Cradle. Part 8

Nick thought for a moment. "Maybe you're right," he said. "I'll let you go first."

Troy walked into view just as Carol and Captain Homer were finishing their conversation. "h.e.l.loooo, angel," he said from forty yards away, "what's happening?"

Carol held her hand up in acknowledgment but didn't turn around to greet Troy. "So that's 2748 Columbia, just beyond the Pelican Resort, at eight-thirty tomorrow night?"

"Right," replied Homer Ashford. He nodded his head in Troy's direction and started to leave. 'We'll be ready for you. Bring plenty of tape, for it's a long story." He made a peculiar clucking sound with his mouth. "And plan to stay for a little party afterward."

Homer was already halfway down the steps when Troy walked up beside Carol. "h.e.l.lo, Captain Homer. Good-bye, Captain Homer," he said quietly, still playing the comic. He leaned over to kiss Carol on the cheek. "Hi there, angel . . ."

"Yuch," Carol pulled her cheek away. "You smell like brewery. No wonder I've had to look all over town for you two." She saw Nick coming toward them across the parking lot. He was carrying the exercise bag. She raised her voice. "Well, Mr. Williams, what a pleasant surprise. How nice that you and your brother here could climb down from your bar stools long enough to keep our appointment." She looked at her watch. "My, my," she said in her most sarcastic voice, "we are certainly fashionably late. Let's see, if one waits fifteen minutes for a full professor, how long does one wait for a fake professor?"

"Knock off the bulls.h.i.t, Miss High and Mighty," Nick said, responding angrily to her barbs. He joined Carol and Troy and then caught his breath. "We have a few bones to pick with you as well," he continued. "Just what were you doing talking to that a.s.shole Ashford?"

Nick sounded threatening. Carol recoiled. "Listen to him," she said, "the typical macho male. Always shifts the blame to the woman. 'Hey b.i.t.c.h,' he says, 'forget I'm late, forget I'm an arrogant b.a.s.t.a.r.d, it was your fault anyway . . .' "

"Hey, hey . . . hey," Troy interceded. Carol and Nick were glowering at each other. They both started to speak but Troy interrupted them again. "Children, children, please," he continued, "I have something important to say." They both looked at him. Troy raised his arms for quiet. Then he adopted a stiff pose and pretended to be reading. " 'Fourscore and seven years ago, our forefathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation . . .' "

Carol cracked up first. "Troy," she said, smiling despite her anger, " you are something else. You are also ridiculous."

A grinning Troy punched Nick on the shoulder. "How did I do, Professor? Would I make a good Lincoln? Could a nice young black boy play Lincoln for the white folks?"

Nick smiled reluctantly and looked down at the macadam while Troy jabbered. When Troy was finished, Nick's tone to Carol was conciliatory. "I'm sorry we were late," he said in measured tones, "we forgot what time it was. Here's the trident."

Carol recognized how difficult it had been for Nick to apologize. She accepted gracefully with a short smile and a gesture with her hands. "You keep the trident for a little while longer," she said after a brief silence. "We have a lot of other things to talk about." She looked around. "But this may be the wrong place and the wrong time."

Both Nick and Troy were giving her questioning looks. "I have some very exciting news," she explained, "some of which is here in your copy of the pictures that I developed this morning. Bottom line is that the telescope picked up an infrared signal coming out of the fissure from some kind of large object or objects." She turned to Nick. "It may be more treasure. We can t be certain what it is based on the images."

Nick reached for the envelope. Carol pulled it away. "Not here, not now. Too many eyes and ears. Take my word for it. What we have to do now is make plans. Can you two take me out again tomorrow morning early and be prepared to salvage objects possibly as big as two hundred pounds? Of course, I intend to pay for chartering the boat again."

"Wow," whistled Nick, "two hundred pounds! I can hardly wait to see the pictures . " He was sobering up rapidly . " We'll need to borrow a dredger and - "

"I still have the telescope so we can use it again," Carol added. She looked at her watch. "It's almost five o'clock now, how much preparation time do you need?"

"Three hours, four hours at the most," Nick said, calculating swiftly. "With Troy's help, of course," he added.

"Gladly, my friends," Troy replied. "And since Angie has reserved a special table for me at Sloppy Joe's for her ten-thirty show tonight, why don't we meet there and go over the details for tomorrow?"

"Angie Leatherwood is a friend of yours?" Carol said, obviously impressed. "I haven't seen her since she made the big time." She paused for a second and handed the envelope to Nick. "Look at these images in private. The whole set was taken just under the boat where we were diving. Some are obviously blowups of others. It may take a little time for your eyes to adjust to all the colors. But it's the brown object or objects that we're after." Carol could tell that both of the men were eager to see the pictures. She walked with them toward Nick's car. "So I'll see both of you tonight at Sloppy Joe's about ten-fifteen." She turned to head for her own parking place.

"Uh, Carol, just a minute," Nick stopped her. Carol waited while Nick, suddenly awkward, tried to figure out a nice way to ask his question. "Would you mind telling us why you were talking to Captain Homer?" he at last said tactfully.

Carol looked at Nick and Troy for a minute and then laughed. "I ran into him while I was in the office trying to call you guys. He wanted to know about the piece we retrieved yesterday. I put him off the track by telling him I was doing a feature article on all members of the crew that found the Santa Rosa treasure eight years ago."

Nick glanced at Troy with mock disgust "You see, Jefferson," he said with exaggerated emphasis. "I told you there was a legitimate explanation." The two men waved at Carol as she headed for her car.

8.

LIEUTENANT Todd," the commander said with exasperation, "I am beginning to think that the U.S. Navy has overestimated your intelligence or experience or both. It is beyond me how you can continue even to consider the possibility that the Panther was commanded off course by the Russians, particularly in light of the new information you presented this afternoon."

"But, sir," the younger man answered stubbornly "it is still a viable hypothesis. And you yourself said in the meeting that a good failure a.n.a.lysis does not exclude any reasonable possibility."

The two men were in Commander Winters' office. The commander walked over to look out the window. It was almost dark outside. The air was heavy, still, and humid. Thunderstorms were building over the ocean to the south. The base was nearly empty. At length Winters looked at his watch, heaved a sigh, and came back across the room toward Lieutenant Todd. He was smiling only slightly.

"You listened well, Lieutenant. But the operative word here is 'reasonable.' Let's review the facts. Did I or did I not hear correctly that your telemetry a.n.a.lysis unit found this afternoon that the commands rejected counter on the bird also incremented during the flight, beginning as early as off the coast of New Brunswick? And that, apparently, over one thousand command messages were rejected as the missile made its way down the Atlantic Coast? How do you propose to explain all this in terms of your scenario? Did the Russians deploy an entire fleet of ships along the flight path, just to confuse and capture one solitary Navy test missile?"

Commander Winters was now standing directly in front of the taller young lieutenant. "Or maybe you believe," he continued sarcastically, before Todd could respond, "that the Russians have a new secret weapon that flies alongside a missile going at Mach 6 and talks to it en route. Come on, Lieutenant, on what reasonable grounds do you consider this bizarre Russian hypothesis of yours still viable?"

Lieutenant Todd did not yield. "Sir," he answered, "none of the other possible explanations for the missile's behavior makes any more sense at this stage. You now say that you believe it's a software problem; however, our very brightest programmers cannot imagine how the only external indication of a major, system-level software malfunction could be that two, and only two, command counters go haywire. They have checked all the internal software diagnostic data that was telemetered to the ground and they can find no problems. Besides, the pre-release checkout indicates that all the software was working fine just seconds before the flight began.

"And we know something else. Ramirez has learned from Washington that there have been peculiar movements in the Russian submarine fleet off the Florida coast in the last forty-eight hours. I'm not saying that the Russian hypothesis, as you call it, is the answer. Just that until we have a more satisfactory explanation of a failure mechanism that could cause both command counters to increment, it makes sense to carry one option that a.s.sumes maybe the Panther was actually commanded."

Winters shook his head "All right, Lieutenant," he said finally. "I will not order you to take it off the list. But I will order you to concentrate this weekend on finding the missile in the ocean somewhere and identifying a hardware and/or software problem that could have caused either the command counter anomaly or the change in the flight path or both. There must be an explanation that does not involve operations on a ma.s.sive scale by the Russians."

Todd started to walk around Winters and leave. "Just a minute," the commander said, his eyes narrowing. "I don't believe it's necessary, is it Lieutenant, to remind you of who will be held responsible if the outside world gets wind of this Russian business?"

"No, Commander . . . sir," was the answer.

"Then carry on," said Winters, "and let me know if there are any significant new developments."

Commander Winters was in a hurry. He had called the theater right after Todd had left and told Melvin Burton that he was going to be late. He drove quickly into a hamburger stand, wolfed down a burger and fries, and headed for the marina area.

He arrived at the theater when most of the rest of the cast was already dressed. Melvin met him at the door. "Quickly now, Commander, we have no time to spare. The makeup must be correct the first time." He looked nervously at his watch. "You're in the pulpit in exactly forty-two minutes." The commander entered the men's dressing room, took off his Navy uniform, and put on the dour black and white regalia of an Episcopal priest. Outside the door to the dressing room Melvin paced back and forth, going through a final checklist in his mind.

Commander Winters was in the pulpit when the curtain rose. He had a strong case of normal opening-night jitters. He looked across the three rows of his stage congregation to the full audience in the theater. He saw his wife Betty and son Hap in the second row. Winters smiled at them quickly before the applause died down. Then his nervousness disappeared as he launched into Shannon's sermon.

The short prologue sped by quickly. The lights dimmed another time for fifteen seconds, the set changed automatically, and he was in the final scene, walking into his hotel room in Mexico and still mumbling to himself phrases from his letter. Shannon/Winters sat down on his bed. He heard a noise in the corner of the room and looked up. It was Charlotte/Tiffani. Her gorgeous auburn hair was down over her shoulders. She was wearing a light blue silk nightshirt, cut low in the middle, which her ample and upright b.r.e.a.s.t.s filled completely. He heard her say, "Larry, oh Larry, finally we're alone together," and she came to sit beside him on the bed. Her perfume filled his nostrils. Her hand was behind his head. Her lips pressed against his, insistent, hard, searching. He pulled back. Her lips followed, then her body. He fell back on the bed. She crawled on top, her kisses continuing, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s pushed against his pounding chest. He put his arms around her, slowly at first, and then, lying on his back, he enveloped her with a deep embrace.

The lights flashed off and on for several seconds. Charlotte/Tiffani slid off of Winters and lay beside him on the bed. He could hear her labored breathing. A voice was heard, "Charlotte." Then again, with a loud knock on the door, "Charlotte, I know you're in there." The door sprang open. The two lovers half sat up in bed. The lights went off and the curtain came down. The applause was loud and sustained.

Commander Vernon Winters pushed open the door and stumbled outside. He was at the alley entrance to the theater. The door, over which was a single light bulb covered with insects, opened onto a small wooden platform a few steps above the pavement. Winters walked down the three steps and stood beside the red brick wall of the theater. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

He watched the smoke curl upward against the red brick. In the distance there was a burst of lightning, then a pause before the sound of rolling thunder. He inhaled deeply again and tried to understand what he had been feeling during those five or ten seconds with Tiffani. I wonder if they could tell, he thought. I wonder if it was obvious to everyone. When he had changed clothes for the first full act of the play, he had noticed the telltale tracks on his undershorts. He expelled some more smoke and winced. And that little girl. My G.o.d. She knows for sure. She must have felt it when she was on top of me.

Despite himself, he recaptured for an instant his excitement when Tiffani had pressed herself against him. His breath shortened. A first tinge of guilt began to manifest itself. My G.o.d, he thought again. What am I? I'm a dirty old man. For some reason he found himself thinking of Joanna Carr, of a night almost twenty-five years ago. He remembered the moment when he took her . . .

"Commander," he heard a voice say. He turned around. Tiffani was standing on the platform in her T-shirt and jeans, her long hair down over her shoulders. Now she was walking down the steps toward him. "Commander," she said again with a mysterious smile, "may I have a cigarette?"

He was dumbfounded, stupefied. He said nothing. Winters automatically reached into his pocket and pulled out his pack of Pall Malls. The girl took one, packed it against her fingernail, and slid it into her mouth. She waited a second, maybe two. Then she gave him another smile. Winters at last woke up and produced his cheap supermarket lighter. She cupped his trembling hand and inhaled vigorously on the cigarette.

Winters watched her, fascinated, as she pulled the smoke into her lungs. He studied her mouth, her white neck, her uplifted chest as she caressed the smoke. With the same rapt attention, he watched her diaphragm subside and the smoke curl out of her pursed lips.

They stood there together, quietly smoking, neither speaking. Over the ocean there was another flash of lightning, another roll of thunder. Each time that Tiffani would put the cigarette in her mouth, the mesmerized Winters would follow her every move. She would inhale deeply, intently, pulling hard on the cigarette for the nicotine her body cherished. He was only vaguely aware of his jumbled thoughts.

She's beautiful, so beautiful. Young and fresh and full of life. And that hair. How I would love to wrap it around my neck . . . but she's not a little girl. She's a young woman. She must sense what I'm feeling, my fascination for her . . . she smokes as I do. With complete concentration. She caresses . . .

"I love stormy nights," Tiffani broke the silence as still another distant flash of lightning lit up the sky. She moved closer to him and then craned her neck to see around a group of trees that was blocking her view of the cloud formation where the lightning was occurring. She brushed against Commander Winters ever so slightly. He was electrified.

His mouth was dry. His body was suffused with desire, a desire he barely recognized. He could not answer her comment. Instead he stared off at the growing storm and took the final drag from his cigarette.

She too finished her cigarette and dropped it on the pavement. As she turned to face him and their eyes met, the last wisps of smoke were playfully wandering across her lips. She gave a quick, flirtatious blow with her mouth and Winters felt a burst of l.u.s.t in his groin. He retained his self-control and they entered the theater in silence.

The applause continued. Commander Winters brought the women who had played Maxine and Hannah, one on either side of him, forward for their final bow, just as they had planned before the performance began. The applause intensified. Again he stared at the empty seats where Betty and Hap had been before the intermission. He heard a voice from the audience shout "Charlotte Goodall" and Winters improvised. He took the two ladies back to the line of the a.s.sembled cast and walked down the line to Tiffani. For a moment she did not understand. Then her face broke into a radiant smile and she took his hand.

He walked forward with her to the front of the stage. their hands wrapped together in a tight hold. This was her special moment. She was near tears as she heard the applause grow again. He stood aside and she bowed gracefully to the audience. She finished her bow, took his hand again with a delightful squeeze, and backed up into the line with the cast.

Melvin, Marc, and Amanda were all backstage while they were dressing. Enthusiastic congratulations were everywhere. Melvin particularly seemed ecstatic. He admitted that he had had some misgivings during rehearsals, but that everyone had been wonderful. The director confided to Winters that the bedroom scene with Tiffani had been "superb - couldn't have been better," as Melvin literally danced out the dressing room door.

Winters was overwhelmed with a myriad of emotions. He was pleased with his performance in the play and the audience reception, but other more personal things were on his mind. What had happened to Betty and Hap? Why had they left at intermission? In his mind's eye, Winters imagined Betty watching his love scene with Tiffani. He had a momentary panic as he convinced himself that she had known, from out in the audience, that her husband was not acting at all, that he was every bit as aroused as the character he was playing.

What had occurred with Tiffani he could not begin to understand and could not even think about without starting to feel guilty. While he was putting back on his Navy uniform, he allowed himself to taste again her kisses on the bed in the play and to feel the s.e.xual tension while they smoked together in the alley. But beyond his awareness of his arousal he would not go. Guilt was a depressing emotion, and on his successful opening night he did not want to be depressed.

When Commander Winters walked out of the men's communal dressing room, Tiffani was waiting for him. Her hair was back in pigtails, her face scrubbed free of makeup. She looked again like a little girl. "Commander," she said, almost with servility, "would you do me a favor, please?" He smiled his a.s.sent. She beckoned to him and he followed her out in the hall that was adjacent to the backstage quarters.

A red-haired man about the commander's age was standing in the hall, nervously smoking a cigarette and pacing. It was obvious that he felt uncomfortable and out of place. Next to him was a tawdry brunette, early thirties perhaps, chewing gum and talking to the man in a whisper. The man noticeably relaxed when he saw the commander in his uniform.

"Well, sir," he said to Winters when Tiffani introduced him as her father, "it's good to meet you. I don't know much about this acting business, but I worry that it's unhealthy for my daughter sometimes." He winked at his wife, Tiffani's stepmother, and lowered his voice. "You know, sir, with all the wimps and f.a.gs and other weirdo actors, a man can't be too careful. But Tiff told me there was a real Navy officer, a bona fide commander, as part of the cast. At first I didn't believe her."

Mr. Thomas was definitely getting signals both from Tiffani and his wife. He was talking too much. "I'm regular Navy myself," he blurted out as Winters remained silent, "almost twenty-five years. Signed up when I was just a boy of eighteen. Met Tiff's mother two years later - "

"Daddy," Tiffani interrupted him, "you promised that you wouldn't embarra.s.s me. Please just ask him. He probably has things that he needs to do."

The commander had certainly not been prepared to meet Tiffani's father and stepmother. In fact, he had never for a moment even thought about her parents, although as he stood there, listening to Mr. Thomas, it all made sense. Tiffani was, after all, only a junior in high school. So of course she lives at home, he thought. With her parents. Mr. Thomas was looking very serious. For about a second Winters felt fear and the beginning of panic. No. No, he thought quickly, she can't have told them anything. It's all much too soon.

"My wife and I play bridge," Mr. Thomas was saying, "duplicate bridge, in tournaments. And this weekend there's a big sectional in Miami. We'll be leaving tomorrow morning and coming back very late on Sunday night."

Winters was puzzled. He was lost in this conversation. Why should he care about what the Thomases did with their free time? At length Mr. Thomas came to the point. "So we had called Mae's cousin in Marathon and asked her if she would pick my daughter up after the show tomorrow night. But that would mean Tiff would have to miss the cast party. Tiff suggested that maybe you would be willing to see her home safely from the party and," Mr. Thomas smiled pleasantly, "keep a fatherly eye on her while I'm off playing bridge."

Winters instinctively glanced at Tiffani. For just a few milliseconds he saw a worldly look in her eyes that tore through him like a fireball. Then she was a little girl again, entreating her father to let her go to the party.

The commander played his role well. "All right, Mr. Thomas," he replied, "I'll be glad to help you out." He patted Tiffani fondly. "She deserves to go to the party, she's worked hard. "He paused for a moment. "But I have a couple of questions. There will certainly be champagne at the party and it will probably go real late. Does she have a curfew? How do you feel about - "

"Just use your own judgment, Commander," Mr. Thomas cut him short. "Mae and I trust you completely." The man reached over and shook Winters' hand. "And thank you very much. By the way," he added, as he turned around to leave, "you were great, although I must admit I was worried when you were necking with my daughter. The f.a.g that wrote the play must have been one weird dude."

Tiffani's stepmother mumbled thanks over her chewing gum and the girl herself said "See ya tomorrow" as the three of them walked away. The commander reached in his pocket for another cigarette.

Betty and Hap were both asleep, as Commander Winters knew they would be, when he finally arrived home around eleven o'clock He walked softly past his son's room but then stopped outside of Betty's. Basically a considerate man, Winters spent a few seconds weighing Betty's sleep against his need for an explanation. He decided to go in and wake her up. He was surprised to find that he was nervous when he sat down on the side of her bed in the dark.

She was sleeping on her back with a sheet and a very thin blanket both pulled up neatly to within about two inches of her shoulders. He shook her lightly. "Betty, dear," he said. "I'm home. I'd like to talk to you." She stirred. He shook her again. "It's Vernon," he said softly.

His wife sat up in bed and turned on the light on the end table. Underneath the light was a small picture of the face of Jesus, a man wise beyond his thirty or so years, with a full beard, a serious look, and a glow approximating a halo behind his head. "Goodness," she said, frowning and rubbing her eyes, "What's going on? Is everything all right?" Betty had never been particularly pretty. But in the last ten years she had ignored her looks altogether and had even put on twenty pounds of ungainly weight.

"Yes," he answered. "I just wanted to talk. And to find out why you and Hap left the show just after the intermission."

Betty looked him directly in the eyes. This was a woman without guile, even without nuance. Life was simple and straightforward for her. If you truly believed in G.o.d and Jesus Christ, then you had no doubts. About anything. "Vernon," she began, "I have often wondered why you choose to perform in such strange plays. But I have never complained about it, particularly since it seems to be the only thing that has excited you in a good way since Libya and that awful beach incident."

She frowned and a cloud seemed to cross her face momentarily. Then she continued in her matter-of-fact way. "But Hap is no longer a child. He is becoming a young man. And hearing his father, even in a play, refer to G.o.d as a 'petulant old man' and a 'senile delinquent' is not likely to strengthen his faith." She looked away. "And I thought it was equally disturbing for him to watch you groping with that young girl. All in all," she said, glancing back at her husband and summarizing the entire issue, "I thought the play had no values, no morals, and nothing worth staying for."

Winters felt his anger building but struggled with it, as he always did. He envied Betty her steadfast faith, her ability to see G.o.d clearly in every daily activity. He himself felt disjoint from the G.o.d of his childhood and his fruitless personal searches had not yet resulted in a clearer perception of Him. But a couple of things Winters did know for certain. His G.o.d would laugh with and have compa.s.sion for Tennessee Williams' characters. And He would not be pleased by bombs falling on little children.

The commander did not argue with Betty. He gave her a brotherly kiss on the cheek and she turned off the light. For just a moment he wondered. How long has it been? Three weeks? But he couldn't remember the exact time. Or even whether or not it had been good. They "fooled around," as Betty called it, whenever her awareness of his need overcame her general lack of interest. Probably about normal for couples our age, Winters thought, somewhat defensively, as he undressed in his room.

But he was not able to sleep as he lay quietly in the dark underneath the sheet. The feeling of arousal that had been so intense first during the play and then again out in the alley continued to call to him. With pictures. When he closed his eyes he could again see Tiffani's soft and flirtatious lips blowing out the last of the smoke that had been deep within her lungs. His mouth could still taste those pa.s.sionate kisses that she had forced upon him during the bedroom scene. And then there was that special look when her father had asked him to take care of her at the party. Had he imagined it?

Several times Commander Winters changed positions in his bed, trying to dispel the images in his mind and the nervousness that was keeping him awake. He was unsuccessful. Eventually, while he was lying on his back, he realized there was one possible release from this kind of tension. At first he felt guilty, even embarra.s.sed, but the waves of images of Tiffani continued to flood into his brain.

He touched himself. The images from the day sharpened and began to expand into fantasies. She was lying on top of him on the bed, as she had been in the play, and he was responding to her kisses. For a brief second Winters became frightened and held himself in check. But a desperate surge of longing removed his last inhibition. He was again an adolescent, alone in his rich imagination.

The scene in his mind changed. He was lying naked on a huge king-size bed in an opulent room with high ceilings. Tiffani approached him from the lighted bathroom, also naked, her long auburn hair cascading over her shoulders and hiding the nipples of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She took a last languorous pull from her cigarette and put it out in the ashtray beside the bed, her eyes never leaving his as she slowly, almost lovingly, expelled the last of the smoke from her mouth. She climbed into the bed beside him. He could feel the softness of her skin, the tingle of her long hair against his neck and chest.

She kissed him gently but pa.s.sionately, with her hands behind his head. He felt her tongue playing enticingly across his lips. She moved her body into position next to him and pressed her pelvis into his. He felt himself rising. She took his p.e.n.i.s in her hand and squeezed lightly. He was completely erect. She squeezed again, then gracefully raised her body up and inserted him deep inside her. He felt a magical moist warmth and then exploded almost immediately.

Commander Winters was staggered by the power and the intensity of his fantasy. Somewhere inside him a voice cried for caution and warned of dire consequences if he let this fantasy become too real. But as he lay spent and alone in his suburban home, he pushed his guilt and fears aside and allowed himself the unrivaled bliss of post-o.r.g.a.s.mic sleep.

9.

SLOPPY Joe's was an inst.i.tution in Key West. The favorite bar of Hemingway and his motley crew had managed to adapt quickly to the multifaceted evolution of the city that it had come to symbolize. Many denizens of the old city had been almost apoplectic when the bar had forsaken its historic location downtown and moved into the vast shopping complex surrounding the new marina. But even they grudgingly admitted, after the club reopened in a well-ventilated large room complete with sound stage and excellent acoustics, that the Tiffany lamps, long wooden bars, narrow mirrors from ceiling to floor, and memorabilia from a hundred years in Key West had been tastefully rearranged in a way that retained the spirit of the old bar.

It was altogether fitting that Angie Leatherwood should perform as the headliner at Sloppy Joe's during her brief and infrequent returns to the city of her birth. Troy's glib tongue had originally talked the owner, a transplanted fifty-year-old New Yorker named Tony Palazzo, into giving her an audition when she was still nineteen. Tony had heard her sing for five minutes and then had exclaimed, punctuating his comments with wild hand gestures, "It's not enough that you bring me a black girl who's so beautiful she takes your breath away. No, you bring me one who also sings like a nightingale. Mama mia Life is not fair. My daughter Carla would kill to sound like that." Tony had become Angie's biggest fan and had unselfishly promoted her career. Angie never forgot what Tony had done for her and always sang at Sloppy Joe's when she was in town. She was like that.

Troy's table was front and center, about ten feet away from the edge of the stage. Nick and Troy were already seated at the small round table and had finished their first drinks when Carol arrived about five minutes before ten-thirty. She apologized and mumbled something about parking in Siberia. As soon as she arrived, Nick pulled out the envelope of images and both men told her that they had found the pictures fascinating. Nick began asking questions about the photographs while Troy summoned a waiter. Nick and Carol were involved in an earnest conversation about the objects in the fissure when the new drinks reached the table. Nick had just mentioned that one of them looked like a modern missile. It was ten thirty-five. The lights flashed off and on to announce that the show was beginning.

Angie Leatherwood was a consummate performer. Like many of the very best entertainers, she never forgot that it was the audience that was the customer, that it was they who both created her image and enhanced her mystique. She began with the t.i.tle song from her new alb.u.m, "Memories of Enchanting Nights," and then sang a medley of Whitney Houston songs, according a tribute to that brilliant songstress whose talent had sparked Angie's own desire to sing. Next she showed her versatility by blending a quartet of songs with different beats, a Jamaican reggae, a soft ballad from her first alb.u.m, Love Letters, a nearly perfect Diana Ross imitation from an old Supremes song, "Where Did Our Love Go?" and an emotionally powerful, lilting encomium to her blind father ent.i.tled "The Man with Vision."

Thunderous applause greeted the conclusion of each song. Sloppy Joe's was sold out, including all the standing room along the hundred-foot bar. Seven different huge video screens scattered throughout the s.p.a.cious club brought Angie home to those who were not close to the stage. This was her crowd, these were her friends. A couple of times Angie was almost embarra.s.sed because the clapping and the bravos would not stop. At Troy's table, very little was said during the show. The threesome pointed out songs they particularly liked (Carol's favorite was the Whitney Houston song, "The Greatest Love of All"), but there was no time for conversation. Angie dedicated her penultimate song, "Let Me Take Care of You, Baby," to her "dearest friend" (Nick kicked Troy under the table) and then finished with her most popular cut from Love Letters. The audience gave her a standing ovation and hooted noisily for an encore. Nick noticed while he was standing that he was a little woozy from the two strong drinks and was also feeling strangely emotional, possibly because of the subliminal a.s.sociations created by the love songs that Angie was singing.

Angie returned to the stage. As the noise subsided, her soft and caressing voice could be heard. "You all know that Key West is a very special place for me. It was here that I was raised and went to school. Most of my memories bring me back here." She paused and her eyes scanned the audience. "There are many songs that bring back memories and the emotions that go with them. But of all of them, my favorite is the theme song from the musical Cats. So, Key West, this is for you."

There was scattered clapping as the music synthesizers accompanying her played the introduction to "Memories." The audience remained standing as Angie's mellifluous voice launched into the beautiful song. As soon as she began, Nick was instantly transported to the Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C., in June of 1984, where he was watching a production of Cats with his mother and father. He had finally come home to explain to them why he had been unable to return to Harvard after his spring break in Florida. But try as he might, he could not begin to tell the story to his disappointed father and brokenhearted mother. All he could say was, "It was a woman . . ." and then he would fall silent.

It had been a sad reunion. While he was visiting his home in Falls Church, the first malignant polyps had been discovered and removed from his father's colon. The doctors had been optimistic about several more years of life, but they had stressed that colon cancer often recurred and metastasized to other parts of the body. In a long talk with his suddenly frail father, Nick had promised to finish his degree in Miami. But that was little solace to the older man; he had dreamed of seeing his son graduate from Harvard.

The performance of Cats at the Kennedy Center had been only mildly entertaining for Nick. In the middle he had found himself wondering how many people in the audience really knew the author of the source material for the songs, this poet T.S. Eliot, who not only admired and enjoyed feline idiosyncrasies, but also once began a poem by describing the evening "spread out against the sky, like a patient aetherized upon a table." But when the old female cat walked to center stage, her beauty faded into wrinkles, and began her song of her "days in the sun," Nick had been moved right along with the entire audience. For reasons he never understood, he had seen Monique singing the song, years in the future. And in Washington he had wept, silent tears hidden quickly from his parents, when the achingly pure soprano voice had reached the climax of the song..

"Touch me . . . It's so easy to leave me . . . all alone with my memories . . . of my days in the sun . . . If you touch me . . . you'll understand what happiness is . . ."

Angie's voice at Sloppy Joe's was not nearly as piercing as that soprano in Washington But she sang with the same intensity, evoking all the sadness of someone for whom all the joys of life are in the past. The corners of Nick's eyes filled with tears and one of them brimmed out to run down his cheek.

From where Carol was standing, the lights from the stage reflected off Nick's cheek. She saw the tear, the window of vulnerability, and was herself moved in return. For the first time she felt a deep stirring, almost an affection for this distant, solitary, but strangely attractive man.

Ah Carol, how different it might have been if, for once in your life, you had not acted impulsively. If you had just let the man have his moment of loneliness or heartbreak or tenderness or whatever he was feeling, then you might have mentioned it later, at a quieter time, to some advantage. The sharing of this moment might even have eventually been part of the bonding between you. But you had to tap Nick on the shoulder, before the song was through, before he even realized himself that he was tearful, and break his precious communion with his inner self. You were an interloper. Worse, as so often happens, he interpreted your smile as derision, not sympathy, and like a frightened turtle withdrew completely from the evening. It was guaranteed that he would reject as insincere any subsequent overtures of friendship.

Troy missed the interplay between Carol and Nick. So he was quite surprised, when he turned around and sat down after the final applause, to find Nick's shoulders set in an unmistakable pose of hostility. "Wasn't she wonderful, angel?" Troy said to Carol. "And how about you, Professor? Was this the first time you heard her sing?"

Nick nodded. "She was great," he said, almost grudgingly. "And I am thirsty. Can a man get a drink in this place?"

Troy was slightly offended. "Well, pardon us," he said. "So sorry that the entertainment lasted so long." He tried to signal for the waiter. "What's eating him, angel?" he said conversationally to Carol.

Carol shrugged her shoulders. Then, trying to lighten the atmosphere, she leaned toward Nick and tapped him on the forearm on top of the table. "Hey, Nick," she said, "have you been taking angry pills?"