The Water Keeper(78)

I shook my head. “It’s not good. We’re looking for the proverbial needle.”

“Angel’s tough. She’ll fight.”

I chose not to tell her what my experience told me about such girls. “I know.” I had an idea. It was a long shot, but I pointed to the sidewalk that led to Mallory Square. “Can I buy you a beer?”

She chuckled. “You flirting with me?”

“While I would like that, I was actually thinking we might use you as bait, if you’ll forgive the analogy.”

“What?”

“I want you to walk through the square, looking forlorn. A beer in your hand. A woman scorned. Watch the sun go down.”

She half smiled. “That’s called ‘trolling.’”

I nodded.

“Why?”

“Because I think you’ll be noticed. And honestly, I need you to be.” I weighed my head side to side. “You game?”

She stood and began wrapping the towel around her. “I thought you were asking me to watch the sunset with you.”

I placed my hand on the towel. “Maybe some other time.”

“I can’t go walking up there like this.”

“This is Key West. You’ll fit right in.”

“But I feel naked.”

I laughed. “You sure haven’t left much to the imagination.”

She blushed. “I knew I should have found something else.”

I held her hand. “You’re going to draw attention like a puppy in the park. Every man out there will notice you, and right now we need that.”

“Murph—”

“I’ll be close. I just need you to mildly entertain any guy who begins talking with you and asking you questions. Specifically questions as to whether you’re alone. Don’t be easy, but don’t be quick to brush them off. Be—”

She slid on her sunglasses. “Just what is this going to accomplish?”

“Guys who sell flesh like to be in places where they can spot it.” I pointed to the hotel rooms with a view of the square and the water. “They rent those rooms for the sole purpose of people-watching. They’re pros at spotting the available and the unavailable. So let’s go fishing.”

Completing the look, she pulled a ball cap down over her eyes and began walking toward the bar, her hips swaying slightly more than usual. “I’m not sure whether to take that as a compliment or not.”

She bought herself a beer and walked off barefooted toward the crowds. Sunset was still an hour away, so we had time. Summer sauntered. Walking slowly. Trolling.

She stood at the railing overlooking the water. Leaning. Sipping her beer. Staring out across the waves. Lost in thought while oblivious to every man around her. To her credit, she had all their attention. I’m not sure whether it’s design or happenstance, but women’s bathing suits have a way of crawling up their backsides the more they move around. Most girls will routinely “fix” the situation so they’re not showing their untanned derrieres to the world.

Summer’s suit had inched into such a condition, but for whatever reason she didn’t fix it. She left it alone. Giving everyone a pretty good look. As I walked behind at a relatively safe distance, I wasn’t quite sure if that was for the benefit of the guys who might be watching or for me. I chuckled. You can take the girl off Broadway, but you can’t take Broadway out of the girl. She was quite good in the leading role.

Every man in Mallory Square had noticed Summer by now. A few dabbled in conversation with her, but she feigned disinterest. Adding complexity to the perception of a broken heart.

Thirty minutes later, she bought a second beer and moved closer to the point—where the crowds formed large circles around the street performers waiting on the sun. Consumed in her own thoughts, Summer strayed close enough to the crowd to be noticed while not so close as to be involved in the happiness they were selling. She heard the laughter; she just didn’t join in. A couple of brave men, lathered in suntan oil, swollen with muscle, and draped in gold chains and more chest hair than silverback gorillas, made attempts at small talk. She responded but initiated nothing. Leaving her to watch the sunset alone.

Which she did. Her act was so convincing, I wondered whether it was an act.

Watching her watch the sunset was difficult. I’d done the same thing from much the same location for nearly a year of my life. The ping and pain of the memory returned.

The sun turned crimson, then pink, followed by purple, then deep blue. Then it disappeared. The crowd toasted the curtain call, applauded, and returned to their tables and blenders. Summer lingered. Choosing a bench and sitting alone. Thirty minutes later, a man appeared. Bearded. White hair. Tattered shorts. Straw hat. Flip-flops. Walking a dog. His forearms were rippled, suggesting more muscle beneath his baggy clothing. He allowed the dog to wander close to Summer. She took the bait and petted the dog, who hopped up on the bench next to her. The man laughed but didn’t pressure her. Didn’t pull the dog away. They talked, and two minutes turned into five. Which turned into eight. He was good. Finally, he pulled out a pen and wrote something on her hand, which she tenderly allowed. When finished, he tipped his hat and continued on his way.

Summer glanced at me and returned down the boardwalk to the hotel.

When I turned, Clay stood next to me. I had not known he was there. Leaning against a lamppost. His eyes were trained on the man. I asked without looking at him, “You good?”