82 Desire

infinitely world-weary. Russell walked toward him, noticing that he had a hand stuck in his pocket, but no gun showing. Probably his way of trying not to alarm the neighborhood.
    Russell sighed as he walked. The jig, apparently, was up—there would be no midnight sail, no escape to the Bahamas, no new life. Just scandal and degradation.
    Oh, well , he thought, I always knew this might happen. It’s better than that lie I was living. Anything is.
    He’d gambled and lost. He could be a good sport about it.
    The cop put him in the backseat of the car, got in the front, and did draw a gun, which he trained on him, a gesture Russell found quite a bit more threatening than anything life had held up to that point.
    He said, “Aren’t you going to handcuff me?”
    A shadow crossed the cop’s face. Under other circumstances, Russell might have said his captor was taken aback, but surely that couldn’t be the case.
    He heard footsteps, a man running, and turned to look. The new man got in the car and said, “Holy shit!”
    The first cop said, “Cover him, will you? “
    The second cop took the gun, said, “Freeze or I’ll blow your head off,” and the first cop drove. Fast and furiously.
    No one followed.
    When they were a good distance from Holser’s house, the burly one said, “Manny. What the fuck’s going on, man?”
    “Why the fuck didn’t you cover me? Didn’t you see that fuckin’ broad?”
    “If I’d’ve covered you, we’d have lost Prep-boy here. They got there at the same time—don’t ask.”
    “Fuck. Let’s ask him. Hey, Russell, who’s the lesbo?”
    “I, uh—I thought she was with you.”
    “Fuck.”
    Manny stayed turned toward the back, keeping the gun on Russell, but neither of the cops spoke again.
    Because he hated the silence, and because in New Orleans everyone talks to everyone, he said, “Where are y’all from?”
    “This ain’t no time for small talk,” Manny answered.
    “I meant, uh, which police department,” and the same shadow crossed Manny’s face that had crossed his partner’s.
    Before his head had time to work on it, Russell’s body broke out in a sweat. Noticing a piece of paper in the backseat, he reached for it. Manny nudged him with the gun. But he had it already.
    Turning it over, he saw that it was a faxed photo of himself.
    “Where are you taking me?” he said, and there was a tremor in his voice.
    No one answered.
    When they were well out of Holser’s neighborhood, they stopped and put Russell in the front seat and Manny in the back so that he could keep the gun at Russell’s temple without having to strain his neck.
    Eventually, they got on the expressway and drove north for nearly an hour, no one speaking except Russell, who tried periodically to get some kind of response. No matter what he asked them, no matter how provocative, the other two were sphinxes.
    During the long drive, Russell tried to clear his head, to focus on his breathing, to give his mind a rest until he had more information. He succeeded so well he fell into a kind of waking nap, a numbness that might have been shock. He barely noticed when they arrived at Fort Lauderdale, and they were nearly at the marina before he realized they were taking him to his own boat.
    It was about the time he’d have been getting back if everything had gone smoothly.
    Dina would be there soon. He found he was sweating again. He had deliberately tried not to entertain the question of whether these dudes were thugs or just exceptionally nasty cops, but his body was telling him now. He knew who they were.
    “Shit!” the driver said.
    “What?” asked Manny.
    The driver pointed. “Lights.”
    Lights on the Pearson. In the galley and the main salon. Dina was aboard.
    The driver said, “I’ll go.” He parked the car and got out. Russell tried without success to think of something to do. Then, almost without realizing he was going to, he reached over and leaned on the horn. Manny grabbed him by the hair, tugged him back, and stuck the barrel of the gun in his temple. Again without thinking, Russell called her name, hollered, “Dinaaaaa!” so loud it hurt his vocal cords.
    “Fuck,” was the last thing he heard.
    Next, someone was slapping his face, trying to revive him to get him on the boat. “Dina,” he said. “Dina…”
    “Shut up, asshole. She can’t hear you and neither can anyone else.”
    His head was killing him. He thought he could remember being hit, but he honestly wasn’t