Duma Key(13)

As I was thinking it, Jack Cantori was saying it. Then he grinned. "Don't worry, though; I'm sure you'll get plenty of warning. You'll hear it groaning."

"Like the House of Usher," I said.

His grin widened. "But it's probably good for another five years or so. Otherwise it'd be condemned."

"Don't be so sure," I said. Jack had reversed to the driveway door, so the trunk would be easy to unload. Not a lot in there; three suitcases, one garment bag, a steel hardcase with my laptop inside, and a knapsack containing some primitive art supplies - mostly pads and colored pencils. I traveled light when I left my other life. I figured what I'd need most in my new one was my checkbook and my American Express card.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Someone who could afford to build here in the first place could probably talk a couple of B-and-C inspectors around."

"B- and-C? What's that?"

For a moment I couldn't tell him. I could see what I meant: men in white shirts and ties, wearing yellow hi-impact plastic hardhats on their heads and carrying clipboards in their hands. I could even see the pens in their shirt pockets, and the plastic pocket-protectors to which they were clipped. The devil's in the details, right? But I couldn't think of what B-and-C stood for, although I knew it as well as my own name. And instantly I was furious. Instantly it seemed that making my left hand into a fist and driving it sideways into the unprotected Adam's apple of the young man sitting beside me was the most reasonable thing in the world. Almost imperative. Because it was his question that had hung me up.

"Mr. Freemantle?"

"Just a sec," I said, and thought: I can do this.

I thought of Don Field, the guy who had inspected at least half of my buildings in the nineties (or so it seemed), and my mind did its crosspatch thing. I realized I'd been sitting bolt upright, my hands clenched in my lap. I could see why the kid had sounded concerned. I looked like a man having a gastric episode. Or a heart attack.

"Sorry," I said. "I had an accident. Banged my head. Sometimes my mind stutters."

"Don't worry about it," Jack said. "No biggie."

"B- and-C is Building and Code. Basically they're the guys who decide if your building is going to fall down or not."

"You talking about bribes?" My new young employee looked glum. "Well, I'm sure it happens, especially down here. Money talks."

"Don't be so cynical. Sometimes it's just a matter of friendship. Your builders, your contractors, your building-code inspectors, even your OSHA guys... they usually drink in the same bars, and they all went to the same schools." I laughed. "Reform schools, in some cases."

Jack said, "They condemned a couple beach houses at the north end of Casey Key when the erosion there sped up. One of em actually did fall into the drink."

"Well, as you say, I'll probably hear it groaning, and it looks safe enough for the time being. Let's get my stuff inside."

I opened my door, got out, then staggered as my bad hip locked up. If I hadn't gotten my crutch planted in time, I would have said hello to Big Pink by sprawling on her stone doorstep.

" I'll get the stuff in," Jack said. "You better go in and sit down, Mr. Freemantle. A cold drink wouldn't hurt, either. You look really tired."

iv

The traveling had caught up with me, and I was more than tired. By the time I eased into a living room armchair (listing to the left, as usual, and trying to keep my right leg as straight as possible), I was willing to admit to myself that I was exhausted.

Yet not homesick, at least not yet. As Jack went back and forth, stowing my bags in the bigger of the two bedrooms and putting the laptop on the desk in the smaller one, my eye kept being drawn to the living room's western wall, which was all glass, and the Florida room beyond it, and the Gulf of Mexico beyond that. It was a vast blue expanse, flat as a plate on that hot November afternoon, and even with the sliding glass window-wall shut, I could hear its mild and steady sighing. I thought, It has no memory. It was an odd thought, and strangely optimistic. When it came to memory - and anger - I still had my issues.

Jack came back from the guest room and sat on the arm of the couch - the perch, I thought, of a young man who wants to be gone. "You've got all your basic staples," he said, "plus salad-in-a-bag, hamburger, and one of those cooked chickens in a plastic capsule - we call em Astronaut Chickens at my house. I hope that's okay with you."

"Fine."

"Two per cent milk-"

"Also fine."

" - and Half-n-Half. I can get you real cream next time, if you want it."

"You want to clog my one remaining artery?"

He laughed. "There's a little pantry with all kinds of canned shi... stuff. The cable's hooked up, the computer's Internet-ready - I got you Wi-Fi, costs a little extra, but it's way cool - and I can get satellite installed if you want it."

I shook my head. He was a good kid, but I wanted to listen to the Gulf, sweet-talking me with words it wouldn't remember a minute later. And I wanted to listen to the house, see if it had anything to say. I had an idea maybe it did.

"The keys're in an envelope on the kitchen table - car keys, too - and a list of numbers you might need are on the fridge. I've got classes at FSU in Sarasota every day except Monday, but I'll be carrying my cell, and I'll be coming by Tuesdays and Thursdays at five unless we make a different arrangement. Is that okay?"