who linked him to the world of crooks and fibs and ill-gotten cash, and thereby kept him interested in life.
*
Having registered under an alias, hit some stores for the rudiments of a tropical wardrobe, and had a nap under the ceiling fan, Angelina stood now on her tree-shaded balcony with its wicker settee and whitewashed gingerbread, and surveyed the postage-stamp paradise that was the courtyard of the Coral Shores resort.
Palms arched up from patches of white gravel, brown-tipped fronds scratched like hordes of crickets at the slightest breeze; hibiscus hedges squeezed out hot pink flowers from tangles of pale green leaves. Wooden lounges were arrayed around a pool shaped like a lima bean, and Angelina discovered that not everyone went around entirely unclothed. It was true that, here and there, a pair of pinkened buttocks saluted the sky, a blur of genitals spilled out from a nest of pubic hair. But most of the men wore tiny pastel bathing suits or kept their towels wrapped around them until they stepped into the pool or slipped into the sudsing and redundant warmth of the hot tub.
Angelina leaned across her balcony railing and sighed. These undressed men neither titillated her nor put her off, and she wondered if this was normal, if maybe something was wrong with her, after all. She had that simmer deep inside, she knew she did—but the warmth did not come out, nor did fresh heat apparently seep in to stoke it. Like an old crystal radio, she was locked on just one channel, thrummed to just one frequency. Or maybe she was being titillated all the time and had just stopped knowing it, maybe desire was always slowly accruing, like airborne toxins or like money in the bank.
She locked her room and went downstairs.
Crossing the courtyard, pretending not to be looking for him, pretending not to be lonely and afraid, she spotted Michael. Draped in a towel, he was catching late yellow sun and looking at promotional brochures. It surprised her that he was sitting alone. She'd imagined that he would move very easily, if not into romantic escapades, at least into some sort of breezy and congenial social life.
"Hello again," she said. "How are you?"
He must have seen something in her face, some comment on his solitude, because his answer sounded a little forced. "Great," he said. "Just relaxing. Settling in. And you?"
"Terrific," she said, though the truth was her stomach was in a knot at the thought of moving her yearning for Sal Martucci out of the realm of pristine fantasy and into smoky taverns and steamy crowded streets where she might conceivably find him in the flesh.
"Off to sightsee?" Michael asked her.
"Happy hour," said Angelina, and could not hold back a cockeyed smile at the perverseness of the phrase. "Gonna check out a couple bars."
Michael's sandy eyebrows moved the slightest bit closer together; he fingered his three stud earrings; he looked at her. Her imperfectly pouffed-up hair was translucent behind the passé headband; her bra strap showed haphazardly under a sleeveless blouse that was not quite red and not quite pink; she was wearing brand-new sandals that would surely hurt her feet after a few hundred yards of sidewalk. She did not look to Michael like a person who started doing bars at five P.M.
"Have fun," was all he said.
"You too," said Angelina.
6
But Ziggy wasn't working happy hour that evening.
As Angelina was heading out into the libidinous tourist clutter of Duval Street, he was half a mile away, driving slowly through a locals' precinct that tested the line between tropical funk and simple squalor. His archaic hulking Oldsmobile passed squat cinder-block houses that were painted pink and green, and through whose open doorways babies wailed and televisions blared. Plastic tricycles and cracked coolers stood in weedy yards strewn with the husks of fallen fronds; unseen chickens burbled behind a fence of woven reeds.
Ziggy parked on Bertha Street and climbed the single cracked step to
*
Having registered under an alias, hit some stores for the rudiments of a tropical wardrobe, and had a nap under the ceiling fan, Angelina stood now on her tree-shaded balcony with its wicker settee and whitewashed gingerbread, and surveyed the postage-stamp paradise that was the courtyard of the Coral Shores resort.
Palms arched up from patches of white gravel, brown-tipped fronds scratched like hordes of crickets at the slightest breeze; hibiscus hedges squeezed out hot pink flowers from tangles of pale green leaves. Wooden lounges were arrayed around a pool shaped like a lima bean, and Angelina discovered that not everyone went around entirely unclothed. It was true that, here and there, a pair of pinkened buttocks saluted the sky, a blur of genitals spilled out from a nest of pubic hair. But most of the men wore tiny pastel bathing suits or kept their towels wrapped around them until they stepped into the pool or slipped into the sudsing and redundant warmth of the hot tub.
Angelina leaned across her balcony railing and sighed. These undressed men neither titillated her nor put her off, and she wondered if this was normal, if maybe something was wrong with her, after all. She had that simmer deep inside, she knew she did—but the warmth did not come out, nor did fresh heat apparently seep in to stoke it. Like an old crystal radio, she was locked on just one channel, thrummed to just one frequency. Or maybe she was being titillated all the time and had just stopped knowing it, maybe desire was always slowly accruing, like airborne toxins or like money in the bank.
She locked her room and went downstairs.
Crossing the courtyard, pretending not to be looking for him, pretending not to be lonely and afraid, she spotted Michael. Draped in a towel, he was catching late yellow sun and looking at promotional brochures. It surprised her that he was sitting alone. She'd imagined that he would move very easily, if not into romantic escapades, at least into some sort of breezy and congenial social life.
"Hello again," she said. "How are you?"
He must have seen something in her face, some comment on his solitude, because his answer sounded a little forced. "Great," he said. "Just relaxing. Settling in. And you?"
"Terrific," she said, though the truth was her stomach was in a knot at the thought of moving her yearning for Sal Martucci out of the realm of pristine fantasy and into smoky taverns and steamy crowded streets where she might conceivably find him in the flesh.
"Off to sightsee?" Michael asked her.
"Happy hour," said Angelina, and could not hold back a cockeyed smile at the perverseness of the phrase. "Gonna check out a couple bars."
Michael's sandy eyebrows moved the slightest bit closer together; he fingered his three stud earrings; he looked at her. Her imperfectly pouffed-up hair was translucent behind the passé headband; her bra strap showed haphazardly under a sleeveless blouse that was not quite red and not quite pink; she was wearing brand-new sandals that would surely hurt her feet after a few hundred yards of sidewalk. She did not look to Michael like a person who started doing bars at five P.M.
"Have fun," was all he said.
"You too," said Angelina.
6
But Ziggy wasn't working happy hour that evening.
As Angelina was heading out into the libidinous tourist clutter of Duval Street, he was half a mile away, driving slowly through a locals' precinct that tested the line between tropical funk and simple squalor. His archaic hulking Oldsmobile passed squat cinder-block houses that were painted pink and green, and through whose open doorways babies wailed and televisions blared. Plastic tricycles and cracked coolers stood in weedy yards strewn with the husks of fallen fronds; unseen chickens burbled behind a fence of woven reeds.
Ziggy parked on Bertha Street and climbed the single cracked step to
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