Swan Dive

the master bedroom suite. The sheets on the king-size bed were rumpled and dirty, a fresh, oval stain on them near the center of the mattress. The accordion louvers on the closets were arced outward, clothes tossed everywhere. The door to the master bath was open, probably to allow the music coming from the large speakers on customized stands in two corners of the bedroom to be heard. There was a forty-five-inch television screen in a third comer, with two more VCRs on shelves beneath it. I walked to the threshold and peered in.
    Marsh was behind a frosted-glass shower door. I could make out his movements as he lathered and scrubbed himself. On the rung of the metal border was a large blue towel. I carefully tugged it off, then stepped back and underhanded it into the bedroom. I eased against a clothes hamper in the corner and waited.
    Twenty seconds later, Marsh turned off the water, made a blubbering sound, and slid the door a third of the way on its track, fishing his hand out for the towel. He slapped perspiring glass a few times, and said, ”Shit!” Then he yanked the door all the way open.
    Naked he looked almost starved, about as much fat on him as you’d find in a stick of com oil margarine. He had an armored division ”Hell on Wheels” tattoo on one bicep and ”Bom to Kill” on the other. He saw me and jumped, losing his balance in the slippery tub and having to grab and somewhat dislocate the glass door to keep from falling. His genitalia shriveled up to nothing.
    ”What’s the matter, mighty hunter, Sheilah wear you plumb out?”
    He worked his mouth once, then caught his breath. ”What the fuck do you—”
    ”I wanted to have a little talk with you. About your latest safari.”
    ”What?”
    ”You know, to deepest, darkest Peabody .”
    Marsh started to come out of the shower, slinging his left leg over the tub wall and making a fist with his right hand. Before he could cock it, I took a quick step forward and jabbed with my index finger hard into the little half-moon hollow we all have just above the breastplate. That tends to scratch the windpipe and made Marsh clumsily step back, tripping on the tub wall and nearly falling again.
    His voice croaked. ”You... got... no right...”
    ”You’re a funny guy to be talking about rights, pal. After what you did to your daughter’s pet.”
    ”I got... alibi...”
    ”You think old Sheilah’s going to back you when she finds out what you did?”
    ”Get out.”
    ”Not yet.”
    Marsh started to come forward again, then his brain took over and he stopped himself.
    ”You’re learning, Marsh. And so far the tuition hasn’t been too costly. Just a little sore throat.”
    ”What do you... want?”
    ”I want you to behave yourself. I don’t mean about the nurse and all. I mean you leave Hanna and Vickie alone, and leave the divorce stuff to the lawyers to work out.”
    His voice was returning, and Marsh regained a little vinegar along with it. ”Or else what? You’ll break my... writing hand, too?”
    I walked up to him. He tried, God knows why, to slam the glass door shut in my face. I jammed it with the heel of my shoe, and the glass, unable to stand the torque and impact, shattered, big and little pieces falling down into and around the tub.
    Marsh at least had the presence of mind to freeze. I put my hands in my pants pockets and shook them, making the fragments sift down off my legs and onto the floor.
    Marsh looked at the bottom of the tub. He had only some small cuts with little springs of blood popping up on his feet and shins, but he was literally surrounded by splinters. ”Jesus Christ, how am I supposed... to get out of here?”
    I backed up. ”Good question.”
    ”Come on, man. You gotta get me some shoes... or something. I can’t walk out of here in my bare feet.”
    ”Take up your wounds with the nurse when she gets home.”
    ”I’ll get you for—”
    ”You’ve got a mighty short retention span, Marsh. Let me spell it out for you. Doing the cat today, you stepped outside the rules. You step outside the rules again, boyo, and I’ll play like there are no rules. Understand?”
    He didn’t say anything until I was down the stairs. Then he started yelling, ”Ow, ow! Goddamn fucking —Ow, ow—You son of a bitch—”
    I left by the deck door and whistled on my way back to the Fiat. Just to avoid tempting fate, though, I started right up, made another three-point turn, and drove out the other end of the Seaway so as to