Duma Key

"I've been working for Miss Eastlake about sixteen months now, with one brief and uncomfortable diversion to St. Pete when the Keys were evacuated for Hurricane Frank. Anyway, the last people to rent Salmon Point - pardon me, Big Pink - stayed just two weeks of their eight-week lease and then went boogie-bye-bye. Either they didn't like the house or the house didn't like them." Wireman raised ghost-hands over his head and took big wavery ghost-steps across the light blue living room carpet. The effect was to a large degree spoiled by his shirt, which was covered with tropical birds and flowers. "After that, whatever walked in Big Pink... walked alone!"

"Shirley Jackson," I said. "Circa whenever."

"Yep. Anyway, Wireman was making a point, or trying to. Big Pink THEN!" He swept his arms out in an all-encompassing gesture. "Furnished in that popular Florida style known as Twenty-First Century Rent-A-House! Big Pink NOW! Furnished in Twenty-First Century Rent-A-House, plus Cybex treadmill upstairs, and..." He squinted. "Is that a Lucille Ball dolly I spy sitting on the couch in the Florida room?"

"That's Reba, the Anger-Management Queen. She was given to me by my psychologist friend, Kramer." But that wasn't right. My missing arm began to itch madly. For the ten thousandth time I tried to scratch it and got my still-mending ribs instead. "Wait," I said, and looked at Reba, who was staring out at the Gulf. I can do this, I thought. It's like where you put money when you want to hide it from the government.

Wireman was waiting patiently.

My arm itched. The one not there. The one that sometimes wanted to draw. It wanted to draw then. I thought it wanted to draw Wireman. Wireman and the bowl of fruit. Wireman and the gun.

Stop the weird shit, I thought.

I can do this, I thought.

You hide money from the government in offshore banks, I thought. Nassau. The Bahamas. The Grand Caymans. And Bingo, there it was.

"Kamen," I said. "That's his name. Kamen gave me Reba. Xander Kamen."

"Well now that we've got that solved," Wireman said, "let's look at the art."

"If that's what it is," I said, and led the way upstairs, limping on my crutch. Halfway up, something struck me and I stopped. "Wireman," I said, without looking back, "how did you know my treadmill was a Cybex?"

For a moment he said nothing. Then: "It's the only brand I know. Now can you resume the upward ascent on your own, or do you need a kick in the ass to get going?"

Sounds good, rings false, I thought as I started up the stairs again. I think you're lying, and you know what? I think you know I know.

iii

My work was leaning against the north wall of Little Pink, with the afternoon sun giving the paintings plenty of natural light. Looking at them from behind Wireman as he walked slowly down the line, sometimes pausing and once even backtracking to study a couple of canvases a second time, I thought it was far more light than they deserved. Ilse and Jack had praised them, but one was my daughter and the other my hired man.

When he reached the colored pencil drawing of the tanker at the very end of the line, Wireman squatted and stared at it for maybe thirty seconds with his forearms resting on his thighs and his hands hanging limply between his legs.

"What- " I began.

"Shhh," he said, and I endured another thirty seconds of silence. At last he stood up. His knees popped. When he turned to face me, his eyes looked very large, and the left one was inflamed. Water - not a tear - was running from the inner corner. He pulled a handkerchief from the back pocket of his jeans and wiped it away, the automatic gesture of a man who does the same thing a dozen or more times a day.

"Holy God," he said, and walked toward the window, stuffing the handkerchief back into his pocket.

"Holy God what?" I asked. "Holy God what?"

He stood looking out. "You don't know how good these are, do you? I mean you really don't."

"Are they?" I asked. I had never felt so unsure of myself. "Are you serious?"

"Did you put them in chronological order?" he asked, still looking out at the Gulf. The joking, joshing, wisecracking Wireman had taken a hike. I had an idea the one I was listening to now had a lot more in common with the one juries had heard... always assuming he'd been that kind of lawyer. "You did, didn't you? Other than the last couple, I mean. Those're obviously much earlier."

I didn't see how anything of mine could qualify as "much earlier" when I'd only been doing pictures for a couple of months, but when I ran my eye over them, I saw he was right. I hadn't meant to put them in chronological order - not consciously - but that was what I had done.

"Yes," I said. "Earliest to most recent."