insurance,” he says.
“They haven’t paid yet.”
“It’s been eight months, Alice.”
“Don’t you think I know how long it’s been? They haven’t paid yet.”
“Well… when will they pay?”
“Rafe, do me a favor, okay? Get in your truck and go wherever you have to go. You’re not doing any good here.”
“I’m just trying to help,” he says, almost plaintively, but she has already moved away from him to where a wall phone hangs over the kitchen counter. She picks up the receiver.
“Who are you calling?” Sloate asks at once.
“Charlie.”
“He’s done enough damage already. Asking questions…”
“He found out she’s a blonde!” Alice snaps. “You sit here with your earphones on, and your expensive equipment, twiddling dials, while a fifty-six-year-old artist—”
“We already know she’s a blonde,” Sloate says.
“What?”
“We already—”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” she says, slamming the phone onto the hook. “These are my children! Why isn’t anyone telling me anything?”
She realizes she is screaming at him. She clenches her fists, turns away. She wants to punch Sloate. She wants to punch anyone.
“I’m calling Charlie,” she says, and picks up the phone again.
“This is a mistake,” Sloate says.
But she is already dialing.
“Hello?”
“Charlie? It’s me.”
“What does the blonde want you to do?”
“Bring her the money.”
“Have you got it?”
“Phony bills, yes.”
“That’s dangerous.”
“I know, but…”
“They’re not locals,” Charlie says. “The blonde was driving a rental car.”
Sloate’s eyes open wide.
“How do you know?” Alice asks.
“Guard saw an Avis bumper sticker. I went to the airport, checked on it—”
“Jesus!” Sloate says.
“—they wouldn’t tell me anything. But now that the cops are all over you, maybe they can find out who rented that Impala.”
“Maybe.”
“Where’d that woman ask you to leave the money?”
“Don’t tell him!” Sloate warns.
“The Shell station on Lewiston and the Trail.”
“What time?”
“Don’t…”
“Ten tomorrow morning.”
“Good luck, Alice.”
“Thanks, Charlie.”
She hangs up, looks Sloate dead in the eye.
“Think you can find that car now?” she asks.
Sloate turns to Sally Ballew.
“Make yourself useful, Sal,” he says. “We’re looking for a blue Impala, maybe rented from Avis by a blonde in her thirties.”
“Piece of cake,” Sally says dryly.
As she and her partner leave the house, the grandfather clock in the hallway reads 8:30 P . M .
When they first moved down here, the kids thought they’d died and gone to heaven. Before they bought the boat, Eddie and Alice used to take them to the beach on every sunny weekend. After they owned the Jamash, it was day trips up and down the Intercoastal or out onto the Gulf when the seas weren’t too rough. At the beach one day…
She remembers this now with sharp poignancy.
Remembers it with an immediacy that is painfully relevant.
Jamie is three years old, and fancies himself to be an interviewer on one of his favorite kiddie TV shows. One hand in his sister’s, the other wrapped around a toy shovel he pretends is a microphone, he wanders up the beach, stopping at every blanket, thrusting the shovel-mike at each surprised sunbather, asking in his piping little voice, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
Tirelessly, he parades the beach with his sister, a relentless, pint-sized investigative journalist.
What do you want to be when you grow up?
One day…
Oh God, that frantic day…
They know they are not to go anywhere near the water. The waves that roll in here are usually benign, even at high tide, but the children know that they are not to approach the water unless Eddie or Alice is with them. They know this. And usually, they wander up the beach for… oh, ten minutes or so… Ashley inordinately proud of her little brother’s interviewing
“They haven’t paid yet.”
“It’s been eight months, Alice.”
“Don’t you think I know how long it’s been? They haven’t paid yet.”
“Well… when will they pay?”
“Rafe, do me a favor, okay? Get in your truck and go wherever you have to go. You’re not doing any good here.”
“I’m just trying to help,” he says, almost plaintively, but she has already moved away from him to where a wall phone hangs over the kitchen counter. She picks up the receiver.
“Who are you calling?” Sloate asks at once.
“Charlie.”
“He’s done enough damage already. Asking questions…”
“He found out she’s a blonde!” Alice snaps. “You sit here with your earphones on, and your expensive equipment, twiddling dials, while a fifty-six-year-old artist—”
“We already know she’s a blonde,” Sloate says.
“What?”
“We already—”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” she says, slamming the phone onto the hook. “These are my children! Why isn’t anyone telling me anything?”
She realizes she is screaming at him. She clenches her fists, turns away. She wants to punch Sloate. She wants to punch anyone.
“I’m calling Charlie,” she says, and picks up the phone again.
“This is a mistake,” Sloate says.
But she is already dialing.
“Hello?”
“Charlie? It’s me.”
“What does the blonde want you to do?”
“Bring her the money.”
“Have you got it?”
“Phony bills, yes.”
“That’s dangerous.”
“I know, but…”
“They’re not locals,” Charlie says. “The blonde was driving a rental car.”
Sloate’s eyes open wide.
“How do you know?” Alice asks.
“Guard saw an Avis bumper sticker. I went to the airport, checked on it—”
“Jesus!” Sloate says.
“—they wouldn’t tell me anything. But now that the cops are all over you, maybe they can find out who rented that Impala.”
“Maybe.”
“Where’d that woman ask you to leave the money?”
“Don’t tell him!” Sloate warns.
“The Shell station on Lewiston and the Trail.”
“What time?”
“Don’t…”
“Ten tomorrow morning.”
“Good luck, Alice.”
“Thanks, Charlie.”
She hangs up, looks Sloate dead in the eye.
“Think you can find that car now?” she asks.
Sloate turns to Sally Ballew.
“Make yourself useful, Sal,” he says. “We’re looking for a blue Impala, maybe rented from Avis by a blonde in her thirties.”
“Piece of cake,” Sally says dryly.
As she and her partner leave the house, the grandfather clock in the hallway reads 8:30 P . M .
When they first moved down here, the kids thought they’d died and gone to heaven. Before they bought the boat, Eddie and Alice used to take them to the beach on every sunny weekend. After they owned the Jamash, it was day trips up and down the Intercoastal or out onto the Gulf when the seas weren’t too rough. At the beach one day…
She remembers this now with sharp poignancy.
Remembers it with an immediacy that is painfully relevant.
Jamie is three years old, and fancies himself to be an interviewer on one of his favorite kiddie TV shows. One hand in his sister’s, the other wrapped around a toy shovel he pretends is a microphone, he wanders up the beach, stopping at every blanket, thrusting the shovel-mike at each surprised sunbather, asking in his piping little voice, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
Tirelessly, he parades the beach with his sister, a relentless, pint-sized investigative journalist.
What do you want to be when you grow up?
One day…
Oh God, that frantic day…
They know they are not to go anywhere near the water. The waves that roll in here are usually benign, even at high tide, but the children know that they are not to approach the water unless Eddie or Alice is with them. They know this. And usually, they wander up the beach for… oh, ten minutes or so… Ashley inordinately proud of her little brother’s interviewing
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