American Tropic - By Thomas Sanchez Page 0,28

an arc of vomit into the water.

From her perch atop the dead turtle’s massive shell, Pat swings the bloody mallet high and shouts with a laugh at the mate, “Man up, you pussy!”

Joan sits on the edge of her bed. The soft curves of her body are outlined through a sheer slip. She tilts her head and listens to approaching footsteps in the hallway. She looks anxiously at the closed bedroom door as it creaks open. A figure comes through the doorway.

Luz steps into the room. “Sorry I’m late, hon.” She unbuckles her pistol and sets it on the dresser. She pulls off her shoes and trousers and stands in her loose white shirt and white panties. She begins to unbutton her shirt and notices the concerned expression on Joan’s face. She speaks in a soothing voice: “You can stop worrying, I’m home.”

“I can’t help worrying. I know what’s going on.”

“What do you mean, you know what’s going on?”

“Since Nina became ill, you’ve changed. You hardly touch me anymore. Nina is my tragedy too.”

Luz gets down on her knees before Joan. Her sad eyes stare apologetically. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just can’t … get beyond … this pain.”

“There is only one way out of pain. You have to push it aside with new life.” Joan takes the bottom of her slip with her fingers. She sensually glides the slip up over the swell of her hips, past the thinness of her waist, and above her arched breasts. She pulls the slip over her head and tosses it aside. The white skin of her face flushes pink as her lips part, offering Luz her mouth for a kiss.

Luz leans toward Joan, then stops. “Forgive me, darling. I can’t.”

Joan slides an arm around Luz’s waist and pulls her close. She covers Luz’s face with lip-brushing kisses. Luz’s breath sucks in sharply with a gasp. Joan lies back on the bed, her arms outstretched, the fullness of her naked body exposed. Her breasts heave; her rib cage expands and contracts with deep, expectant breathing. She reaches up and gently pulls Luz’s head down.

Luz’s cheek rests on Joan’s smooth thigh. She inhales the sweetness of Joan’s skin. She listens to Joan’s urgent breathing. She hears the sound of her own breath. She tastes the wet saltiness of her tears as they fall from her eyes. The tears run down Joan’s thigh, disappearing into a shadowed crevice.

Ceiling fans swirl in the humid air over the heads of Big Conch and Hard Puppy, who are perched on stools at the Bounty Bar’s long counter. Their eyes are riveted on Zoe, dressed in her work uniform of tight white shorts and white halter top. She stands in front of the cash register, adding up the night’s receipts.

Hard swings around to Big. The left side of his forehead has a red gash where Luz whacked him with the butt of her gun. His platinum teeth flash as he drunkenly slurs his words into Big’s face. “Only be two things in life you need to know. First be, how to get along with people. Second be, how to get around people.”

Big slams his beer bottle on the mahogany counter. “Thousand fucking times you told me that. I hear it again, I’m going to bash your—”

Zoe interrupts. “Time to go, Boy Scouts. I’m closing.”

Big throws a questioning look across the counter at Zoe. “I’m always thinking, why’s a lovely lady like you running a bar?”

Zoe gives a weary smile. “Every time you’re here drinking, you ask that. It’s always the same answer: I have a university degree in philosophy. Can’t do anything with that except teach or tend bar. I had to support Noah through law school, couldn’t do that on a teacher’s salary. So here I am, still in the bar racket.”

Big keeps his questioning going, enjoying the beer buzz-cut of his words. “That Truth Dog of yours is a drinking man, sucks it up like a thirsty baby, but never comes in here. He stays away because he knows Big rules this roost. Your Dog’s a chickenshit.”

Zoe walks from the register to Big. She stares at his blurry, reddened blue eyes. “Okay, Big, I’ll tell you with no philosophizing why Noah is never here. You’re an amateur drinker—you drink in public places. Noah is a professional. A professional, he drinks alone. He doesn’t need an audience.”

Hard nods his head in agreement with Zoe. He digs a coin out of his pocket. He flips the coin in the