The Eighth Commandment (32 page)

“Why do you wear your hair like that?” she asked.

“Like what?” I said. “I don’t wear it like anything. That’s my problem.”

She regarded me gravely, head tilted to one side. “I think you should have it cut short,” she pronounced. “Like a loose feather cut—you know?”

“Not a bad idea,” I acknowledged.

“Dad says to call you Dunk. Okay?”

“Sure,” I said, “that’s fine.”

“How tall are you, Dunk?”

“Six-two, give or take a little.”

“Are you a model?”

“I’m a model of something,” I said. “I don’t know what.”

“You’re pretty enough to be a model.”

“And you’re a sweetheart for saying it,” I told her. “What’s in the hamper?”

“Lunch,” she said. “Fried chicken and potato salad. Father probably bought it all at some greasy spoon.”

“Hey, come on,” he said indignantly. “I made the chicken myself, and the potato salad comes from a very high-class deli.”

“I was just kidding,” his daughter said. “Also, some cheesecake, lemonade for me, and a bottle of wine for the old folks.”

“Keep it up, kiddo,” her father told her, “and you’re going to be walking to Jacob Riis.”

She giggled and threw herself back in the corner of the rear seat, hugging her knees.

“I’m wearing a bikini,” she said. “What are you wearing?”

“A black maillot,” I told her. “Norma Kamali.”

“Is that the one cut high on the legs and no back?”

“That’s the one.”

“I love that suit,” Sally said dreamily. “Maybe by next year I’ll be big enough to wear it. If my old man will spring for it.”

“You keep talking like that,” Al said ferociously, “and you’re not going to make next year.”

She giggled again, and for the next hour she and I chattered about fashions, her schoolwork, boyfriends, rock groups, movie stars, television shows, and the pros and cons of washing your hair in beer. What a knowledgeable kid she was! And she wasn’t shy about spouting off. Not in an obnoxious way, mind you, but firm and convinced. She really was a darling.

She was wearing makeup—not a lot, but some—which threw me a little. When I was her age, I’d have been kicked out of the house if I used perfumed soap. But the times, they are a’changing. And even without the lip gloss and a touch of eyeliner, she’d have been a beauty. She was going to break a lot of male hearts, and I was afraid she knew it.

“I think my father should get married,” she said to me. “Don’t you?”

“Will you cut it out, Sally?” Al said, laughing. “You promised to behave.”

“I crossed my fingers behind my back,” she said. “You didn’t see me. Well, don’t you think he should get married?”

“If he wants to,” I said.

She thought a moment, frowning. “I think my mother might get married. She’s got a boyfriend.”

“Do you like him?”

“He’s okay, I guess. But he wears a toupee. That puts me off—you know?”

“Whee!” Al said, banging the steering wheel with his palms. “It’s Looney Tunes time, folks!”

We beat most of the heavy traffic and got out to Jacob Riis sooner than I expected. Al had a folding beach umbrella in the trunk, along with a big blanket and two beach chairs. He carried all that while I managed the wicker hamper. Sally scampered ahead of us. We set up about thirty feet from the shoreline, the sea reasonably calm and clear, sun shining, sky washed. A gorgeous day.

The moment we had the blanket spread, Sally kicked off her loafers, shucked T-shirt and jeans. Her little bikini was cute: a strawberry print with ruffles around the top and hips. What a bod the kid had! She was going to be a problem, but I didn’t tell Al that.

She took off her hair ribbon and went running down to the water, blond hair floating back in the breeze.

“No swimming till I get there,” Al yelled after her. Then he turned to me. “She can dog-paddle,” he said, “but still … I hope you don’t mind her, Dunk. What she comes out with.”

“Mind her?” I said. “I love her. She’ll never need any assertiveness training.”

“That’s for sure,” he said. “She’s so
bright
. Sometimes it scares me. Want to try the water or would you rather get some sun?”

“Swim first,” I said, “then sun.”

I heeled off my sandals and struggled out of my denim tent. Al stared at me.

“I know,” I said. “I look like a black Magic Marker.”

“You look beautiful,” he said, and I think he meant it. I made no reference to his salt-bleached khaki shorts that almost came to his knees.

Sally stayed close to shore, floating around, never getting over her depth. Al and I went out a way. He swam like the kind of man he was, with a heavy, ponderous overhand stroke, wallowing a bit, but making steady progress. He had thick, muscled shoulders and arms, and I figured he could get to Europe if he put his mind to it.

We had a good swim, my first of the summer, then turned around and came back in. Sally was already spread-eagled on the blanket, all oiled up. I dried off, then spread on my Number 15 sunscreen. Al had a swarthy skin; he could get a better tan walking a block down Broadway than I’d get all summer.

The two of us sat on beach chairs under the umbrella. Al opened the bottle of chilled rosé, and we each had a paper cup. Good stuff.

“The ocean was great,” I said. “Just great. Nothing like that in Iowa.”

“Ever want to go back?” he asked me curiously.

“For a visit? Sure. But permanently? I don’t think so. Not yet. How’re you going to keep them down on the farm—and so forth and so on.”

“I really don’t know a hell of a lot about you,” he said. “I mean your background and all. Before you came to New York.”

“Ask away,” I said. “If there’s anything you want to know.”

“No,” he said, “not really. But then you don’t know a hell of a lot about me, do you?”

“Nope,” I said, “and I’m not going to ask. If you want to tell me, you’ll tell me.”

“You’re so goddamned trusting,” he said. “I could be Attila the Hun and you wouldn’t know—or care.”

“Will the two of you please lower your voices,” Sally said severely from the blanket. “I’m trying to take a nap and don’t wish to listen to your personal confessions.”

“That’s a crock,” her father said, laughing. “You’re listening to every word and you love it.”

She giggled. “You’re awful,” she said. “If you weren’t my dad, I wouldn’t put up with you.”

“You’re stuck with me, babe,” he told her, “and I’m stuck with you. Ain’t it nice?”

“Yes,” she said, sighing and turning over to tan her back. “It’s nice, pop.”

“I’ll pop you,” he said in mock anger, but she just smiled and closed her eyes.

Is there anything new you can say about a splendid July afternoon on the seashore? Warm lassitude. Lulling sound of the surf. A kissing breeze. The comfort of quiet broken by children’s shouts. So relaxing that you think your bones are going to melt.

“I suppose,” I murmured to Al, “if we did this every day, it would get to be a bore.”

“You believe that?”

“No. Al, I’ve got to say something that’s really going to shock you.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m hungry.”

“I am, too,” Sally yelled, leaping to her feet. “Let’s eat!”

We moved the beach umbrella so it shaded the blanket, and we all sat on that. We gnawed the fried chicken Al had made (delicious!), spooned potato salad, and munched on celery stalks, radishes, and cherry tomatoes. Al had even remembered the salt and paper napkins. The man was a treasure.

When we were finished, Sally surprised me—and her father—by cleaning up and taking all our refuse to the nearest trash can.

“Oh-oh,” Al said. “She wants something.”

“Don’t be a goop,” she said crossly. Then, in a grand manner: “I may take a walk down the beach. By myself. Just to relax—you know?”

“Just to meet boys,” Al said. “You know?”

“Father, sometimes you can really be gross!”

We watched her stalk away. She hadn’t been down at the water’s edge more than a minute before we saw two boys about her own age circle about her and draw closer.

“Will she be all right?” I asked anxiously.

“Don’t worry about Sally,” Al advised me. “She can take care of herself.”

“I hope so.”

“She’ll stay close enough so I can keep an eye on her,” he said. “You’ll see.”

She did exactly as he predicted. It was a joy to watch the young flirt at work. Running into the ocean up to her knees, dashing out with whoops of feigned horror at the chill. Laughing and hugging her elbows. Flinging her long blond hair about. The boys were enchanted.

“Is your ex really going to get married?” I asked Al.

He opened a second bottle of rosé. It was warmish, but we didn’t care.

“Probably,” he said. “She’s got this regular guy. I’ve never met him, but from what I’ve heard from Sally and her mother, he’s solid enough. I mean he’s got a good job and all that. An accountant.”

“How do you feel about it?”

He shrugged. “It’s her life. The only thing that bothers me is that Sally will have a new father. Well, a stepfather. Maybe she’ll forget all about me.”

“No way,” I told him. “She loves you; she’s never going to let you go.”

“You really think so?”

“Absolutely. Besides, you don’t wear a toupee.”

He smiled. “Yeah, there’s that. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost that kid. My life is rackety enough as it is. Without her, I’d really be drifting.”

“No chance of getting back together with your ex?”

“Oh, no,” he said immediately. “She doesn’t want to be a cop’s wife, and I can’t blame her for that. It’s what came between us: the job, the damned job. Lousy hours. And her worry. It’s not that dangerous, but she thought it was. Every time a cop got killed, she’d cry for days. I’d tell her the percentages weren’t all that bad, but she couldn’t get it out of her head that some day an Inspector would show up on her doorstep and give her the bad news. A lot of cops’ wives drink—did you know that?”

“No, but I can understand it.”

“Still,” he said, “it’s my life. If I wasn’t a cop, what would I be? A night watchman? Bodyguard for a rock star? Not president of General Motors, that’s for sure.”

We were back in our chairs under the umbrella. The sun glare bouncing off the sand was all I needed. I could feel my skin beginning to tingle. Pretty soon, I vowed, I’d wrap myself in denim.

Al’s hand moved sideways. He held my fingers loosely. “What about you, Dunk?” he said. “Ready to settle down?”

“I don’t know,” I said, embarrassed and confused. “I really don’t know what I want. For the time being I’m just floating. I figure if I’m that unsure, I better wait awhile until I’m more certain of what I want to do.”

“Yeah,” he said, “that’s wise. But don’t wait too long. Time goes so
fast
! I remember when I was a kid in grade school, I thought vacation would never come. Time went so slowly. Now it whizzes by. Weeks, months, years. And then you wake up one day and say, What the hell happened? Where did it go?”

We sat awhile in silence, holding hands, watching Sally frolic on the beach with her two beardless lovers. They were tossing a Frisbee back and forth. Lucky kids. Little did they know that they were going to grow up and have troubles.

“By the way,” Al said, “we finally got into Orson Vanwinkle’s bank account. He had over a hundred thousand. Not bad for a secretary—wouldn’t you say? Particularly when you consider how well he lived.”

“I would say. Did he leave a will?”

“No sign of one—the idiot. He had no close relatives. Just some cousins. I guess eventually it’ll go to them, but meanwhile it’ll be a lawyer’s delight.”

“What about Dolly LeBaron?”

“She had about five thousand. No big deal. I guess Orson was paying her food bills and maintenance on the apartment and cash for her clothes—stuff like that. But apparently he wasn’t laying heavy money on her. Not enough so she could build up a nest egg.”

“That’s odd,” I said. “He seemed to have enough money for a lot of other people.”

“Yeah,” Al said, turning his head to stare at me. “Like Akbar El Raschid. Why didn’t you tell me about that, Dunk? You knew, didn’t you?”

“I knew,” I admitted. “But there are a lot of things you don’t tell me, aren’t there?”

“Maybe,” he said grudgingly. “Little, unimportant things.”

“Besides,” I said, beginning to resent this, “I was the one who told you Orson swung both ways, wasn’t I? I figured you’d find out about his connection with Akbar. And you did.”

“After a lot of work,” he said. “You could have saved us time.”

I dropped his hand. “That’s not my job,” I said angrily, “to save you time.”

He groaned. “Jesus,” he said, “what the hell are we doing? A beautiful day on the beach and we’re squabbling about a couple of homicides. Now do you understand why my wife dumped me? I can’t forget the job. I’m sorry, Dunk. Let’s not even mention it for the rest of the day. Okay?”

“Fine with me.”

“Truce?” he said, taking up my hand again. “You’re not sore at me?”

“How could I be sore at a guy who makes such scrumptious fried chicken?”

“The hell I did,” he said. “I bought it at Sam’s Chicken Chuckles around the corner from where I live.”

I howled. “You’re a bastard,” I told him. “You know that?”

“Oh, sure,” he said. “But I could have made it if I had wanted to. I just didn’t have the time.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, “that’s your story. I’ll never believe you again.”

“I only lie about unimportant things,” he said. “Here comes Miss America of ten years from now.”

Sally came dashing up to us. How come kids of her age never saunter? They always run at top speed. All that energy … I wish I had some.

“Any lemonade left?” she demanded.

“Shake the thermos,” her father said. “It’s your jug.”

She drained it and got about a half-cup that she gulped down.

“So tell us, Cleopatra,” Al said, “did you give them your phone number?”

“They live in Jersey,” she said. “Can you imagine? Who needs that?”

“Better luck next time,” he said.

We got about another half-hour of sun, then decided we better start back to beat the traffic. We packed up and moved to the parking lot. The car was an oven, and we had to leave the doors open awhile before we could get in. I sat in the back with Sally.