landy.”

“Fisher,” thought Fisher. “Jo Fisher”. Couldn't anyone get it right?

Chapter 13

2009-12-18T04:56:00.000-08:00

Fisher staggered out of the unfamiliar bed and tried to figure out where he was. A horn was blasting from somewhere. Christ, what the hell? He pushed away the curtains, opened the glass door and shielded his eyes from the glare of the tropical sun.

“The Bahamas. That's right,” he mumbled staring from the hotel balcony out at the island's busy harbor. It was all coming back to him; the presiding official, the ceremony... He lifted his hands and stared at his fingers, wondering what in hell had he done. He fidgeted with the unfamiliar jewelry.

“If it's bugging you so much, take the ring off,” said a voice from behind.

“It's not bugging me.”

“Like it's a pair of handcuffs.”

“It's fine.”

“You could always pierce your nose, put the ring in, and I could lead you on a rope.” she said, and laughed like a schoolgirl as he chased her back into the bedroom.

They found a secluded cove, undressed and spent the day swimming and sunning. As she lay in his arms twirling her fingers through the hair on his chest, Jo reminded Fisher that in all their months in Florida they had never once gone to a beach.

“Because you work too hard.” said Fisher.

“Like you'd ever go to the beach.”

“What do you mean? I love the beach. That's why they call me 'Fish'.”

They were late for dinner. Many of the other couples were already out on the parquet floor dancing to the music of the steel drum band. When Jo caught Fisher frowning at a particularly amorous pair, she asked “Is it that bad?”

“What?”

“Being married.”

He stammered “Not, not, not at all.”

“It's only a piece of paper. We can always burn it.”

“That's not it. It's just...”

“...you'd never thought it was for you. The house, the picket fence, the every day normal train.”

“Well...” He said staring at the bubbles rising in his champagne flute.

When he looked up he saw Jo's eyes were clenched shut. “Jo! Are you all right?”

“I'm fine. I should have worn a hat on the beach.”

“Do you want to go back to the room?

“No, I'm fine. Let's dance.”

“Are you sure you're...”

“Yes. Come.” Jo held out her hand and Fisher followed her onto the floor. Her body felt damp with sweat, but she smiled and held him tight, putting her head on his shoulder. Fisher could smell the sea in her hair. And as the beat of the steel drums picked up Jo shrugged off her malaise and swiveled her hips. Fisher was right there with her. She found that Fisher was surprisingly light on his feet. He spun her away and twirled her back.

“I didn't know you could dance.”

“When the wind is blowing in the right direction,” he said. Jo laughed and stood on her tip-toes to kiss him. They danced every dance, the fast, the slow, they even joined the obligatory Limbo line, tying for second place in the “how low can you go?” contest. A soft Atlantic breeze jostled the colored lanterns, and the steel drum beat slowed to a last waltz.

Jo and Fisher looked around the empty dance floor. They were the only couple left. “Where did everyone go?”

“To bed,” Jo said. “That's what honeymooners do.”

They explored each other's bodies as if it was the first time. Her breasts seemed larger to him, but she cried out when he squeezed them.

“I'm sorry,” Fisher said.

“They're just a little tender from the sun” she said.

He kissed them softly and gently. They made long, slow, love, and when they were finished and he started to slip outside her, she whispered “Don't, darling. Wait.” He stayed inside her until Jo fell asleep murmuring “I love you.”

Fisher lay awake listening to the waves hit the shore and thinking about the "sanctity" of marriage. His parents' brutal life sentence together was hardly a heavenly model. He remembered hiding under the bed with his hands over his ears while they screamed at each other until the neighbors called the police. “Biggest mistake of my life”, his father told him one night when he was stone sober. “Biggest fucking mistake of me life.” But his parents had never killed anyone.

Fisher slept late and woke to find room service breakfast and Jo waiting. She noticed his odd expression.

“You all right?”

“I'm fine,” he said. “You?”

“Tip-top.” She kissed him and handed him a cup of coffee.

They ate on the terrace and watched the boats heading out to sea.

“Huh!”

“What?”

“There's a boat... 'The High Water'. I think I've seen it at the Manatee marina,” said Fisher.

“What's so funny?”

“You. Talking about anything nautical.”

“Why?”

“You told me you'd never been at sea in your life.”

“Hey, you don't know. Maybe I'll get a boat someday,” Fisher said.

“What would you call it?”

“The Normal Life.”

They were getting ready to go to the beach when Jo said she didn't feel well. Something she ate disagreed with her and she started vomiting. Fisher picke up the phone to call the hotel doctor but Jo told him not to bother. She just wanted him to sit with her. "A little nap, and I'll be fine,” she said. As she fell asleep she mumbled that he should “Go have some fun.” He sat by her side for an hour watching her sleep. His legs were stiff and he decided to go for a walk. "Have some fun", eh? What did you do as one half of a couple in a place built for twos? He circled the pool twice, watched a group of honeymooners climbing aboard a catamaran before he drifted into the perpetual dusk of the hotel casino.

He told himself he was “just watching”, he had no intention of playing. He never liked casinos, anyway. There was no sense of sport here, you couldn't size up a roulette wheel like you could a thoroughbred at the paddock. But when a roar went up from the fifty dollar minimun craps table Fisher bought chips for five hundred and found a spot next to a man whose glasses were askew over his face.

"What's the point?" Fisher asked the man.

"Five."

"When in Rome," said Fisher betting fifty dollars each on the six and the eight and hedging his bet tossing a ten dollar chip on the two. The hot shooter was blowing on the dice, shaking them in both hands like a cocktail. C'mon, buddy. Let it roll.

In less than twenty minutes Fisher had lost half his stake. The table was cold as death. Time for a smart man to walk away. “Fifty on the eight and six,” Fisher called tossing the chips for the dealer to put in play.

Fisher sat alone at the bar letting the Bahamian rum soothe the beating. Easy come, easy go. Have some fun. Sure thing. The bartender gave him change for the single fifty dollar chip Fisher had left from the five hundred. Fisher stared at the twenty thinking about a story Jo told him back in Rosehill.

When she was a girl, Jo said, her father would leave her all day at the shore while he played cards. She was a natural swimmer and competed with the other beach kids, body surfing and seeing who could stay under water the longest. An older girl bet her twenty dollars she could hold her breath longer. Determined to win, Jo decided she would stay under until she had counted to one-hundred. She planted her self, sitting underneath the surf, counting in her head. “One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three...

At fifty, she felt light headed, but she could see the other girl was still there holding her breath beneath the waves. At seventy-five, Jo bit on her lip to fight off the pain in her air-starved lungs, at eighty-five she thought she saw dolphins dancing on the other girl's head, at ninety she blacked out. When she came to on the beach, she tasted blood from where she had bitten through her lip, a worried crowd had gathered around her, she could hear the siren of an ambulance from up on the boardwalk, and in her hands...

Fisher called his hotel room on the house phone but there was no answer. Huh. Still asleep? He walked along the docks. Evening was falling, and the sound of laughter mixed with the clink of cocktail glasses from the decks of the moored yachts. A small fishing boat eased between the bigger boats, its nets filled with flying fish fighting to free themselves. A face from the helm of a cabin cruiser watched Fisher as he passed by. But Fisher had turned his back to the dock to look up at the hotel hoping to see the light on in his bedroom. He was surprised to see Jo out on the terrace.

He waved to Jo, but she didn't see him. She seemed to be looking at something behind him. Fisher turned back and saw only the line of bobbing boats; the face at the helm of the “High Water” had stepped back into the shadows.

Jo thought she felt well enough to join him at dinner, but she barely made it through the appetizers before she needed to go back to their room. And when she woke up in the night again vomiting, Fisher rushed her to the island hospital.

The facility was small and pristine. Fisher could see his reflection in the floors as he criss-crossed the waiting room talking to himself. “She going to be fine. A stomach flu, that's all it probably is, she's going to be fine. Please God, please.” A hand tapped Fisher on the shoulder. He looked up into the calm face of the doctor.

“Are you the husband?”

“Yes,” said Fisher, fiddling with his ring. “How is she?”

A broad smile creased the doctor's face, his teeth gleaming like the
floors. “Congratulations. Your wife is pregnant.”

“I didn't know what you'd think.”

“How long have you known?”

“I didn't for sure. I thought...”

“You should have told me.”

“I didn't know what you'd think,” she said for the second time.

“I don't know what I think.” He ran his hand through his hair. Pregnant? Pregnant! "I think I think it's great."

"Oh, Fish." She reached up and kissed him. "It's going to be fine. I swear."

While Jo dressed, Fisher stood by the window looking out at a group of boys playing cricket on a field across the street from the hospital. Daddy Fish? What were the odds of that?

“Funny,” Jo said buttoning her blouse.

“What?”

“Find out about the baby in Nassau Hospital.”

“Why?”

“That's where I was, Nassau County Hospital, that's where I was when they told me Jack was...”

“Don't think about it.”

“No, Fish, I wasn't thinking... I was thinking, I don't know, thinking about the balance. We took a life and now we can give one back. Do you... do you know what I mean?”

“No.” He didn't want to think about it, he refused to think that there was any connection, that this baby would be stained with their sin. “They have nothing to do with each other. Nothing.”

Chapter 12

2009-12-11T04:33:00.000-08:00

There were few flowers. Only a handful of employees from the restaurant attended the ceremony. A Manatee official presided. Fisher wore the only suit he'd ever owned.

Jo, dressed in a simple cream colored dress, finally seemed at peace.

Chapter 11

2009-12-04T08:51:00.000-08:00

“Jo? Jo? What is it?

“I thought you were gone,” she said.

“No.”

“When you didn't come home I lay here all night thinking. And I couldn't... I couldn't even remember the last time we even touched each other. And I thought how big is this bed? How many miles between your side and mine?

“Jo...”

“ And I start thinking who is going to hate who first?””

“I don't hate you,” Fisher said.

“Then why,” she said, starting to shake, “won't you touch me?”

Fisher reached across the bed and wrapped his arms around her. She felt so small and frail, as if he could snap her in two. He held her tightly, waiting for the shaking to stop.

“Fish,” she said finally. “If you could have half the money, would you go?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Is the money the only thing keeping you here?”

“No. No. Is that what you think? I brought back over seven thousand dollars. If I was going to run....”

She wriggled free from his arms. “If I tell you something?”

“Go ahead.”

She took a Kleenex from the box and blew her nose. “I've been going to meetings.”

“What do you mean?”

“G.A. meetings.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Losing the restaurant.”

“Nobody is losing the... how are you losing the restaurant?”

“I don't want to go to the track. O.K.? I don't want to go there and lose everything I have because that's the way I always do it. That's my pattern.”

“Pattern? Oh Christ, Jo. That's the mumbo-jumbo phony-baloney they give you at those God damn... It's not a pattern.”

“It is.”

“Go damn it, Jo! If that's the bull shit they're force feeding you...”

“They're not force feeding me anything.”

“You God damn bet they are. Your 'pattern'? That's the kind of idiotic, totally useless...

“I don't want to do it anymore. Don't you understand? I don't want to go to the track. Not them. Me. I don't want to go. And... I wish you'd stop trying to make me go.”

“What? You think I'm what? That I'm forcing you to go to the track?”

“Yes,” she said.

He raised his hands in the air as if pleading to a higher authority. “I'm not. I'm not forcing you to do anything. Never have, never would. Why would I? Why would you even think...

“Because,” she said, “that's the only place you love me.”

“You think our... what we have is based only on the track?” Jo nodded her head. “Not true. Complete absolute bullshit. Is that ... is that what they're telling you in there?

“Fish. They're not telling me. I'm telling you."

“Can't you see? They're turning you against me Jo. That's what they do. That's their whole... They feed you this bullshit, they, they brainwash you. It's totally a sham. Come on. You know it is. Then they expect you to stand up like a robot and spill your guts. That's what they want. Tell me you didn't stand up and spill your guts like all those losers?”

“No.”

“Thank fucking God, for that.”

“But... I wanted to.”

“You wanted to?”

“Yes.”

“And what would you say? Jo? What would you say?”

“That I...” she made a face like she had a toothache. “That I'm a compulsive gambler. That I've lost so much money, that I want to never have to go again. That I feel I should be punished.”

“Punished? Jesus, Jo. Punished for what?”

“For my miserable life.”

“Well...”

“And... for killing my husband,” she said.

Fisher head snapped back as if he'd been clocked. “What! You're going to stand up and say that?” He was screaming, she put a pillow over her head to mute the onslaught. “You can not be serious! Jo! Afraid you'll lose the restaurant? You can count on that. Jesus Christ, Jo. Should be punished? Jesus, Jesus Christ.” Jo heard something, but she wasn't sure. What was he doing? She lowered the pillow and saw Fisher doubled over laughing. He was laughing so hard tears were falling to the floor. “Punished. Yeah, you'll be punished. We'll all be punished.” And then the laughter stopped. “You don't tell them a thing,” he roared.

“You don't tell them a God damn thing!”

The cab tailed Jo's car from a block behind. As the trafffic light on the drawbridge changed, Fisher urged the driver on from the back seat.

“Sit down, man. I've got her. No problem,” the driver said.

“Sorry.”

“No problem,” the driver said as he cruised through the yellow warning lights keeping the blue sedan in sight. Behind them the bridge was going up to let a tall sail boat pass. Ten seconds later and they would have been stuck on the other side and lost her.

Yeah, thought Fisher sitting back. No problem. All my life didn't I always get away? Rise, fell, did O.K.; O.K., yeah, I've been broke, sure. Been so broke I hocked my watch, sold my blood...

He remembered the nurse in the blood bank had red hair, wore an eye-patch and hummed “Hey Jude” as she watched the tube fill slowly with his blood. She filled three test tubes before pulling out the needle and slapping a band-aid over the tiny scarlet hole. Her good eye crinkled as she smiled and handed Fisher a donut. He still recalled how sweet it tasted. So sweet he smacked his lips.

The cab followed Jo's car to the recreation center and Fisher watched Jo park and enter through the breezeway. Making sure Jo wouldn't see him, he told the cabbie to let him out on the corner.

"Want me to wait?"

"No. Thanks." Fisher tipped the driver ten dollars and walked through the breezeway.

A man in a bright green shirt holding the sign-up sheet greeted Fisher at the community room door. “Do you have a sponsor?” the man asked.

“In New York,” Fisher said.

“New York?”

“Yeah, I'm just checking out this meeting. I heard some good things.”

“Well, sign the sheet, and we'll find someone for you. First name only.”

Fisher signed and alias and looked around the room. The meeting was packed. He had to climb over people to reach the one open seat in the back row. He stretched his neck looking for Jo and saw her sitting back straight like an obedient school girl in the front next to some guy with a pony tail.

If she was sitting any closer, Fisher thought to himself, she could be running the meeting.

A woman, Frances, was called up by the Trusted Servant. Frances had reached her five years and everyone stood up, stomped their feet, applauded, and whistled. Frances's voice croaked with emotion. She sounded like the dying Babe Ruth bidding farewell at Yankee Stadium.

“This is such a wonderful community and I am so lucky to be part of it. I have to give credit to all my friends, my family, everyone who stuck with me no matter how bad it got, all the money I borrowed and lost, all the times I slipped. My sponsor Jill, such a wonderful person. All of you here. All of you. So this isn't just my day. It's all of ours. Yes, yes. And I want everybody to speak today, to really let it all hang out.”

Applause filled the room Fisher shuddered as he peered through the rows and saw Jo's head nodding in agreement. What will I do, he thought, if Jo followed France's exhortation and “let it all hang out”? What will I do if she stands up and really spilled her guts?

What could he do? Pick up chairs, pull the fire alarm?

All these months they had stayed safe because they had been of one mind. Neither of them had gone off. They both knew that if one of them went off, then they'd both be fucked. There was no choice, they had to be one, had to be of one mind. She knew that. She had to know it, didn't she? Something caught his eye, a plate of sweet rolls and donuts next to a coffee maker. He smacked his lips thinking of going down on Jo, how sweet she tasted, how wet she went as he circled the tip of his tongue inside her.

So sweet, he thought, becomes in your mind like dope. He wasn't addicted to anything, not like these fools, so what was going on? He had never, never let a bet tear him up like this, and now here he was feeling as if he'd been gutted with a fish knife. The pain scorched in his stomach.

Please Jo, don't make me think, he thought. Don't make me think... what, that she would get hit by a car, or fall down the stairs, or with his bare fucking hands? Don't make me think, he thought.

Loser after loser stood up, prattling on about themselves and their battles with betting, and about Frances and her five years. Fisher didn't think he could take another minute, but he couldn't leave. Not until he knew she wasn't going to speak. And then...

“Hi, my name is Jo, and I'm a compulsive gambler.”

“Hello Jo,” everyone said.

It was all Fisher could do to keep in his seat. He looked around at the smiling faces. It was like a cult. He gripped, and squeezed the sides of his chair until the metal started to bend.

“I'd like to congratulate Francis on her five years,” Jo continued. “That's long. That's great.”

She paused, collecting her thoughts. When she spoke again her voice was soft. Fisher had to lean forward to hear her.

“I lost... I lost someone because of gambling. My gambling. So I know. I know how it is, what it can do to your life...”

She wasn't gonna say it! She couldn't. God damn it, Jo! Please, Jo, no.

“What I really want to say is...” for a moment she choked on her words and someone said something and someone else “shh-ed” them. “What I want to say is... how glad I am to come to these meetings. How important they've been to me. Thank you.”

Fisher's chair slid from under him and he fell on his face. The room went silent.

Humiliated, Jo ran from the meeting and into the streets. Fisher pushed his way out and chased after her.

"Jo!"

He caught up to her as she was fumbling for her keys trying to open the car.

"Jo... I'm..."

"Damn you, Fish!" She was angry as he'd ever seen her. "What are you doing here?"

“I was...”

“Spying on me? Stalking me?”

“No.”

“Of course you were. Why else were you here? You suddenly, what, thought you desperately needed a meeting?"

"I wasn't..."

"Do you know how you embarrassed me in there? Do you even have a clue?”

“Jo, I'm sorry.”

“I can't go on like this, Fish. I can't.”

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry. What do you want me to say?”

“Jo, are you all right?” Stan called from the breezeway.

“She's fine,” said Fisher, disliking the long-haired interloper on sight.

“Jo...” said Stan, ignoring Fisher.

“I'm all right,” said Jo. “I'm fine. I'm fine. Honestly, I'm fine.”

Stan, unconvinced, continued lurking at the breezeway.

“She said she's fine. Are you deaf?” Fisher took cash out of his pocket and threw a twenty dollar bill in Stan's direction. “Go place a bet.”

“You're a jerk, man. You know that?” Stan yelled at Fisher.

“That right? And God made ponytails to cover up a horse's ass.”

Mortified beyond words, Jo climbed into the car. Fisher jumped in after her.

They drove in silence. Fisher could see the veins in Jo's neck pulsating. It would not have surprised him if she stopped the car on the drawbridge and shoved him out the door.

They made it back to the Sloop without bloodshed. Jo parked the car in the marina and sat with her hands over her head.

Finally, she spoke.

“What did you think I was going to say? Did you think I was going to tell them about Jack?”

“I don't... I don't know.”

Jo lifted her head. “You thought I was going to give you in, didn't you? Didn't you.”

“All that stuff you were saying. All that stuff about wanting to be punished.”

“Fish.”

“I... Jo. I didn't know. ”

“Oh, Fish. Fish, I'd never give you in. Don't you know that?”

“I...”

“Never. Look at me. Look at me."

Fisher looked. He saw the deep green eyes that lead him into a walk-in freezer on Thanksgiving night.

"Never. Never. Never in a thousand years. Do you hear me?”

“Yes.”

"Do you believe me?"

"Yes."

“Oh Fish. What are we going to do We can't go on like this.”

“What do you want?”

“What do I want? I want you to give me some time. Let me run the restaurant, go to meetings without being followed...”

“I...,” Jo held up her hand and he stopped.

“You give me that time, give me the space... then we can look for a buyer, split the money... split up.”

“I don't want to split up.”

“Fish, we can't live the way we're living.”

“I already said... You don't want to go to the track? Fine. All right. I mean... Christ. Don't go to the track. Whatever you want. We don't go to the track. ”

“Fish...”

“I don't want to split up,” he said. “I don't, I don't. I don't.”

Jo smiled. It was a smile he hadn't seen in weeks. “You don't think I know you,” she said. “You like to tell yourself nobody does, nobody ever will. But I do. I've known you since I saw you beat that man up in the parking lot. I'd seen him laugh at you when he didn't let you get your bet in, and that was wrong, and the world's not going to do a thing about it to make it right. Long string of people getting away and nobody does a damn thing. Presidents, big wigs, writing the world off on the back of napkins.

But people like us... we're on our own. So I understood why you needed to make it right. I thought, that's what I wanted.”

“Someone who needed to make it right.”

She kissed him. It was a soft kiss, a butterfly landing on a flower petal, but it cleaved Fisher in two. One side wanted to kiss her hand, her neck, her face, and the other side wanted to get his hands wrapped around her windpipe and press them together until her head flopped like a dead doll. He looked into her eyes and saw the reflection of his eyes looking into her eyes. He kissed her and then he kissed her again, harder. And again, and again. And their mouths were open and their tongues twirled and probed. And they were in their condo, he was carrying her across the bedroom by her naked ass, her legs wrapped around him while his cock angled up inside her. When they hit the bed, they were covered in sweat, still fucking, still fucking. Fisher's arms were free, Jo's eyes were closed, her head turned away as she moaned in pleasure. The thought lit in his head that he could do it now, she was helpless, he could do it now. No one would know, he could do it now.

Chapter 10

2009-11-29T13:01:00.000-08:00

Fisher had no business working at the restaurant and Jo knew it. But when Jan (or was it Pam, Fisher could never keep the waitresses names straight ) called in sick, Jo needed Fisher to jump in and help her get through the high tide at lunch. In less than an hour Fisher had dropped a plate of steamed shrimp, fought with the line chef over an incorrectly written dupe and tossed a customer out for whistling at him for a beer. At that point Jo guided Fisher to the door. "Go. You're not helping,” she said, before buying drinks for everyone in the restaurant Fisher had offended. “Go? Damn right, I'm going,” he told her. “God damn right.” He took the car and drove straight to his real home.

Christ on a bike, thought Fisher when he saw that his usual seat at the racetrack bar was taken by a woman with short blond hair. It was turning into a shit-ass day all around. Earlier, when he opened the stall in the clubhouse men's room, he found a thin man crouched on the floor as if praying.

“Scuze me,” the man said revealing two rows of piss colored teeth, “this is my lucky stall.” Fisher backed away and found the next available toilet. “Lucky stall,” he muttered.

Fisher well knew that horse players clung to their superstitious like life rafts. If you were on a winning streak you'd repeat everything you could possibly think of; you'd bet at the same mutual window with the same teller, you'd watch the race from exactly the same spot even if it meant you had no clear view of the race, you'd wear the same clothes, eat the same food, buy your program with exactly the same amount of cash and change, you'd stand on one leg like a pelican and whistle "Saint Stephen" if it had brought you a winner. Finding a man facing the shitter as if it was Mecca was well within the bettor's boundaries. Fisher's luck had been running cold for a week, so fine, he thought, maybe he could use a change in toilets and bar seats.

The blond woman was deep into a discussion with the bartender.

“They shot her?”

“Had to,” said the bartender. “Leg was broken in four places.”

“And she was the favorite?”

“Pick of the field. Leading by two lengths when she went down.”

“Ominous shit, man,” said the woman. “I mean a rank horse, then you could see it. But when the favorites start to go down... Ominous shit.” She pulled a Marlboro out of the pack and turned to Fisher. “Got a light.”

“Uh, yeah,” he said. The was something vaguely familiar about the woman, and she smiled in recognition as he lit her cigarette.

“I know you! You're David, right?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“I'm Sarah. Sarah Dupre. We met in Rosehill.”

“Right. Right.”

“Probably didn't recognize me cause I cut my hair. What do you think?”

“Don't know. I'm kinda a long hair guy.”

“Yeah. But it's too hot down here to wear it long. Too hot.” For emphasis, Sarah flapped the top of her jersey.

If Sarah ever wore underwear, Fisher had yet to see it.

“I thought you were a northern boy," Sarah said. "What are you doing down here in the land of the orange juice?”

“Spoiling.”

“Oh, I don't know about that. I think you're looking pretty... ripe. Look at that tan. And me, white as a ghost. Boo!” She laughed and Fisher smiled. She was a world class flirt. “So, are you still writing for the newspapers and everything?”

“Uh, sort of. Kinda between stuff. Thought I might start on a book.”

“A book!” Sarah shook her head. “I don't know how you do that, being a writer. You always hear...,” she said dropping her gaze between his legs, “...how hard it is.”

“Yeah, tortured geeks standing in front of a mirror pulling away at Mr. Happy.”

“And then they go blind.”

“Yeah,” said Fisher “Then they go blind. Sarah slowly raised her eyes to meet Fisher's. "So...", he asked her, "...you're living here or...”

“I'm in clown college.”

“Yeah, aren't we all.”

“I'm serious. Ringling Clown College. It's world renowned. I was in before, but I had to drop out.”

“Clown college drop-out.”

“It's not funny,” she said putting on a mock frown. “They make you start all over. Floppy shoes 101. Basics of pies-in-the-face.”

Fisher laughed out loud. He realized he hadn't laughed in weeks. Sarah smiled, playing again with the top of her jersey. The day definitely seemed to be turning around. The track announcer called, “Five minutes to post.”

“So, who do you like this race?” asked Fisher.

“I like to bet names. Honey Pot, Chief Longdong.”

“I didn't know he was running.”

“Or numbers. Especially number seven. I love seven.

“Is that right?”

“Uh-huh. So who do you like?

“As a matter of fact... number seven”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I know this horse. Made some money off him.”

“Twice Told Tails?”

“That's the bet,” he said.

Daylight poked through the venetian blinds of the motel room. Fisher, his head throbbing, sat up on the third attempt and managed to get his feet on the floor without waking Sarah. He blinked at the clown masks and wigs hanging from the bedpost.

He dimly remembered wearing one of the wigs the night before, letting her cover his face with clown-white, while he finger painted orange tiger stripes across her jiggling tits and drank cheap tequila straight from the bottle. This was followed by an extended ritualistic act of sixty-nine, followed in turn by his mounting her from behind and cracking a riding crop across her ample ass.

"Harder," she begged. "Hit me Harder." And like a jockey urging his steed across the finish, Fisher complied.

But now came piper-paying-time, and if his aching head was any indication, he'd be paying in spades.

The bathroom was tiny, with the shower in the mini-tub. Fisher pulled on the control knob, and a torrent of brownish cold water shot from the spout forcing him up against the tiled wall. He tried to adjust the spray and temperature, but managed only to unscrew the handle as icy water cascaded into his face. Ducking in and out of the downpour, he finally screwed the handle back on and shut the water off. Shivering, he reached for the rack to find only a hand towel.

Sneaking back into the room, he hoped to get dressed without waking Sarah, but she was already sitting up in bed, her striped painted breasts bouncing as she fended off a coughing fit by reaching for a cigarette.

“Got a match?” she asked. Fisher dug out a pack from his pants and tossed it her.

Sarah lit up, and studied the boat on the matchbook. “Slop John B?”

“Sloop. Sloop John B.”

“What's that?”

“A restaurant.” He pulled on his pants and searched for his shirt.

“Any good?”

“It's a dump.” He found his shirt on the floor, the sleeves inside out.

“There's a place in Martinique called 'Le Sloop.' 'La Sloop'? Something. It's right on the water. Waiters bring le drinks right up to you on le beach. Ever been to Martinique?”

“Uh, no,” Fisher said.

“Oh man, it is so beautiful. Volcanoes, black sand beaches, casinos, the Caribbean staring you straight in the face like a dare.” Sarah climbed out of bed and stretched. There was no getting around it, her body demanded to be looked at.

But there was something about her, something a soap and shower couldn't wash off. He had one shoe and scrambled on his knees looking for the other.

“Soon as I get enough money I'm going back.” She smiled and swayed back and forth as if trying to hypnotize him with her nipples. “Want to come with me?” Fisher laughed, and she looked hurt. “You think I'm kidding?”

“No. No.”

“Then come.”

“Uh, it's not that great a time right now.”

“Why not? You can work on your book there. You should think about it. You really should.”

“I'll think about it.” If he could just get out the door.

“Promise? Couple more days at the track like we had... We can write our own ticket.”

"I will definitely think about it.” He smiled, backing out of the motel room, sprinted for his car and drove north without looking back.

To hell with Jo, he thought. To hell with the "Slop" John B. What the hell did he need with a restaurant? Kidding me? He had seven thousand dollars in his pocket, about six-and-a-half more than he had when he deplaned in Florida last fall. Time to start over. Why the hell not? The south was filled with horse tracks. Drive, baby, drive. But as the day drifted into night the Floridian panhandle looked like the gateway to nowhere. Fisher, feeling a hole growing in his gut, pulled the car off the road. What was this? It felt as if he'd lost... lost what? It felt like... like homesickness? How could he be homesick when he had no home?

He turned the car around and headed back south.

Jo was totaling out for the night when Fisher entered the Sloop's office carrying a huge bouquet of tropical flowers. “They're beautiful”, she said staring at the heliconias, African tulips, orchids and birds of paradise.

“And...,” said Fisher, counting out from the stack of hundreds he pulled from his jacket, “...here's the money I borrowed the other day, and the day before, and last week.” He kept counting. “Here's the interest, and here's the bonus... Why?” He beamed. “Just because.”

Jo shook her head. “Very impressive.”

“I was on fire. I won the fifth race, the seventh, hit the exacta on the feature, and the ninth! On fucking fire. You should have seen it. You know how it is. Suddenly it's all so clear. Horses leap at you off the page. Everyone else is sweating it out, you're sitting back, relaxed, like some blessed minister. Doesn't matter if your horse is running last, or boxed at the turn... he is gonna come in. Such a God damn wonderful feeling. You know how it is. You remember. That time we hit seven days in a row?” Jo nodded. “So, come on out. We can do it again. Come out with me.”

“I can't.”

“You can. You can, Jo.”

“I'm trying to run a business,” she said spreading her arms out over the desk full of receipts, credit-card dupes, bar checks and inventory print-outs.

“So run a business. Nobody is stopping you. But take a day off, for Christ's sake. You deserve it. Tomorrow is Monday. We're closed.

“Fish, I have so much to do...”

Jo, you need a break. One day. Come on out with me. It'll all come back to you. I need your handicapping. No one can pick them like you.

“I can't.”

“Don't say that. You can. You can. When you were at Edgar's you got your work done. But you lived. You, you went to the track. We went out, we stayed out all night. Remember?”

“It's not the same.”

“Why not?”

“I didn't care about Edgar's.”

“Why do you care about this? This is the same thing.”

“It isn't.”

Fisher was getting angry. He was trying to understand, but if what she was saying what he was thought she was saying... “It is the same, Jo. The smell of it, the people crying for this, wanting that... It's the fucking same. It's just a God damn restaurant! The deal was...” He had to double clutch to fight back down the bile rising in his chest. “The deal was to set it up and sell it. Get the place on its feet. That was the agreement. I don't get it. All your life, this is what you've been doing. I thought you wanted to...” Didn't she realize? They had gotten away with it. They should be so happy.

“Fish...”

No, he wasn't going to lose. He played one more card. “Hey, you know what horse turned it around in the fifth? 'Twice Told Tails.' Remember him?

Jo smiled. A sad smile. “I can't Fish. I can't.”

One of the waitresses, Jan, or was it Pam, entered the office with the final take from the register. Staring at the bouquet she said “Who died?”

Chapter 9

2009-11-20T15:22:00.000-08:00

A tall man, with a thick neck and blond hair tied in a ponytail, addressed the meeting. “Hi, my name is Stan and I'm a compulsive gambler.” “Hello Stan” answered the group sitting in rows in the canary yellow community room of the recreation center. The room was awash in vivid colors. The folding chairs were bright red, the event schedules were printed on sky blue paper held up by a veritable rainbow of push-pins, and the walls were covered with elementary school finger paintings of dancing green alligators and orange trees. “It's been four months since my last bet,” said Stan. Jo joined the group in applauding.

She had recently cut her hair short. Much easier to handle in the Floridian heat, even if it did reveal the worry lines on her forehead. She tried to pay attention to Stan's testimony, but her mind kept wandering back to the new restaurant and how the rear wall needed to be repainted and the cocktail glasses she'd ordered were two weeks overdue. She hated the ones she'd been making do with, and she had her doubts that her partner would remember to pick up the loaners from Desota Slims. She knew where he inevitably was and that he'd undoubtedly shorted the deposit to use at the track. Under normal circumstances grounds for certain dismissal, except normal circumstances ended eleven months before and a thousand miles away when the Nassau County Hospital doctor told her that her husband was dead. Jo's stunned expression at the time wasn't due to acting. She had been stunned from the moment she found her husband in an advanced state of hypothermia on the floor of Edgar's walk-in freezer the morning after Thanksgiving.

Jo had been prepared to find Jack shot dead and lain across the forced open safe in her trashed office. But when she entered the room not a single thing was out of place. Where were the signs of the staged robbery? Where were the bullet holes? Why was the gun back in the drawer? What had or hadn't happened?

Her shaky voice on the call to 911 sounded legitimately shocked. Jo followed the ambulance to the hospital and waited for more than an hour outside the emergency unit before a doctor spoke to her and listed all of Jack's dire conditions: hypothermia, shock, heart failure, skull fracture...

“Will he live?” Jo asked.

“We will do everything we can,” said the doctor.

But what if Jack lived? Sitting bedside watching the pale remnant of her husband, Jo didn't think there was a way in hell that Jack would survive, but what, if by some miracle, he did? What would he remember? What would he say? This wasn't part of the plan. He was suppose to be dead. Still stunned, Jo was walking the hospital halls when the detective introduced himself.

"Mrs. Landy?”

“Yes?”

“I'm Lieutenant Dan Paduano, Rosehill Police. Can I get you anything? A cup of coffee?”

“No thank you, Lieutenant...?”

“Paduano. I'm in charge of the investigation.”

“I didn't realize it was a matter for the police.”

“It's procedure when 911 is called.”

“I see.”

“May I ask how he is doing?”

“Not very well, Lieutenant.”

“I'm so sorry. Are you sure I can't get you anything?”

“No, thank you.”

“When it's convenient, Mrs. Landy, I'd like to ask you some questions.”

Jo disliked Paduano from the start. She sensed that he was a natural bloodhound, with his droopy brown eyes he even looked like one. Clearly he was going to be a pain in the ass. Jo missed and resented Fisher. She knew they agreed that he needed to be far out of town, and that it would be months before they could get back together. But, God damn, she wished he was here to clean up the mess he left her with. All her life when the shit hit the fan she'd found someone to lean on. She had never felt this alone.

She sat vigil at her husband's bedside not out of any loyalty, but purely to make sure he never woke up. What would she do if he did? What tube should she pull, which lifeline needed to be cut? If it came to that could she do it?

When she returned to Edgar's from the hospital she was surprised to find Paduano scuttling around the floor of the walk-in like a crab. He apologized and waited until the next day to question her in her office.

“We found a marijuana 'roach' next to your husband's body in the freezer. Did Mr. Landy smoke marijuana, Mrs. Landy?”

“Yes. Are you going to arrest him?” Seeing Paduano raise an eyebrow, Jo apologized. “I'm sorry, Detective. Watching him laying in bed fighting for his life...”

“I understand, Mrs. Landy. I'm only trying to make sense of what happened.”

“Does it always make sense, Detective?”

The phone rang and Jo picked it up. She recognized the doctor's voice and knew it was over.

Paduano waited until a week after the funeral to continue his questioning. Diligently, he went over the lab reports with her, showing Jo how the potency tests indicated that the pot was of high grade. Jo had to stop her self from asking “Am I suppose to be proud?”.

Eventually the questioning stopped. The hospital and the Rosehill and Nassau County Police Departments ruled that Landy's death was accidental. Everyone was satisfied. Everyone but the bloodhound.

Jo looked up from her reverie and realized the G.A. meeting was ending. The Trusted Servant beckoned the members into a circle. Jo joined, taking the hand of a woman in plaid shorts and the man with the ponytail. They recited in unison: “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can...”

Fisher perched his sunglasses on top of his head, lifted his binoculars, and looked over the palm ringed racetrack out to the boats sailing on the Gulf of Mexico. A soft warm breeze fluttered their creamy sails as the crafts rose and fell with the waves. In all his years in and out of the Sunshine State, Fisher had been on a boat but once, and that had been a moored schooner serving as a floating bar. He felt the reassuring bulge in his jacket pocket; an envelope stuffed with cash from the “Sloop John B.” A stupid name, but nobody had asked him. He held no affection for the restaurant, so taking from the till was no skin off his hide.

“Fisher? Is that you?” asked a freckled face shaded underneath a straw hat.

“Hey, Red! How's it going?” Fisher shook Red Phillip's hand with enough fervor to make the older man wince.

“Easy there, buddy.”

“Sorry, Red. Just glad to see you. Everyone seems to have moved or died”

“Yeah, I heard you were back in town.”

“Yeah? From who”

“Robbie Jenks.”

“Jenks? Is he here?” Fisher looked around hopefully.

“No. He's covering the Bucs.”

“Ah. Too bad. Use to be a passable handicapper.”

“Now, did he tell me you opened a saloon or something?”

“Restaurant. 'The Sloop John B'," Fisher said handing Phillips a business card. "I had a good run at the track and thought I'd invest in something for a change.”

Phillips looked at the sailboat on the card and scratched his head. “Jesus, Fish. I thought restaurants were risky business.”

“Yeah, well what isn't, besides keeling over in your sleep.”

“I guess you're right. I guess.” Phillips took of his hat and fingered around the brim as if he was looking for something hidden. “You doing any writing?”

“Uh, you know. Some freelance,” Fisher was lying, and he and Red both knew it. News of Fisher's firing from the Dispatch had followed him south, and finding work, particularly on the Gulf Coast, had been nearly impossible.

“Good, Fish. Glad to hear it. You're too good a writer to give up the ghost.”

Too good a writer, eh? But not good enough to hire. Lonely as a castaway, Fisher fought the impulse to sail the old man's hat onto the track. “Hey, Red. Let me buy you a drink.”

“I wish I could, Fish. But I got a story to get in.”

“Write it at the bar. Remember the way we used to get our copy out between races?”

But Phillips lowered his head and was back at his hat. “I can't Fish. I really can't.” They stood for an endless moment until Phillips broke the silence. “Really good to see you. Really. And good luck with the saloon.” Phillips trotted away like he had the Aztec-two-step.

“Yeah, sure,” said Fisher. It was still a beautiful afternoon, four more races yet to be run, fifteen minutes to post, plenty of time to pick a winner, and there was an open seat at the bar with his name on it. Life was good. He wasn't going to let the brush-off from an old fart like Phillips spoil it.

Fisher ordered a Cuba Libre, his drink of choice below the thirtieth parallel. As he watched the bartender garnished the cocktail with a round of lime large as an orange, he briefly flashed on one of his assignments. Desota Slims. Glasses. Right. Plenty of time. That seemed to be the mantra for the day, for any day. “No sweat, man.” Ignoring the slight ache gathering in the corner of his forehead, he studied the program. He liked three horses in this race, the six, the four, and the two. The two, Sexy Sadie, was a definite long shot, so he figured he'd box all three in a trifecta and bet only the six and four in an exacta.

Fisher counted out five hundred dollars from the envelope in his coat.

“And they're off,” called the track announcer. “Number three, Franklin's Bell, to the lead.”

Fisher slumped by his car in the parking lot watching the sun drop down into the Gulf. A long line of cars slowly moved from the lot out into the bumper to bumper traffic. He studied the small boat Jo had engraved in the upper left corner of the now empty envelope. Classy. He held the beer can to his aching head and mumbled the numerous terms for “also-ran”. “No factor.” “Tired.” “No threat.” “Gave way.” “Weakened.” “Faded.” “Out run.” “No factor.” A haiku for losing.

He took the long way back to the restaurant and parked the car in the lot the Sloop shared with the Palmetto Bay Marina. A half drunk moon tilted in the dark sky over the pleasure boats and day sailors. It was well past closing, and the two-tiered restaurant was dark except for the neon beer promos over the bar.

He let himself in, turned on a set of lights, and walked quietly through the dining room. Fisher had to admit, with its pastel blue walls, the hand painted tables, the scale model of a sloop hanging over the mahogany bar, the Sloop John B. was a sleek looking place. Classy. Without a doubt.

He hopped over the bar and pulled a bottle from the beer cooler. “Pacifico.” He was an adventurer now. He heard Jo enter from the back.

"Hey, you want a beer?" he asked reaching into the cooler.

“Where were you?”

Uh oh. Now he was remembering; something about a wall? “A truck broke down on Tamiami. Traffic was backed way the hell up to...”

“You were suppose to paint the back wall.”

“I could do it now.”

“I already did it.”

“Yeah, but if you didn't do it, I could do it now.”

“You pick up the glasses?”

“Oh, shit.” The glasses. The fucking glasses at Desota Slims. Shit storm for sure coming dead ahead.

“Fish! I told you. I told you five times, if you did nothing else today, pick up the glasses.”

“I know.”

“You know? If you know then why didn't you pick them up”

“I'm sorry. I forgot. I ran into somebody. Red Phillips. I used to work for him. I'll do it tomorrow, I promise ”

“We were busy tonight.”

“That's good.”

“No, Fish. We ran out of glasses. That's the whole point. We couldn't get them out fast enough. The busboys were washing them by hand. If the board of health found out...”

“I said I was sorry, Jo. What do you want me to do?”

“We're trying to run a place here. There are responsibilities. If you say you're going to do something you can't just...” Fish picked up a bar nap and waved it like a flag asking for surrender. Jo shook her head and said something Fisher couldn't hear.

“What was that?”

“I said you just gotta tell me.”

“About what?”

“When you take the deposit to the track.”

“I...”

“The bank called. Three checks bounced.”

“I'll get it back. I was up. I was up all day, and then the fucking five horse in the seventh, you wouldn't believe this Jo, the horse is leading halfway down the stretch and I don't know if the jockey pulled him up or what, we all thought there was gonna be an inquiry but the stewards let it stand. Thing stunk to high heaven. If that horse comes in....”

“Jesus, Fish.”

“Would you stop with the 'Jesus, Fish'? For crying out loud. Yeah, I took some money, and I lost it. It happens. You gonna go all schoolgirl on me? Make me stand in the fucking corner suck my thumb? I'll get it back.”

“Just tell me,” she said, and left him at the bar.

Fisher finished the beer mumbling to himself. “Can't talk to me like that. God damn right.” He took the car keys out of his pocket and slammed them on the bar. “Not gonna wait around here all night.” He'd walk back to the condo. That would show her.

Truth was he liked to walk. It cleared his head. The fall Floridian nights were mild and dry. Once he hit his pace he could cover the four miles to their condo in under an hour. They lived in a development along the Manatee River. A resident from the next unit told Fisher that a twelve foot alligator had been caught on the banks two weeks ago, so to watch where he walked. But all Fisher ever saw was palmetto lizards scooting under the palms. He'd been trying to come up with an idea, something to write about, but his mind was as barren as the drunken moon following over his shoulder.

Fisher had expected the rust, he had written his way out of slumps before. It should be easy, there was no pressure, he owed money to nobody except for the cash he helped himself to from the Sloop. So what? He couldn't be fired, he co-owed the damn place. The deal of deals. Free beer and all the stone crab he could eat. He and Jo were partners. Only one little problem. They had killed a man. A face glared at him through the windshield of a passing black Jeep. What's the matter, fuck face, Fisher thought, never saw someone walking before? Off in the distance, he heard the wailing cry of a police siren. He held his breath until the cry faded away.

From the moment he woke alone in Claire's guest room the morning after Thanksgiving, Fisher was sure he was going to be caught. He smelled the bacon frying, and had to fight hard to keep from throwing up. He washed his face, went downstairs and forced himself to eat everything Claire put in front of him. He tried not to jump out of the seat each time the phone rang, and when Claire left the room, he slipped a shot of brandy into his coffee to calm himself down. His plane didn't leave until the evening, but he told Claire he needed to get home and pack. He promised to send her his new address and never noticed the look of disappointment on her face when he half-heartedly returned her kiss good-bye.

Wanting to hear Jo's voice, Fisher called the county hospital from the airport. He needed to tell her, tell her how it happened, how Landy swung at him with a bat, how now if it came to it, he could say it was self defense, how he went to Edgar's to be straight with the guy and... But when the hospital operator answered, he hung up.

They had agreed that there had to be zero contact. Zero. He looked at his hand and it was trembling like a leaf. He stumbled boarding his plane. Jesus Christ, keep it together, he thought, and then proceeded to hyperventilate into a paper bag the whole flight to Ft. Lauderdale.

Through the winter, he rented a hole-in-the-wall apartment in a town twenty miles north of Miami He found a job writing for a small weekly, edited by an alcoholic who could've cared less what the hell Fisher had done with his life as long as the copy got in on time. One of the Miami daily papers carried Landy's obit. Apparently he'd been a golf champ there in his youth. The obit mentioned that his death had been accidental, but Fisher still shuddered every time he heard a siren.

The plan was that he and Jo were to wait on opposite sides of the state until Jo was sure all of the authorities' questions had been answered. Only then would Jo contact him by postcard at a P.O. box Fisher opened in North Miami under the name of “F. Chambers”.

Winter was endless. He borrowed his editor's car and drove to North Miami twice a week, praying for the postcard, even though he knew it was too soon, way too soon. In the small hours of the night as he sat sleepless on his cot, doubts bubbled in his mind like bitches brew; what if she didn't... what if she wasn't...what if... But invariably other thoughts pushed their way in; thoughts of Jo's smell, of the softness of her hair, of the moan she made and the way her head fell back when he was inside her. His cock rose from under the sheets demanding attention. Fisher masturbated like a teenage boy, two, sometimes three times a day until his member was red raw. By spring he was climbing the walls, looking for trouble. He came up on the losing end of a brawl with two drunks outside a bar in Hialeah. He left before the police arrived, waking up with two black eyes and a fat lip.

By the third day the swelling had gone down and he rewarded himself by driving to the mail drop. There was a single postcard waiting for him.

He held onto her so tightly she couldn't breathe. He had her stand naked on the bed so he could touch every inch of her body starting with her toes, following up her legs, caressing her thighs, rubbing his face against the cheeks of her bare ass, palming her stomach, cupping the undersides of her breasts, kissing the lids of her eyes, luxuriating in her hair. “You're beautiful,” he said.

“I'm getting old.”

“No, you are not.” He stood on the bed naked with her, letting their bodies meld. “I missed you. I was going crazy.”

“Me too.”

“Not being able to see you, touch you...” his slid the back of his hand across her pubic hair causing Jo to shiver.

“I was so scared. The police. All the questions.”

“What did they think?”

“An accident. He banged his head.”

“He came at me with a bat. He tried to kill me!”

“Shh.”

“With a bat, tried to choke me, he had it against my neck...”

“Fish. I don't want to think about it.”

“But we did it. Jo, we fucking did it!”

“We did.”

“And nobody knows.”

“Nobody.”

They made love for a week, fucking in every room, on every surface in the condominium, until famished and dehydrated they staggered into the kitchen where they ate stuffed crab and drank Cuban beer Jo had brought home from the restaurant.

“Did you get a chance to see it?” Jo asked.

“See what?”

“The Sloop. The Sloop John B.”

“No. I came here on the fly.”

“It's great. It's open, clean, not cluttered with all the chochka shit we had clogging up Edgar's. You walk in, you swear you're out on the sea.”

“Great,” said Fisher. “How much do you think we can get for it?”

“Get?”

“Yeah.”

“What... what do you mean?”

“When we sell it. How much do you think... I mean that's the idea, right? Sell the place, take the money and, you know, do whatever we want. Go to the track everyday.”

“The track?”

“Yeah. Opening day is in two weeks. I guess no way we can sell it that fast.”

Jo's face tightened and Fisher could feel the air being sucked out of the room. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said.

“Why are you... I don't know, you're all... like you're angry.”

“I'm not. I'm not. Just wasn't thinking of selling so fast. I mean...We've hardly opened.”

“Sure. O.K. Get it on it's feet. I understand.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, only...”

“What? Fish, what?”

“What... I mean what am I suppose to do? How do we explain why I'm around?”

“You're my partner.”

“In the restaurant? Me?”

“Yeah. Sign the papers and everything.”

“Me in the restaurant business?” Fisher laughed.

“Fish. We're partners in everything.”

The final half-mile of the walk home cut through the Gulf Winds Country Club. As he crossed the cart-bridge over a water hazard, Fisher couldn't shake the feeling that someone was following him. When he heard a splash, he stopped and peered into the black lagoon. He took a penlight out of his pocket and followed the ripple line in the pond. For a moment the light reflected in a pair of yellow eyes just above the surface.

A rustling emanating from the palms behind him caused Fisher to turn, and by the time he pointed the light back on the water, the eyes had disappeared. A chill went up his spine and he ran the rest of the way home.

When he reached the condo, the car was back. He saw the light go on in the bedroom. He waited outside, watching her like a stranger as she took off her clothes and readied for bed. Why the hell had she cut her hair? Where did she go in the mornings? How long had it been since they stood naked on that bed exploring each other's bodies like Adam and Eve? It seemed like forever-and-a-half.

A note from the artist

2009-11-12T07:50:00.001-08:00

[Please use the links in the Table of Contents to the right to access the story]

Don't worry, Shadow Bay chapter 9 will be appearing in a week or so, with any luck. Donald & I were taking a break after finishing part 1 of the book (chapters 1-8.) The rest of the chapters make up part 2 which will take us to the end of the story.

We are looking for a publisher to make this available in book form. If you are a publisher, or know one, please don't be shy in approaching us. Also, please tell your friends, via email, Facebook, Twitter & so forth about this blog-novel (nog? blovel?) We'd like to reach as many people as possible.

OK, that's the marketing out of the way. I'd like to spend a couple of moments talking about the art. When Donald Rothschild called me out of the blue a few months ago, & asked me if I'd be interested in working on some artwork for his novel, I assumed he maybe wanted 2 or 3 dozen pictures. Maybe 50 or 60 at most. However, it gradually became evident that it would take far more than those numbers to illustrate his work. Now, more or less at the halfway point, I've done 188 drawings/paintings (they are a combination of pencil, monochrome acrylic paint, & china marker, which as you may know is a type of crayon that will put a mark on just about any surface.) The finished book will probably have around 400 images, give or take...

It all started (as Donald has mentioned in his previous note) when we held a cocktail party in my studio. Donald had noticed a painting on the wall in a corner that somehow put him in mind of his book. Here is the painting:

Stranger on the Shore, 2008, acrylic & china marker on paper, 24" x 19".

So, at least that gave me a clue as to the look of the piece. I imagined a world that was somewhat dark, oppressive & depressing, like maybe Leeds in England, near where I grew up. I'd also recently read Camus' The Stranger while waiting for my car to be serviced, so an industrial wasteland version of Algeria is in there somwhere. Finally, Donald had recently seen & mentioned an article on James Ensor, the Belgian artist, in the New York Times magazine, I think. Thus, the pieces fell into place.

James Ensor: Skeletons Fighting over a Pickled Herring

Ensor's grotesque yet strangely appealing worldview, replete with skulls, masks & the like, had always attracted me, since I had discovered his work for myself 30 or so years before. We resolved to put a little of Ensor's darkness & surreally expressionistic imagery (or my warped version of it) into the novel here & there. And so it was.

I could go further & point out more influences & reference points, but that's enough for now. I don't want to spoil the fun by pulling back the curtain too far. Maybe I'll tell more later on, or maybe Donald will. In the meantime, here is a painting that I did recently:

Shadow Bay, 2009, acrylic on unstretched canvas, 55" x 53" approx.

Thanks for reading. That's it for now. See you soon back in Shadow Bay.

Bill

Chapter 8

2009-10-28T09:29:00.000-07:00

Thanksgiving morning Salmanowitz was running wild. Midway through the second quarter number eight had already racked up over a hundred yards from scrimmage and the Pilgrims were pounding Fox Lane 21-0 in their traditional Turkey Day rivalry. Light frozen rain fell from a grey sky making the hill above the field slick enough for the rowdier students to ride down using cafeteria trays as sleds. Jo, wearing dark glasses and a wool cap, weaved her way through the crowd and "trayers" until she found Fisher on a ridge stomping his feet to keep warm. Without a word she snuggled next to him.

Once they had agreed on the plan, they had been very careful not to be seen together; not at the track, not at Edgar's, not even at Fisher's apartment. Today they blended in pretending that they were no different from any other pair of parents standing on the hill watching their sons run to daylight. But they were different. A more discerning eye would know on sight that Jo and Fisher were cut from a cloth contrary to the Jacks and Jills climbing up this hill. There was no holiday gathering scheduled for their clans later this afternoon, no turkey dinner with stuffing and cranberry sauce at granny's, no prayer of thanks for the bounty before them.

Today was circled for a different reason; they were going to kill a man.

Salmanowitz broke loose again and galloped like a two legged moose towards pay dirt. As the crowd cheered Jo lifted her head from Fisher's shoulder.

“He's going to be there all night doing the inventory. The gun will be in the top drawer of the desk. I made sure, it'll be right there.”

“Right.”

“After you shoot him, remember to trash the office, really trash it. And don't forget to leave the safe open, you've got to make sure it looks as if Jack discovered the break-in during the robbery.”

“Right.”

“He'll never know you're there,” she whispered. “He'll walk right into it.”

Fisher closed his eyes, the heat of her breath gave him goosebumps. In the end-zone, Salmanowitz remembered to keep his helmet on as he held the ball high in the air while his teammates danced and whooped along the sidelines.

“You're positive what's-her-face will put you up?” Jo asked.

“Yeah, I'm sure.”

“Then...O.K.” Right. Nothing left to do but do it. “You know...” she said, “...once we start this...”

Fisher looked her dead in the eye. “It's already started.”

Jo took his hand and squeezed it. They stood that way for a long moment before she let go and walked up to the road above the hill. Fisher watched her climb past all the moms and dads and kids and leashed barking dogs. Frozen rain glistened in the streetlights.

“Turn around,” he muttered, “turn around.” At the top of the hill she turned back and saw him. She gave a brief wave and she was gone.

Under the guise of "smoking the peace-pipe", Fisher had accepted Claire's Thanksgiving dinner invitation, but his real job was was to be seen drinking himself into oblivion in front of Claire and her family. Sitting in the middle of the table between his ex-editor's sister and aunt, Fisher downed glass after glass of red Zinfandel.

He had pre-lined his stomach with yogurt in order to absorb the intoxicants, and every time the opportunity presented itself he ducked into the kitchen to empty his glass into the sink. Fisher was never a boisterous drunk, so he merely let Claire think he was getting quietly toasted while her family prattled on about property taxes, the price of heating oil and the Islanders slim chances of winning the Stanley Cup. And after the gang had all departed, he made sure to have a large snifter of brandy in his hand as his kept Claire company while she did the dishes.

He'd agreed to her dinner invitation with the proviso that they would not discuss the Dispatch, but as soon as they were alone, he knew Claire would want to revisit his firing.

“Let me talk to the publisher, Fish.”

“Claire...”

“Let me try. He's not that bad of a guy. I think I can get him to knock it down to a suspension. Three, four months.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Fish, all I'm saying is let me try. What do you got to lose?”

Slurring his words as he refilled his snifter Fisher said “Fl.... Florida.”

“Florida? What about Florida?”

“That's where I'm going. To Florida.”

“What do you mean? When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Fish! Florida?”

“Yeah.”

“You got a job?”

“Give me a week. Two, tops. All the people I know down there...”

"Uh huh." She forced an encouraging smile. She knew Florida was the last place Fisher would be able to find work, but she said nothing. He'd find out. Florida tomorrow, all right then; she had him tonight. The classic rock station was playing Al Kooper singing “Something Going On.” Blood, Sweat and Tears, thought Claire watching Fisher nodding off on his feet. Man, that said it all.

"Where are we going?"

"You need to lie down," she said.

"I'm fine. I'm fine. I can drive."

"Yeah, right into a tree." They reached the top of the stairs and she guided him into a room."

"Where am I? he said groggily"

"The guest room," Claire said helping him on to the bed.

"Christ, everything is spinning. Where's the bathroom?"

"Down the hall."

"What... what are you doing?"

"Shh," said Claire, unzipping his pants.

"Claire..."

"Shh." She spread open the fly of his boxers and wrapped her fingers around his cock. "Not like I'm a stranger."

"I'm really swacked. I don't think I can."

"No?" She tried to arouse him by pressing the fleshy head with her fingernail, but when Fisher started to snore Claire removed her hand from his pants and sighed.

"What a waste", she muttered, not sure if she meant his talent or her time. She pulled the comforter over his body. "What a waste." She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. She walked down the hall to her room.

Fisher waited until he could hear Claire gently whinnying in sleep before he crept from the bed. He waited another two minutes before easing open the storm window. Holding on to the drainpipe he lowered himself down to the ground from the second floor. He stood in the shadow of the house, listening. The streets were still, houses all dark, the inhabitants deep in the land of nod digesting their enormous Thanksgiving feasts. Something sprinted across the lawn and came to a stop in the driveway.

Fisher watched the animal dart back into the dark. He took a deep breath and followed into the night, cutting through the back yards of the hamlet. He tried to convince himself that he too was an animal on the hunt, driven by instinct. An animal kills by instinct. Eat or be eaten. But he had never killed a man, certainly never sat down and planned it out. Oh yeah, Spengler and the can of Right Guard. But back then he was only a stupid kid looking to get even. And now? An animal, black gloves over his paws. If he only could do it with his hands, then maybe, maybe. But with a gun? He didn't know. How could he? He wouldn't know until his finger was on the trigger. He should have practiced. Gotten the feel of the thing. Gone in the woods somewhere firing at squirrels. What if he missed? He concentrated on his breathing, even, steady. The ground flew beneath his feet, stride after stride.

How long had he been going? He had no sense of time, It was as if he was running through a dreamscape, a dark road through stretches of woods filled with tall pines standing like sentinels. He knew he was approaching the bay, he could smell it before he could hear it. Something was rotting on the beach.

The surf was relentlessly pounding the shore. It sounded like a drummer with machine hands, the powerful rhythm beating in Fisher's head; kill-kill-kill-kill-kill-kill.

The woods thinned to a small clearing, a row of old maple trees lined the path to the parking lot. And there was Edgar's. Landy's Lexus was the only car in the lot.

Doug Kershaw was singing "Rita Put Your Black Shoes On" from the boom box as Landy rolled a joint on top of a box of tequila. Inventory was mind-numbing, exhausting work, and it was definitely time for a break. He had been at it since mid-morning, stopping only long enough to eat a blackened catfish Poorboy the chef left for him. Landy had no interest joining Jo and the staff for the Thanksgiving party at their co-op. Frankly he didn't give a shit about any of them, they were all Jo's hires and none of them would be working with them in Florida. Well, maybe one.

He couldn't wait to move the operation south. In Florida he'd be able to play golf seven days a week, twelve months a year, no more dragging himself north to this dump of a town, no more hustling hundred-a-hole skins with the likes of divot-heads. He lit the joint and inhaled deeply. Yeah. Now that's what he was talking about. "Rita, put those black shoes on." Somewhere in the middle of Kershaw's fiddle solo the phone started ringing.

Fisher was so startled by the sudden ring he nearly pulled the trigger. Jesus, he thought, Jesus, get a hold of yourself. Gun goes off the whole deal is blown. Easy. Take it easy. The ringing phone was perfect. Landy would have to come in to answer it, and when he did, Fisher would shoot him through the throat. Landy's hands would go up like JFK, his eyes spinning like pinwheels before he dropped to the floor. Fisher lifted the gun and aimed it at the door and waited.

The phone rang, four, five, six times before Jo's voice clicked on the answering machine. “Hi, you've reached Edgar's, the best sea-food restaurant on the bay. We are closed on Thanksgiving, and open again tomorrow for lunch and dinner. Please leave a message after the beep.” There was a beep and a pause before Jo spoke. Noise from the staff party could be heard in the background. “Hi, it's me. You there? Jack?” Her voice sounded calm, not a care in the world. Landy would come in for sure now, Fisher thought. His hand was sweating inside the glove. “I was checking in, seeing if you're coming over. There's still plenty of food, people are here. Jack, you there?” Jo's voice continued on the phone, “Jack? Maybe you're on your way. Jack? O.K. Happy Thanksgiving.” The machine clicked off. Jo's call established her alibi. Good.

Now it was Fisher's turn. He waited, gun aimed, his nose twitching as the aroma of marijuana drifted into the room. He held his breath thinking the last thing he needed was to be woozy from a contact high. But still no Landy. It was quiet, so quiet out there. The music from the boom box had ceased.

Had Landy gone upstairs? Or fallen asleep? Was it possible he'd dozed off? How long would he be out for? Fisher needed to get this done and get his ass back to Claire's house. Or maybe he should go, get the hell out. What was he doing here? He wasn't an assassin, a professional killer who could wait passionlessly for hours. What was that Salmanowitz had said about the tattoos in his head? Did it for a girl.

Fisher crab-walked along the wall to the door and stood. As he was rubbing his legs to get the blood flowing, a shadow crossed his face. He looked up to see Jack Landy smirking at him with a joint in one hand and a metal baseball bat in the other.

“Mr. Smalltime,” Landy said. And then he came up swinging.

Fisher ducked and heard the swish of the bat pass inches over his head. As he shoulder-rolled out into the storage room to avoid Landy's next swing, the gun dropped out of his hand and bounced into the corner. He tried to get to the stairs, but Landy cut him off swinging again at Fisher's head. Fisher ducked and the momentum of Landy's swing spun him around.

Fisher reached for the bat and tried to yank it out of Landy's grip. But Landy countered him, pulling back with both hands, forcing Fisher to spin around, allowing Landy to get behind him and choke Fisher with the bat against his windpipe.

Landy dragged Fisher backwards through the open door and into the walk-in freezer all the while jammimg the bat against Fisher's throat. Fisher gasped for air and desperately tried to get the bat off his neck. Black spots danced in his eyes, he was passing out. His only chance... if he could get close enough to the wall to push back. Fisher pulled them both forward, kicked up both of his legs and pushed off the back wall of the freezer.

He drove Landy straight backwards not allowing him a chance to duck. Landy's smashed the back of his head into the low beam over the walk-in door.

Landy released the bat and dropped like a stone face first on the floor.

For more than a minute Fisher couldn't move. He was dizzy, his throat felt like it had been severed. He struggled to his feet. As he stared down at the crumpled body on the floor he could feel the hatred rise inside him.

“Fuck you,” he snarled. “Come at me with a bat, you fucking fuck? You fucking piece of shit!” He drew back his foot, a milisecond from kicking Landy in the head. God he wanted to. God he wanted to boot Landy's skull clear out the walk-in and watch it bounce across the storage room like a head of cabbage dropped off the back of a truck. But he stopped himself. No. Leave no evidence, no shoe mark to be traced back. Be smart.

First things, first; was Landy dead? Fisher bent down and checked Landy's faint pulse. Fuck, he was alive. Barely. Well, he couldn't last long, not in the freezer. It would look like an accident. This was even better than they had planned. No break in, no attempted robbery, no gun. The gun!

Fisher replced the pistol in the office drawer. What else? What else? The bat. He put the bat in the corner behind the safe. He found the hand truck and wheeled it around Landy's body into the walk in. He filled the truck with boxes of frozen shrimp to make it look as if Landy was pulling the load out when he banged his head. Then the last touch, Fisher dropped the half-smoked joint next to Landy. Let the cops connect the dots.

He looked at his watch. A quarter to two. It It would be seven hours until Jo “found” him. Plenty time for a man to die.

Fisher kept to the original plan and left Edgar's by the kitchen egress. He circled around to the front, keeping in the restaurant's shadow. But when he reached the parking lot he was surprised by a grey car making a u-turn. Fisher dove for the ground, pushing his face into the dirt. When he looked up the car was gone.

Fisher's heart was pounding through his shirt, his felt pressure on his chest, sweat was pouring down his face. He swore he was having a heart attack. He leaned back against the wall of the restaurant and waited for the pressure to stop. Who the fuck was that? Some drunk who took the wrong road? Did they see him? Ten minutes passed. No sound except for the distant howling of wild dogs. The pain slowly abated, his breathing returned to normal. Using the door handle for leverage he pulled himself off the ground. All right, so far so good. Time to get out of there. He walked into the woods, picking up his pace a little at a time into a jog, a jog into a trot, a trot into a stride, a stride into an all out run.

Safely back in the guest bedroom, Fisher peeled off his sweaty clothes. He was exhausted, every part of his body ached, all he wanted to do was sleep for about a month. He hadn't seen a car or a light on the way back. All of it seemed like a dream. Jo's disembodied voice on the phone: “Is anybody there?” Landy's stoned stupid smile, the bat swinging through the air, the thud of his head against the beam of the walk-in... Fisher struggled out of his t-shirtand his pants. As he was pulling off his shorts, the door opened.

“What are you doing?” she said.

“I...was too hot. I couldn't sleep.”

Slipping out of her robe Claire said, “I know the oldest cure in the world.”

Chapter 7

2009-10-13T08:11:00.000-07:00

The weather turned cold and damp, in the drizzling rain all the color seemed to have been sucked out of the race track. The grandstand looked like a penitentiary, the crowd thinned down to the hard core, the desperate and the lifers. Jo and Fisher's winning streak was over. Since the day Fisher cracked his head in the freezer, neither he or Jo could pick a thing. Long shots, favorites, hedge-bet parlays... nothing, nothing but losers. With the losing came the finger pointing; they were snapping at each other like turtles.

“What do we have left?" Fisher asked.

“Not much after that flyer we took on your horse," said Jo. "What was that brilliance? 'Green Fields'?”

“My horse?”

“A prayer shot. Horse had done nothing.”

“Like you're picking anything,” said Fisher.

Jo muttered under her breath "better than you," and walked away.

“Where you going? Jo?"

“The can. You mind?”

“I'll be at the bar,” said Fisher. “You want something?”

He couldn't hear her reply so he ordered them both doubles and watched the replay of the race on the monitor over the bar. Green Fields was late out of the gate and never a factor. Ten lengths behind by the first turn, the horse didn't seem to give a damn, wanting nothing more than to get out of the cold and rain. Smart horse.

Almost a week had past since the ax fell at the Dispatch, but Fisher still hadn't told Jo. What the hell, just a job, right? On the worst day of the year he'd rather be at the track than cover soccer sectionals in the sunniest of fields. Still, being fired ate at him. He never liked being kicked out the door. Christ. Why the hell couldn't the God damn kid keep his God damn mouth shut? What would Jo think of him now that he was unemployed? How different was he from the rest of the sad face clowns roaming the the vast half-deserted stands?

Jo returned and sat next to him at the bar. She flipped the hair off of her face and picked up her double-Irish.

“I'm sorry, Fish. I don't like fighting.”

He felt better immediately, like a heat lamp had been turned on bathing him in warmth. He had never been a hand holder, particularly in public, but something about having her hand in his changed all the rules. Before he even knew it he told her about the Dispatch.

“Fired? Why would they fire you?”

“Some fucked up thing. They had it in for me.”

“But I thought your editor...”

“She's a whore.”

“I'm sorry, Fish.”

“Hey. What are you gonna do?” He forced a smile. But she knew better.

“You want to go?”

“Yeah, let's get out of here.” For the first time he could remember, Fisher realized there was someplace he'd rather be than the track.

Up the parkway they could see the flashing lights of police cars and E.M.S. vehicles. Traffic had moved less than a mile in the last half hour and frustrated drivers were leaning on their horns. Overhead, Fisher heard a different honking. He leaned out the car window and saw the geese in chevron flight flying south. He imagined what the water fowl saw below them, the long grey island turning brown, cars small as snails inching along.

Jo, reading his mind, said “Fish, let's get out of here.”

"I can take the next exit, but Broadway is going to be just as bad."

"No. I meant get out of Rosehill. I hate this place."

“Fine with me. Pretty much shot my wad.”

“You know... that horse you like...”

Fisher's pulse jumped. "J.D.'s Catfish."

"Yeah. He races Monday, right?"

“What do you have at Edgar's?”

“I don't know. Maybe five grand.”

“Not much. He'll go off as one of the favorites. Short odds”

“It's only Wednesday. By Sunday night after the weekend receipts, and if I don't make any deposits the rest of the week...”

“Yeah?”

“Twenty.”

Fisher nodded. Ahead the police had cleared a lane and traffic began to move.

She was late. They were suppose to meet at the paddock before the third race. He'd already backtracked their circuit from the saddle-up to the grandstand three times. Faces, faces everywhere, but not hers. He fed the anxious devil in his stomach a chili dog and washed it down with two beers and a Jack and Coke. Now he was fighting off the urge to throw up as the whole mess churned inside of him.

For the first time in weeks there was a good sized crowd filling the stands, definitely a bit of electricity in the air. Already on the day two long shots had come in, the second a fifty-to-one shot part of a daily-double pay out of over nine hundred dollars for a two dollar bet. On the track the third race was in progress. Two horses charged down the stretch, less than a neck separating them. Fisher had eschewed betting on any of the preliminaries, preferring to plow the few hundred he had left to his name all in on J.D.'s Catfish.

Their plan was to place the bet as close to post-time as possible, too late for the sharpies to jump in on their action and drive down the odds when the twenty-thou hit the win pool on the big board.

A roar went up from the crowd as another long shot pulled out the third race. Happy bettors were jumping up and down on their seats. So far, not a day for the favorites. For the tenth time, Fisher looked at his watch. Where was she?

Jo knew she was running late. The morning had been filled with small Edgar's fires that had to be put out; broken dishwasher, floor schedule fuck-ups, a pothole the size of an open grave in the parking lot. When the smoke cleared she ran down the basement steps not even bothering to turn on the office light as she knelt at the foot of the safe. It had been a banner weekend at the fish house. Two large parties arrived late and ate and drank well past closing on Saturday, and a surprise engagement brunch more than doubled Edgar's usual cover numbers on Sunday. She hadn't yet counted it all, but she was sure there was almost twenty-five thousand dollars in cash stuffed inside the safe. She wiped the sweat from her hand and spun the four number combination. The lock was stubborn, you had to be precise in order for the tumblers to click. When the safe gave way on her first try, she thought it augured well for all concerned. But when she opened the door the shelves were empty. Behind her she could hear the office chair turning. Jo nearly jumped out of skin as the desk lamp clicked on.

“How's it going, sweetheart?” a voice said.

“God damn it, Jack! That's not funny.”

“I thought you were going to hit the ceiling,” he said.

“And that would've been a riot. I almost swallowed my tongue.”

“Keep telling you. Always watch your back.”

“You're a sick fuck, you know that? A complete sick fuck."

"Calm down." Landy lit a cigar and smoked. He knew Jo hated when he did this in the small office, how territorial it was forcing her to breathe his imposed stink.

"When did you get back?” she coughed.

“This morning.”

“Thanks for calling. Letting me know anything about where you were.”

“I did. I called a couple of times.” His smile faded. “I was told you were out."

"Where's the money?"

“Got it all right here.”

“Well, give it back. That's for the bills.”

“Twenty-five thousand dollars, Jo. That's a lot of money to keep sitting around. Doesn't look like you paid anything this week.”

“I've been letting the float get up a little bit. None of the purveyors are yelping.”

“Yeah, but if we should happen to get robbed... again.” Landy chuckled. Was there really a time, Jo thought, when she found that laugh sexy?

“Why did you take the money?”

“Because,” said Landy, staring at the glowing tip of his cigar, “I'm buying a restaurant in Florida.” The phone rang. Landy waited for Jo to answer it, but she just let it ring and ring.

“Another restaurant? Are you crazy? We're losing money here.”

“That's why I put it on the market.”

“You put Edgar's on the market! I don't believe it.”

“Believe it. I even put an add in your sportswriter's little paper.”

“You don't even ask me or give me some sort of...”

“Some sort of what?”

“I run this place. I've been here six days a week, fifty-two weeks a year...”

“You weren't here today.”

“Go fuck yourself,” she practically spat.

“What? I thought you'd be happy. Aren't you always telling me how much you hate it here? How dead it is? So now I'm getting us out. A new place on the Gulf Coast. Things are hopping there. You'll love it.”

“And whose gonna run it? You?”

“I'll set it up. Get everything going. But run it? That's what you do.”

“And if I don't want to?”

The corners of Landy's mouth lifted, stretching his thin lips into a smile of mockery. “What else you gonna do?” he asked. “Seriously. I mean besides dealing dope and blowing money at the track, what do you know how to do?”

Fisher ordered another Jack and Coke watching the time drip away like bubbles in a syringe. Fourth race, fifth race, sixth, seventh... No answer at Edgar's and it was fifteen minutes to post for the feature. "Jesus, Jo, c'mon," he muttered. He caught himself praying “God, please, give me this one, give me this one and I'll never ask again.” He was watching the odds on J.D.'s Catfish climb up to seven-to-one when a woman sitting on the next stool knocked his drink onto his lap.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Fisher stood up, the crotch of his jeans soaked with whiskey and Coke.

“I'm so sorry,” the woman said wiping a bar nap across Fisher's groin. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she continued pressing with her palm feeling his penis through his pants.

“It's all right,” Fisher said pulling away. “It's all right.”

The woman signaled the bartender. “Could you buy this man a drink? A shot of Cuervo Gold for me.” When the young woman turned back she smiled in recognition. "You're David. Johanna's friend. We met at the harness races. I'm Sarah Dupre.”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Yeah. I never forget a face. Take a picture in my mind. Click, click. I am so sorry about the golden shower. I don't know what happened. My balance is usually like a gyroscope. The earth must've moved or something.”

“Or something.”

“How they running for you?”

“Not so great,” said Fisher.

“Man oh man. I know how that goes.”

The bartender, misunderstanding the order, set both of them up with shots of tequila. “No, I was Jack Daniels and..."

“Oh have a shot,” said Sarah. “It's on me. C'mon. Cheers.” She lifted her shot glass. Anxious to get rid of her, Fisher lifted his as well and drank. The sting of the mescal hit the back of his throat as Sarah inquired “Ever do a three way?”

“What?” coughed Fisher, nearly spitting up the drink.

“Box three horses. Trifecta,” said Sarah suggestively licking around the rim of her shot glass. “One time I bet every horse in the race.”

Fisher blinked. What did she say? What the hell was Sarah doing here? She was going to ruin everything. If Jo saw her at the bar she might turn around and abort the bet, thinking something was wrong. But nothing was wrong. The horse looked great at the mount-up in the paddock, the odds had gone up, they stood to make a killing if Jo would get her ass to the track in time to place the wager. Fisher checked his watch.

“Waiting on someone?”

“What?”

“I see you keep looking at your watch.

“No, I...”

“Maybe they're in the can. The excitement of the races and all. One of those facts of life.”

“No, I'm just trying to get a bet in.”

“Yeah? Who do you like?”

“Uh, Runaway Dan,” he lied.

“Yeah?”

“Three minutes to post,” announced the track P.A. Sarah downed the rest of her Cuervo and slid off the stool.

“Runaway Dan, eh? Well, thanks for the tip. Good luck, partner,” she said with a salute and disappeared into a crowd at the mutual windows.

Fisher walked away from the bar and stopped. He felt dizzy, had his drink been spiked? The grandstand spun around him.

He bent over waiting for the feeling to pass. Feet passed by him on the left and right. “Two minutes to post” announced the public address. "Two minutes." Two minutes. A hundred-and-twenty seconds, a hundred-and-forty-thousand dollars. Still time, still time. For Christ's sake pull it together. A pair of shoes stopped by him and Fisher looked up to see Jo.

“Jo! Jesus Christ. Where you been?”

“I'm sorry.”

“Two minutes to post. He's seven-to-one. Give me the money.”

“Jack took it.”

Took it? It didn't make sense. Fisher opened his mouth, but it was saliva-less and no words came out.

“He took all the money,” Jo said. “He's selling Edgar's. He was waiting for me in the office." Tears streaked her face. "He's buying a place in Florida. He wants me to go there and run it.”

Fisher held Jo in his arms, she was trembling like a winged sparrow, he could feel her bones through her skin. He ground his teeth together hard enough to chip a molar and his tongue instinctively felt for the empty space.

"And they're off," called the announcer.

Garbage gulls swooped from the sky diving for detritus, down on the track J.D.'s Catfish charged to the lead.

Chapter 6

2009-10-05T07:55:00.000-07:00

Jo's head thrashed back and forth on the pillow, her long hair flailed against Fisher's face like a whip urging him onwards. They had waited seven long days and nights for Landy to go back to Florida and now they were making up for it, fucking like fugitives, like the clock was ticking. And when they finished and they were both covered in sweat, gasping for breath, Fisher somehow found the energy to haul himself out of the bed. Fueled by the memory of Landy's smirk, he paced back and forth spewing out a week's worth of backed-up bile.

“Christ All Mighty, ought to sue his ass for my whiplash concussion," he said. "My 'little' newspaper? Who does he think he is? Like he's some big wheel, turning like a fat roasted pig. He hustles golf for fuck's sake. Big man getting his jollies cheating dollars off of duffers. Christ. Why the hell did you ever marry a prick like that?”

“Because we were running drugs together.”

Fisher stopped in mid-stride like a target in a shooting arcade.

“Wait a second, wait a second. I thought you said he wasn't a dope dealer.”

“Suppose to tell every a-hole I meet?”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Anyway, we were running pot. Not dealing.”

“Great, now you can run for president.”

Jo reached for the bottle on the table and poured herself a Jamison. She took a long drink and then sat back in the bed. "You in the mood for a story?"

"I don't know," Fisher said. "Maybe."

"You're right, the Keys are crawling with dealers. Of course you're right. And when I got behind on some debts all I had to do was ask around. A waitress I was working with told me I could make five thousand in a week if my driver's license was in order. She knew people making runs up the east coast out of a vegetarian take-out shack on the Sugarloaf Keys.”

"They paired you up boy-girl pretending to be, you know, a married couple.”

“Pretending?”

“Yeah, that was the cover. They wanted clean cut types, All- American, no hippies or skanks. They paired me up with Jack.”

“Mr. Golf,” Fisher laughed.

“Hey, he looked perfect, sports tan, knit shirt, khaki pants... You're right. 'Mr. Golf'," she said protectively. "We put his clubs with the country club logo in the back seat. No one would look twice at us, the last people in the world you'd pull over for running pot. Perfect cover. So off we went, like happy newlyweds driving up the coast."

“Pretending to be married.”

“That's what I said. Separate beds where ever we stopped. He never laid a glove on me.”

“O.K., O.K., he was a prince.”

“We did half-a-dozen runs together, not a hitch. Then one run we nearly got popped.”

“What happened?”

“We got a flat. The spare was in the trunk. But the deal was we were never given the trunk key. They didn't want you to get any big ideas of going into business for yourself. So when we pulled off the road there was nothing to do except for Jack to hitch a ride to get a tire. I stayed with the car. Listening to the radio, counting to a hundred a hundred times, praying to God he'd get back soon." Jo stared into the glass of whiskey. "Then this patrol car pulls over.”

“Jesus”

“Yeah. Cop gets out. Big dick walk, mirrored glasses, the whole show."

Cop goes, 'what seems to be the problem, ma'am?' I told him we had a flat and no spare and how my husband went to get a new tire. But I could tell he didn't believe me. He keeps sniffing around like a hound, walks back to his car like he going to, I don't know, call it in, call for assistance. Ai-yi-yi! It was all I could do not to roll down the window and puke.”

“So what happened?”

“What happened was thank fucking God Jack shows up in a tow-truck with a new tire. We get it changed and get the hell out of Dodge. But the cop decides to tail us, waiting for us to give him one little excuse. And he rides our butt for, I don't know, ten miles, seemed like a hundred, and I want to scream, I swear to God. But, I didn't. And I feel Jack's watching me, wondering if I'm going to break."

"But I don't. Mile after mile I keep my eye on the road and speed limit on the nose. Finally, thank fucking God, the cop turned off. We didn't say a word. We drove an hour in silence, maybe more, until Jack spoke. He said 'You are a keeper'. I pulled into the first motel we saw and we made love like real newlyweds all night long. Next day we found a justice of the peace and made it legal.”

“Ought to be a children's book.”

“The thing was...” Jo eyes gleamed, and she shook her long hair like a colt shaking its mane. “I loved it. I loved the risk. God, so much better than waiting tables. Loved it. So we kept doing runs."

"I'd still be doing it, I swear to God. But this friend we were working with, she got busted, and Jack said it was time to get out. He said 'people who get caught want to get caught.' ”

“Man is a poet.”

“I don't know. I thought he might be right. I mean we had made all this cash, and it was just sitting there. So Jack had this idea about how we should buy a restaurant, be our own bosses for once in our lives. Jack thought with all my restaurant experience, right? Run my own shop, call the shots, blah, blah, blah. Partners. So we looked around and bought Edgar's."

"Partners." She lowered her head and frowned, the gleam gone from her eyes. "What a bill of goods that turned out to be."

“Why don't you divorce him?”

“I can't.”

“Why not?”

“I signed this stupid agreement, you know, when we started. If I divorce him, he gets the restaurant.”

“What?”

“I know. I know.”

“You know what you should do? You should rip him the hell off.”

“What do you think I've been doing?”

“What? From the restaurant? How much you get?”

“Nothing.”

“But I thought you said...”

“I know, I know. I was doing all right. Taking four, five hundred out a week, betting it at the track, building up a nest egg. Figuring I'd get far enough ahead and leave." She bunched and un-bunched the blanket in her hand. "But then I hit a bad streak, a horrendous streak. In two weeks I lost over twenty-thousand dollars of Edgar's receipts.”

“Twenty-thousand! Shit. What did Mr. Golf say?”

“Nothing. He never knew.”

“How could he not know. You said you lost twenty-thousand.”

She smoothed the blanket with the palm of her hand. A smile crept across her face. “I faked a break-in.”

“What?”

“I faked, you know, made it look like someone broke into the restaurant. On a Sunday night, when all the cash I'd lost was suppose to be in the safe... I made sure I had an alibi and had someone come in and trash the place.

"I came in Monday morning acted all like 'Oh my God! What happened!' Reported it to the cops.”

“What did Jack say?”

“What could he say? I mean he was pissed. He was really pissed. But it happens. Places get robbed. We had insurance. Covered most of it.”

“What a brilliant idea," Fisher laughed. "Rob yourself. Smart, smart cookie.”

“I don't know. Desperate.”

Hours later Fisher jacked up in bed with such force he woke Jo.

“Fish! What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“What time is it?”

“Uh, four-thirty.”

“Go to sleep, Fish.”

“Yeah.” But he couldn't. He was trying to remember, what was it about the play she made?

“Jo?”

“I'm sleeping.”

“What if...” it was almost there, keep talking and it would come. The other way. Something about...

“If what?”

“We did it the other way around.”

“Did what?”

“Say we sit on a horse. Something we really see coming. Could even be low odds, doesn't matter.”

“Fish, what are you talking about?”

“I'm saying we take the twenty-grand out all at one time and make one bet on one horse. Horse wins, we make seventy-eighty grand minimum. Then, you put the stake back in the safe, and we keep the winnings. Nobody knows a thing.”

Jo sat up, wiped the sleep from her eyes. “You're saying bet it all?”

“Yeah. One big bet.”

“Put aside the twenty and...”

“Put it on a sure thing.”

“Sure thing?”

“We do our homework.”

“And if the sure thing loses?”

“Then you fake another break-in.”

“Yeah, but after the last time Jack beefed up security. Alarms all over the place. We got a real safe.”

“Yeah. Yeah. But like you said.... places get robbed.”

With Willis gone, the saga of the Salmanowitz swastikas returned to Fisher. The day the Board of Education re-instated Mickey, Fisher arranged to meet with the the chastened high school senior outside of the Pilgrim's locker room. Without his shoulder pads and helmet, Salmanowitz seemed smaller, his brown eyes docile as a puppy. During the three game suspension his hair had grown back covering the offending tattoos.

"First of all, why did you tattoo the markings in your head?" Fisher asked.

“I don't know,” Salmanowitz mumbled and kicked at the cleat scarred floor.

“Must have been some reason.”

“It was... for a girl.”

“For a girl!”

“Yeah, she was telling me about the markings, the crosses. She said they were power cross-marks. That they were Native American. A thousand years ago. Not German or anything. .”

“The girl...” asked Fisher. “She's your girlfriend?”

Salmanowitz looked embarrassed. “No.. I thought if I did it...”

“If you did it, then what?” Two boys walked passed and entered the locker room.

“I gotta go.” Salmanowitz looked up at Fisher. “I gotta go.”

“You're saying you did it for this girl?”

Salmanowitz looked up at Fisher. “I gotta go.”

Fisher sat as his desk thinking about the interview with Salmanowitz. How was he going to write this? He typed the lead on his monitor and stared at it. “Recently reinstated Pilgrim star player Mickey Salmanowitz confessed that he tattooed swastikas in his shaved scalp to impress a girl.” It looked like something for the tabloids. He erased the copy and started again. He was so busy re-working the story, he never looked out the window to see the lone cyclist weaving his way through traffic towards the former funeral home.

By the time Fisher looked up from his monitor and saw Bucky talking to Claire, it was too late. Bucky? Why would Bucky be talking to Claire? Claire's face went baboon-ass red. She shoved Willis's vacated chair out of her way and descended on Fisher like the God of Wrath.

“How could you?”

“How could I what?”

“High holy fuck, Fish! Getting a high school kid to do your leg work?”

“Is that what he said? Come on. You gonna believe some kid?”

“Do you want me to hit you? I'll kick your ass down the stairs.”

She would, too. She was pissed as hell at Fisher, but she was even angrier at herself. All the signs were there, the call from track security, the mid-day disappearing act, the shoddy writing, how blind could she be?

“How many times, Fish?” She stomped her foot so hard on the floor that the copy boy came up to see what was the matter. “How many times?”

“Maybe a couple of assignments.”

“More than a couple,” said Bucky, and Fisher wondered why you could never find an ax when you needed one.

“God damn you, Fish!”

“Claire...”

“Pay him, Fish. Pay him.” Fisher took a roll of cash from his pocket. He couldn't remember how much he owed, but Bucky was Johnny-on-the-spot.

“It's for the three cross country meets and the soccer game and the...” Fisher stuck a bill in Bucky's hand. “Wow!”

“That's O.K.,” said Fisher.

“Oh, on Thursday? I can't cover the meet cause...”

“That's O.K., Bucky.”

Confused, the boy lowered his head, not sure what he should do, but Claire patted him on the shoulder and he left staring at the face of Benjamin Franklin on the bill in his hand. Fisher wanted to follow him out, but Claire was not finished.

“What the hell were you doing instead of your job, Fish? Going to the track? High holy fuck! That's the same shit that got you fired in Florida. Same lame shit you pulled practically made you unemployable. A high school kid? Un-fucking believable. After I go and stick my neck out for you? Do you even know? Do you have any idea what I had to go through to get them to even think about, forget about hiring, to even think about hiring you? It's my ass too, Fish. Did you ever for one second think of that?”

“Claire...”

“Don't even start. I...Jesus. Stopped going to your meetings, too, I'll bet. Right? Right?”

“They're a crock of shit.”

“What? The meetings? Or you? Because from where I'm standing the crock of shit is you.”

“I'm not a...”

“Compulsive gambler? High holy fuck you're not. Ought to have your picture in the dictionary.”

“If it makes you happy, stick on a label.”

“Makes me happy? What is wrong with you? Makes me happy? Come on, man. What is wrong with you?”

“All right. Yeah, I put some money down. Hell yeah. I'm a gambler, Claire. You're damn straight. The best deal in my life is at the track. The odds are up there clear as day. Nobody picks up a phone in some back fucking room says this or that about you. You put your money down, and you are in. Gives you the view of the participant for a change, not some, some jerk-off standing on the sideline like a eunuch in the whorehouse."

“Then maybe you should get out,” Claire said.

“You firing me? You firing me, Claire?”

“Even if I wanted to keep you on, they would never...”

“Hey. Whatever.” Fisher found a box on the floor and began clearing out his desk. It didn't take long. He'd had a lot of practice.

“I can see what I can do. Make some calls.”

“Don't do me any favors, Claire. All right?”

“Favors? Jesus, Fish. Man, take a look at your life. Your living like a refugee. Thirty-two-years-old and you don't have shit.”

Chapter 5

2009-09-25T08:26:00.001-07:00

Their routine was simple: be at Windward early with half-a-dozen races scouted from the morning lines, exchange information, and whittle their picks down to the best three. They'd scout the paddock before every race, making sure their choice wasn't showing any signs of stress, watch the trainers talking to the jocks and watch the bets coming in on the board. If something looked funny, they'd pass. If not, they'd pull the trigger and place the bet.

If they were betting one of the late races, Jo left the track early in order to get back to Edgar's, meeting up with Fisher after closing. When she walked through the door and saw their winnings in stacks of cash on the bed she'd strip naked and dive in.

They continued to make love by candle light even though the electricity had been turned back on in the apartment. Neither wanted to jinx the streak. Seven trips to the track, seven big days of winning. On the seventh night, as they lay naked in bed surrounded by cash, Jo traced the triangles of hair on Fisher's chest.

"Have you ever been married?" Jo asked.

"Married! Me?"

"Yeah."

“No."

"Why not?"

"I never saw the percentage in it.”

“Why, you come from a broken home?”

"Yeah, and that's why I suck my thumb and kick frogs."

"If you don't want to answer..."

"No. It's just the whole, I don't know, marriage, kids, the dog, the house, falling asleep face down in the plum pudding... somehow I missed that train,” he said. “That everyday normal train. Somehow it pulled out without me.”

“Umm.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“I don't know. You got married.”

"Yeah," said Jo. "I did." She took a drink of from her glass. "Not exactly your picket fence, plum pudding kinda deal either." She finished the whiskey and shook her head.

"What?", said Fisher.

"The every day normal train." She slid back the covers and lowered herself between his thighs. "I guess I missed that train too.”

Fisher drove his car towards the shore. After making good on the delinquent payments and interest, it was nice to have his own wheels back. He watched the gulls heading bay ward. Ride the streak, yeah, ride the streak; the bettor's credo. He could feel the wind from behind, he felt if he stretched out his arms he would be carried into the sky, he could glide in the jet-stream circling high above the every day below and never come down. A trailing car honked bringing Fisher smack down to earth. He waved the car by and watch it pass. Bless you sinner, you are forgiven. He was in no hurry. None at all. He made the turn for Edgar's, pulled into the lot and parked between a black Lexus and a beer truck. He strolled into the restaurant like he owned the place.

Inside Edgar's, Fisher could hear Cajun music pounding from somewhere. Steam streamed from behind the kitchen door, waitresses were setting up tables for lunch, the liquor delivery man was stacking cases of beer on top of the bar. When Fisher inquired if the owner was in, the man pointed the way downstairs.

Fisher had yet to be below the main floor. He walked down a steep narrow stairs into shadows. He could hear the music getting louder. He reached the bottom step and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit space. Towards the back Fisher could see a shirtless man in a bandanna lifting bags of flour off a hand truck. The music came from a boom-box perched on a shelf above.

The basement was huge. Taking in the end to end rows of boxes and bottles and sacks of dried goods, Fisher whistled. The shirtless man turned around.

“Help you?”

"I'm looking for Jo Landy."

“She's not here,” the man said gruffly.

“Upstairs the guy said...”

“He's wrong. Anything I can help you with?” the man challenged, taking off his work gloves.

Yeah, thought Fisher, you can help me kick your ass. But his hand was still hurting from taking down the ton of fun at Winward, and this was Jo's joint. He wasn't going to cause any trouble.

“No. It's uh... personal.”

“Personal?” A knowing grin split the man's face, and Fisher felt his stomach flip over as he realized the worker's tan line corresponded more to an Izod golf shirt than a t-shirt. “Your name?”

“David Fisher.”

“All right, Mr. Fisher. I'll let my wife know you dropped by.”

“You're Jack Landy?”

“You got it.”

“Then you... yes,” Fisher started skating as fast as he could. “Yes, you can help... I mean since it has to do with you.”

“With me?”

“I'm with the Dispatch.”

“What's that?”

“Newspaper.”

“Never heard of it,” Landy said dismissively.

“It's the county local.”

“Right. The skinny little one.” Landy shook his head and went back to work wondering why he was wasting even one more second on this worthless gnat. “Look, if this is about advertising for the restaurant, I'm really not..."

“No, I'm a sportswriter. I wrote the story about the three holes-in-one on the Black Course."

Landy stopped. Ah, vanity, Fisher thought, like to see your name in the paper.

“I wasn't able to reach you,” Fisher pushed on. “You had, uh, gone to Florida, so I had to... your wife filled in what facts she could.”

“Did she?” chuckled Landy.

“We ran it. I don't know if you saw it?”

“No, I'm sorry. I stick to the major newspapers.”

“They mention you much?” Fisher shot back.

Landy yawned. “Look. What can I do for you?”

Fisher had seen Landy's stripe before, guys who thought their shit didn't stink, big splashes in small ponds who could never cut it once the crawled out of their tide pools. At another time in another place, Fisher would've told Landy to go fuck himself, but right now he had blundered in and put Jo in jeopardy. He needed to play to Landy's ego.

“I was planning to do a follow-up. A longer piece, a profile. But if now isn't a good time...”

But the fish took the bait. “In the Dispatch? Huh. Well I guess somebody reads it. Ask away partner.”

Fisher pulled out his notepad and followed Landy around the storeroom lobbing softball questions: how many other hole-in-ones had Landy shot? Four. Which was his longest? A two-hundred-and-twenty yard three iron at Blue Hills in the semi-finals of the qualifier for the Nassau Open.

Landy stopped to towel the sweat off his torso. There was nothing soft about him, he was tall and broad-shouldered with a slim waist, his features were sharp. He easily lifted the heavy sacks from the hand truck to the shelves.

When the truck was empty, he wheeled it up to the walk-in freezer, swung open the door and entered without bothering to put on his shirt. Fisher hesitated for a moment outside the freezer, but when Landy waved him in, warning him to watch his head, Fisher ducked under the low-hanging beam at the door, and entered.

Inside, Landy was filling the hand truck with open crates of dry ice. He asked Fisher if he knew anything about the restaurant business.

“No, other than, you know, I like to eat,” Fisher replied.

“It's one big sieve,” said Landy, while he loaded huge cuts of swordfish, mahi-mahi and tuna onto the ice. “Easiest business in the world to get ripped off in. Things come in, things disappear. Mysterious Bermuda Triangles where pounds of seafood vanish."

It was freezing in the walk-in.

Landy glanced at Fisher trembling.

“This too cold for you?” he asked, clearly testing Fisher.

“I'm all right.” Fisher could not longer feel his feet, but he wasn't going to show it. “You came in second in the Amateur last year.”

“Yeah.” Landy chuckled again. The whole world was too damn funny. “I could've won the thing, easy. But then I'd have to give away too many strokes when I'm playing for something more than trophies.” He winked at Fisher. “That's the truth. Don't print it, but that's the truth.”

A-a-a-asshole, thought Fisher, so cold he was stuttering in his mind.

“You're turning a little blue there, partner,” offered Landy. But Fisher shook his head. He'd freeze to death before giving in an inch to the prick. Landy loaded one more slab of fish on the ice, and stepped out of the freezer. In Fisher's haste to exit, he forgot to duck.

His knees buckled and he dropped into cold darkness.

Even before he felt the throbbing pain, or the ice water rolling down his face, Fisher saw a cold eye staring at him, a single black passionless eye.

The small basement office gradually came into focus. The room was crowded with filing cabinets, boxes of bar glasses and sugar dispensers. As the black desk, calculator and ledgers cleared in his view, Fisher realized he was sitting in a swivel chair with a pack of ice on his head. The cold dead eye staring at him belonged to a stuffed marlin hanging from the sheet rock wall. He could hear a voice asking him if he was all right."

“I'm fine,” said Fisher, but when he attempted to stand, the pain knocked him back into the chair as if he'd been punched.

“Easy there, sport,” Landy said. “Take your time.”

Fisher readjusted the pack on his head and wiped the dripping water off his face. “What happened?”

“You banged your coconut into the beam of the walk-in. I told you to duck.”

“Was I out?”

“Nah. You took the mandatory eight, and we dragged you in here.”

“We?”

“Yeah, my wife came down to see what was going on. Thought we might be fighting.” Fisher turned his head slightly and saw Jo standing in front of a floor safe. “Joanna, this is Dave...”

“Fisher.”

“Yes,” said Jo. “We've met.”

“Ah.” Landy smiled and closed his eyes like a sunning lizard. “Old friends.”

“What was he doing in the walk-in?” asked Jo.

“He says he's writing an article about me for the local paper. About my golf. I figured, what the hell, long as I could get some work done. Place looks like shit.”

“Don't even start,” said Jo.

Fisher truly believed it was time for him to leave. He made a second attempt to get out of the chair by holding on to the desk for support.

“How's that head coming?” said Landy.

“Fine. I'm fine.”

“Don't want your little paper to sue me.”

“Would you knock off the 'little' paper business? We're the largest local on the Island.”

“I'm sure you are,” Landy chuckled.

Fisher counted silently to ten. He was a wounded bull and Landy was waving red. If only the room would stop spinning.

Jo bent to pick up one of the ledgers but Landy stopped her with his hand. “Did you speak to Sarah?”

“No,” said Jo.

“Money is going somewhere.”

“Sarah is fine.”

“How the hell do you know if you don't put her on the wheel? Stop bucking me and just put he fear of God in her for Christ's sake! Person wasn't born who wouldn't fuck you if you give them half a chance..." Landy suddenly turned and stared at Fisher with malice. "Right Mr. Fishman?"

Fisher remained poker-faced, giving away nothing as he slipped his hand into a box of sugar dispensers. But the intercom buzzed and the homicidal look faded from Landy's eyes.

He bent across Fisher and pushed the button. “Yeah?”

“It's Mr. Sante for you, Jack,” Sarah said over the intercom.

“Look, I've got to take this. You've got all you need, right?” He clapped his hands together. “It's been great. I'll try to read it this time.”

Fisher didn't realize he still had the sugar dispenser in his hand until he was half way across the parking lot. He spun on his heels and with all his might launched the glass container against the restsaurant's side.

Chapter 4

2009-09-16T10:53:00.000-07:00

When Claire Richardson convinced her superiors to hire Fisher, she knew that he would be a project, but she hoped with supervision and encouragement he could be an asset instead of an asshole. She was reminding herself of this as she copy-edited his story on her computer. “Something there is that doesn't love a cross country runner. He looks like Ichabod Crane and never gets to screw a cheerleader.”

“Jesus, Fish,” Claire groaned. Fisher sat on her desk pretending to be surprised.

“I was going for a Robert Frost kind of thing.”

Claire didn't even want to look at him. She knew when she hired him, they were going to sleep together. She had promised herself that it wasn't going to happen, that it went against all protocol, professional, ethical or otherwise, and if she did, she would abandoned all semblance of a chance to dictate from the high ground. But she slept with him anyway. She couldn't help herself. Old habits died hard. “Habit”. Yeah. Good name for it.

She already had one bad marriage behind her and had sworn to herself to wise up with her personal life. But whatever Fisher had, it brought the stupid out in her. The best she could do was to make a separate peace with herself; she would see him after hours as long as they kept it discrete, and as long as Fisher stayed in line while he worked. But now this new bit of disquieting news from Windward. Of all times to fall off the wagon, right when Willis had accepted an offer from the Chicago Tribune and her department was going to be short handed. She needed Fisher to step up right now.

“The Chicago Tribune! He's a kid.”

“He's a good writer, Fish,” Claire said.

“I can write his ass into the ground. The Chicago Tribune?”

What had Willis done to skip sixteen steps and go directly to a major? More proof that the wheel was fixed, that meritocracy was a myth.

“Write his ass into the ground,” he repeated.

“So do it. Fix this Robert Frost garbage to start.”

“Fine.” Motivated for the moment, Fisher headed for his desk.

“Hold on.” Now came the subject neither of them ever wanted to talk about. “I got a call from Security at Windward Race Track.” She could see the quills on Fisher's back rise.

“Yeah?”

“Something about a man being beat up out there after the races? They questioned you about it?”

“Yeah. But it was nothing.”

Claire hoped so. She was well-acquainted with Fisher's hair- trigger temper, but his anger always seemed to be aimed at authority, at some unearned hierarchy of people and rules that tied him to the whipping post; she never associated it with physical violence.

“Why were they...?”

“Checking up? To see if you worked here,” she said.

“What'd you say?”

“That you did. What do you think?”

“It's bullshit. I had a witness and everything.”

That was the other thing; he'd been there with a woman. “Jack Landy's wife?”

“Yeah. No big deal. She was at the track.”

“I didn't know you knew her,” Claire said trying to disguise the hurt.

“I don't. At Landy's restaurant one time. When I was working on the, you know, the story. She goes to the track. No big deal.”

If it was such a “no big deal” Claire thought, why did he say it twice?

Fisher would've given anything to fast forward past where he knew the next line of questioning was headed.

“I thought you weren't going to the track, Fish.”

“Now and then, Claire. You know. Getting my stories in, right?”

“You going to your...”

“Twice, every week,” he said before she could even finish saying “meetings”.

“You know the agreement.”

Yeah he knew. He knew, he knew, he knew. How could he not? Every time he walked across the first floor past the editor-in-chief's office he could feel derision raining down on him. He thought of the soccer player pressing his bare-ass against the back of the bus at him. To hell with them all. “I go twice every week. Check it out. Call my sponsor.”

“I believe you.” And she did. She was his sole supporter at the Dispatch and how did he repay her besides the occasional ride on the carnal carnival? She watched him shuffling his feet, something wild fighting to get out of its cage. “Fix the story,” she said.

Fuming, Fisher stormed back to his desk. What the hell was he doing here? Writing about third rate harriers while Willis was on his way to Chicago? God damn it, Fisher had written for the majors. So what he'd thrown it away betting on horses. That was their take on it. One man's vice was another's life. Dostoevsky was a degenerate gambler and he could write the ass off of any other writer in the world, write their asses into the ground. And to have to stand there and take the third degree from Claire? He was still seething when his phone rang. He picked it up on the third ring.

“Sports.”

“Hello”, said the voice on the other end causing Fisher heart to jump. “It's Jo Landy.”

“Hi.”

“I was thinking about that rain check.” She cut right to it, no preamble about the weather. “It's slow as hell in here and I'm climbing the walls. I was thinking about cutting out for the harness races.”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight's not good?”

That wasn't it. Fisher was buying time. The call had side-swiped him. He'd thought about calling her ever since the day at Windward. He spent every night thinking about how her body felt sliding down against him, how she brushed her thigh between his legs. Tonight was fine, great, terrific. “No, tonight. Sure.”

“Good. I'll be at the clubhouse restaurant. Table three.”

There were two harness race tracks in the county: Saddle Ridge and Long Neck. Saddle Ridge was the older of the pair and, in its day after World War Two, it drew twenty-five to thirty thousand people a night. In the sixties and early seventies it had been the sight of outdoor rock concerts until a riot and fire-bombing burned down half the grandstand. The track was sold and eventually rebuilt. But, by that time, most of the drivers and trainers had switched to Long Neck, a one-time speedway near Cook's Amusement Park. Fisher assumed Jo meant Long Neck. The purses were too small at Saddle Ridge, and Long Neck was closer to the bay if she needed to get back to the restaurant. He couldn't borrow Claire's car, she'd ask way too many questions. This left Willis, and meant having to eat shit straight-faced and congratulate him about Chicago. Well, he wasn't going to hitch out to Long Neck.

Fisher gunned Willis's Taurus down Western Highway. He could see the flashing lights from the amusement park cutting through the dark. Long Neck was across the highway and down an ersatz esplanade from the amusement park. Fisher showed his pass at the gate and parked in the section reserved for the Press.

He followed the Maitre d' down the tiered levels of the clubhouse restaurant.

It was a lovely fall night and most of the tables were full. Table three was in prime position looking straight down through the glass partition to the finish line. Fisher saw Jo speaking to a woman whose back was turned away. Jo was dressed, if not to kill, than at least to maim, in a scoop front number that invited all but the clergy to examine the better part of her breasts. When she saw Fisher approaching, Jo looked up from her conversation, causing the second woman to turn around. Fisher recognized Edgar's bartender, but Jo made the formal introductions.

“David Fisher, this is Sarah Dupre.”

Sarah sprung to her feet offering her hand. “Hello, David. How they running for you?” She was wearing a tight jersey with no bra. Fisher thought for a moment he'd walked into a Russ Meyer movie.

“Uh, I don't know. Actually, I just got here.”

“Actually, it's only an expression,” she said her eyes flashing with mischief. “I would've said 'how they trotting for you' if I was precision driven. How-are-they-trotting-for-you, David?” she said in a robotic monotone.

“Uh...”

“Sarah was just leaving,” said Jo.

“Right. Don't want to be Miss Buzzkill. Have fun,” Sarah said, waving as she skipped up the stairs.

Months later, when Fisher was back-tracking his fall, he would revisit this meeting with Sarah.

But in the moment, he saw only Jo. “You look great,” Fisher said.

“I do? Thanks. This is my lucky dress.”

“I can see why,” Fisher said and Jo laughed.

Everything about her, her face, her hair, the way she smelled was making Fisher dizzy. When the waiter arrived Fisher ordered a double Jack and coke. Jo was drinking Irish Whiskey.

“So, you've got it pretty good.”

“How do you mean?”

“Your job. Getting paid to come here and Windward to cover the races.”

“Yeah, but I don't.”

Jo turned her head, slightly, seeing if he was joking. “Oh, but I thought...”

Fisher knew he could lie to her, make himself look like a big timer, but tonight he didn't feel like filling the air with bullshit. “It's out of my jurisdiction.”

“I see.”

Well if she didn't, if she was expecting to get free passes to the Breeder's Cup, she was climbing on the wrong pony.

“I used to cover the horses,” he said. “But not here. Florida. Gulfstream, Hialeah...”

“Beautiful tracks.”

“You've been!”

“Oh. Yeah. Drove up all the time from Key West.”

The waiter arrived with the drinks. The food was never very good at Long Neck but the drinks were strong. Fisher took a gulp and felt his legs back under him.
“Key West, huh?”

“You been?”

“Once. To see Hemingway's house.”

A cliché, he knew; the place was crawling with wannabe writers who had made the pilgrimage down to Papa's. All of them, just like Fisher, wandering the grounds, counting Papa's cats, staring out to sea, making never to be fulfilled promises to write something of worth. Hell, even a cynic was allowed to dream.

“So, what were you doing down there?”

“I was, you know, scrambling around,” she said. “Waitressing, bartending.”

“And Mr. Golf? Was he down there?”

“Yeah, he was there knocking around.”

“Dealing drugs?” asked Fisher.

Jo's face flushed. "Why did you say that"

“I don't know. Isn't that what everyone does there does?”

“Not everyone.”

“No offense. Kind of...kind of vibe I got down there.”

It was true, the place was a pot emporium. Guys from the Miami paper were making runs twice a month.

“So why did you leave Florida?” Jo asked.

Why indeed. He was happy as a clam. On his way to being editor if he hadn't been railroaded.

“I got fired.”

“Why? You punch out someone in a parking lot?”

“Where did that come from? Cause of what that shit in a suit said at the track?”

“No.” She took her time. “Because I saw you do it.”

“Saw me what?”

“Beat that man up. Savulage. The beer can, kick to the ribs. I saw the whole thing”

Fisher flinched. He couldn't disguise his surprise. He tried to buy some time.

“I don't know what you're talking about.” But it was no use. He could tell by her eyes. Damn. Now what? “You say anything to anyone?”

“Did I say anything to that cop? It was none of my business.”

Fisher felt sweat trickling down the back of his shirt. He was considering to get up and go make a run for it. On the track below, the gate was pulling away from the field of trotters in the feature.

“And they're off,” called the track announcer.

“We've got number five, Perdido,” said Jo.

“We do?” She pushed the program towards him with a red circle around the horse's name. “Perdido,” thought Fisher trying to remember from high-school Spanish if it meant “lust”, or "lost".

“I made the bet before you got here. I put down some money for you. Don't worry. You can pay me back.” She reached her hand out for Fisher. Before he realized it he had put his in hers.

Her grip was warm and tight. She turned to watch the race while she slowly and firmly squeezed his hand. “C'mon baby,” she said. “C'mon.”

Fisher lit the third candle while wishing he had paid his electric bill after all. The place was sad and dark, not even any music to listen to, but Jo didn't seem to mind as she leaned against the blank wall watching him. “It's like a cathedral,” she said.

She was drinking the last of the champagne they bought on the way from the track. Mums, the best they could find in the piss smelling liquor mart on Broadway. But she tilted the juice glass back as far as it would go, savoring the last drop like it was Dom Perignon. Then she smiled. Fisher reached for her, running his fingers through her hair. It was thick and soft, so soft he couldn't stop.

“I wanted to do this since I first saw you.”

“Yeah?”

“A room full of all those losers and then you walked in.”

“And what did you think?”

Fisher smiled thinking of her breasts moving beneath her shirt when she sat. He ran his finger down her shoulder, back in junior-high behind the back stop.

“Trust me?” Fisher asked.

Jo's lips parted slightly which he took for a “yes” as he lowered his hand to her breast. It was firm and full, the size of his palm, and he squeezed. He squeezed it again, and again. She arched her head back and moaned, moving her hand between his legs. He moved his other hand under her dress and inside her thighs. She was pantiless and he slid two fingers inside her. She opened her legs so he could push deep and deeper.

He carried her backwards and they fell onto the bed. She was biting his lip as he pulled the top of her dress freeing her breasts.

When she was completely naked, Fisher stopped for a moment to look at her. “You are magnificent.”

“Fuck me,” she whispered. She wrapped her legs around so tightly that if he had been a grape she would have made wine.

A note from the author

2009-09-12T08:09:00.000-07:00

[Please use the links in the Table of Contents to the right to access the story]

Unlike David Fisher, I am going to tell you a thing.

The dramatic version of Shadow Bay was performed six times in the spring of 1992 at the West Bank Theater Bar in New York City. At that time the play had no ending. I fully planned to figure out the conclusion in the play's next production. But the play has never been performed since.

Instead it was optioned by Hollywood and spent the next eight years in various stages of development but never made it to the screen. I tried several different endings to the story but none of them truly satisfied me.

The play, the screenplay, Shadow Bay sat dormant from 2000 until early this year when I decide to write the story as a crime novel. In the prose form I finally found a through line to the ending. But the novel was on the short side (45,000 words) and lacked a sense of place. It needed something.

I was re-reading Brian Selznick's amazing illustrated novel "The Invention of Hugo Cabret" with my two boys when it occurred to me that the prose version of Shadow Bay needed an illustrator. I asked around a bit- looking for help in finding someone who had worked on graphic-type novels, but I was told most graphic novelists do their own illustrations.

In the late spring of this year I was at a party held in the studio of my friend Bill Ayton. I was already an admirer of Bill's acclaimed series of political paintings but less familiar with some of his drawings. On the wall of his studio was a picture of a haunted hooded face on a beach. I realized that was exactly the look Shadow Bay required. I asked Bill if he would be interested in working with me on Shadow Bay. I was thrilled when he agreed.

We started working with drawings of the main characters- to find what their faces looked like. More importantly Bill came up with a view of the world the characters were going to inhabit. Rosehill took on the look of a slightly foreign arid place. It reminded me of the setting of Camus's "The Stranger" a novel influenced by James M. Cain's "The Postman Always Rings Twice" a book that had inspired me to write Shadow Bay in the first place. Slowly the process developed, trying to fit the drawings with the text. When we finished the first chapter we decided to put up this blogspot. The site is completely Bill's design [note from Bill -- this is mostly a Blogger template with minor changes by me.]

Our hope is as we add chapters and the plot thickens we will draw you into the world we have created. Please let us know what you think, and if you like what you read and see, please pass the word.

Donald.

Chapter 3

2009-08-27T07:36:00.001-07:00

He was there looking for her.

Yes, it was his in his agreement with the Dispatch that he show up at meetings twice a week, but this was the first time in ten months that Fisher went to this dungeon with a purpose. All morning he had fretted about what he should wear. He changed three times, finally settling on a dark blue knit shirt that Claire had once complimented him on. Since he had no lights working in his apartment, he checked himself out in the cracked mirror at the Shell station rest room across the street from the church. Not too bad, eh?

The meeting was in progress when he arrived. The basement was almost full. Sundays were like that in football season. The temptation was enormous with all the betting-pools at jobs, clubs, bars, schools. “What's the spread? You got the lines? Dallas getting three? That's a steal right?” Not Fisher's choice of poison. He looked around but couldn't find Jo. He hoped he hadn't missed her. Maybe she'd come late. Fisher spotted his sponsor, Nick Lugo in the front row. Nick gave Fisher an affirmative nod. Nick, who ran a chop-shop on Western Highway, was a pretty easy-going sponsor. He didn't constantly bust Fisher's balls about where he was and what he did as long as he showed up at the meetings.

Jack M., a Trusted Servant, was asking the twenty questions to a stocky man in a Jets sweat shirt.

“Did you ever lose time from work due to gambling?”

“Yes.”

“Has gambling ever made your home life unhappy?”

“Yes.”

The door opened and Fisher craned his neck catching a flash of hair... but no. Just a kid with a Ramones' cut.

“Did gambling ever affect your reputation?”

“My reputation?”

As the leaders charged down the homestretch, Fisher's horse was already out of it. Up until then, he had a pretty good day going. He hit the third and fourth races, won the exacta on the sixth, and was momentarily up seven-hundred dollars.

But in the feature he bet heavily on the eight horse, a dubious choice, one he regretted the moment the gates opened and his choice went sideways as if it had to say “hi” to one of the railbirds. By the time the horse straightened out it was dead last and fading.

“And it's Red Rogue,” the track announcer called, “Red Rogue. Red Rogue.” Fisher watched through his binoculars as the stallion lengthened his lead. He had never even considered the horse. “Red Rogue going away, followed by Night Life and You Can't Do That.”

Fisher walked slowly through the crowd. A better man once told him to walk the same after victories and defeats. Yeah, good luck with that. Losses always did some damage. Particularly one as grievously bad as this one. He had dreams about races like that; bad dreams with horses he'd bet on losing a leg coming down the stretch, or yawning pits opening in the track swallowing horses whole. A fellow loser was screaming down at the female jockey who finished fourth. “What's the matter Julie? You pregnant?” Fisher needed a drink.

Fisher found an open spot at the bar, ordered a beer and caught a whiff of fresh flowers. There she was, sitting across from him studying the handicap sheets, her long beautiful hair falling down across her face. She sensed his gaze and looked up.

“Hello,” Fisher said.

“Hello.”

“You have Red Rogue last race?”

“No. He was the seven horse. I never bet seven.”

Fisher's heart sank. Oh, please, no, he thought, she's not some nut job who bets colors and names of favorite pets.

“Why not?”

“Cause everyone plays it. Lucky seven. Like it was that easy.”

“And it's not.”

Now Jo looked at him, as if challenged. “Who did you have that race?” she asked.

“Con Carne.”

“He came in last.”

“Oh did he come in?” he said. “It was getting dark. Got tired of waiting.”

When she laughed, his heart bounced. All now was forgiven. She could bet blindfolded for all he cared.

“How'd your story go?”

“Which one was that?”

“My husband. About the...”

“Hole-in-one frenzy? I never reached him. I was under deadline, so I made some things up.”

“Like what?”

“Said he was a drought specialist and learned to play using a divining rod.”

“Anyone ever laugh at this stuff?”

“Classical guitarists and children with limps.”

“Someone should shoot you and put you out of your misery.”

Let it be you, thought Fisher. Any place, any time. But she was right, time to put Dr. Funny Pants back in the barn for now. “So where is Mr. Golf, anyway? Scouting out the next race?”

“He's still in Florida,” she said.

“Lucky man.”

She looked at him as if to ask which man was he referring to. “Anyway, he hates the track. He says it's for people who are looking to lose.”

“Looking to lose,” Fisher snorted. “Stuff drives me crazy. Like life's not tough enough without someone sticking a label on you.” Jo's mouth parted slightly and her eyes told him “amen, brother.” Fisher paused a moment. He didn't want to her to think he was a scold.

“I was, uh, at the meeting today," he said. "I didn't see you there.”

“I'm a bad girl.”

“Usual tale of woe. 'Mr. Porky is addicted to slot machines, Sally Strudel sold her baby to play bingo.' Sponsors breathing down your neck wanting you to own up for your transgressions. O.K. We're all weak. Fine, everything is clear now, behavior is explainable, everybody can sleep through the night.”

“There's one question they never ask,” she said swishing the remains of ice in her drink.

“What's that?”

She looked up at him, her green eyes taking aim. “How come the kick you get here isn't out there?”

He had felt it from the moment she looked back at him in the church basement saying without saying “What the hell are we doing here?” They were the same, they had the same hunger, had taken the same hits, heard the same criticisms, been asked the same questions, they had been spanked, spun around and chastened, told to stop it, shape up and step up, to be better, to try harder, to be stronger, but the substitutes offered were all substandard and the hunger still remained. At the track is exactly where they were suppose to be.

“Look,” he said. “Can I buy you a drink? I mean, no big deal.”

Jo closed her eyes like a cat. “All right,” she said.

“What are you drinking?”

“Irish Whiskey and soda”

“Bartender.”

They barely had a chance to start on their drinks when Fisher spotted the man in the blazer coming full tilt. There was something in the over abundance of purpose in his walk that immediately made Fisher want to shove him over the railing. Maybe he would pass them by, but Fisher wasn't betting on it.

“Excuse me, sir,” the man said flashing a badge. “I'm Pat Davis, I'm the chief of track security. Would you mind showing me some I.D?”

“What's this all about?”

“Would you mind, sir.”

“Yeah. I might.” Fisher felt the anger gathering inside him. All my life, thought Fisher, assholes like this.

“If you don't mind.”

The man's smile was stapled to his face. Fisher, making it obvious how little he gave a shit, handed Davis his driver's license. Davis slowly examined the document as if he was a scholar studying the Dead Sea Scrolls. He looked at Fisher, the smile off of his face.

“Were you here at the track last Friday?”

“Friday?”

“Yes, Friday. A man fitting your description was seen arguing with a Mr. Jack Savulage during the third race.”

“I don't know anyone by that name.”

“Mr. Savulage was beaten up in the parking lot sometime after the eighth race. He's still in the hospital with a broken jaw and two cracked ribs.”

“Fitting my description?”

“What time did you leave the track on Friday?”

“What time did I leave?” Davis was getting to Fisher and he knew it. Fucking assholes in fucking blue blazers. One more question and Fisher would slug him.

“We left right after the fifth race, remember?” said Jo. “We wanted to beat the Friday traffic. Definitely after the fifth race.”

“Right,” said Fisher covering her as fast as she had covered him, “Fifth race.”

Davis squinted at Jo as if she'd dropped through the roof. “And you are?”

Smiling, Jo pulled her I.D. out of her pocketbook. “Johanna Landy. A friend. We drive out together from Rosehill.”

What could Davis do? She had not been part of his junior detective deduction and crime scene solution scenario. His eyes shifted back and forth between Fisher and Jo. He sniffed twice, as if trying to discern the air's bullshit content. He'd been sure that Fisher was his man. But Fisher had an alibi and Davis had nothing.

“Thank you,” Davis said re-summoning his perpetual smile as he returned their licenses. “Sorry to bother you.”

“No problem, Pat,” said Fisher.

Davis nodded and walked away, regaining his strut in two strides.

“Asshole,” said Fisher, adjusting his neck out of the ringer. “Man fitting my description? What the hell does that mean?”

“Could be anyone.”

“Once one of those ferret faces gets a bone for you... Anyway, thanks for saying... you know, about the ride home.”

“Never helped a cop in my life,” Jo said. It was more than that, and they both knew it. Fisher stared at her. “What? I got some food on my face?”

“Five minutes to post,” said the P.A.

“So,” said Jo, “who do you like this race?”

Fisher checked to see the circled name on his racing form. “Great Jones.”

“That's the seven horse.”

“Oh, right, no sevens. So he should be eliminated like some thirteenth floor in a building.”

“I like the three.”

Fisher checked the form. “Twice Told Tails? He's twelve to one.”

Jo traced across the handicap sheet with her pencil. “He's coming down in class. He ran for seventeen-and-a-half, now he's running for seventy-five hundred. Last year he was in the money five... no six, six out of seven races. And two of his wins were on this track. Plus his jockey has already won three races today.”

“Well, that's right...”

“Think I'm here for my health?” Jo said sticking out her jaw. Fisher shook his head “no.” Jo pulled two fifties out of her wallet. “I'm putting a hundred on him.”

“To win?”

“Don't tell me you're sticking with the seven.”

“Free country,” Fisher said.

“Three minutes to post...” came the voice of God from the P.A.

Jo slid off the bar stool. “Want me to put your bet in?” When Fisher hesitated, Jo put her arm on her side, a little teapot. “What? You don't trust me?”

“All right. Lay fifty on Great Jones and...” digging all he had left out of his pockets, “Forty-five, six, seven...forty-seven on that long shot of yours.”

“Save me a seat?”

“I have to. You got all my money.”

Fisher found two seats in the grandstand next to a large woman with a birthmark the shape of Texas on her forehead. He lifted his binoculars and watched the horses loading into the gate at the far end of the track Great Jones was fighting against going in.

“Easy, boy,” Fisher muttered.

When the track announcer called post time, Jo was still M.I.A. The thought crept into Fisher's mind that he'd been had. Who was this woman? What was he doing handing her money? Maybe she was on her way down the ramp and out. "A sure thing" someone was saying behind him. "A sure thing." Fisher felt a pain deep inside. How many yawning pits, Fisher wondered, could he fall into in one day?

Great Jones was finally guided in, the bell rang and the gate sprung. “And they're off.” Fisher watched through his binoculars as the number seven horse jumped to the lead.

“Great Jones in front,” called the track announcer.

The field raced into the first turn with Great Jones lengthening his early lead to three lengths.

“Easy, seven,” prodded Fisher, worried that his jittery horse had gone out too fast. Great Jones continued his lead into the back stretch. “Keep it going, keep it going,” Fisher urged, but the field was closing. “Hang in there. Man. Hang.” But Great Jones' stride was shortening, a sure sign that the horse had shot his wad way to early. Midway through the backstretch Great Jones was running neck and neck with three horses. “C'mon, seven. C'mon.” But Great Jones was fading. “Christ.” Fisher shifted his binoculars to the field passing Great Jones. “Where's the number three horse?”

“On the outside.” Jo squeezed past Miss Texas into the next seat. The pain in Fisher's gut suddenly disappeared.

Using his field glasses, Fisher found Twice Told Tails. The horse, a large bay with a dark mane, was running easily as the horses swung into the turn. Fisher followed the three horse drifting wide.

“What's he doing out there? He's giving up a hell of a lot of ground! Too much ground!”

But as the field hit the stretch, Twice Told Tails straightened.

“And down the stretch they come!” Called the track announcer. “Firemist in front, Standandeliver second, Blue Rider third.” Now as the jock on the three horse went to the whip Twice Told Tails found another gear and began passing horses.

“He's moving, he's moving,” said Fisher. “Big move!”

“Go, baby,” Jo called down at the track. “Go, baby.” The horse was in fourth and gunning for the leaders.

“Twice Told Tails moves into third,” called the announcer.

In a full-out sprint, the bay reeled in Standandeliver as if he was standing still, and now there was only Firemist to catch. The lead was three lengths and shrinking. Jo grabbed the back of Fisher's jacket.

“Run,” she pleaded, “run, run, run...” The bay closed to a length, than a half, then to a head. “Go,” screamed Jo. “Go, go.”

The crowd was on its feet, roaring. The horses ran stride for stride for the finish as if in lockstep, each seeming for an instant to nose ahead only to have the other horse pull even.

Jo was moaning, urging from a place deep inside her, her head thrusting back and forth, back and forth. “Ah, ah, ah, ah...” sweat was beading on her brow. “Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah...” The horses flashed across the finish. “Did he get it?”

“It's a photo,” said Fisher.

“Did you see?”

“I don't know. It looked dead even. Could you let go of my...” Jo realized she was still hanging on to the back of Fisher's coat like a lifeline.

“Sorry. I didn't even...”

“It's O.K., don't worry about it.” They were both exhausted.

“Sometimes it gets a little hairy,” she said.

“I know.” He smiled. He held out his hand and let her see that it was shaking. She leaned against him for a moment catching her breath. “Your horse ran big.”

“Your horse, too,” she said. Yes, their horse, joined together in the bet as if they'd been lashed to the horse's back. “He won, right?” Her eyes were Christmas morning wide. “He definitely won.”

“Don't know. Close.”

“No, he won,” she said determinedly as they walked in circles waiting for the board to post the official placings. “I know it. He won.”

“The results of the ninth race are now final...”

“Please, please please,” Jo begged as the P.A. paused for an hour seeming moment.

“...and the winner is number three, Twice Told Tails, followed by...”

Jo leaped into Fisher's arms and wrapped her arms around him. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

“Yeah, baby. Yeah, baby.”

“I told you that horse," Jo said. "I told you.”

“Yes you did.”

“God, I love it. I love it.”

Fisher held her tightly, he could feel her body shaking with excitement. As he slowly lowered her down, her thigh brushed between his legs.

“You were right," said Fisher. "That horse coming down in class.”

“Stick with me kid.”

“I'd like to," he said.

“I love it, I love it, I love it.” She did an Irish jig over the torn bet stubs and spilled beer and Fisher laughed and clapped his hands watching her dancing for joy. “O.K., what do we got next?” she asked, still dancing.

“That was it.”

“What?”

“That was it. The last race.”

“Oh, no. God.” She looked like she might cry. “Over?” Fisher knew the feeling, the coming off the high, suddenly there was no bottom, the fall went straight down. The only cure was the next bet. “Oh shit.”

“Are you all right?”

For a moment, she staggered, She reached for the wall, leaning on it like a fighter buying time on the ropes. “Yeah. Yeah.” She straightened up, throwing back her hair. “Why does it go so fast? Bad stuff drags. Things you like... pfft. Gone.” .

“Always was, always will be,” Fisher said.

“Why is that?”

“God, maybe.”

“God?” And then she laughed; the laugh of knowing. “Yeah. That's about right.”

“So. I owe you another drink. Drink? Hell, dinner,” Fisher said. Jo smiled and started to nod, but something made her stop. She looked at her watch.” “I... I can't. Got to get back to Edgar's.”

“No. Really?”

“Yeah. I mean... yeah.”

“Come on. Win like this? Have to celebrate.”

She looked at him, clearly agreeing if only this was any other world. “Look. I can't. I can't.”

Of course you can, he thought. Come with me. Leap into the deep end with me, he wanted to say. But the words stuck in his mouth. Say something! Say something! Why couldn't he talk? Tell her that she can't go, that the time was now and in a moment it would be gone. This was their chance and she had to come with him. Fuck, Edgar's, fuck everything else on the planet. Bet on a longshot, shake up the world, Come with me now! But he said nothing and the moment was gone

“I'll take a rain check,” she said.

"Yeah?"

“Yeah. Well, I'm going to cash in.”

"Thanks for the...” Fisher held up the winning ticket.

Jo smiled. “No problem.” And she walked away.

Fisher followed her with his eyes, holding on as long as he could. “Turn around,” he whispered. “Turn around.” But when she finally did turn to look back, he had turned away and missed it.

Chapter 2

2009-08-18T07:44:00.001-07:00

The sports department of the Rosehill Dispatch was located on the second floor of a former funeral home squeezed cheek-by-jowl between a pizza parlor and a video rental store on Market Street.

Fisher crumpled up the latest love letter from the utility company and tossed it across the room, banking it into the trash basket next to Tom Willis's desk. Willis, the Jimmy Olsen of the three man sports staff was at the desk of Claire Richardson, the department editor.

Claire called to Fisher, "You see this Fish?"

"Eh?"

"The swastikas on his head. He tattooed them backwards. Come, come.

Fisher watched the replay of the videotape showing Mickey Salmanowitz, the all-Nassau County fullback from Rosehill High school, ripping off his helmet after scoring a touchdown. Fisher had covered the game Friday and seen Salmanowitz doing his victory dance revealing the markings on his shaved head.

“Look,” said Claire, “the Brainiac shaved them backwards.” She leaned her body against him with familiarity as she drew the the ¾ rectangles. “Can you believe it? Schmuck can't even get misery right.”

“They suspend him yet?”

“The Superintendent is making an announcement today.”

“Want me to go to the school?”

“Willis has got it.”

“What?”

“I need you to cover the hole-in-one-arama.”

“Hole in what?”

“Three guys in the same foursome aced the seventeenth hole on the Black Course. First time in seventy-five years.”

“Jesus, Claire. I cover the Pilgrims all year for Christ's sake.

“Fish. Don't. Not today.”

“Christ.”

“Are you listening to me? Not today!”

Knowing how much he owed Claire, Fisher stopped. “The Black Course?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I gotta borrow your car.

“What's wrong with yours?”

“It's in the shop,” he lied. Claire flipped him the keys to her Toyota.

The last face Fisher wanted to see was the acne-dappled puss on the sixteen-year-old cyclist riding circles in the parking lot.

“Mr. Fisher, you said...”

“Bucky, I know...”

“I covered the, you know, cross-country meet, and you said, like, when you didn't pay me for the soccer game at Pine Plains last week...”

“Bucky...” watching the kid circle was making Fisher dizzy. The thought of knocking Bucky off his bike with his shoe crossed his mind.

“I need the money, Mr. Fisher.”

“Right.” Fisher turned on the ignition.

“So, like when are you gonna...”

“Next week, Bucky.”

“But that's what you said...”

He knew couldn't hit the kid, plus the fact was the boy was right; Fisher had been using him to cover assignments.

“Bucky, I'll square it with you next week.”

Fisher smiled like he believed it. What could the boy do? Turn him in? Not today. Please God. He was still on the ropes. King's Chaos going away. All boats would have risen. It was one thing to back off a gut bet at post time and kick yourself downstairs for the second guess. But to have the bet nailed and be closed out cause of some titanic turd at the Mutual window? Beyond the pale and back. It had felt so good hitting that fat smiling prick, but now his hand ached like it was on fire. Let it go, let it go. Just do his job until his next paycheck. The track would still be there.

Fisher drove the Toyota cross county to the Rosehill Golf Club, a public links less than a mile from an industrial plant. On hot summer days, soot would occasionally drift from the factory smokestacks and fall down on the back nine like black snow. But in early autumn the wind changed and golfers no longer needed to cover their mouths with their shirts as they made the turn.

Fisher found two of the happy-acers drunkenly holding court at the bar overlooking the putting green. Martin, a large man with a beer guzzler's belly, was buying cocktails for all comers while Tomasini, a silver-haired semi-dwarf whose toupee looked as if a divot had landed on his head, stood on a stool re-creating his historic shot.

“So there I was,” Tomasini sang in a high pitched voice “...on the tee with my seven-iron.”

“Six,” corrected Martin.

“I hit the seven.”

“Seven-iron?” laughed Martin spraying the bar with beer. “Frankie, the hole is a hundred-and-seventy yards. Hitting downhill off a mountain with a hurricane behind you, you couldn't reach that green with a seven-iron.”

Outside, a duffer playing out of the bunker on the eighteenth hole, shanked a shot up against the clubhouse. “Incoming” the bartender shouted. Everyone laughed and ordered another round on Martin. Tomasini, meanwhile, was now explaining how he holed his shot with an eight-iron.

“Eight! Bullshit, Frankie!”

The only thing the pair agreed on was the name of the man who made the third ace; Jack Landy. Landy. Yeah, that was a name that rang a bell. Fisher recalled that Jack Landy was the highly ranked amateur who almost won the County Open last year. What the hell was a golfer of that caliber doing playing skins with these jokers?

“We know him from the Rotary,” said Martin. “He owns a restaurant out on the bay.”

“Which restaurant?”

“Hey Frankie, what's the name of Landy's Joint?”

“What?”

“The clam and slam on East Bay. Place we went your wife was out of town.”

“We went where?”

“He's hopeless,” said Martin. “One time he put his golf shoes in the refrigerator. Let me see. Ed...something.”

“Edgar's!” Tomasini called with relish as if he expected a prize.

“Yeah, that's it. Edgar's. Out on Shore Drive.”

Shore Drive? Christ, thought, Fisher, this was going to take all day.

He drove back across the county and turned on the winding road that traversed the shoreline. Fisher couldn't remember if he'd ever been to Edgar's, but the shore haunts all looked the same, with the fake netting strung across the roof as if they expected to catch a mackerel sailing by. Ten-to-one the inside would look like the inside of of fish tank with sea paraphernalia hanging from the rafters and paintings of sailing ships behind the bar.

Nearing the end of the road he saw a wooden sign saying "Edgar's" with a red arrow pointing left. He pulled into a sand parking lot fronting a brown shingled building with a neon swordfish blinking in the window. A walkway of crushed sea-shells lead to the front door. Nice touch, thought Fisher. Someone had put some care into the place.

Fisher opened the door and walked past a wall sized mural of fierce looking fish. Jim Lauderdale was blasting from the sound system singing "You'd be surprised by what you don't know." But the place empty except for Sarah, a blonde bartender whose shirt was unbuttoned at least two past the legal limit.

Fisher sat on a stool and ordered a beer.

Sarah, nodding her head to the list on the blackboard underneath a painting of a bare-breasted mermaid she seemed intent on emulating, said “We've got ten of them.”

“Bud.”

“Ah,” she teased him. “An adventurer.” There was a tiny white drop of white spittle on her nose from trying to get high on the gas from canned whip-cream.

“Jack Landy in?”

She opened the beer. “Uhn-uh. He left for Florida.”

“Florida! How long?”

Sarah shrugged. “He goes, he comes.” She smiled knowing exactly how suggestive everything she said sounded. “He comes, he goes.”

“I'm with the Rosehill Dispatch. I'm doing a story about his golf. Anyone here shed a little light?”

“There's his wife. She runs the place.”

“Is she here?”

The tendress pressed a button on an intercom. “Guy here to see you. Says he's with the newspapers.” Fisher heard a muffled reply. “She's coming...right up.” The girl ought to have her own cable porn show, thought Fisher. Sarah filled a bowl with pretzel circles and slid it in front of Fisher.

“Newspaper, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Sarah took a pretzel from the bowl and put it around her eye like a monocle. “If you want to write about someone...”

“Oh, yeah? What do you do?”

Sarah laughed, twirling the pretzel around her finger. “Where,” she said, “do I start?”

From the doorway on the top of the stairs, Jo checked Fisher out. This was the second time she'd been able to watch him unnoticed. Sarah spotted her and dropped the pretzel.

“You stocked the beer yet?” Jo said.

“Getting it,” said Sarah, now all business, as she headed downstairs. Fisher caught the smell of flowers even before he turned.

“I'm Jo Landy.”

God damn, he thought. God damn. “David Fisher. Rosehill Dispatch. I saw you at the meeting and the...”

“Track.” She looked straight at him. “Gonna give me a lecture.?”

A lecture? No. He wanted to bury his face in her... “No. No. Your hair was down.”

“And now it's up.” Yeah, he liked it better when it was down. It softened the life lines on her face. “Sarah said you were with the papers?”

“Yes. It's about your husband's golf. But the bartender said he'd left for Florida.”

“That's not news.”

“He shot a hole-in-one. He and these two Rhodes Scholars he was playing with.”

“Suppose to be funny?”

“Only if you met them.”

She was tough. But she wasn't going anywhere. At least not yet, as long as he could keep the ball in play. “Yeah, all three of them playing together, they aced the same hole. First time in seventy-five years.”

“I'm sorry. I don't really keep up with his golf.”

“How long is he going to be in Florida?”

“I really have no idea”

He was losing her. Damn. Clearly she couldn't care less if her husband had won the U.S. Open, the Masters and the P.G.A. He scratched his head with his bandaged paw.

“What happened to your hand?”

“Writer's cramp,” said Fisher.

“But you're right handed.”

“Sympathy pains.” Jo smiled. Only for an instant. But it was as if she had reached across and touched his face. “Got a phone number?”

“Excuse me?”

Now it was Fisher's turn to smile. He was being completely innocent. “In Florida. Where I can reach him.”

“No. I'm sorry.” Her eyes met his, again with the questioning dare. He stood still, waiting for direction, for a map, for a sign from heaven, hell, or the Man in the Moon.

A grunt from behind. Sarah emerged from the stairs carrying a case of beer. Fisher couldn't even spell “spell” after it was broken.

“O.K.,” he said. “Thanks.” Eloquent. A Pulitzer for that one. Jo nodded and walked down to her office without looking back. Fisher exhaled and headed for the door.

“Hey, Squire?” Sarah called from the bar. “That's three-fifty for the beer.”

Fisher drove from the shore back past the strip malls to the center of the town.

If there were ever hills in Rosehill, they were gone long before the WalMarts, Burger Kings, discount mattress stores, drive-thru banks, donut shops and gas stations had leveled the vista all the way to East Bay. As for roses? They had always grown in the crevices between the smallest patches of want. All he could think about was Jo, about her face, about her small tight body, about her incredible hair up or down, about the peek behind the “I don't give a shit” she had given him with that almost smile.

There was something there, right? Inquiring about his hand? She asked unprovoked. He didn't wave it in her face saying “Look at me, I injured myself fighting for peace, justice and the American Way.” What he should've said was, “Your hair is like, like, like...” If he could touch it, then he would know, then he could write sonnets, sing songs, dance on top of the bar.

Rush hour traffic was backing up. Fisher switched lanes only to be stuck behind a bus full of soccer players from Pine Plains High School.

A married woman. Risky, he thought. He'd done that kind of thing before. He subconsciously stroked his jaw in memory of a bedroom brawl. No matter how you played it, someone always socks somebody. My emotional life is like the bankbook of a child, thought Fisher.

People taking dives into empty pools. I'm a stranger, he said to himself.

A boy in the bus pulled down his pants and pressed his ass against the back window. I'm a stranger.

Chapter 1

2009-07-27T07:13:00.001-07:00

David Fisher chose the longest route to the church. He walked along the backstreets and one-ways above the Rosehill canal.

He entered the church through a side door, descended a dark stairway into the dank basement and took the aisle seat in the back row. The whirring noise of the ceiling fan throwing shadow shots across the faces of twelve or so repentants sounded like a hungry cheering crowd. A skinny nervous kid, twenty something at most, was standing.

“My name is Rick, and I'm a compulsive gambler.”

“Hi, Rick,” replied the dirty dozen.

“I got fired again and I had to, you know, move back in with my parents, and my mom's pissed royal 'cause last time, you know, to get a bet in, I had to steal the diamonds and stuff out of her rings and stuff and replace them with phony... you know, fake...”

It'll be a cold day in hell before I tell them anything, thought Fisher clenching a copy of the Daily Racing Form . If you couldn't take the consequences, don't bet. Don't go around crying, giving the game a bad name. You do that, then you allow people to put a box around you, to label you. No way, he thought, he wasn't telling them a thing. What, that he'd been a good student, but cheated his ass off anytime it was necessary? How he got caught in eighth grade by Mr. Spengler, who told him a thing like that would go down on his record and follow him around like a disease, how he would never get into college. How he stayed up at night thinking of ways to kill Spengler; put a can of Right Guard in the gas tank of his teacher's car, and watch him start the engine and explode into pieces. Be a fitting end. Spengler had B.O. that would drop a moose. Forget it, thought Fisher. I'm not telling them a thing.

“Excuse me.”

“Ehn?” Fisher looked up and saw the long auburn hair that fell across the woman's shoulders. His fist opened and he dropped the racing form to the floor.

“If I...”

“Oh!” Realizing she needed for him to turn his legs so she could get by, Fisher stood up. She was small, pretty, and smelled like fresh flowers as she brushed past him. When she sat down, Fisher noticed her breasts move beneath her shirt. She caught him looking, and held his eyes almost saying “something you want to do about it?”

Fisher flashed back to Spengler time, a girl with hair like hers behind the backstop in the woods, the wind lifting her skirt in the air, his hand working under her shirt. “Trust me. Do you trust me?"

Fisher was in full flight up the stairs from the station at Windward Race Track. The station was only two stops from the church but the train had been delayed, and now every second lost needed to be regained double time.

He could hear the bugle playing “first call”. How many minutes until post? Not enough unless these fucking people cleared out of his fucking way. He hated being late, he hated not building in the time to account for chaos rearing its snake's head and wrapping itself around his attempts to beat precision into an imprecise world.

“Excuse me. Excuse me.” Sweat collected in his armpits and crotch as he pushed past people, cutting in and out between them like a scatback. That kick-returner, tiny waterbug, zip-zoot-zip, number what? One? Kansas City? Noland? No time to dig into that memory bank, the number now was three. “King's Chaos” He had three hundred dollars in his sweaty pocket. He could see the board. The horse was going off at eight-to-one, the third choice behind “Sweet Cat” and “Brother Red”. He hurdled over a man bending to tie his shoe. Edwin Moses. That one came up easy, no points. But the kick-returner...? Never mind. He saw a mutual window with a short line. Window number three. Two people, Fisher would be three. Three minutes to post. Stars were aligning. Gonna be fine.

A woman, first in line, had placed her bet. She tried to cross, accidentally bumping Fisher. “Excuse me.” She looked up. A moment of recognition. Well what do you know? Sister rat. The woman with the beautiful hair smelling of flowers from the G.A. meeting.

But before Fisher could open his mouth, she was gone, disappearing into the crowd. No time for that anyway, only one bettor left between Fisher and his sure thing. Big guy. Pants stretched across his wide ass two stitches from splitting. C'mon, Tiny, make your bet and get the fuck out. But now the snake was back. Large butt was betting in slow world.

“Ten dollar exacta, number three and number one. Ten dollar exacta, number two and number four. Ten dollar exacta, uh, ten dollar exacta, number two and number three. Uh, uh, ten dollar exacta, number five and number four...”

“One minute to post” boomed over the P.A.

Fisher felt his body clenching, his toes, stomach, ass, fists, neck...he felt his brain in a vice. “Today. Let's move it for Christ's sake.” Large butt turned, looked at Fisher as if he were a child, then went back to his time- sucking play.

“Ten dollar exacta, number six and number five, ten dollar exacta, number two and number six. Ten dollar exacta, number two and number five, and ten dollar exacta number three and number five.”

“Eighty dollars,” said the cashier.

With exaggerated deliberation, the man counted off five tens and six fives. The same moment the fatso finished and Fisher shoved past, the bell rang. The track announcer called “And they're off!” .
“Number three, three hundred, to win,” said Fisher.

“I'm sorry,” said the cashier. “They're off.

“But it... two seconds. Please.”

“I'm sorry. Those are the rules. No bets after the bell.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

Fisher kicked the nearest metal pole.

If it hurt, he didn't feel it. If he were Sampson, he would pull it right out of the ground. He would tear this temple down. And then the large man was in his grill.

His cheeks were chunky, Orson Wells in “A Touch of Evil”

“You got a problem, buddy?”

“Yeah, I got a problem, buddy. Didn't get my bet in.”

A smile of satisfaction spread across the man's face, a fat grinning jack-o-lantern with breath perfumed by semi-digested sausage and onions. “Life is tough.”

“Tell me about it. Jerks like you making their kindergarten bets.”
A small crowd had gathered, rubber-neckers sensing a fight, hoping for a free show, even as the race played on the monitors above their heads.

“Got a right to bet anyway I want.”

“Fine. Do it early. Don't wait until two minutes to post to bet every horse in the race. Every horse in the fucking race. You up all night figuring out that one, Einstein?”

The giant pumpkin head grinned again, coming in close enough to eclipse Fisher's entire view. “Tough shit, asshole.” And with a Gleason-like side step, he danced away.

“Come back here, you lousy fuck! I'll fuck you all over the track you piece of shit!” But it was too late. There would be no fight. The disappointed crowd collectively mumbled and turned its attention back to the track. “Every horse in the race. Brilliant.” Fisher looked at the monitor and picked up the call from the announcer.

“Sweet Cat, followed by Lady In Charge. Brother Red on the outside.” The monitor showed the horses racing into the clubhouse turn. A roar rose from the crowd.

“Please don't win,” Fisher prayed.

“Sweet Cat, Brother Red, King's Chaos on the outside.”

“Here he comes.”

The pack beneath the monitor was yelling, calling for their various charges, shouting “One time”, “Do it”, “Come on Cat, come on...” But Fisher was out, no stake in it at all except to root against the hope he'd carried all week. For days he'd ridden this hope, this masterful pick, this horse he'd seen coming, the horse that was going to end this holy mother of a month's losing streak. He was going to pay off his electric bill, get his car back out of hock, better still, roll the winnings into a spectacular day at the track. He'd done it before. One bet, one coolly chosen winner and suddenly the game was easy. Two, three winners, in a row. Cash to play with, hedge bets to lay on favorites while he took a flier on a long shot. But now his only hope was that he'd been dead wrong. Be wrong. Be wrong, baby. He was rooting against his horse, rooting against being right. The one salvage left was to be wrong as wrong could be. But the track announcer's call told otherwise.

“King's Chaos to the lead. Now by two lengths. King's Chaos pulling away. Four back to Brother Red. Sweet Cat holding third. And it's King's Chaos going away!” Sure. Sure. Fisher stared down at the ground at a crumpled handicap sheet guaranteeing 75 per-cent winners. A drunk weaved past him calling to unseen angels “Number three. Number three.” Fisher didn't even want to look at the results. But he did. King's Chaos paid $18.75 to win on a two dollar bet. Fisher's three-hundred would've made him over twenty-eight hundred dollars. Nah, that didn't hurt at all. Let him find a pencil and shove it right between his eyes.

Was it luck, serendipity, or the subtle slide down into hell's gate that found Fisher watching his tormentor walking through the twilight towards his car? He hadn't tracked him, he knew that. He'd been wandering around, not lost, never lost on such familiar turf. He'd been coming to Windward since he was a kid. His father used to lie to his mother and bring him here instead of the beach. They'd spend the afternoon sitting in the grandstand, their faces reddening in the sun, his dad letting him sneak a sip of beer from his cup. But now he was just waiting on a man. And, at the far end of the lot, there he was. Whistling. A two-hundred and sixty pound song bird twittering Janis Joplin's “Take another piece of my heart.” Fisher stepped up beside him.

“Excuse me.”

The large man turned, surprised for only a second before he realized. “Oh,” he said with a smile, “Mr. Johnny-Bet-Lately.”

Fisher swung from his hips with both hands cupped. He caught the man dead center on the jaw, lifting him up off his feet before he tumbled to the pavement.

That wasn't enough, not nearly. Fisher reared back and kicked him in the side, kicked him so hard bile shot out of the man's mouth.

Fisher kicked him again and the man curled into a large whimpering ball. Fisher was breathing in and out like a bellows. He kicked the tub once more for luck before opening his hands, revealing the beer can he'd clocked him with.

He opened the beer can and emptied it on the man's bleeding face.

“Tough shit, asshole.” Fisher walked away into the gloaming, never aware for a second that he was being watched.

Riding the train back to Rosehill, his left hand throbbing in pain, Fisher stared out at the half-torn bunting snapping in the wind over a used car lot celebrating its weekly sales. Sitting across from Fisher an old bald man was circling his tongue in the mouth of a teen-age girl.

A blind man worked the car with his cup out.

“Spare change? Spare change?” The blind man seem to stare at Fisher before moving on.

Alone in his basement studio apartment, Fisher soaked his aching left hand in a bucket of ice. The room was candlelit, the power had been turned off weeks ago. Not a problem. He did little more than sleep here. The white noise hummed from a cheap battery powered fan. He pulled his hand from the bucket and looked at it. It'll be a cold day in hell before I tell them anything, he thought. I'm not telling them a thing.

Prologue

2009-07-24T11:27:00.001-07:00

Shadow Bay

2009-07-24T11:24:00.000-07:00