Free Sunburn by John Lescroart Page B

you say,” she said, touching my arm. “Don’t worry—you’re not giving yourself away.”
    “Giving what away?”
    “Now don’t pretend. No one as controlled as you are isn’t concerned about letting people see him. I mean, the real him. But you seem—I don’t know—maybe too much the observer, as if you’re just trying to make it until you see something that will free you, but which you’re not sure is there.” She stared toward the shore.
    “You’re a wise little girl,” I said.
    “Don’t tell Tony.” Her face brightened. “Here. Get out your book and let me put my head on your shoulder and close my eyes.”
    We finished the short trip to Lloret without talking. I pretended to read, but was always conscious of the weight of her head against my arm and the young, clean, intoxicating scent of almonds coming off her.
    Strangely, there was no sexual undertone. I felt we were old friends, as though long ago we’d been lovers and it hadn’t worked out.
    The boat landed roughly, and we got up.
    “Read much?” she said, smiling.
    “Can’t fool you, can I?”
    We got off the boat and started trudging over the hundred yards of Lloret’s beach.
    “Why’d you come here today?” I asked.
    “Meeting Tony for lunch. Want to join us?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Oh, you do. What did you come here for?”
    “No reason, really.”
    “Then join us.”
    I laughed. “OK.”
    “OK.”
    “By the way, Mike wouldn’t be eating with you, would he?”
    She stopped and looked at me. “No. Why do you ask?”
    “Just curious,” I said.
    She saw Tony on the ramblas and waved. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s run.”
     
    We ate at the Calamic Tavern, which was really not a tavern at all. Owned by a Frenchman with a Spanish wife, it served the best steaks on the Costa Brava. Sitting outside and drinking the ridiculously cheap tinto, we spent a while talking among ourselves and to all and sundry who passed on the narrow street. Tony seemed to know everyone—Pedro, who owned the English bar down the street and who was being divorced by his wife for, in Tony’s words, “countless adulteries”; Andrés, his Dutch bartender, famed for being the friendliest man in town and an incurable drunk; Lisa, who owned the disco around the corner, and who normally spent the winters coming down off the pills she’d consumed during the summer, though this winter she didn’t appear to be bothering; another Tony, the cook across the street, trying to decide, according to our Tony, whether or not to go underground rather than serve in the military.
    Ramon, more or less officially the town ombudsman, sat down and joined us along with Trish and Ilse, two prostitutes. When they’d all gone, I asked Tony if Ramon knew all that went on, all about the dope and insanity.
    He patted my hand. “He knows, and he doesn’t know. It’s a resort town here. If he likes you, he doesn’t know. If not, he knows everything. I’ve personally seen him smoke marijuana, for instance, but I wouldn’t suggest joining him.” He stopped to drink his wine. “But if you think this is a group with stories, you should be here in the summer. Then it’s a crazy place, which is why I leave—go to Barcelona.
    “You know Pedro we just met? His wife came into his place in August and threw their baby through the big picture window, I swear to Almighty God. Why it wasn’t killed I’ll never know. And the next day they walked hand in hand along the ramblas.
    “And there was an English singer here during the summer, working at the Hof van Holland, across town. He was to be paid at the end of the summer, and the owners decided not to pay him. No reason. He nearly killed them both with a wine bottle. He’s in jail now, and will be for a long time.”
    “But why didn’t they pay him?”
    “As I said, no reason. Happens all the time. He didn’t have a legitimate work permit, and he had no rights anyway.”
    “Even to his pay?”
    He smiled.