Free Beach Strip by John Lawrence Reynolds

that?” I had no intention of moving to British Columbia.
    Tina thought about that. Then, “How long had Gabe been depressed?”
    “He wasn’t depressed.”
    “It tends to be depressed people who commit suicide.”
    “Gabe did not commit suicide. He did not put his gun to his head and kill himself.”
    “Isn’t that what the police are saying? Aren’t they saying it was a suicide?”
    “They’re wrong. I know they’re wrong. Gabe never put his gun together unless he was going on duty—”
    “What’s that mean, ‘put his gun together’?”
    “You take your weapon apart …” I sounded like a police procedure manual. “… when you’re at home. You put the clip with the ammunition in one place, making sure there’s no bullet in the firing chamber, and put the other part somewhere else. So the gun’s never ready to fire, in case somebody finds it or …” I wasn’t sure of the other reason for making a gun unable to fire. I just felt better about it. “Everybody puts their weapon in kitchen drawers. It’s a cop thing, around here at least. You put the weapon in the kitchen drawer and the ammunition clip beside the cereal boxes, or some other place. Cops joke about it. Cops joke about everything. Don’t reach for the cornflakes and come up with the Glock. Gabe wouldnot put his gun together and carry it out to the blanket when he knew I was on my way to meet him.”
    “Unless he planned to use it.”
    “I don’t believe it. I’ll never believe it.”
    “What’s a Glock?”
    “His gun. I don’t know what happened to Smith & Wesson. One made cough drops and the other made cooking oil.” It was Gabe’s joke. Most people don’t get it. Tina was most people, so she thought it over before reaching across the table and putting her hand on mine.
    “Okay, I understand,” she said. “About the gun.” The waitress arrived with two glasses of Chianti and a basket of bread sticks. “What’s with all that yellow tape wrapped around your tool shed?” Tina asked when she left. “Wasn’t Gabe found on the beach?”
    “Some pervert’s been in there playing with himself,” I said. “That’s what Mel thinks.”
    “Mel? Who’s Mel?”
    “A cop who used to work with Gabe.”
    “What’s he like?”
    I shrugged. “A nice guy.” I had to say
something.
    I looked up to see Tina staring at me with one eyebrow raised. The waitress brought our food, and when she left I expected Tina to say aloud what I had just read in her expression, but we ate in silence until Tina began reminiscing about Dad and various aunts and uncles. I ate barely half of my pasta. Tina devoured her meal, then flashed her American Express card, and we drove back to the beach strip in silence.
    TINA WAS STANDING AT OUR KITCHEN WINDOW, looking out at the garden. Beyond the fence and above the boardwalk, the horizon was lit with the white silken promise of a moon preparing torise over the lake. “I can see the attraction of living here on the lake,” Tina said. “Except for everything else.”
    I was sitting at the kitchen table. I had poured a finger or two of brandy into an old glass but had not touched it yet. I was waiting for my sister to leave. Some sins need solitude. “What’s ‘everything else’ mean?”
    Tina waved her hand. “The traffic on the bridge, the stuff from the steel companies, some of your neighbours … and, you know, it’s not the cleanest beach in the world.”
    “That’s why Martha Stewart keeps turning down my invitations.”
    She turned from the window, her arms folded across her chest. “Did Gabe appreciate your sense of humour?”
    “As a matter of fact—” I began.
    “Does Mel?”
    Someday, Tina will have a verbal ambush named after her. In high school, Tina claimed she joined the debating club because a couple of cute boys were members, which was a lie. The only man in my lifetime who was both cute and a good debater was Bill Clinton, and the combination was so rare that it got him