Duma Key(47)

"Who pays the taxes?"

He looked surprised, then laughed. "I enjoy you more and more, vato."

"My other life," I reminded him. I was already liking the sound of that other-life thing.

"Right. Then you'll appreciate this," he said. "It's clever. All three of John Eastlake's last wills and testaments contained identical clauses setting up a trust fund to pay the taxes. The original investment company administering the trust has been absorbed since then - in fact the absorbing company has been absorbed-"

"It's the way America does business," I said.

"It is indeed. In any case, the fund has never been in danger of going broke and the taxes are paid like clockwork every year."

"Money talks, bullshit walks."

"It's the truth." He stood up, put his hands in the small of his back, and twisted it. "Would you like to come up to the house and meet the boss? She should be arising from her nap just about now. She has her problems, but even at eighty-five she's quite the babe."

This wasn't the time to tell him I thought I already had met her - briefly - courtesy of my answering machine. "Another day. When the hilarity subsides."

He nodded. "Walk down tomorrow afternoon, if you like."

"Maybe I will. It's been real." I held out my hand again. He shook it again, looking at the stump of my right arm as he did so.

"No prosthesis? Or do you just leave it off when you're not among the hoi polloi?"

I had a story I told people about that - nerve-pain in the stump - but it was a lie, and I didn't want to lie to Wireman. Partly because he had a nose attuned to the delicate smell of bullshit, but mostly because I just didn't want to lie to him.

"I was measured for one while I was still in the hospital, of course, and I got the hard sell on it from just about everyone - especially my physical therapist and this psychologist friend of mine. They said the quicker I learned to use it, the quicker I'd be able to get on with my life-"

"Just put the whole thing behind you and go on dancing-"

"Yes."

"Only sometimes putting a thing behind you isn't so easy to do."

"No."

"Sometimes it's not even right," Wireman said.

"That isn't it, exactly, but it's..." I trailed off and seesawed my hand in the air.

"Close enough for rock and roll?"

"Yes," I said. "Thanks for the cold drink."

"Come on back and get another one. I only take the sun between two and three - an hour a day is enough for me - but Miss Eastlake either sleeps or rearranges her china figurines most of the afternoon, and of course she never misses Oprah, so I have time. More than I know what to do with, actually. Who knows? We might find a lot to talk about."

"All right," I said. "Sounds good."

Wireman grinned. It made him handsome. He offered his hand and I shook with him again. "You know what I think? Friendships founded on laughter are always fortuitous."

"Maybe your next job will be writing the fortunes in Chinese cookies," I said.

"There could be worse jobs, muchacho. Far worse."

iv

Walking back, my thoughts turned to Miss Eastlake, an old lady in big blue sneakers and a wide straw hat who just happened to own (sort of) her own Florida Key. Not the Bride of the Godfather after all, but Daughter of the Land Baron and, apparently, Patroness of the Arts. My mind had done another of those weird slip-slides and I couldn't remember her father's name (something simple, only one syllable), but I remembered the basic situation as Wireman had outlined it. I'd never heard of anything similar, and when you build for a living, you see all sorts of strange property arrangements. I thought it was actually rather ingenious... if, that was, you wanted to keep most of your little kingdom in a state of undeveloped grace. The question was, why?

I was most of the way back to Big Pink before I realized my leg was aching like a bastard. I limped inside, slurped water directly from the kitchen tap, then made my way across the living room to the main bedroom. I saw the light on the answering machine was blinking, but I wanted nothing to do with messages from the outside world right then. All I wanted was to get off my feet.

I lay down and looked at the slowly revolving blades of the overhead fan. I hadn't done very well explaining my lack of a fake arm. I wondered if Wireman would've had better luck with What's a lawyer doing as a rich old spinster's houseman? What kind of other life is that?

Still considering this, I drifted off into a dreamless and very satisfying nap.

v

When I woke up, I took a hot shower, then went into the living room to check my answering machine. I wasn't as stiff as I had expected, given my two-mile walk. I might get up tomorrow hobbling, but for tonight I thought I was going to be all right.

The message was from Jack. He said his mother had connected him with someone named Dario Nannuzzi, and Nannuzzi would be happy to look at my pictures between four and five PM on Friday afternoon - could I bring no more than ten of those I considered best to the Scoto Gallery? No sketches; Nannuzzi only wanted to see finished work.

I felt a tickle of unease at this -

No, that's not even close to what I felt.

My stomach cramped and I could have sworn my bowels dropped three inches. Nor was that the worst. That half-itch, half-pain swarmed up my right side and down the arm that was no longer there. I told myself such feelings - which amounted to three-days-in-advance flop-sweat - were stupid. I had once made a ten-million-dollar pitch to the St. Paul City Council, which at that time had included a man who'd gone on to become the Governor of Minnesota. I'd seen two girls through first dance recitals, cheerleading tryouts, driving lessons, and the hell of adolescence. What was showing some of my paintings to an art gallery guy compared to that?