The Murder of Miranda

Part III

The highway was known on both sides of the border as Numero Uno.

The border with its twenty-four gates was the busiest in the world, but most of the cars and vans and buses going into Mexico stopped at Tijuana or some sixty miles further south at Ensenada. Beyond Ensenada the speed and volume of traffic decreased and Aragon was able to slow down enough to decipher an occasional weather-beaten sign along the road. Dr. Ortiz evidently didn’t believe in encouraging visitors. The word Pasoloma and an arrow pointing west toward the sea was painted on a shingle nailed to the prostrate trunk of an elephant tree.

Aragon turned right on a narrow dirt road oiled just enough to settle the top layer of dust and coat the sides of his old Chevy with a kind of black glue. The road ended abruptly on a curve with the Pacific Ocean about twenty yards ahead, and Aragon realized he’d arrived in Pasoloma. What Laurie had described on the telephone as a small seaside village was in fact a gas pump, some dilapidated wooden shacks and a dozen kids accompanied by some dogs, chickens and a burro. One of the chickens flew up and landed on the burro’s back and the reluctant host was trying to dislodge it with a series of kicks. It was the only activity in the entire village.

The clinic itself was at the top of a newly surfaced driveway curving up a hill between boulders and paloverde trees — the original ranchhouse now serving, according to a sign on the door, as the main office; a number of outbuildings remodeled as staff residences; a cluster of modern cottages with attached carports, most of them occupied by large American cars. In addition to the cottages, two other structures were new — a rectangular one with small high windows obviously meant to discourage sightseers and another that looked like a small hospital, with a late-model station wagon and a jeep parked outside. Both vehicles were identified by the lettering on their sides as belonging to Dr. Manuel Ortiz, Clinica Pasoloma.

It was early afternoon, siesta time. Hardly anyone was in sight. A nurse in uniform was walking slowly toward the hospital, a gardener was clipping a mangy-looking hedge, leaf by leaf, and half a dozen people sat around the swimming pool. Only one was in the pool, an enormously fat man lying on his back with his belly protruding from the water like the carcass of a sea lion bloated with decomposing gases.

Aragon parked his car in front of the ranchhouse and went into the door marked Oficio.

A middle-aged woman sat behind the reception desk reading a newspaper. She had Indian features, eyes flat and expressionless as pennies, straight black hair and lips that moved only enough to permit limited conversation. Though her language was Spanish, she used no exaggerated gestures or inflections.

“The office is closed.”

“Oh, sorry,” Aragon said. “I didn’t see any sign to that effect.”

“Something happened to it.”

“Perhaps you could answer one simple question?”

She looked him over carefully. His youth pegged him as a non-customer, his accent as American, his car as poor. There was no use wasting energy on him.

“The office is closed until three o’clock.”

“It’s two now. Let’s pretend we’re on daylight-saving time, that way we wouldn’t be breaking any rules, would we?”

“I think yes, we would.” She folded the newspaper and put it on the desk. “Dr. Ortiz is my sister’s son-in-law. We make the rules together, the whole family, and we keep them together.”

“I’m sure you do. You look like the kind of person who would make a good rule and stick to it.”

“This is a family enterprise.”

“And very successful, I hear.”

“Where do you hear that?”

“Santa Felicia, California,” Aragon said. “I just drove down today to see Mrs. Shaw.”

“Who?”

“Miranda Shaw. Mrs. Neville Shaw. Or perhaps Mrs. Grady Keaton.”

“Why do you want to see somebody whose name you don’t even know?”

“I represent her lawyer.”

“Our patients are not allowed to have visitors,” said Dr. Ortiz’s mother-in-law’s sister. “We make that very clear in the instructions they’re sent before they arrive for treatment. The only exceptions permitted are that a wife may bring her husband, or vice versa, if they choose to rent one of our cottages.”

He asked the price of a cottage and she mentioned a figure that would have rented half a hotel in Santa Felicia.

“It is the sea,” she added, observing his shock. “One must pay for the sound of waves and the bracing salt air.”

Aragon went down to the beach for a free trial of the waves and the bracing salt air. There was a south swell with sets of eight to ten feet and almost no wind to rough them. In California on such a day, at Hammond’s Reef, Malibu, Zuma, Huntington Beach, the water would be swarming with surfers in wet suits maneuvering for position or sitting on their boards like rows of cormorants. At Pasoloma there were only three surfers, young men wearing swim trunks instead of wet suits because the water was still summer-warm.

A purple van carrying Oregon license plates was parked nearby on a patch of sea daisies, its roof draped with jeans and T-shirts drying in the sun. Beside the van a blonde girl lay on her back, nude, sleeping.

Aragon said, tentatively, “Hello?”

She twitched as though an insect had buzzed her ear. Aragon repeated the greeting a little louder and this time she opened one eye. It was blue and bored. “What?”

“I said hello.”

“So hello. If you’re from the Federales, we’re not carrying any grass. Cross my heart. In fact, you can search me if you like, as long as Mike doesn’t see you. He’s the jealous type and I’m his lady.”

“You could have fooled me.”

She sat up, shaking the sand out of her hair. “If you’re such a gentleman, stop looking.”

Aragon tried. “Is that Mike out there?”

“Him and his friend, Carl.”

“There are three of them.”

“The other one’s just a guy who was on the beach when we got here.”

“Does he have a name?”

“I didn’t ask him. Names don’t matter anymore. I mean, nobody cares. My old lady had a neat system, she called all her guys the same name. Ed.”

“Why Ed?”

“Why not? What’s wrong with Ed?”

Aragon had never before argued the merits of the name Ed with a naked girl and it seemed a poor time to start. Besides, she had already lost interest. Her mind was on food.

“Is there any place around here where I could get a hamburger? We’ve had nothing to eat but fish all the way down the coast. I’m afraid my face will start to break out. Have you heard that too much fish will make your face break out?”

“I haven’t heard that, no.”

“Maybe it’s not true. I hope not. It wouldn’t be fair to have your face break out for eating something you don’t even like... Mike’s watching us. I better put some clothes on. Oh Christ, he’s coming in.”

All three surfers were heading for shore. The waves were still high but they’d started breaking too fast, so that ebb and flow met at an impasse in a wall of water. The girl had pulled a pair of jeans and a T-shirt off the roof of the van and was putting them on. The jeans fitted like hand-me-ups from a younger, thinner sister and the front of the white flimsy T-shirt was somewhat inaccurately labeled Out of Sight.

“Mike believes in nudity,” the girl explained. “But not mine. He wants I should be bundled up like an Eskimo all the time.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Really? I look that good?”

“I think so. The trouble is, the Federales might think so, too, which could cause problems. Officially, they’re pretty stuffy about women wearing enough clothing. Unofficially... well, you’d better be more careful.”

“No kidding, I look that good? Wait’ll I tell Mike. He’ll freak out.”

The three men emerged from the surf. Aragon picked Grady out immediately. The other two were younger, not yet out of their teens, and they’d had their hair cut for the trip across the border, so that their foreheads and the backs of their necks were several shades lighter than the rest of their bodies. Grady was deep brown all over except for the permanent sun scars across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose.

Mike escorted his lady into the van in spite of her protests — “Every girl’s got two of those and one of them, so what’s the big deal?” — and his friend Carl took the hint and began jogging up the beach.

Grady sat down in the sand, shaking his head to get the water out of his ears and off his hair. His movements were violent, as if he were trying to rid himself of something more adhesive than water.

Aragon said, “Are you Grady Keaton?”

“Good question.” The gaze he directed at Aragon was without interest and his eyes had a frosted look like starboard lights seen through fog. “I used to be.”

“What changed you?”

“I came here. In these parts I’m addressed as Mr. Shaw on account of the lady I’m with is Mrs. Shaw and the Mexicans are very, very square. The real Mr. Shaw doesn’t give a damn because he’s dead. He died of old age, which is not something I expect to do. How about you?”

“I haven’t thought about it.”

“Sure you have. Everybody thinks about dying. It’s the normal thing. Or is it? What the hell, who elected me judge of normal?” He transferred his gaze to the sea. “Every wave is different, did you know that? I mean every single one of them. Like if an experienced surfer sees a photograph of a wave in a magazine, he can usually tell where the photograph was taken — Pismo, Hollister, Huntington, any top spot on the coast.”

“I’ve heard that but never believed it.”

“It’s true.”

“So Miranda Shaw is with you.”

“No.”

“You said—”

“I said I was with her. There are a few small differences, like who’s picking up the tab, who invited who, who gives the orders and makes the decisions. I never even heard of this place until I was on my way. And the kind of salary I make I couldn’t afford to stay here for a day. I wouldn’t want to, anyway. The surfing’s nothing special and I’m usually the only one in the water, so what’s the fun? Surfing isn’t just riding waves on a board, it’s a whole way of life, like those kids in the van surfing from Oregon to La Paz. If I had the money — and I might someday, free money, no strings attached — that’s what I’d do. Except I’d start further north at Vancouver and go down to San Lucas and take the ferry that runs over to Puerto Vallarta.”

“It doesn’t sound like the kind of trip she’d enjoy.”

“Who?”

“Miranda Shaw.”

“I wasn’t thinking of inviting her.”

Up to this point Aragon had been standing, shifting his weight from one foot to another until both his shoes were filled with sand. He sat down and removed them and his socks and finally his shirt. The sun struck his chest like a branding iron and he put the shirt back on.

“I’m Tom Aragon, an attorney from Santa Felicia. I was sent to find Miranda Shaw.”

“I figured you weren’t here on my account.”

“In a way I am. I bring greetings from a young friend of yours in Santa Felicia, Frederic Quinn. He asked me to look you up. You’re one of his heroes.”

“So is Bingo Firenze’s uncle, hit man for the Mafia, so I’m not exactly flattered... Why do you want to see Miranda?”

“It concerns her husband’s will.”

“I thought that had all been settled. Shaw left everything to her, didn’t he?”

“The question is, what’s everything?”

“What’s everything? What in hell would it be? It’s stocks, bonds, real estate, cars, bank accounts, jewelry, the works. He was a very rich man. Wasn’t he?”

“Yes.” It was true enough. Shaw was once a very rich man and he left everything to his wife. Aragon didn’t consider it his duty to explain that everything was not only bank accounts and stocks and bonds and real estate, it was also debts.

“Something’s funny the way you’re talking,” Grady said. “Was he or wasn’t he a rich man?”

“I repeat, he was.”

“And he willed his estate to Miranda?”

“She’s his sole beneficiary.”

“Then what’s this about?”

“Shaw’s will hasn’t gone through probate yet. There are some papers which have to be signed by Mrs. Shaw.”

“Well, that’s easy.” For a moment Grady looked almost friendly. “She’s over in the cottage lying down. She sleeps a lot. They all do around here, the place is like a morgue.”

The fatigue which Dr. Ortiz claimed was normal for people under treatment seemed to spread from the point of injection throughout her entire body, leaving her simultaneously light-headed and lead-footed. She had giddy spells, and once she had fallen when Grady wasn’t there and she couldn’t even recall the incident until the soreness of her wrist and the bruises on her arm reminded her. Grady thought she’d been drinking and she let him think it.

She lay drowsy-eyed on the bed, wearing the white chiffon nightgown she’d purchased at a bride boutique in San Diego. She didn’t feel like a bride. The injections weren’t as painful as they’d been in previous years because Dr. Ortiz had added what he described as a secret new ingredient, but the numbness was almost worse than pain. She’d expected a surge of vitality and youth. Instead she felt shriveled, as though she were gradually being mummified. She had no appetite, for food or life or even Grady.

“Go and surf, dear.”

“But you said—”

“Run along without me. I’ll come down later and watch you.”

Then suddenly it was later and Grady was back.

“Where were you, Miranda?”

“I must have dozed off.”

“It’s six o’clock.”

“I’m sorry, dear. I meant to—”

“There wasn’t a soul in sight the whole damn afternoon.”

“I thought that’s what you wanted, a beach where you didn’t have to fight for every good wave.”

“Well, I got it, I sure as hell got it.”

Always, after one of her long sleeps, she was jittery. “Go and tell Dr. Ortiz I don’t feel well. I need something to calm me.”

“You’ve started pill-popping, you know that? Pills and booze and goat glands — Christ, what a combo.”

“Please, Grady. I’m quite nervous.”

“Let’s get out of here, Miranda. Pack your stuff right now and we’ll take off.”

“I can’t. Dr. Ortiz warned me that I must complete the course of treatments or the effect will be lost.”

“What effect?”

“Don’t I look... younger, Grady?”

“You look okay. You looked okay before.”

“I feel younger. I really do.” She giggled. It was a terrible effort.

The room was like that in any second- or third-rate motel back home. The furnishings were new but already showing signs of wear — a double bed with a forty-watt lamp on each bedside table, a bureau topped by a mirror and a small electric fan, a desk scarred by cigarette burns, a standing ashtray advertising Tio’s Tequila, a dressing alcove behind a wooden screen, a shoebox-sized kitchenette off the bathroom. An air-conditioning unit bore a sign, Fuero de Servicio, Out of Order, and the atmosphere was hot and humid.

Insects droned and buzzed and whirred and ate each other and ate Miranda, too, when they discovered a way into the room through a hole in a screen. Her thin delicate skin was easy to penetrate, and the scent of her perfume was irresistible to bees in the daytime and mosquitoes at night, and to fleas and no-see-ums at any hour. There were clusters of fleabites across her abdomen and under her breasts. Her feet and ankles were covered with tiny red lumps like miniature pimples, which sometimes itched so terribly she scratched them until they bled. On her head, hidden by her hair, were curious welts oozing a colorless liquid that crystallized. When the fragile crystals broke under her comb, the oozing started all over again.

She dreamed of being consumed, of calling to Grady for help, and he came knocking at the door.

“Miranda?”

She opened her eyes.

“Are you awake, Miranda?”

She said, “No,” not to be funny but because it was the truth. She was not awake, not hungry, not thirsty, not cold or hot, not in pain, not even itchy from the insect bites.

“Miranda, someone’s here to see you from Santa Felicia.”

She sat up on the bed, suddenly and fully awake. “I am not receiving visitors this afternoon. Who... who is it?”

“A lawyer named Aragon. Some legal technicality has come up and you’ve got to sign a few papers.”

“Wait a minute, please.”

She put on the robe that matched her gown and ran a brush quickly through her hair. With the blinds drawn, the room was nearly dark. When she passed the mirror on her way to the door her image was a white shadow, like the ectoplasm of a bride.

“Hey, Miranda, hurry up.”

“All right.”

She unbolted the door. Grady came in with a towel wrapped around his waist and immediately turned on the fan and began opening blinds and windows. The fan whined and whirred like a superinsect, scattering its inferiors across the room, muffling their sounds of protest.

Miranda shielded her eyes from the sudden sun. For a whole minute she could see nothing but a moving red blaze. Then gradually the stranger emerged from the blaze, a young man wearing college-style cords and a Hawaiian shirt and horn-rimmed glasses that gave him a rather shy look. He carried a briefcase.

“Mrs. Shaw? I’m Tom Aragon.”

“I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“No, we haven’t. I work for Mr. Smedler.”

“Smedler.” She repeated the name as if she was honestly trying to remember the man who went with it. “I can’t quite...”

“Smedler, Downs, Castleberg, McFee, Powell.”

“Oh, of course. That’s the firm handling my husband’s estate.”

Or lack of it. He resisted an impulse to say the words, though he was pretty sure they wouldn’t have shocked her. She didn’t fit Smedler’s description of her as a nice well-bred little woman who’d been insulated and protected from the world.

“I’m afraid this is not a very good place to entertain,” she said carefully. “Or to do business, Mr. Aragon. There’s a café in the main building but it’s closed during the afternoon.”

“I won’t take much of your time.”

“It will seem long to Grady. He’s easily bored... Grady, would you mind? This promises to be a very dull session and you might as well be doing something interesting. Go and surf, dear.”

Grady minded. “I surfed already.”

“It’s a private matter, Grady.”

“We’re not supposed to have secrets from each other,” Grady said.

“Well, we do. Hundreds.”

“He knows we’re here as man and wife. I don’t see what’s to hide. I’ve got a right to be in on—”

“We’ll discuss it later.” Go and surf, you bum.

As soon as he’d gone, Miranda switched off the fan.

“I prefer the heat to the noise, if you have no objection, Mr. Aragon.”

“None at all.”

“Please sit down.”

“Thank you.”

He took one of the green vinyl chairs. It had a broken spring in the middle of the seat. He couldn’t avoid it, so he tried to sit as lightly as he could, keeping some of his weight on his thigh, a posture that made him look as if he were waiting for the starting gun of a race. He thought about what kind of race it would turn out to be — low or high hurdles, quarter-mile, marathon — and how he wasn’t ready for any of them.

She sat in the other vinyl chair. If it had a broken spring, she showed no sign of it. She seemed composed, almost regal, a great lady willing to donate time to the problems of the little people, even in her nightclothes in a hot dingy little room in a foreign country.

“I find these circumstances quite extraordinary, Mr. Aragon. To begin with, no one is supposed to know where I am.”

“Someone guessed.”

“Smedler, I presume. It’s rather bad form for him to send someone after me like this. One would think that he, of all people, would understand, since he’s been married three times and heaven knows what else how many times. This is an affair of the heart.”

“It is also an affair of the California judiciary.”

“The California judiciary can wait. I’ve certainly been kept waiting long enough. Neville died last spring, leaving a legal and uncomplicated will which should have been settled months ago.”

“Probate is often a long procedure,” Aragon said. “You could have shortened it somewhat by cooperating with Smedler. Why these delaying tactics, Mrs. Shaw?”

“I was in a hurry. Some things can’t be postponed. I was due for another treatment at the clinic and Grady needed a holiday. I thought it was possible to combine the two.”

“And was it?”

The slight movement of her head didn’t indicate yes or no.

“In practical terms, Mrs. Shaw, all you’ve gained is a couple of weeks and the money Tannenbaum paid you.”

“How did you find that out?”

He told her about the Admiral’s daughters and the ruby necklace and bracelet. As she listened her eyes narrowed and her jaw tightened as though she was resisting the idea of Juliet and Cordelia wearing her jewelry.

He added, “Disposing of items belonging to a frozen estate is against the law.”

“The jewelry belonged to me and was not part of the estate.”

“What about the other things you sold?”

“I’m the sole beneficiary, so they were mine, too.”

“Unfortunately, you’re legally obliged to share them with Mr. Shaw’s creditors... You knew about the creditors, of course.”

Again the slight noncommittal movement of her head. “I didn’t know.”

“You suspected.”

“I was aware of odd things happening, phone calls at all hours, strangers at the door. And Neville acted so different, secretive one minute, talking a blue streak the next, never letting me open the mail. I didn’t understand what was happening.”

“Do you understand now?”

“I’m beginning to,” she said with a grim little smile. “He was making sure I didn’t inherit anything. If he changed his will, I could fight it in court. If he simply left me nothing but debts, it would be legal and I’d be safe from fortune hunters. He kept referring to fortune hunters as though there was one behind every tree. He took it for granted that I was too stupid to protect myself so he had to do it. Well, he protected me all right. From fortune hunters, if not from anything else.”

“He wasn’t acting rationally, whatever his motives. Smedler believes you should have demanded a conservator for the estate.”

“I’m not the kind of woman who demands. I guess I’m not sure enough of myself to tell other people what to do.”

“You seem to me to be quite sure of yourself, Mrs. Shaw. You’ve made some bold decisions in the past three weeks.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps too bold.”

She shrugged and turned away. Her movements were graceful but a little contrived, as though they’d been practiced for years in front of mirrors. “If I broke the law and a few conventions, I suppose I’ll be sorry eventually. Right now I’m not, I’d do the same thing again. It’s going to sound very silly coming from a grown woman, but I couldn’t help myself. I fell in love. It never happened to me before, even when I was young. The other girls at school were continually in love, they took it for granted as an everyday thing. For me it was a miracle and still is... You look impatient. Am I boring you?”

“No.”

“But you would prefer not to hear it.”

“Happy beginnings are a dime a dozen. I like happy endings.”

“There’ll be a happy ending, I intend it that way.”

He almost believed her. She seemed to be putting it all together, the strength and power she’d never used, the will she’d never exerted, the determination she’d been afraid to show.

“Fine,” he said. “Great. Now let’s get the business over with and I can leave.” He opened the briefcase and took out a sheaf of papers. “I’ll need your initials at the bottom of each page — after you’ve read it, of course — and your signature at the conclusion.”

“I’m not signing.”

“You’d better think this through, Mrs. Shaw.”

“I already have. If Neville could play his little game, I can play mine.”

Aragon sat with the briefcase across his lap. The blinding sun had given him a headache, the heat was unbearable, the broken spring of the chair was sticking into his flesh like a spur. “I told you I liked happy endings, Mrs. Shaw. Especially my own. I am, as Smedler’s secretary keeps reminding me, a junior junior employee of the firm. It’s not a secure position. Neither is yours. Whatever you got from Mr. Tannenbaum isn’t going to last, so you have to consider the possibility that Grady and the money might run out simultaneously.”

“I’m buying time, Mr. Aragon.”

“Time can’t be bought, it can only be spent.”

“You don’t understand. Grady is starting to love me, really love me. I’m becoming indispensable to him. When you’re indispensable to someone he has to love you.”

“My wife is indispensable to me, but so is my auto mechanic and him I’m not too crazy about.”

“You’re not even trying to understand.”

“Look, Mrs. Shaw, sign the papers and I’ll get out of here and you can tell Grady only whatever you think he’ll believe.”

“He’ll believe anything I say. He’s a beautiful person.”

“Glad to hear it. In my line of work I don’t meet too many beautiful persons.”

She got up suddenly, and forgetting all the lessons she’d learned in mirrors, flung herself down on the bed and began to weep. She wept silently, barely moving a muscle of her face. It was a half-comic, half-sinister sight, like a wax-museum figure rigged to spout tears at the press of a button.

Aragon looked away from her, toward the sea. The purple van was gone and the wide stretch of beach was empty. In the water a solitary swimmer who had to be Grady was heading free-style straight out to sea as if his life depended on it. The next land in that direction was Hawaii, but maybe Grady figured it was worth a try.

“I mustn’t cry,” she said in a whisper. “Dr. Ortiz won’t allow it.”

“He’s not here, so go right ahead.”

“No. It’s not good for me. Dr. Ortiz says I have to avoid bad emotions. I must think only of pleasant things.”

“I hope he remembers that when he’s making out his bill.”

“You’re a cruel, cynical man.”

“I’m an errand boy for Smedler, Downs, Castleberg, McFee, Powell. This isn’t a personal matter between you and me, so let’s not get nasty.”

As he spoke he saw the swimmer turn suddenly, as if he’d heard his name called, and head back for shore. You should have kept going, Grady.

Miranda was dabbing away tears with the sleeve of her robe, but new ones kept coming and her eyes were starting to turn red. “I need something to calm me.”

Aragon wasn’t sure what she meant but he hoped it was pharmaceutical. “I have some aspirin in my car. If you like, I can—”

“Aspirin. Aspirin, for God’s sake. I’m dying and you offer me aspirin.”

“It’s all I’ve got.”

“Call Grady. He can tell Dr. Ortiz to come and give me a shot.”

“Grady went for a swim.”

“Swim, that’s the only thing he ever does, the only thing he ever thinks about.”

“Beautiful persons need a lot of exercise,” Aragon said.

When Grady returned to the cottage he stopped for a minute at the carport to admire the Porsche that was parked inside. It was a yellow Carrera with gold mag wheels and beige glove-leather seats. Every time he looked at it he felt a little light-headed, he had to convince himself that it was really his and Miranda was going to give him the pink ownership slip as soon as it arrived from the Department of Motor Vehicles. He called it Goldfinger, not out loud in front of anybody, but very softly and secretly as part of a pact between him and the car.

It was the only perfect thing he had ever owned and he felt personally insulted when Miranda criticized it: “Why can’t we simply get in it and go? Why do we have to sit here for half an hour with the engine running?” “Not half an hour,” he told her. “Just five minutes.” For her it was ugly time, full of noise and smell and vibration. He loved every minute of it, it was like waiting for an orgasm.

He entered the cottage without knocking and went into the alcove behind the wooden screen to dress. A white T-shirt, a pair of shorts, the wristwatch Miranda had given him before they left Santa Felicia, the huaraches he’d picked up in Tijuana.

Nobody said anything. The loudest sounds in the room were insects humming and Grady slapping the sand off his legs with a towel. He began to whistle the song Goldfinger but stopped almost immediately because he was afraid someone might recognize it and guess it was the name he’d given the Porsche. He felt that in some crazy way this could ruin things. He didn’t know how, he only knew things ruined easy.

He came out from behind the screen, still holding the sandy towel. “It’s four o’clock, the café should be open by now. I’m going over for a can of beer. Anyone care to join me?”

No one did.

Miranda was sitting at the desk and there were a lot of papers spread out in front of her. She wore a pair of half-glasses he’d never seen before, and when she peered at him over the top of them she looked like an old woman.

“Hey, what is this, Halloween? Take those things off.”

“I can’t read the fine print without them.”

“Fine print. Okay, I get it. This is private business and you want me to split.”

“No, I think you should stay.” She began gathering up the papers and putting them in numerical order. She moved slowly, as she always did, but Grady saw that this was a different kind of slowness, clumsy and reluctant. “Mr. Aragon has brought us some bad news, Grady. Nothing we can’t handle, the two of us together, but—”

“It’s about the will,” Grady said.

“Yes.”

“He didn’t leave you everything, after all.”

“Yes, he did.”

“Then why is the news bad?”

“‘Everything’ includes his mistakes. Neville made some reckless financial deals during the last year or two of his life.”

“How reckless?”

“I’d rather not go into it now, Grady. I don’t feel very well. My head—”

“How reckless?”

“Very,” she said. “Very reckless.”

“So he didn’t leave you any money?”

“No.”

“But there’s the house.”

“It has three mortgages on it. Among other things, Neville bought a stud farm in Kentucky.”

Aragon, putting the papers back in his briefcase, wondered how she’d found out about the stud farm in Kentucky. If Shaw had told her that, he’d probably told her a lot of other things she’d been pretending not to know. Whatever her reason for the pretense, she had gained nothing from it but a small delay. “I’m buying time, Mr. Aragon... Grady is starting to love me, really love me. I’m becoming indispensable to him.”

“What about the car?” Grady said, “My Porsche.”

“It’s paid for, if that’s what you mean. I traded in the Continental and the Mercury.” She took off her glasses and hid them away in a needlepoint case. The fine print had been read, all of it bad. “It’s really our car, isn’t it, Grady?”

“Sure. Naturally. I call it mine because you promised to give me the pink slip on it—”

“Whatever is left of the estate we’ll share, the two of us. We don’t need a fortune to be happy together.”

“—and because I do all the driving. You can’t even shift gears.”

“Shut up,” she said. “Shut up about that stupid car.”

“Stupid car? Now wait a minute, you can’t talk like that about a turbo Carrera.”

“I can if I paid for it.”

“That’s a bitchy remark.”

“I have more of the same if you care to hear them.”

“Say, what’s the matter with you, anyway? I never saw you like this before.”

“I have had bad news, terrible news, and all you can do is stand there blabbering about a car while I... while my whole world falls apart.”

“Since we’re supposed to be sharing everything, let’s call it our world,” Grady said. “So our world is falling apart. You’re right, that’s terrible news. But what I want to know is how new is this news?”

“What do you mean?”

“When did you find out?”

“Just now, from Mr. Aragon. He told me about the — the stud farm in Kentucky. And other things.”

Aragon didn’t deny it, but he glanced toward the door as though he wished he were on the other side of it.

“I had no idea Neville liked horses,” she said. “He never let me keep any pets, not even goldfish.” She thought of the aquarium in their bedroom at home, the dead fish floating in the murky water that smelled of Scotch. “I would have liked a dog, someone to talk to. Everything was always so quiet. I used to look forward to the gardener cutting the grass or clipping the hedges. He was a funny little man. I forget his name, or perhaps I never knew it. His lawn mower sounded very loud, worse than the Porsche. I have this — this awful headache, Grady. Could you get something for me from Dr. Ortiz?”

“No.”

“But I hurt, I hurt all over.”

“Sure you hurt. A needle in the butt every morning and a bunch of goats surging around in your bloodstream, what the hell do you expect?”

“I’m only doing it for you, Grady.”

“Crap. You’ve been here two or three times before. Who were you doing it for then?”

“You’re cruel, you’re so cruel to me.”

“I’ve never lied.” He threw the towel into a corner as if he were trying to discard a piece of the past. It lay in a dirty heap. “You must have known Neville had blown away every bill he owned. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t know. Ask Mr. Aragon.”

In spite of the mention of his name, neither of them turned to look at Aragon. He picked up his briefcase and took a step toward the door. When this didn’t attract attention he took several more steps until he was close enough to put his hand on the doorknob. Goodbye, Miranda. Nice meeting you. Once.

Miranda had started crying again. Her tears dropped on the burn-scarred desk, little crystal bombs iridescing in the sun for a moment before they exploded into words: people were cruel to her, they accused her of things, they picked on her. She hated Grady, Smedler, Aragon, all lawyers, lifeguards, nurses, doctors and the California judiciary. She was innocent, her butt hurt and she was going to throw up. She also had a terrible headache but nobody cared, nobody cared about anything except their damned Porsches and everyone should get the hell out of there.

“I was just leaving,” Aragon said.

“Take Grady with you. He can show you his turbo Carrera.”

Grady stood with his arms crossed on his chest, motionless, expressionless, like a cut-rate Midas turned to bronze instead of gold.

“Do you hear me, Grady? I want you to leave.”

“Everybody hears you,” Grady said. “You’re screaming.”

“Not yet. I’m working up to it, though.”

“You’re making an ass of yourself, Miranda.”

“Get out of here.”

“All right, all right. Like the man said, I was just leaving.”

The café had been opened only a few minutes before and none of the tables was occupied. Two waiters were more or less on duty, an elderly man sitting on a stool picking his teeth and a teenager who bore a strong resemblance to the woman who’d greeted Aragon at the reception desk in the office, thin straight lips and nose, eyes cool as coins. When he saw Grady his face seemed to splinter with excitement.

“Mr. Shaw, Mr. Shaw, sir...”

“Bring us a couple of beers, Pedro.”

“What kind?”

“You’ve only got one kind.”

“My uncle says to ask. It sounds good.”

“I’m buying,” Grady told Aragon. “Or rather, Miranda’s buying. All I do is write the magic name Shaw on the bill and everything is taken care of.”

“Was taken care of.”

“That’s definite, is it? I mean you weren’t trying to scare her to force her to economize, or something along those lines?”

“No.”

Grady rubbed his eyes. The pupils were red from the salt water and sand and sun. “She conned me.”

“Maybe you con easy.”

“It’s not just the money I’m talking about. It’s the whole deal. I didn’t go after her, man. She was there, I couldn’t get past her. So I thought, why not? I was figuring on a little fling, a couple of months, three at the most, and I thought that’s what she wanted, too. But then she began using words like commitment and marriage and forever. Forever. Can you beat that? I’m not a forever guy.”

Pedro returned, swinging a bottle of beer in each hand.

“Mr. Shaw, sir, I’m ready.”

“So am I,” Grady said. “What are we ready for?”

“The ride. Tomorrow.”

“Oh. Sure.”

“Very early before the traffic. How about seven o’clock?”

“You like seven o’clock, Pedro?”

“You bet.”

“I don’t like seven o’clock. But then, I don’t like six or eight o’clock either, so let’s make it seven. We’ll race the wind, you and me.”

“You and me will win. You bet?”

“I bet,” Grady said. After the boy left he poured the beer himself. It gushed out over the tops of the bottles like used soapsuds and he sat staring at the foam as though he saw his fortune in it, brief as bubbles and a little dirty. “Here’s to Miranda.”

“To Miranda.”

“Long may she live. Alone.”

The beer was too warm and too sweet.

“Christ, I need something stronger than this,” Grady said. “You don’t have grass on you, do you?”

“No.”

“Those kids in the van had some, I could smell it, but they weren’t sharing... Listen, about Miranda and me, it wasn’t working. It wouldn’t have worked even if you hadn’t shown up with the news about the money.”

“I’m glad I didn’t ruin anything good.”

“Maybe she thinks so. I don’t. Like I said, I’m not a forever guy. I feel trapped half the time and guilty the rest. She’s so dependent. When I do some perfectly innocent little thing like taking the kid for a ride in my Porsche, she makes out like I abandoned her. It’s kind of crazy anyone being dependent on me. Nobody ever was before. It gives me the creeps.”

“About the Porsche,” Aragon said. “I gather you don’t have the pink slip for it.”

“The car’s mine. She gave it to me. I’m not conceited enough to claim I earned it, but it’s mine. Hell, she can’t even drive it, she doesn’t know how to shift gears.”

“All that has no bearing on the ownership of the car. As of now it may be the only thing she has left.”

“Then how could she afford to come to an expensive place like this?”

“She sold some of her jewelry and other things to a dealer in Santa Felicia.”

“Then she’s honest-to-God broke.”

“Yes.”

“And it’s a whole new ball game, with me stuck out here in left field.”

“She’s out there with you. She didn’t plan it that way, it’s not her fault.”

“She shouldn’t have lied to me.”

“There are people who lie,” Aragon said, “and people who want to be lied to. They’re often the same people.”

Grady drained his glass and put it down on the multicolored tile table. The tiles looked handmade. None of them matched and none of them came out even at the corners. Aragon wondered which of Dr. Ortiz’s relatives had worked on it, perhaps a third-cousin-by-marriage who was considered too artistic for one of the menial jobs like Pedro’s.

Without being asked, Pedro brought two more beers, wiped off the table with the hem of his apron and reminded Grady of their date to race the wind at seven in the morning.

“The essential thing now,” Aragon said, “is to get her back home under the care of her own doctor. She looks pretty spaced-out. What kind of stuff has Ortiz been giving her?”

“It’s powerful, I can tell you that much. Knocks her for a loop. Also, she’s beginning to ask for it too damn often. She uses the slightest excuse to send me over to get a capsule from Ortiz. He won’t let her have more than one at a time.”

“How long is she scheduled to stay here?”

“Another two weeks.”

“I don’t think that would be wise.”

“Then you tell her,” Grady said. “I already have, for all the good it did. Every time I try to tell her anything she gets a pain in her stomach, her head, her appendix, her butt, you name it. Then she takes one of Ortiz’s capsules and conks out. When she wakes up she can’t remember what I told her. Half the time I can’t either. She has me confused. She always makes me feel I’m in the wrong even when there’s no right or wrong involved, just ordinary things.”

“Equal alternatives.”

“Yeah, that’s it, equal alternatives. I’m beginning to think she’s a little crazy. She even talked once about having a child. It was grotesque. She’s fifty-two. She admitted it, but I knew anyway. Ellen Brewster, the secretary of the club, told me, she looked it up in the files.”

“Why would Ellen do that?”

“She wanted to clue me in. For my own good.”

“That was kind of Ellen as far as you’re concerned. Miranda might feel somewhat different about it.”

“It was the truth. I had the right to be told the truth.”

“Knowing the truth obviously didn’t alter your course of action.”

“It never has.” Grady’s voice was somber. “Maybe I’m crazier than she is. Give me your honest opinion, do you think it’s possible?”

“Lots of things are,” Aragon said. He didn’t give the rest of his honest opinion, that this was more possible than most.

It was after seven and almost dark when Aragon reached the outskirts of Tijuana. He had intended, if all went well, to stay on the freeway and drive right through to Santa Felicia, reaching there about midnight. But he was getting tired and the afternoon had been depressing. He checked in at an American franchise motel, had tostadas and beer at a nearby café and returned to his room.

He closed the windows to block out the noises of the street, which was just coming alive for the night. Then he called Charity Nelson at her apartment and told her he wouldn’t be in the office the next morning.

“Where are you, junior?”

“Tijuana.”

“What are you doing there?”

“Nothing.”

“Nobody does nothing in Tijuana.”

“Okay, I’m boozing it up with a couple of hookers.”

“That’s more like,” Charity said. “Did you find Mrs. Shaw?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t you say anything more than plain ordinary yes?”

“I can but you might not want to hear it.”

“Try me.”

“She’s at Dr. Ortiz’s rejuvenation clinic in Pasoloma with her friend Grady Keaton.”

“The lifeguard?”

“Yes.”

“Is he cute?”

“What do you mean by cute?”

“Cute is cute. You know, like Robert Redford.”

“He is not like Robert Redford.”

“Oh. I wonder what she sees in him, then. To me Robert Redford is—”

“You can tell me about your fantasy life some other time, Miss Nelson,” Aragon said. “I’m reporting in that the documents are ready and I’ll have them at the office by late tomorrow afternoon.”

“You don’t sound very happy about it, considering you might even get a bonus if I play your cards right.”

“Ha ha ha. Is that better?”

“What’s bugging you, junior?”

“This is a dirty business. The lady is doped up and a little crazy, maybe a lot crazy, and I walked out of there and left her.”

“You couldn’t very well bring her along. The lifeguard wouldn’t like it, would he?”

Aragon didn’t respond.

“Junior?”

“I’d rather not discuss it.”

“I never figured you for the emotional type. This isn’t such a dirty business when you look at other dirty businesses.”

“Thanks for helping me see things in a new light, Miss Nelson.”

“That’s my specialty.”

“I can believe it. Goodbye.”

“Wait a minute. I haven’t finished.”

“I have,” Aragon said and hung up.

He left a wake-up call with the operator for five thirty the next morning.

His return to Pasoloma was slowed by fog and by an unexpectedly heavy procession of vehicles heading into Baja, mostly vans and campers and motor homes with California license plates. The fog started to lift when he reached Pasoloma and the clinic was emerging from its shroud. There was activity around the main office and the hospital building, though it wasn’t the kind of activity seen around an ordinary hospital or clinic. People seemed to move very slowly, as though they had — courtesy of Dr. Ortiz — all the time in the world.

Aragon drove directly to the cottage shared by Miranda and Grady. The yellow Porsche was missing from the carport. In its place was Pedro, the boy from the café, talking to a stout middle-aged woman with a cartful of cleaning equipment. Pedro nodded good-morning but he didn’t smile or speak. As for the woman, she ducked around the side of the building in a surprising show of speed, pushing the cart in front of her. It sounded as if it had a square wheel.

Aragon said, “That cart could use some oil.”

The boy shrugged. “It’s old. My mother used to push me around in it when I was little.”

“How old are you now?”

“Thirteen. Next year me and my brother are going to the U.S. to get a job, make lots of money.” He glanced back at Aragon’s Chevy. “You don’t make lots of money like Mr. Shaw does.”

“Not like Mr. Shaw does, no.”

“He’s pretty important, I bet. He can’t waste time taking people for rides. Racing the wind, that’s a crazy idea. Nobody can race something they can’t see.”

“I’m sorry you missed your ride, Pedro.”

“I don’t care,” the boy said. “I never expected nothing anyway.”

Aragon knocked on the door of the cottage, softly at first, then more loudly when there was no response. The windows were closed and the blinds shut as if the people inside were trying to avoid the light and noise of morning.

He knocked again. “Mrs. Shaw?”

Another two or three minutes elapsed before Miranda’s voice answered, hoarse and sleepy. “Who is it?”

“Tom Aragon.”

“Go away.”

“I went away. Now I’m back.”

She opened the door. She wore a large loose pink-and-orange-striped robe that made her look as though she’d taken shelter in a tent that wasn’t quite tall enough and she’d had to cut a hole in the top for her head.

Her eyelids were swollen and blistered by the heat of her tears. She said, almost literally, “I’m not seeing anyone.”

“Are you feeling all right, Mrs. Shaw?”

“Close the door. I’m cold.”

“Let me order you some breakfast.”

“No, thank you. I know you’re trying to be kind but it’s quite unnecessary. I’m quite — quite fine.”

“Where is Grady?”

“Grady is fine, too, thank you.”

“I asked where.”

“Where? Well, I’m not really sure. He took one of the boys from the café for a ride in the Porsche. I wish he wouldn’t get so friendly with the hired help, it’s not dignified. He must learn to—”

“The boy is still waiting for him, Mrs. Shaw.”

She sat down on the edge of the bed, her tent collapsing around her. “So am I,” she said in a whisper. “But he won’t be back. He left in the middle of the night. I’d been very upset by the news you brought me, so Dr. Ortiz gave me a capsule and I went to sleep. When I woke up Grady was gone. There was a note on the desk.”

The note was still there. Though it had been crumpled and partly torn and marked by tears, it remained legible. The letters were large and uneven, the lines slanted downward:

The note ran true to form. Grady had told no lies, made no promises, expressed no regrets.

“Let me take you home, Mrs. Shaw,” Aragon said. “We can leave as soon as you’re packed.”

“Dr. Ortiz won’t like it.”

“Did you pay in advance?”

“Yes.”

“What about refunds?”

“He doesn’t give any.”

“Then he’ll probably be able to absorb the shock of your departure.”

“But what if — what if Grady comes back and I’m not here?”

Aragon didn’t want to play any what-if games, but he said, “It would serve him right, wouldn’t it, to find you gone? Now pull yourself together and we’ll head for home.”

“No.”

“I can’t leave you here, Mrs. Shaw. I feel responsible for what happens to you.”

“Why? You only met me yesterday afternoon.”

“Some people you get to know very fast.” Much too fast, Miranda.

He waited outside while she packed her bags. Fog still clung to the beach, so he couldn’t see the surf. But he heard it, loud and with a slow steady rhythm. Grady claimed every wave was different, every single one, but these sounded exactly alike.

Miranda came out of the cottage in about twenty minutes. She’d put on a white straw hat, oversized sunglasses and a sleeveless blue shift. Her arms were very thin and pale, as though they’d been tucked away in some dark place, unused.

“I’ll call a boy to bring out my luggage,” she said. “There are two suitcases and a garment bag.”

“Don’t bother calling anybody. I can do it.”

“I hate to put you to any trouble.”

“No trouble.”

She didn’t travel light. The suitcases were the size of trunks and too heavy to manage more than one at a time. There was no place in the Chevy to hang the garment bag, so he laid it across the back seat. It looked disturbingly human, like someone stuffed, head and all, into a sleeping bag.

She said, “Grady is very strong.”

“Is he.”

“He can lift almost anything.”

Including a Porsche. He almost said it. There was a possibility that she was thinking the same thing and being deliberately ironic, but he couldn’t tell for sure. Her expression was hidden by the brim of her hat and the dark glasses and a layer of pride thicker than her makeup.

When he turned the Chevy around he saw the boy, Pedro, watching from the corner of the carport. He waved goodbye. Pedro didn’t wave back.

For the first few miles she sat tense and silent, her hands folded tightly in her lap. But gradually she began to relax. She took off her hat and ran her fingers through her hair, she removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes, and now and then she spoke.

“It’s awfully hot. Could you turn on the air conditioner?”

“I don’t have one.”

“I thought all cars came with air conditioners.”

In her world they probably did.

Later she talked of Grady. “He left his toothbrush behind. Not that he’ll miss it, he’s quite careless about personal hygiene. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“It didn’t seem to matter. Every female in the club had a crush on him anyway, even Ellen, who’s a cold fish where men are concerned.”

He didn’t know that either.

“I wonder what’s going to become of me. I can’t earn a living. All I ever learned at boarding school was French and ballet and etiquette.”

She seemed to have forgotten some of the etiquette. While he was explaining the workings of the probate court she went to sleep, her head resting between the doorframe and the back of the seat.

She woke up at the border to answer questions put to her by an immigration official. Yes, she was a United States citizen, born in Chicago, Illinois. She had nothing to declare. She’d gone to Mexico for treatment at a health resort and was now returning home to Santa Felicia.

“That was a lie,” she told Aragon afterward. “I’m not going home. I don’t have a home anymore.”

“Certainly you do.”

“No. The house is mortgaged, it belongs to strangers.”

“Not yet. The law moves very slowly. You can continue living in the place until everything is settled.”

“I refuse to accept the charity of strangers.”

“The strangers are a couple of banks, they’re not in the habit of offering charity.”

“It makes no difference. Kindly don’t pursue the subject, Mr. Aragon. When I left the house I decided that I would never return to it no matter what happened.”

“What will you do?”

“Rent a small apartment, perhaps take a course and learn to perform salaried duties, the kind of thing Ellen does at the club.”

“Do you have any cash?”

“A little.”

“How long will it keep you going?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never had to keep going on my own before. It should — should be an interesting challenge. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes.” He agreed about the challenge. Whether it would be interesting, or even possible, would depend on Miranda.

They had a late lunch in San Diego. She ordered a double martini and a green salad with white wine. The combination wasn’t as potent as one of Dr. Ortiz’s capsules but it had its effect. She lost some more of her boarding-school etiquette.

“He stole my car,” she said. “That son of a bitch stole my car.”

“I believe he was under the impression that you gave it to him, Mrs. Shaw.”

“I gave it to him only if I went with it. It was supposed to be ours. Gave it to him, my foot. Do you know how much that thing cost?”

“You can get it back.”

“How?”

“Tell the police it’s been stolen.”

“What police? I don’t know what state, even what country he’s in by this time.”

“Maybe he’ll return it voluntarily,” Aragon said. “I don’t know much about Grady, but I got the impression he’s not a bad guy even if he’s not the beautiful person you thought he was.”

She began to cry, using the paper napkin for a handkerchief. “I thought he was — I thought he was such a beautiful person.”

“We all make mistakes.”

“Oh, shut up.”

He shut up. Back in the car so did she. She went to sleep again, this time with her head pressed against Aragon’s shoulder. For a small woman she felt very heavy.

She woke up as he slowed for the off ramp into Santa Felicia. It wasn’t a gentle and gradual awakening. She was instantly alert as if an alarm had gone off in her brain.

“Why are you leaving the highway? Where are we?”

“Home.”

She shook her head, repudiating the word. “I have an earache and my neck is stiff.”

“You look fine.” It was true. After her long sleep — plus, or in spite of, the last dose of Dr. Ortiz’s goat glands — she seemed oddly young.

“Not really,” she said. “You’re just being kind.”

“No. You look great, Miranda.”

She checked for herself, staring into a small mirror she took out of her purse, but she didn’t indicate who was staring back at her. “Where are you taking me?”

“To your house.”

“It’s not my house. It never was. Neville paid for it, I only lived there... Why did you call me by my first name?”

“I felt like it.”

“You really mustn’t. It’s not proper.”

She had remembered her etiquette. Maybe the French and ballet would come later.

Encina Road was only a couple of miles from the freeway, but it was difficult to find and Miranda offered no help. She sat gazing out of the window like a visitor seeing this part of the city for the first time: stone walls covered with ivy and bougainvillea, ancient oak trees draped with moss, rows of spiked cassias more treacherous than barbed wire, high impenetrable hedges of pittosporum and eugenia.

The ten-foot iron gate at the bottom of the Shaws’ driveway was closed, and when Aragon pressed the buzzer of the squawk box connecting it to the main residence, nothing happened. He tried the door of the gatehouse. It was locked and the Venetian blinds were closed tight. He waited a minute, almost expecting the old man, Hippollomia, to appear suddenly and explain the situation: there is no electric... Missus forgot to pay.

He returned to the car.

Miranda looked at him solemnly. “You see? The house will not accept me any more than I will accept it.”

“Nonsense. The electricity was turned off because nobody paid the bill.”

“That is only the obvious external reason.”

“What’s the subtle internal one?”

“I already told you. Not that it matters,” she added. “I could never stay here again under any circumstances.”

“Where will you stay?”

“There must be places for homeless deserted women like me.”

“The situation is bad enough without your dramatizing it,” he said. “Now let’s talk straight. Do you have anyone who can put you up temporarily, relatives, friends, neighbors—”

“No.”

“What about members of your club?”

“No. The only person at the club I consider my friend is Ellen. She’s been very kind.”

“Has she.” If that’s the best you can do, you’re in trouble, Miranda. Ellen’s no friend of yours.

A gust of wind blew through the canyon, pelting the roof of the car with eucalyptus pods. Miranda winced as if each one of them had been aimed directly at her. “Please take me away from here. There’s a santana coming up, I can sense it all over my body. My skin feels tight.”

“I thought that’s what you went down to the clinic for, tighter skin. You could have stayed here and gotten the same results cheaper.”

“That was a boorish remark. What makes you so cranky?”

“I’m tired.”

“Why should you be tired? I’m the one who’s suffered.”

“You slept most of the afternoon.”

“Surely you don’t begrudge me a little sleep after what I’ve been through.”

“No.” He didn’t begrudge her anything except his time, two days of it so far. Two days of Miranda seemed a lot longer. Three would be more than he could bear. He said, “Suppose we drive to the club and see if Ellen’s still there. She might have some advice to offer.”

It was a dirty trick to play on Ellen but he couldn’t think of anything else to do. At least Ellen was used to her and would know what to expect and maybe even how to deal with it.

Walter Henderson, the manager, was in the office but he looked ready to leave. He wore an after-hours outfit, jogging shoes, a striped warm-up suit and a navy-blue yachting cap. A copy of the Racing Form was tucked under one arm in case he stopped to rest while jogging or was becalmed while sailing or got caught in a traffic jam on the way to his bookie’s.

“Sorry, we’re about to close,” he told Aragon. “Seven o’clock, you know. That’s our winter schedule except on weekends and special occasions. It was clearly stated in our last newsletter. Didn’t you read our last newsletter?”

“No.”

“Too bad. I had something rather clever in it.”

“Drat, I’m always missing clever things,” Aragon said. “Is Miss Brewster still here?”

“She’s around some place making a last-minute check with the security guard. Two dead stingrays were tossed in the pool last night. We suspect some Mexican boys. These minority groups have become very bold.”

“So I’ve heard. Shocking.”

“Today stingrays, tomorrow great white sharks. Well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it... I’m locking the office now. You can wait for Miss Brewster in the corridor. There’s a bench to sit on.”

He sat on it. Except for a janitor mopping the tiled terrace, no one was in sight. But he could hear voices in the distance, and they sounded angry. After about five minutes he got up and walked around the pool a couple of times to stretch his legs.

There was no trace of the santana that had been blowing in the foothills or the sea winds which almost always began in the afternoon and stopped abruptly at sundown. The water was so smooth that at the far end where it was eighteen feet deep it looked shallow as a reflection pool, mirroring the lifeguard towers, the flagpole, the diving platform and Aragon himself, foreshortened to child size. Along the walls and floor of the pool every mark was clearly defined, the water-depth signs and the racing lanes. He wondered if anyone ever raced here or whether all the winning and losing was done on deck.

The voices were getting louder. It sounded like an argument between two women and a man, but when the trio appeared at the bottom of the steps coming down from the south row of cabanas one of the women turned out to be little Frederic Quinn. He was staggering under the weight of a sleeping bag, a portable television set and a six-pack of 7-up. Ellen carried the rest of his supplies — a partly eaten pizza, a box of cheese crackers, a package of bologna and another of frankfurters.

Frederic had been planning a big evening, but the security guard caught him in the middle of the pizza and a rerun of Star Trek. The security guard, a pear-shaped divinity student working his way toward a pulpit, might have joined the party if Ellen hadn’t shown up. For her benefit he put on a show of doing his duty.

“I’m telling you for the last time, young man, you can’t spend the night in a cabana.”

“Why not?”

“It’s against the rules.”

“How am I supposed to know the rules? I’m only a kid.”

“You are also,” Ellen said, “a pain in the neck.”

“I can’t help it. I didn’t ask to be born. Nobody else asked for me to be born either. My father had a vasectomy but it was bungled. He would have sued except he didn’t need the money.”

“I do not want to talk about your father’s vasectomy, Frederic.”

“Yeah? What do you want to talk about?”

“Stingrays,” the security guard said. “Dead ones. Two of them. In the pool.”

“I don’t know a thing about stingrays, dead or alive. I can’t be expected to know everything, I’m not a genius.”

“Any kid that knows about vasectomies must know about stingrays.”

“Not necessarily. I specialize, see?”

“No, I don’t see.”

“Don’t argue with the child, Sullivan, it’s a waste of time. Just be clear and be firm.” Ellen looked down at Frederic, who had put the sleeping bag on the floor and was sitting on it drinking a can of 7-Up. “Now, Frederic, let’s get this straight. Nobody, absolutely nobody’s ever allowed to stay in the cabanas after the club is closed.”

“That’s what you think. Last week I saw Mr. Redfern making macho with Amy Lou Worthington in the Worthingtons’ cabana. He’s a real pro.”

“You watched them, Frederic?”

“Well, sure. There they were and there was I.”

“There you shouldn’t have been.”

“There they shouldn’t have been either.”

“In a minute I’m going to lose my temper with you, Frederic.”

“Everybody does. No big deal.” It was at this point that Frederic spotted Aragon and let out a whoop of recognition. “There’s my lawyer. Hey! Hey, Aragon, come here a minute. Remember me? We made a pact in the parking lot, remember?”

As Aragon approached, the guard watched him suspiciously. “A pact in the parking lot, that sounds like the devil’s work to me. And since when do nine-year-old boys have lawyers?”

“Since you cops started pushing us around, that’s when,” Frederic said. “Tell him, Aragon.”

“You do that, Aragon,” the guard said. “Tell me.”

“What do you want to know?”

“You can start with the pact in the parking lot.”

“All right. As I was about to leave the lot a few days ago I ran into Frederic. He gave me some information about a person I was looking for and in return I agreed to act as his attorney when the time came.”

“The time has come.”

“In that case I’ll have to talk to my client alone for a few minutes. If you’ll excuse us, Mr. Sullivan—”

“You mean this boy is really your client?”

“Yes.”

“It sounds like the devil’s work, for a certainty.”

“Go and finish your rounds, Sullivan,” Ellen said. “And leave the theology to us.”

As soon as the guard left, Frederic opened another can of 7-Up, switched on the television set and tuned in on a science-fiction movie. Several prehistoric or posthistoric monsters were emerging from a swamp to the sound of some very loud contemporary music.

Ellen spoke above it. “What are you doing here, Mr. Aragon?”

“I found Mrs. Shaw.”

“That’s fine. It’s what you wanted to do, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Was she alone?”

“Not at first. She is now. In fact, she’s out in my car and she’d like to see you.”

“Why?”

“You’re her friend.”

“I’m not. I never was, never will be. I don’t see how she can consider me a friend.”

“Obviously it’s a case of mistaken identity,” Aragon said. “So forget it.”

“You make it sound as if I’m cruel and unfeeling.”

“Are you?”

“I never thought so. I’m kind to animals and I help old ladies across the street. But I don’t owe Miranda Shaw anything. She’s had the whole bit from the time she was born, money and beauty and being taken care of and cherished.”

“All of that’s gone now, including Grady. He walked out on her last night. Or rather, he drove out in the Porsche she bought him.”

“She bought him a Porsche? My God, what an idiot that woman must be, what a complete— All right, all right, I’ll go out and talk to her. Or listen to her, or whatever. I won’t be her friend,” she added distinctly, “but I’ll come as close to it as I can without upchucking.”

“You’re all heart, Miss Brewster.”

On the television screen one of the monsters reared up on its hind legs, bellowing in triumph. Aragon watched for a minute. The limited human imagination which had created a God and a devil in its own image hadn’t done much better with monsters. No matter how obviously grotesque they were with their warty skins, pinheads and three eyes, all had four limbs, voices like French horns and 20/20/20 vision.

Aragon went over and turned the set off.

Frederic let out a squawk of protest. “Hey, what’d you do that for? The monsters were just going to take over the world.”

“They already have,” Aragon said. “It must be a rerun.”

“It is. I’ve seen it before. I’ve seen everything before.”

“You’re pretty young for that. How old are you?”

“Nine and seven-twelfths. But when the country switches to the metric system I’m going to add on a couple of years.”

“What’s the metric system got to do with your age?”

“Nothing. But everybody will be so confused by grams and kilometers and liters they won’t notice the difference. In a flash I’ll be eleven and seven-twelfths and Bingo Firenze’s only eleven, ha ha.”

“What if Bingo Firenze has the same idea?”

“He won’t. He’s too stupid.”

“Or too smart.”

“No, he’s not. His family has to pay extra so the school will keep him. Whose side are you on, anyway? I thought you were my lawyer.”

“I am,” Aragon said. “And indications are that you’ll need one.”

“The stingray bit, huh? Okay. I found them on the beach where some guy had been practicing spearfishing and I thought I could resuscitate them by throwing them in the pool. It was my good deed for the week—”

“Bad choice of good deed, Frederic. They didn’t resuscitate.”

“It wasn’t my fault. My intentions were pure as snow.”

“Have you ever seen snow?”

“No.”

“Sometimes it’s pretty dirty.”

“Well, it starts out clean.” Frederic gazed wistfully at the blank television screen as though hoping the monsters would reappear and come charging out to be on his side. “A good lawyer is supposed to trust his client.”

“A good client is supposed to tell his lawyer the truth.”

“Wheezing Jesus, it was only a joke. I wanted to see the expression on Henderson’s face when he walked in the front door and saw creepy crawly things on the bottom of the pool. How was I to know he was going to overreact? Nobody has a sense of humor around this place. When I get old enough I plan to split like Grady, maybe with a chick the way he did, maybe not. Probably not. The only chicks I know are my sister Caroline’s friends and they’re all fat and hate me.”

“I talked to Grady yesterday.”

Frederic’s face, under the sun scars and freckles and flea-bite scabs, turned a mottled pink. “Grady? Honest, no kidding?”

“No kidding.”

“Where is he?”

“He was in Mexico when I saw him.”

“Isn’t he coming home?”

“I don’t think so. Not for a while anyway.”

“He’s on the lam, I bet. I bet the Federales are after him, or the Mexican Mafia. I bet—”

“You’d lose,” Aragon said. “Nobody’s after him. He’s running because that’s the way he is. He gets into things and then wants out.”

“What kind of things?”

“Relationships.”

The boy took a deep breath and held it, preparing himself for a blow. “Relationships like him and me?”

“No, not like him and you. More complicated ones. You — well, he’s still your friend.”

“How do you know?”

“He asked after you.”

“What were his exact words?”

Aragon made some tactful changes in Grady’s exact words. “He said, ‘How’s my weird little pal Frederic?’”

Frederic let out his breath and the color of his face gradually returned to normal. “Yeah, that sounds like Grady, all right. Did he send me any message?”

“Just to stay out of trouble.”

“Man, has he got a lot of nerve. Man oh man, look who’s talking about trouble. Hey, you know what I’m going to tell Bingo Firenze? I’m going to tell him my best friend is tooling around Mexico with the Federales after him. Bingo will curl up and blow away.”

“May I add good riddance.”

“Oh, Bingo’s not so bad,” said the premature convert to the metric system, “for a kid.”

It was arranged, via the pay phone in the corridor, that one of Frederic’s brothers would come and take him home. Then Frederic settled down to wait under a palm tree, lying on top of his sleeping bag with the television set balanced on his stomach. The monsters returned and took over the world and everybody lived happily ever after.

Aragon went back to his car. Ellen was in the driver’s seat talking to Miranda Shaw. When Ellen saw him approaching she got out and came to meet him. She looked cool but the ring of club keys in her hand was clanking a little too vigorously.

“Mrs. Shaw is going to stay with me temporarily until other arrangements can be made.” There was a distinct accent on the words temporarily and other. “Wait till I lock up, and you can follow me to my apartment.”

“Thanks, Miss Brewster.”

“This is not going to be a long visit. I hope I’ve made that clear.”

“Absolutely. As soon as the office opens in the morning I’ll try to get her some emergency funds from my boss. Then you can whisk her to a motel or something.”

“You can whisk her to a motel or something. I’m going to be working and I don’t get whisking breaks... I presume she has luggage.”

“A couple of suitcases.” He didn’t mention that together they were heavy enough to contain Grady’s dismembered torso.

While Miranda showered, Ellen prepared a light meal of omelet and green salad. Afterward the two women sat at the kitchen table drinking tea. The room which Ellen had always thought of as neat and compact now seemed cluttered and much too small and intimate to be shared with a stranger.

If Miranda felt any similar tension, she didn’t show it. She did most of the talking, mixing past and present in her soft high-pitched voice. She spoke of her gratitude to Ellen for her kindness, and to Aragon for his — “Such a nice young man but rather odd because one can’t tell for sure what he’s thinking” — and of the clinic in Pasoloma, with its tethered goats, pregnant and reproachful. She told of the happy times in her childhood when she was allowed to have supper in the kitchen with the cook — “Cook and I drinking tea just like this and Cook would read our fortunes in the tea leaves, the larger leaves indicating a trip, the specks that meant money and the little twigs that were tall dark strangers who always turned out to be the postman or the plumber or Cook’s boyfriend, who was short and fat.”

She talked of her first meeting with Grady. “You introduced us, Ellen. Do you remember? It was in the office. I told him there was a child screaming and asked him if he could do anything about it. And he said probably not. That day is so vivid in my mind I could repeat every word, describe every gesture and expression. Grady looked at me very seriously but in a sort of questioning way. You know?”

“Yes.” Ellen knew. Grady looked at every woman the same way and it was always the same question and he didn’t wait around very long for an answer.

“I keep thinking of him coming back to the clinic — perhaps now, this very minute — and finding me gone and being terribly sorry. Perhaps I should have stayed and waited for him. After all, he was just as upset as I was by the news Mr. Aragon brought us. Once the first shock of it is over he’ll see that nothing has changed between us, we can still get married and be happy together.”

“I didn’t realize you were intending to be married.”

“Of course. Of course we were, Ellen. Otherwise I would never have — I mean, I’m not a slut. Grady’s the only man I’ve ever been intimate with except Neville, and that was different. Neville mostly liked to look at me and watch me brush my hair and things like that. He almost never touched me. Grady was different.”

“I’m sure he was.”

“Oh, I wish Cook were here to read the tea leaves. All of a sudden I feel so hopeful, yes, and determined, too, as if I can make everything work out for Grady and me to be together again. I’ll start by being realistic. Money is important to him. All right, I’ll get some. A lot, I’ll get a lot of money and buy him back.”

“You’re tired. Don’t think about it now.”

“But I must begin planning right away, right here.” She surveyed the room as though she were memorizing every detail of it: the bird prints on the wall, the porcelain kettle on the stove, the bread box and matching canister set on the counter, the bouquet of yellow plastic flowers and the ceramic owl cookie jar on top of the refrigerator. She said solemnly, “I will never forget this room and sitting here like this with you, planning a whole new future for myself. Will you ever forget it, Ellen?”

“No,” Ellen said. “Probably not.”

She stared into her cup. There were no leaves indicating a trip, no specks that meant money, no twigs that were tall dark strangers. There was only a soggy tea bag.