another bus, another day?
He was squinting at his watch—half an hour, was half an hour up?—but he couldn’t seem to make out the position of the hands, his eyes going on him now too, along with everything else. Jesus. Jesus Fucking Christ . If they offered him a drink he was going to refuse it, no matter how badly he wanted it—and he wasn’t going to volunteer anything, just the facts. He smoothed down his shirt, took hold of the doorknob and shot a look over his shoulder to where Carolee still sat lingering at the table as if they had all night, as if they could have another round and order up dessert and coffee like normal people on vacation. “Come on,” he said, flinging open the door on the corridor, “let’s get this over with.”
4.
I T MIGHT HAVE BEEN his imagination, but as they walked down the corridor to the elevator he couldn’t help feeling people were making way for him, eyes meeting his and dropping to the floor, conversations suddenly hushed, men unconsciously hugging their wives closer as if he were some sort of feral beast, and what was that all about? Had the captain made an announcement? If not, he was going to have to at some point, the cruise delayed here in port for another day, at least a day, and of course everybody had cellphones, BlackBerries, iPads, all rumor consolidated into news and all news instantaneous. They knew. The whole ship knew.
Potamiamos and the two cops were waiting for them in the scoop-backed lounge chairs in a corner of the Martini Bar, the fun director off somewhere else now, her duties in the present circumstance having extended no further than applying her knuckles to the door of cabin 7007 and making the introductions. All three were sitting stiff-backed in the chairs, glasses of iced tea sweating on the table before them. They rose when he and Carolee crossed the room, even as a pair of waiters materialized from the shadows to pull out chairs for them. “And what will you have, ma’am?” one of them asked, bending over Carolee. Sten tried to warn her off with his eyes, but she was looking to the waiter. She emitted a little laugh, self-conscious all at once and maybe a little tipsy too, and said, “When in Rome . . .” And then, catching herself: “Just water, thanks.”
“Sir?”
“Water. Out of a bottle. No ice.”
The waiters withdrew and a moment of silence descendedon the table before the Senior Second Officer turned to the cop on his left, who for some reason was now wearing a pair of sunglasses, though they were indoors and the lighting was in no way intrusive. “Lieutenant Salas, perhaps you’d like to begin?”
“Yes, certainly,” Salas said, his voice a creeping baritone, heavily accented. He shifted his gaze to Sten, or seemed to—you couldn’t really tell what he was looking at, which, of course, would have been the point of the dark glasses. “Why don’t you, sir, begin by giving us an account of events, what did you see, what did you do, et cetera.”
Sten told him. He had nothing to hide. He’d done what anybody would have done, anybody who wasn’t a natural-born victim, anyway. There was no need to go into detail about the trip itself, the state of the roads or the recklessness of the driver—not yet—so he began with the bus pulling into the lot and how everybody had descended into the sun, guidebooks, binoculars and birding lists in tow, and how he’d gone across the lot to the fat woman’s palapa .
“And why was that?” Salas had produced a pack of Marlboros, shaking one out for himself and offering the pack to Sten, as if this were the interrogation scene in a police procedural, and that struck him as funny, so he laughed. “This is amusing?” Salas said. “The recollection? There is something amusing about the death of a man in my jurisdiction?”
“No,” Sten said, waving away the pack as Carolee sat there tight-lipped beside him and Salas struck a match and touched it to the tip of his own cigarette.
He was squinting at his watch—half an hour, was half an hour up?—but he couldn’t seem to make out the position of the hands, his eyes going on him now too, along with everything else. Jesus. Jesus Fucking Christ . If they offered him a drink he was going to refuse it, no matter how badly he wanted it—and he wasn’t going to volunteer anything, just the facts. He smoothed down his shirt, took hold of the doorknob and shot a look over his shoulder to where Carolee still sat lingering at the table as if they had all night, as if they could have another round and order up dessert and coffee like normal people on vacation. “Come on,” he said, flinging open the door on the corridor, “let’s get this over with.”
4.
I T MIGHT HAVE BEEN his imagination, but as they walked down the corridor to the elevator he couldn’t help feeling people were making way for him, eyes meeting his and dropping to the floor, conversations suddenly hushed, men unconsciously hugging their wives closer as if he were some sort of feral beast, and what was that all about? Had the captain made an announcement? If not, he was going to have to at some point, the cruise delayed here in port for another day, at least a day, and of course everybody had cellphones, BlackBerries, iPads, all rumor consolidated into news and all news instantaneous. They knew. The whole ship knew.
Potamiamos and the two cops were waiting for them in the scoop-backed lounge chairs in a corner of the Martini Bar, the fun director off somewhere else now, her duties in the present circumstance having extended no further than applying her knuckles to the door of cabin 7007 and making the introductions. All three were sitting stiff-backed in the chairs, glasses of iced tea sweating on the table before them. They rose when he and Carolee crossed the room, even as a pair of waiters materialized from the shadows to pull out chairs for them. “And what will you have, ma’am?” one of them asked, bending over Carolee. Sten tried to warn her off with his eyes, but she was looking to the waiter. She emitted a little laugh, self-conscious all at once and maybe a little tipsy too, and said, “When in Rome . . .” And then, catching herself: “Just water, thanks.”
“Sir?”
“Water. Out of a bottle. No ice.”
The waiters withdrew and a moment of silence descendedon the table before the Senior Second Officer turned to the cop on his left, who for some reason was now wearing a pair of sunglasses, though they were indoors and the lighting was in no way intrusive. “Lieutenant Salas, perhaps you’d like to begin?”
“Yes, certainly,” Salas said, his voice a creeping baritone, heavily accented. He shifted his gaze to Sten, or seemed to—you couldn’t really tell what he was looking at, which, of course, would have been the point of the dark glasses. “Why don’t you, sir, begin by giving us an account of events, what did you see, what did you do, et cetera.”
Sten told him. He had nothing to hide. He’d done what anybody would have done, anybody who wasn’t a natural-born victim, anyway. There was no need to go into detail about the trip itself, the state of the roads or the recklessness of the driver—not yet—so he began with the bus pulling into the lot and how everybody had descended into the sun, guidebooks, binoculars and birding lists in tow, and how he’d gone across the lot to the fat woman’s palapa .
“And why was that?” Salas had produced a pack of Marlboros, shaking one out for himself and offering the pack to Sten, as if this were the interrogation scene in a police procedural, and that struck him as funny, so he laughed. “This is amusing?” Salas said. “The recollection? There is something amusing about the death of a man in my jurisdiction?”
“No,” Sten said, waving away the pack as Carolee sat there tight-lipped beside him and Salas struck a match and touched it to the tip of his own cigarette.
Similar Books
It's Always Darkest Before the Fridge Door Opens: Enjoying the Fruits of Middle Age
Phil Callaway, Martha O. Bolton
