The Player (25 page)

He rolled her onto her stomach and stretched himself along her back. Sliding on the sweat between them, he came. Bonnie would have made a joke about the sperm dribbling down her back, she would have wiped it off immediately. June let him stay where he was. He watched the sperm slide over her waist to the bed.

Well, he thought, maybe my cell mates will ask to hear the story again. They'll ask me why I didn't fuck her. What will I say? It was
enough. As it was, we stayed equals. I didn't need to penetrate. He expected the cell mates to offer another explanation, one he'd already considered, that he couldn't share the same space with David Kahane, he was scared of the ghost. Maybe he couldn't because he didn't want to spoil her any more than he already had, that after his arrest he wanted to leave her with something intact, so she could love other men. No, he was not so generous, it was the first reason, and he smiled when he thought of a phrase sure to make a cell mate laugh: He couldn't park his car in Kahane's garage.

He called Dick Mellen at home in the morning. The service answered and said he was out of town for the weekend. They didn't know where he'd gone, but he usually checked in for messages in the late afternoon. If Mellen's first call had been about the police, about an arrest, he would have made sure to get through to him by now, Griffin thought, so whatever he wanted was important but could wait until Monday. So it must be about work, and Griffin ran through the possibilities. He was fired. He was being offered a job somewhere else. Maybe Mellen was leaving this firm and was calling to ask if Griffin would go with him to a new one. No, he wouldn't call Griffin on his vacation with that kind of news, and of course Griffin would stay with him. Levison is leaving the studio. That was possible. Larry Levy is taking over. That was not possible, not yet. His lawyer was calling simply to tell him to have a good time, to recommend a restaurant or a beach. That was possible, too. Griffin wondered how he could survive the weekend, followed by the Mexican police, without knowing what the call was about. There was all of Saturday and Sunday ahead of them. He could pretend that he'd made the call to the lawyer from the hotel's office, and say that he was needed back in town for some kind of high-level studio meeting on Sunday, she'd believe that. But the police who were watching him were probably waiting for him to go home. They'd only stop him if he took a plane to someplace other
than Los Angeles, if he bought a ticket to South America. If he left Puerto Vallarta two days early, then wouldn't the Pasadena Police, and Susan Avery, assume he was feeling the pressure and close in on him? Better to stay, better to pretend nothing was wrong. Suppose they arrested him in Los Angeles when he got off the plane. Why did you leave Mexico the day after you got there? If he said he had a meeting, Avery would check, and they'd want to know why he'd lied.

Now I must pretend to be a happy tourist, the happy lover, he thought. The weekend disappeared in this act. After breakfast they took a boat to a pretty little bay a few hours south of Puerto Vallarta. If they had been followed by the police, Griffin couldn't recognize the tail. There was a band on the boat, and Mexican couples danced while American tourists sat on the upper decks, overdosing on tequila and Corona beer. June tugged Griffin's hand and dragged him to the dance floor. She bought him two shots of tequila and forced him to move to the music. He loved her for letting him get lost in the crowd. He danced, and he was happy to dance. Chubby Mexican women in thick-soled, high-heeled sandals danced closely with their men. Children were dancing, too. Americans watched and Mexicans danced, and now Griffin danced, badly, he knew, all that the liquor did was coax him to the floor, but it didn't matter if he had no rhythm, he was moving. He kissed June and he was happy. He would remember this day when he was in jail.

When they came back to the hotel in the late afternoon, they showered and then lay on the bed, ready to make love. They were both tired. They slept.

Griffin woke up first. It was dark, almost ten o'clock. June sat up and watched him as he moved from the bed and walked to the balcony. The policeman was in the garden again.

There was no point in pretending that he didn't see the man, thought Griffin, since it was impossible to ignore him; it was better
to let him know that this gringo does not look rudely through Mexicans as though they're invisible. The policeman looked up at Griffin. Griffin nodded at him. The Mexican tilted his head, the contact was reassuring, promising easy treatment if there were an arrest.

“I love you,” said June, leaving the bed. Again she hugged him from behind and rested her chin on his shoulder. She said it again. “I love you.”

Griffin wondered how much the policeman knew. Had he been told simply to watch this couple and to report quickly if they snuck away to the airport? Or did he look at this couple on the balcony and see two killers?

And what should he say to June? He held her hand where she hugged his chest. He squeezed her fingers, hoping this would feel to her like a love he wasn't yet ready to declare. She kissed his ear.

“So?” she said.

“I love you, too. I do.” The policeman lit a cigarette. Did June include him in the romance of the place? Did she even see him?

“You're one of the best men I've ever met in my life.”

“You've got me all wrong.”

“I don't know what I would have done without you after David was killed.”

“All I did was offer a little sympathy.”

“Sometimes I think about the night David died, the night you called him. What if it had been you who had died that night, if you'd been mugged.”

“I parked on the street.”

“But if you hadn't. If you'd parked behind the theater, the killer could have found you instead of David. It could have happened that way.”

“I suppose. Or to someone else. David could have come home, I could have come home.”

“But say you had been killed; you didn't have to go to David's funeral, but you did. I know I wouldn't have gone to your funeral, not after one phone call. And I think I would have felt awful, somewhere in my, I don't know my heart, my soul, I would have thought, whoa, if I hadn't told him that David was in Pasadena, he wouldn't have gone there and been killed.”

“Well, you would have been the instrument of my fate, and that's out of your control.”

“But the thing is, you didn't have to extend yourself and you did. And I respected you for it, I really did.”

“There's a long road from respect to love.”

“Well, you're cute and you're rich. That doesn't hurt.”

“I thought I was fat.”

“So am I.” She kissed his ear again. The policeman walked away, toward the hotel's large bar.

“Were you in love with David?”

“Yes.”

“Then maybe it's a little soon for you to be in love with me.”

“I know, but it's how I feel, and I don't care what anyone thinks.”

“I'm not talking about other people, I'm talking about how it's difficult to know your feelings when you've been through something awful. Everything gets confused.”

“But you haven't been through anything like I have, and you just said you love me. So what do we do about that?”

“We just have to be careful.” I am a monster, he thought. I am the worst person who ever lived.

When they made love this time, he controlled her completely, every flutter, every change in her pulse. He could guide her pleasure with the softest imaginable touch; it was his magnetic field drawing a brush against hers, to catch the smallest impulse at the tip of a finger and return it to her, build the pressure, and then let it out. Her
breath was the meter. She wanted to do him, but he wouldn't let her, and this increased her desire and he still said no.

“Why?” she asked him. She was sweating, damp hair stuck to her forehead, hiding her glazed eyes.

“Not yet,” was all he said, holding out hope like a drug.

He thought of Bonnie Sherow. Would she think he was the devil for making such brilliant love to the woman he had widowed? And it was brilliant. How could it not be, if this was the last weekend he'd spend with a woman? Had a man ever been so selfless with a woman? Of course she loved him; who had ever been so generous? He wondered if he was making love like a woman. He could do things with his fingers, give each one a personality of its own, send a squadron of lovers to June. June understood momentum, she knew how to be slow. Bonnie always seemed to be somewhere else. Why did he still care about her, think about her?

Sunday they stayed at the hotel and ate a large breakfast from a buffet in the dining room. They ate papaya with lime, eggs with Mexican sausage, beans, toasted rolls, drank coffee mixed with chocolate and cinnamon. They went to the beach and rubbed lotion on each other and rented an umbrella and slept. The police came by a few times, but Griffin didn't care about them anymore. He was in a cage, with an entrance in California, and the Mexican police couldn't touch him, they could only observe. Let them, he thought.

They ordered lunch on the beach, soft, rolled tacos filled with broiled fish and avocado and lime. After a nap they went for a swim. They were in the water for an hour and a half, floating on their backs and bumping their legs together, paddling between buoys.

“What was the idea?” she asked him.

“What idea?”

“The idea you wanted to talk about with David.”

Was this the first volley of the interrogation? Had Susan Avery coached her? He could tell her he'd forgotten, but no one would believe that. “I wanted to talk about his Japan story.”

“I always liked that one,” she said. “I wish he'd written it.”

“Yes.” What else could he say?

They were both silent for a few minutes. A sailboat was close to the shore, and the people on board waved to them. June floated on her back and watched a tourist wearing a parachute tied to a speedboat get pulled around the bay, a few stories above the water.

“I don't think I've ever been this relaxed,” said June. “And I bet you haven't, either.”

“Probably not.”

“How long will it last?”

“We leave in the morning.”

“No, I meant, how long before we lose this feeling?”

“As long as the tan lasts.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“How come you don't have a girlfriend?”

“I do, sort of.” He wanted to tell June some kind of truth.

“The one who couldn't go to the ball.”

“Yes.”

“Does she know you're here with me?”

“No.”

“Where is she?”

“In Los Angeles.”

“Why aren't you with her?”

“I told her I was busy. We're not as close as we used to be.”

“Will you see her Monday night?”

“I don't think so. We keep making plans, but we never seem to get together.”

“So she's not really your girlfriend.”

“Her friends would say I am. I suppose my friends would say the same thing.”

“Will you tell her about this weekend?”

“I don't know.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know.”

“It doesn't sound like she's really your girlfriend. You don't love her, do you?”

“I thought I told you that I love
you.”

“Men say lots of things they don't really mean.”

“I meant it at the time.”

“Yes, that's one of the things you hear men say, they say that one a lot.”

“I don't love her.”

“Have you told her that you do?”

“Not in a while.”

“Has she told you that she loves you?”

“I don't think so.”

“That's impossible. You don't forget someone telling you that she loves you.”

“Yes, she once told me that she loved me. But we broke up after that. We've been speaking again.”

“But now you've met me.”

“Yes.” He thought of a few questions he could ask. What did she expect? And why wasn't June married to Kahane? Was there a match between Griffin and June worth pursuing, because both had been wary of marriage? Were both of them the kind that didn't trust? Weren't her questions too pointed, wasn't she taking something
out on him? Would she prefer that he had lied? Or did some cell in her body know that he had killed Kahane; was she examining him in preparation for his trial? That was not a question he would ask. But the others, if he asked them, he would be saying, Good, let's clear the air, let's see how well we fight, let's test this love. Maybe it was better to give her the lead. It was the least he could do.

He had to say something. “I think you're disappointed with me because I'm not the saint you thought I was, because I kept something from you, or because I didn't tell an old girlfriend that I'd be in Mexico with another woman. I'm just a guy. Maybe I have a big office and a fancy car, and I know how to wear a tuxedo and call for a limousine, so it looks like I have my life together, but love confuses everyone. I'm no exception.”

They had drifted a mile down the beach. June splashed the water aimlessly, like a bored kid waiting to be told to stop splashing. Had he chastised her? That was not his intent. She had been mad at him for concealing Bonnie from her, and her from Bonnie, and instead of fueling the anger, he had once more made himself the hero of reason. She swam to him and with strong arms pushed him backward, daring him to resist. Then she growled at him, because she was frustrated with him, with life, with her grief, and because she loved him, and then she kissed him.

“Let's go in,” she said, leading him to the shore.

That night they went to bed, and again he played her with his hands. She reached for him, but he wouldn't do what she wanted. This time she didn't ask why.

When they checked out of the hotel in the morning, June did not know that the police car following them from the hotel to the airport was their official escort. After they cleared customs, the police waited with them in the lounge. Griffin led them to the duty-free
shop, where he bought June some perfume, her favorite, Karl Lagerfeld. He wondered if he should buy some for Bonnie, but June stayed by his side. He could always get some at a department store. He could go from one to the other if they wore the same scent.