Cooler Than Blood by Robert Lane Page B

directly from the airport are the worst. Their senses quickly overdose on the blue sky, palm trees, endless Gulf, alcohol, and girls in thongs. Susan said the newbies are easy to spot; they chatter like chipmunks on weed into their phones. She spun around, placed the hurricane glass in front of the man, and worked her way down the bar, taking orders. It wasn’t the time or place. I walked out and onto the public beach on the other side of the pier.
    The sinking summer sun hadn’t surrendered any of its intensity. I crouched in the shade of a deserted beach umbrella. On the Gulf, a listing sailboat came about, its spinnaker dancing in front of the sun like a ballerina flirting with a spotlight. A black skimmer approached me as if I were its long-lost buddy. Must’ve been my day for birds. I dialed McGlashan but got his voice mail. I was halfway through leaving a message when he called.
    He asked me how I’d enjoyed my trip up north. I thanked him for greasing the rails with his call to the Hocking County sheriff. My sarcasm didn’t escape him.
    “They didn’t plug you, right?”
    He reiterated that Jenny was eighteen, and while her encounter with Billy Ray put her disappearance into question, she was free to travel. The department didn’t view her absence as a crime. I asked him when I could talk with his partner, Detective Eric Rutledge, and listen to the interview tape. He said Rutledge was due back from Vegas that evening, and he’d see what he could arrange. We disconnected, and I headed back to the condo.
    Morgan stood in the kitchen rubbing fillets with olive oil. Lucinda Williams was in the air asking someone to make her moan at the ceiling. I raised my hand, but she kept singing as if I weren’t even there. Perhaps she didn’t hear me.
    “Fillets or sauce?” he asked.
    “What do you got?”
    “Trout.”
    “Go out yourself?”
    “Guy I met at Fish Head. What will it be—grill or stove?”
    “I’ll do the sauce.”
    He brushed past me with the fillets on a large plate in his right hand. Salt and pepper shakers the size of bananas hung out of the pocket of his cargo shorts. In his left hand, a bowl-shaped wineglass sloshed red wine.
    “Where’d you get the glasses?” I asked. Another one rested on the counter.
    “Little joint at Santini Plaza,” he answered without turning and padded out the door, his bare feet slapping the tiled surface. I poured a glass of wine. I put the glass down, reached into the refrigerator, and took out a beer. I swigged half in one act. I tossed down four Oreos. A handful of cashews. Devoured a chunk of Welsh cheddar. When I’m hungry, I’m random.
    I put on a pot of water and turned the burner to high. On another burner, I heated olive oil in the skillet. I diced half an onion and a whole tomato and dumped them into the skillet. It registered their arrival with a nasty hiss. I added oregano, salt, pepper, tapenade, freshly squeezed lemon, and basil. The water in the pot convulsed in a boil. I gently placed a pound of royal red shrimp into the frothing surface, being careful not to splash—I had no shoes on, and I had experience in how painful it could have been. I added a sprinkle of garlic, and at exactly four and a half minutes, I took the reds out. I stripped them of their shells and legs, cut each one into three sections, and mixed them into the skillet. I had held two back and ate them. Like a dog, I nearly burned my tongue. I rinsed it with the rest of the beer.
    I poured the sauce into a white ceramic bowl that had permanent scratch marks on its bottom, stuffed two bottled waters into the pockets of my shorts, snatched a loaf of bread, and started toward the door. I returned and added forks, plates, and a wad of paper towels to my collection.
    Morgan and I claimed a front-row wooden cabana. The cushions were stored away for the night, and the canvas was laid down. The moon hung over Sanibel as if it was tethered to the island. As the sea drank the sun, we took