an inferno. Flame. Smoke. Crackling. Things snapping. Tischman, mouth wide, writhes slowly. Hands opening and closing. Eyes melting. Clothes burning away. Flesh charring.
Briscoe waits patiently. Standing amidst the fire. Untouched. Then, when he sees Tischman is still, a black crisp, he walks out of the office calmly. He sees people running toward the blazing office. But he saunters back to his parked car. Fresh air is an offense. He relishes the scent of burning things. And ash.
28
S ally Abaddon is no dummy. She reports the anonymous phone call to Shelby Yama and Briscoe.
“What the hell is going on?” she asks. “Nothing,” Briscoe says. “Forget it.” “Is Dancer’s home really bugged?” “You have no need to know,” Briscoe says. Later, when they’re alone, Yama asks him, “What is this? You checking up on her?”
“Yeah,” Briscoe says. Staring at the case officer. “Any objections?” “No, no,” Yama says. “Can’t be too careful.” “Uh-huh,” Briscoe says. Giving him a wisenheimer grin.
It limits Sally. She knows her place is tapped.
And now Harry’s home is covered. She considers what she might do: Rent another motel room without informing the Department. Or take Dancer to a different hot-pillow joint every time she sees him.
She realizes neither will work. Briscoe will demand to know where she went with the subject. What they said. What they did. And why wasn’t it on tape?
She and Dancer go to the jai alai matches at Dania. Lose a few bucks. Then have dinner at a funky rib joint on Federal Highway. Drive home through thin traffic. The season is over; snowbirds have gone.
“You feel like a little tender, loving care?” she asks him.
“Why not?” he says. “Where?”
“Your place. Outside. On the patio or beach. I want to look at the stars. How many are there?”
He has no shame at repeating a good line.
“Six hundred million,” he says, “four hundred and thirty-one thousand, eight hundred and fourteen.”
She laughs. Puts a hand on his thigh. “You’re crazy,” she says.
“True.”
They take cans of Michelob encased in plastic foam coolers. Start walking south on the beach. Few people about. Lovers. Jogger. Woman searching for shells with a flashlight. Man surf-casting. Patiently. Hopelessly.
There are no stars. A thick night roofed with clouds. Air is still, heavy. Far to the south, around Pompano, they see lightning flickering. Dimly.
But the fishing boats are out. In a cluster of lights.
“Something must be running,” Dancer says. “Is it season for blues?”
“Blues?”
“Bluefish. You ever go fishing?”
“No,” she says. Thinking that is not strictly accurate. “I did once, but didn’t catch anything and got an awful sunburn. My nose peeled for days.”
“There’s so little I know about you,” Dancer says. “I know you’re not from Florida. At least you don’t talk like a native.”
“New England,” she says. “Originally. Salem, Massachusetts.”
“Oh-ho! Where the witches come from.”
“That’s right.”
“Are you a witch?”
“I try,” she says. Laughing.
“Well, you succeed. You’ve bewitched me.”
“Have I? Have I really, Harry?”
They stroll with linked hands. Sometimes dashing up onto dry sand when a big wave comes in, white froth clawing for them.
“How long did you live in Salem?” he asks her.
“Not long. My father was a traveling salesman. We were always moving around the country as he got transferred from one region to another.”
“Oh? What did he sell?”
“Fire insurance. Mostly to farmers. He never got rich at it, but he made a good living.”
“And I suppose you got switched from one school to another.”
“That’s right. More than I can remember. I finally graduated from high school in Hadesville, Texas. You know where that is?”
“No.”
“You’re lucky. Harry, let’s turn back. This soft sand is tough to walk in.”
They plod back to Dancer’s home.
“Then what?”
Briscoe waits patiently. Standing amidst the fire. Untouched. Then, when he sees Tischman is still, a black crisp, he walks out of the office calmly. He sees people running toward the blazing office. But he saunters back to his parked car. Fresh air is an offense. He relishes the scent of burning things. And ash.
28
S ally Abaddon is no dummy. She reports the anonymous phone call to Shelby Yama and Briscoe.
“What the hell is going on?” she asks. “Nothing,” Briscoe says. “Forget it.” “Is Dancer’s home really bugged?” “You have no need to know,” Briscoe says. Later, when they’re alone, Yama asks him, “What is this? You checking up on her?”
“Yeah,” Briscoe says. Staring at the case officer. “Any objections?” “No, no,” Yama says. “Can’t be too careful.” “Uh-huh,” Briscoe says. Giving him a wisenheimer grin.
It limits Sally. She knows her place is tapped.
And now Harry’s home is covered. She considers what she might do: Rent another motel room without informing the Department. Or take Dancer to a different hot-pillow joint every time she sees him.
She realizes neither will work. Briscoe will demand to know where she went with the subject. What they said. What they did. And why wasn’t it on tape?
She and Dancer go to the jai alai matches at Dania. Lose a few bucks. Then have dinner at a funky rib joint on Federal Highway. Drive home through thin traffic. The season is over; snowbirds have gone.
“You feel like a little tender, loving care?” she asks him.
“Why not?” he says. “Where?”
“Your place. Outside. On the patio or beach. I want to look at the stars. How many are there?”
He has no shame at repeating a good line.
“Six hundred million,” he says, “four hundred and thirty-one thousand, eight hundred and fourteen.”
She laughs. Puts a hand on his thigh. “You’re crazy,” she says.
“True.”
They take cans of Michelob encased in plastic foam coolers. Start walking south on the beach. Few people about. Lovers. Jogger. Woman searching for shells with a flashlight. Man surf-casting. Patiently. Hopelessly.
There are no stars. A thick night roofed with clouds. Air is still, heavy. Far to the south, around Pompano, they see lightning flickering. Dimly.
But the fishing boats are out. In a cluster of lights.
“Something must be running,” Dancer says. “Is it season for blues?”
“Blues?”
“Bluefish. You ever go fishing?”
“No,” she says. Thinking that is not strictly accurate. “I did once, but didn’t catch anything and got an awful sunburn. My nose peeled for days.”
“There’s so little I know about you,” Dancer says. “I know you’re not from Florida. At least you don’t talk like a native.”
“New England,” she says. “Originally. Salem, Massachusetts.”
“Oh-ho! Where the witches come from.”
“That’s right.”
“Are you a witch?”
“I try,” she says. Laughing.
“Well, you succeed. You’ve bewitched me.”
“Have I? Have I really, Harry?”
They stroll with linked hands. Sometimes dashing up onto dry sand when a big wave comes in, white froth clawing for them.
“How long did you live in Salem?” he asks her.
“Not long. My father was a traveling salesman. We were always moving around the country as he got transferred from one region to another.”
“Oh? What did he sell?”
“Fire insurance. Mostly to farmers. He never got rich at it, but he made a good living.”
“And I suppose you got switched from one school to another.”
“That’s right. More than I can remember. I finally graduated from high school in Hadesville, Texas. You know where that is?”
“No.”
“You’re lucky. Harry, let’s turn back. This soft sand is tough to walk in.”
They plod back to Dancer’s home.
“Then what?”
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