Talking about Brenda, all that.”
“It’s OK, Sugar. I understand.”
“Well,” Sugarman said, starting over now, watching Thorn close. “Ricki said, she wanted to know was there going to be a funeral.”
Thorn said, “She’s already thinking about that?”
“I said probably, far as I knew.”
“Kate never said what she wanted. Dr. Bill was cremated. Dumped at sea. I guess that’s the thing. What else is there? That or dynamite a hole in the limestone behind the goddamn house.”
A flock of ibis was grazing on the lawn, poking at palmetto bugs, silk spiders. Thorn stared at his hands. He could still feel the jolt from shoving Sugarman. Second time in twenty years he’d used his hands that way. Sugarman and the nail whacker, all in one week.
He felt it rising in him. A hot surge. He wanted to wait, push it back down until a better time. This was still business. Questions. Answers.
Sugarman rose from the couch, sniffed. Put his sunglasses on. He cleared his throat and said, “I need to see that logbook. Wherever she might’ve kept records on her charters. Then I got to go take a look at the boat: There’s a couple of things there got us puzzled.”
“Like what?”
“It’s just something. Nothing, really. Let’s look around for that logbook.”
Thorn said, “Don’t keep hovering, Sugar, looking at me like that. I’m doing OK. It’s OK.”
There was a leather-bound logbook on her desk, but the last entry was two years earlier. Thorn browsed through the desk drawers, not stopping for the photos or matchbooks, the old report cards, diplomas, certificates for this and that. Later. He’d manage that next week.
Sugarman wandered through the kitchen, opening drawers, looking around the telephone for addresses, notes. He brought the Sierra Club calendar out to the living room.
“Your friend Sarah. What’s her last name?”
“Ryan.”
“Yeah,” Sugarman said. He put the calendar on the desk in front of Thorn. July. “She spent a lot of time with Kate. Twice a month, says here.”
“Hmmm.”
“What? That surprise you?”
“Some,” said Thorn. “I knew she was here once a month, but more than that, no.”
Sugarman massaged his forehead. “Says here she was out with Kate last Sunday.”
“Yeah, I saw her last weekend. And Thursday, she was down again for that wood rat meeting.”
“Then there’s this on Friday. ‘YT.’ Know what that is? Somebody’s name?”
Thorn thought about it.
“Yellowtail,” he said.
“I didn’t know Kate chartered out for yellowtail.”
“She and I, we yellowtailed some. But not charters. Not as far as I know.”
“Does, uh, Sarah strike you as maybe a little left of center? Maybe outside the law a little?”
“How’s that?”
“I don’t know, Thorn. I’m not real good at this, to tell the truth. Bullshitting, wheedling things out of people. I can’t get used to it.”
“What’s the story, Sugar? Go on, tell me.”
Sugarman sat down on the couch across from Thorn, squared off to face him. “There’s dope, marijuana, all over the Heart Pounder. Stems, leaves. Seeds. A half a pound scattered all over the deck. We’re sitting on that so the DEA guys don’t swarm all over this, but I don’t think we can do that much longer.”
Thorn was quiet.
“So, I see this calendar. Sarah down here twice a month, and I think maybe they’re doing a little contraband. Going out to some mother ship. Like a hobby.”
“Sugar, what in the hell are you talking about? Kate! Kate? And Sarah? She’s a public defender, for godsakes.”
“I’m just telling you what there is. How it appears at this moment. Sheriff’d have my ass if he knew I was even letting you in on this. He’s only letting me have a piece of this ’cause I’m close to you.”
“You can’t believe this. Kate? Dope?”
“There’s the remains of a bale. Plastic garbage bag, strapping tape holding it together.”
“Come on.”
“There’s other things it could be,”
“It’s OK, Sugar. I understand.”
“Well,” Sugarman said, starting over now, watching Thorn close. “Ricki said, she wanted to know was there going to be a funeral.”
Thorn said, “She’s already thinking about that?”
“I said probably, far as I knew.”
“Kate never said what she wanted. Dr. Bill was cremated. Dumped at sea. I guess that’s the thing. What else is there? That or dynamite a hole in the limestone behind the goddamn house.”
A flock of ibis was grazing on the lawn, poking at palmetto bugs, silk spiders. Thorn stared at his hands. He could still feel the jolt from shoving Sugarman. Second time in twenty years he’d used his hands that way. Sugarman and the nail whacker, all in one week.
He felt it rising in him. A hot surge. He wanted to wait, push it back down until a better time. This was still business. Questions. Answers.
Sugarman rose from the couch, sniffed. Put his sunglasses on. He cleared his throat and said, “I need to see that logbook. Wherever she might’ve kept records on her charters. Then I got to go take a look at the boat: There’s a couple of things there got us puzzled.”
“Like what?”
“It’s just something. Nothing, really. Let’s look around for that logbook.”
Thorn said, “Don’t keep hovering, Sugar, looking at me like that. I’m doing OK. It’s OK.”
There was a leather-bound logbook on her desk, but the last entry was two years earlier. Thorn browsed through the desk drawers, not stopping for the photos or matchbooks, the old report cards, diplomas, certificates for this and that. Later. He’d manage that next week.
Sugarman wandered through the kitchen, opening drawers, looking around the telephone for addresses, notes. He brought the Sierra Club calendar out to the living room.
“Your friend Sarah. What’s her last name?”
“Ryan.”
“Yeah,” Sugarman said. He put the calendar on the desk in front of Thorn. July. “She spent a lot of time with Kate. Twice a month, says here.”
“Hmmm.”
“What? That surprise you?”
“Some,” said Thorn. “I knew she was here once a month, but more than that, no.”
Sugarman massaged his forehead. “Says here she was out with Kate last Sunday.”
“Yeah, I saw her last weekend. And Thursday, she was down again for that wood rat meeting.”
“Then there’s this on Friday. ‘YT.’ Know what that is? Somebody’s name?”
Thorn thought about it.
“Yellowtail,” he said.
“I didn’t know Kate chartered out for yellowtail.”
“She and I, we yellowtailed some. But not charters. Not as far as I know.”
“Does, uh, Sarah strike you as maybe a little left of center? Maybe outside the law a little?”
“How’s that?”
“I don’t know, Thorn. I’m not real good at this, to tell the truth. Bullshitting, wheedling things out of people. I can’t get used to it.”
“What’s the story, Sugar? Go on, tell me.”
Sugarman sat down on the couch across from Thorn, squared off to face him. “There’s dope, marijuana, all over the Heart Pounder. Stems, leaves. Seeds. A half a pound scattered all over the deck. We’re sitting on that so the DEA guys don’t swarm all over this, but I don’t think we can do that much longer.”
Thorn was quiet.
“So, I see this calendar. Sarah down here twice a month, and I think maybe they’re doing a little contraband. Going out to some mother ship. Like a hobby.”
“Sugar, what in the hell are you talking about? Kate! Kate? And Sarah? She’s a public defender, for godsakes.”
“I’m just telling you what there is. How it appears at this moment. Sheriff’d have my ass if he knew I was even letting you in on this. He’s only letting me have a piece of this ’cause I’m close to you.”
“You can’t believe this. Kate? Dope?”
“There’s the remains of a bale. Plastic garbage bag, strapping tape holding it together.”
“Come on.”
“There’s other things it could be,”
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