Killer Move - Michael Marshall [58]
I knew I should be getting myself the hell back to base. Hallam had told me so (and I did feel a measure of relief, or at least a sense of having done the right thing, having mentioned Stephanie’s not-being-aroundness to him). Karren had told me that was the best place to be, too, if I wanted to get a jump-start on placating my wife. I knew it on every other level, including that it simply wasn’t a great idea to be seen getting drunk on the Circle, one of my key areas of business.
I’d known all these things when I ordered the previous beer, however. I wished I’d simply gone home after the first drink at Krank’s, sat in a chair, and waited for my wife. I would have been in the right place, possessed of righteousness: here I am, ready and willing to sort things out—and where the heck have you been, my love? Now I was in the wrong place, and drunk, and apparently intent on paddling myself further and further up a side creek of wrong action.
“Is that one of those phones where if you stare at it hard enough you can get it to explode? Because that would be cool.”
I looked up, startled.
At first I thought someone at one of the nearby tables must have spoken. Then I saw a slim figure ten feet away, just out of range of the bar’s lights.
“Who’s that?”
She stepped forward. It was Cassandra. She was carrying a paper grocery bag crooked in one arm.
“Oh,” I said. “Sorry. I was miles away.”
“Without a map, by the look of it. May I join you?”
She sat neatly, the bag perched on her lap like a well-behaved little dog. “So what’s up, Mr. Moore?”
“Up?”
“Just wondering why you might be here all by yourself. And glaring at your phone like that. As if it was a really very naughty phone indeed.”
“Battery’s nearly dead,” I said. “And I’m . . . It would just be good if it didn’t run out right now.”
“You want a charge?”
“You can do that?”
“Well, duh. Do I look Amish?”
I stared at her owlishly, wondering how exactly she could achieve this outside a bar. She laughed.
“You would need to take a short walk back to my apartment. Where I have a USB charger cable for a phone such as yours, along with many other technical goodies and gewgaws.”
“Is it far? Actually, I have a car with me.”
“I’m sure you do. But—and please don’t take this personally—I’m thinking some foot-based locomotion would be a smart tactical choice for you right now. Certainly before attempting to steer a large chunk of metal back to the mainland.”
I thought for a moment. Okay, weird idea, but she was right—I was too drunk to drive, however slowly and methodically. Short walk, charge phone, get car, head home. That could work. It even kind of rhymed.
“That would be great,” I said.
I went indoors and found my waitress, paid. I caught a glimpse of the other waitress, the one from our anniversary night, on the other side of the room. She recognized me and gave a small, distracted nod. I thought about making my way over and asking if she’d seen my wife—you know, the woman I had dinner with upstairs the other night—but the room was crowded and I knew it would look drunk and strange, so I did not. I thought I’d got the drunk/strange look nailed pretty well already, without going to any extra effort.
Cassandra was standing on the sidewalk under a streetlight. She looked like the cover from some 1950s novel about an innocent in the big city, or would have if the Circle looked even slightly urban, and if they’d had emo chicks back in those days.
“Follow me, sire,” she said.
We walked up the road onto Lido Key. From there it was a long straight stroll along Ben Franklin Drive, past the car park for the beach and the looming hulks of condo developments. Lido is small, intimate, with a crescent moon of white sand beach about half a mile in length. At the far end, the key abruptly becomes much wilder, acres and acres of trees, bush, and near swamp around a couple of large, natural