White Vespa by Kevin Oderman Read Free Book Online Page B

that; some things we want we don’t get. And how we look is just too mixed up with how we think about ourselves to ever come into clear focus. He glanced up. A needlefish rode just under the surface, a silver streak under the brightness of the surface itself. The surface, he thought, was very like a mirror, had that mercury shine, but unlike a mirror in that you couldn’t see yourself in it. Maybe, he thought, that made it a better mirror: no illusions. Anne, anyway, hadn’t been fooled by her mirror into thinking she knew what she looked like. That said something in her favor.
    He swam down, deep, to where the water was cold and his ears hurt, then came up fast, watching the unruffled shine of the surface as it got close, pushing his head, at last, right through it.
    He pulled the mask up on his forehead and looked back toward the low profile of Nímos. Squinting against his myopia, he saw Jim materialize out of the rock of the island as he strode up the rise from the other side. Then he was walking down, gesturing to Myles to let him know lunch was ready. He waited while Myles swam ashore, and they walked together back over the rise and down to where Yórgos knelt over the grill, tending the fish.

Sixteen
    19 June
    Â 
    Anne stood by the bar. The terrace was quiet, only two tables out there with anybody at them and the folks at those two tables slow drinkers. She counted her tips, passing the piles of coins to the bartender in exchange for bills. Easy money, overall, and the clientele relatively well-behaved. She’d done a lot of this kind of work and no longer thought much about it. Things evened out. She was beyond worrying about the size of any particular tip. The tips she got were for service; she gave good service. But she didn’t flirt, as a rule. She didn’t want the money that much, and about the customers she felt indifferent. Except for Myles. She had been flirting with Myles.
    She asked the bartender for a gin, and he gave it to her in a coffee cup. On the house, all of them were on the house. Maybe the bartender liked her, maybe he didn’t care for the management all that much. Either way, the gin was free.
    The bartender was cleaning up, cleaning the bar with a wet towel, restocking. He was very efficient. A John, Anne thought, vaguely amused. From Australia, working his way around the world. He’d been gone three years, half the time in London, half on the road. He had some good stories, Anne thought, but he wasn’t any good at telling them. She’d listened to him trot them out for the real stewheads, the ones who sat at the bar because the bartender had to listen. She thought the suffering must have been about evenly distributed.
    Occasionally, when she thought about Paul, she found herself wanting a gun. That, she thought, would simplify things. But she knew she’d never use a gun, not even to threaten with. What she really wanted was simplicity, and a gun would be simple. She ought to have a plan, she knew it. Soon she’d be bumping into Paul, and she’d need something to say. She’d seen him several times already. He liked nothing better than to strut in public places.
    She sipped at the gin. On the terrace, the last table was standing up, two
couples, tourists, staying over for a single night; they’d told her. Anne went over to say goodbye and by the time they were at the stairs she had cleared the table and pocketed the two shiny, hundred drachmae coins they’d left as a tip. She ran her thumb over Alexander’s face on one of the coins, another pretty boy.
    Anne took off her apron and leaned against the bar; she picked up her coffee cup and sniffed the gin, trying to decide whether to finish it or not. John nodded toward the stairs, at Myles coming down, looking sheepish. Anne liked how he looked, loose limbed and relaxed, a little sleepy.
    â€œHere for a drink?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œIt’s whiskey straight