eye-catching. Few women with her striking good looks would choose to be nearly bald. The young couple cultivated a look that said they didn’t like the rest of the world much, although they wouldn’t mind if everybody looked at them. Were they the kind of losers who would be enraged by the sight of a wealthy black man?
Still furtive, Faye kept eyeballing the couple. Though Nita was of average height, with long and willowy limbs, Wayland was a short, stubby, wiry man, with prominent muscles on arms that showed not the first gram of fat. He had the wizened, sunburned face of a man who made his living on the water. He sure looked like a shrimper. But did he and Nita spend their evenings beating peaceful men to death?
And what about Chip’s good buddies, the big table of Civil War re-enactors in the corner? She recognized the biggest, loudest, happiest pseudo-captain as Herbie Canton, who had learned that he could endure his weekdays as an insurance salesman, just as long he could look forward to leading bloodless battles on Saturdays.
Faye had always had a soft spot for re-enactors, being a bit over-fascinated with history herself. She saw nothing wrong with a little harmless obsession in anyone’s life, and most re-enactors that she’d met didn’t seem like throwbacks who wished the good old days would come back, slavery and all. Heck, a lot of them had two uniforms, one blue and one gray, so that they could be as useful as possible in service of their make-pretend wars. But that didn’t mean there weren’t two devils lurking in this happy, collegial group.
Faye couldn’t sit still. She felt like everybody in the place was looking at her, which was stupid. Even if they’d heard about Douglass’ death on the news, they didn’t all know he was her friend. She doubted any of them had ever even laid eyes on him, though his house wasn’t far up the coastline. Douglass had been a little too upper-crust to hang around a joint like this.
She used her biscuit to mop up the last drops of egg yolk. Leaving enough money on the counter to cover the eggs and a big tip for Chip, she said, “I’m going out to check on my boat.”
Liz’s worry lines deepened and she came out from behind the counter, following Faye toward the door. “It’s nearly dark. Now, why’d you want to go out there by yourself, after what just happened to poor Mr. Everett?”
Joe, who hadn’t left his stool yet, laid some money on the counter next to Faye’s. He reached out a long arm and tapped Liz on the shoulder. “I’m with her.”
Liz gazed up at Joe, who was tall even when he was sitting down, then looked fondly at the way his black ponytail draped over his broad shoulder. “You know what, Faye? If Joe goes with you, you’ll be just as safe as a woman can be.”
Her dreamy smile followed Joe out the door.
***
Liz kept a locked cabinet full of boat maintenance supplies out on the dock, and Faye had a key. She reached in and hauled out a jug of bleach. Her world was dirty, but at least her boat could be mildew-free. She and Joe worked while the sun dropped lower.
The lapping of waves against the hull masked any noise made by the happy drunks in Liz’s bar. The early evening air was utterly quiet. So when a dark figure lurched off the dock and over the gunwale into Faye’s arms, she let out a scream that brought those happy drunks boiling outdoors to see what was going on.
“Wally?” Faye said, when she realized who she was holding. It was her old, two-faced friend Wally, who had owned the marina when Liz was just a short-order cook. Wally, the pothunting scoundrel who would do anything for a buck. Wally, the long-time friend who had kept her secrets back when she lived one step ahead of the law and the tax collector. Wally, the fink who had sold her out to the scavengers who would have killed her for the artifacts buried under her own property.
Wally had disappeared when his crimes came to light, and Faye had missed him in
Still furtive, Faye kept eyeballing the couple. Though Nita was of average height, with long and willowy limbs, Wayland was a short, stubby, wiry man, with prominent muscles on arms that showed not the first gram of fat. He had the wizened, sunburned face of a man who made his living on the water. He sure looked like a shrimper. But did he and Nita spend their evenings beating peaceful men to death?
And what about Chip’s good buddies, the big table of Civil War re-enactors in the corner? She recognized the biggest, loudest, happiest pseudo-captain as Herbie Canton, who had learned that he could endure his weekdays as an insurance salesman, just as long he could look forward to leading bloodless battles on Saturdays.
Faye had always had a soft spot for re-enactors, being a bit over-fascinated with history herself. She saw nothing wrong with a little harmless obsession in anyone’s life, and most re-enactors that she’d met didn’t seem like throwbacks who wished the good old days would come back, slavery and all. Heck, a lot of them had two uniforms, one blue and one gray, so that they could be as useful as possible in service of their make-pretend wars. But that didn’t mean there weren’t two devils lurking in this happy, collegial group.
Faye couldn’t sit still. She felt like everybody in the place was looking at her, which was stupid. Even if they’d heard about Douglass’ death on the news, they didn’t all know he was her friend. She doubted any of them had ever even laid eyes on him, though his house wasn’t far up the coastline. Douglass had been a little too upper-crust to hang around a joint like this.
She used her biscuit to mop up the last drops of egg yolk. Leaving enough money on the counter to cover the eggs and a big tip for Chip, she said, “I’m going out to check on my boat.”
Liz’s worry lines deepened and she came out from behind the counter, following Faye toward the door. “It’s nearly dark. Now, why’d you want to go out there by yourself, after what just happened to poor Mr. Everett?”
Joe, who hadn’t left his stool yet, laid some money on the counter next to Faye’s. He reached out a long arm and tapped Liz on the shoulder. “I’m with her.”
Liz gazed up at Joe, who was tall even when he was sitting down, then looked fondly at the way his black ponytail draped over his broad shoulder. “You know what, Faye? If Joe goes with you, you’ll be just as safe as a woman can be.”
Her dreamy smile followed Joe out the door.
***
Liz kept a locked cabinet full of boat maintenance supplies out on the dock, and Faye had a key. She reached in and hauled out a jug of bleach. Her world was dirty, but at least her boat could be mildew-free. She and Joe worked while the sun dropped lower.
The lapping of waves against the hull masked any noise made by the happy drunks in Liz’s bar. The early evening air was utterly quiet. So when a dark figure lurched off the dock and over the gunwale into Faye’s arms, she let out a scream that brought those happy drunks boiling outdoors to see what was going on.
“Wally?” Faye said, when she realized who she was holding. It was her old, two-faced friend Wally, who had owned the marina when Liz was just a short-order cook. Wally, the pothunting scoundrel who would do anything for a buck. Wally, the long-time friend who had kept her secrets back when she lived one step ahead of the law and the tax collector. Wally, the fink who had sold her out to the scavengers who would have killed her for the artifacts buried under her own property.
Wally had disappeared when his crimes came to light, and Faye had missed him in
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