island.”
“Take it easy, Paul.”
“My island. My house.”
“Relax.”
“You threw a grenade at me.”
“It was a dud, Paul.”
“A grenade.”
A smile. “Just a dud, Paul. A dummy, not a real grenade. Had to find out how you’d react. Like poetry in motion. A real grenade would have exploded in the water, Paul. And this one didn’t. There was no noise.”
I thought. He was right; there had been no explosion.
“You threw a grenade at me,” I said. Fifteen yards separated us. He had his gun aimed right at my chest. It looked like a .45, powerful enough so that even a hip or shoulder wound would carry me out of the play.
“Paul—”
“You know my name.”
“Why, of course I do, Paul.”
“Nobody around here knows my name.” I had stopped using my own name when I left Miami. No one on Mushroom Key could possibly have known it. Clint Mackey called me Gordon when he called me anything at all, but I had left it open as to whether that was my first or last name. “Nobody knows my name. You’re on my island, you threw a grenade at me. Who the hell are you?”
“You know me, Paul.”
I stared at him. Good clothes, light brown hair, tall, thin, eyes hidden behind horn-rimmed sunglasses.
“I don’t know you.”
“This help?” He took off the sunglasses, squinted at me, replaced them before I could rush him. “How do you stand the sun around here? But I guess you get used to it. And it seems to agree with you, Paul. I’ll bet you’ve never looked better. I preferred you without the beard, personally, but—”
“I don’t know you.”
“You did once. Calm yourself down, Paul. Take it easy.”
“Who are you?”
“We met once. We talked.”
“Where?”
“Don’t you remember?”
“No.”
“I’m really sorry about the grenade. It may have been unnecessary, but I had to know right away whether this back-to-nature routine had turned you hard or soft. You gave me the answer I wanted. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a human being move so fast. You could have stared at the thing trying to figure out what it was and what to do with it, but instead you swung right into action. Beautiful to watch.”
“You—”
“Beginning to remember, Paul?”
“Washington,” I said.
“That’s the boy.”
“Washington. Dattner. George Dattner.”
I kept my eyes on his face but concentrated on the gun. “How did you find me, Dattner?”
“You were never lost.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You were never out of sight, Paul. Not for very long, anyway. We had a man on you in New York. How did you enjoy Mrs. Jenss, by the way?”
“Who?”
“Sharon Jenss. Our man said she was damned attractive, and you certainly spent a lot of time with her. He said—”
“What the hell is this all about?”
“It’s about you, Paul.” He smiled. I thought back to our meeting in my room at the Doulton. Dattner seemed different, somehow. Or maybe it was just that I had grown different eyes. “Then you went to Miami, and then a few other places, and then we sort of lost track of you. I knew you were somewhere in the Keys. I didn’t know where, but all I had to do was scout around. No matter how careful a man is, he always seems to leave a trail. You used a lot of different names, didn’t you, Paul? And did you really throw Mr. Gregg overboard?”
“Who?”
“The real estate man.”
“Oh.”
“You wouldn’t believe the things he said about you. But after I talked with him I knew where you were. So this afternoon I rented a boat and came out here.”
“From Mushroom Key?”
“No. Little Table Key. Over that way.”
Little Table Key was no farther away from my island than Mushroom Key, but it was almost twice as large. I had been there once and had liked it less than Clint’s.
“You haven’t been to Mushroom Key?”
“No.”
I thought for a moment. “Get back in your boat,” I said.
“Huh?”
“Get in your boat and get the hell out.”
“Paul, Paul.” He shook
Learning to Kill: Stories