Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,69

socialize unless work requires it, and never drink more than two glasses of wine in an evening. Women, though”—shaking his head, Diemer leaned to confide—“they are mi defeito, my weakness. Even when I was married, I couldn’t help myself. It’s perhaps unwise to admit weakness, but there you have it.”

My chance to use a scolding tone. “All it takes is one slipup,” I warned. Then opened the door and followed the man onto the porch. “You’ll be leaving Dinkin’s Bay soon anyway, so why risk it? Probably never see her again.”

Somehow the Brazilian had lost the thread. “Who?”

“Your fishing guide,” I said.

In the porch light, the Brazilian’s expression asked Are you kidding? “I didn’t say that! I’ve hired her boat for the next three days. Perhaps more, it depends on how things go.”

“How the fishing goes?” I offered.

The man shrugged, and blinked at the brightness of the moon. “She took me to a group of tarpon. Which I didn’t believe because it’s the wrong time of year—for tarpon. Yet she saw a fish jump—more than a mile away, she saw it. Then off we were.”

I was jolted. Was that the reason Hannah called the man’s cell? If so, it meant she didn’t know I’d broken into her client’s yacht. Definitely good news . . . So why did I feel disappointed?

Diemer was now locked into the subject of fishing. “I’ve read about tarpon in the journals, but, my god, so powerful, I never imagined! All morning we followed those fish, no other boats to bother us. Incredible sport. And she’s quite a good fly caster herself. Not as technically skilled as me, of course, but a trained eye for tarpon.”

It was beneath me to attempt a juvenile blocking finesse, but that’s what I did as I trailed him toward the mangroves. “You’re a man with money,” I said, “you must be a target for the blue-collar working types—the treasure hunters.”

“Blue-collar?” he asked over his shoulder, then figured it out. “My god, so right! American women, the nine-to-five class—even more devious than the lower classes of Eastern Europe.” Then used barrio talk to caricaturize his point. “Bro, you been to Prague? The chicas, they wanna see money before Mr. Penga. But their big fondos, man, those sweet-ah bucetas are worth it!” His accent wasn’t bad for English, and his enthusiasm added I love that city.

I replied, “Not Prague, but I’ve heard. Nordic genetics—similar to the blonde you saw this morning. On my deck. You seemed to notice.”

The Brazilian stopped and turned in the moonlight, taller than me but not as broad. When he replied, “The blonde? Yes, I did. I assumed you were sleeping with her.”

“No,” I replied, “she was a houseguest.”

The man laughed, but in the probing way that expresses doubt to confirm the truth.

“She needed a place to sleep,” I explained, “that’s all. Going through a bad divorce, the first and last time she stays here as far as I’m concerned.”

“Because she has money and you don’t,” he translated. “That’s the way it works. One night of sport, but don’t expect anything more. Ah—women!” he said, then commiserated with a shrug and tried to work his own deal. “I don’t suppose she happened to notice Seduci?”

“She asked about it,” I said. “Cressa asked about you, too.”

We were near the docks where his yacht was moored. One of the last pay phones on the island is bolted to a wall outside the marina office. Seldom used, but its neon flicker provided the opening the Brazilian had been waiting for. “I just realized—it’s only a little after eleven. Was your blond friend expecting you to call?”

“Her name’s Crescent,” I replied. “No, but I have her number if you want it.”

“Well . . . if the poor woman’s restless, upset about her divorce. And we’re both alone on this damn little island . . .” He allowed himself all of two seconds to decide before asking, “You don’t mind sharing?”

“Just her phone number,” I reminded him.

“Of course! I’d be willing to call myself.”

I didn’t mind, and he did.

—

AT SUNRISE, fly rod in hand, I was sliding through turtle grass, looking for redfish on a feed, but also keeping an eye on Hannah Smith as she idled down the channel. How would she react when she saw me?

Civilized. It was the kindest way to describe the glance she allowed me, and the acknowledging wave. Then done with it, her eyes focused on Diemer’s yacht until she was abeam the swim platform, where she