pointed over toward them. “Take one whenever you like. Best way to get around town.”
Jake nodded, took it all in, and a simple, boyish exclamation escaped him. “Man, this is nice!”
Joey beamed, then looked down modestly as he led the way toward the yellow cottage. “Kind of a funny story how I got the place,” he said. “The former owner, my landlord, was a nice guy, a little odd. Used to just stand naked in the pool all day.”
“Naked?”
“Yeah. It’s clothing optional. They didn’t tell you that?”
“They didn’t tell me anything.”
“Well, anyway,” Joey went on blithely, “few years ago this guy calls me up. ‘Joey,’ he says, ‘I got big problems. The vacation market is in the shits, I can’t pay my mortgage. What should I do?’ I say, ‘How about you put some fucking pants on and get a job?’ He says, ‘I have no pants.’ I say, ‘I’ll buy you some.’ ‘No,’ he says. ‘Fuck pants. How about you buy the place?’ So I bail him out, he disappears one day, and here we are.”
Joey finished the story just as they reached the cottage door, and, with a bit of a flourish, he threw it open. Inside, there was a vacuum cleaner standing in the middle of the living room, its cord snaked across the floor, its plug connected to nothing. A young fellow in a faded red sarong was sleeping on the sofa, his cheek resting angelically on his hands.
“Oh Christ,” said Joey. “Bryce!”
With no great urgency the man in the sarong bestirred himself and opened one eye. “Oh, hi Joey.”
“Hi Joey my ass. Get up off the couch.”
Bryce scratched his head. His feelings seemed hurt. “You don’t have to yell at me. The place is clean. I just got sleepy.”
To Jake, Joey said, “I’m really sorry. It usually isn’t like this … No, let’s not bullshit, it’s like this a lot of the time. Look, I manage other houses. Plus we have hotels here. If you think you’d be happier …”
Jake was looking around the living room. It had louvered windows through which the rustling of palm fronds could be heard. The furniture was old rattan, scuffed and scarred in places, with faded floral upholstery. A lazily turning ceiling fan dangled overhead; its oversized blades spread a faintly narcotic aroma of jasmine.
“No,” he said. “I’ll take it. It’s fine. Just what I would’ve pictured if I’d had time to picture anything.”
Joey Goldman seemed not just relieved but genuinely pleased. “That’s how I felt too. Saw the place, saw naked people, guys in skirts. My first thought: What the fuck? Then it was like something just let go and suddenly it all seemed fine. What a place down here should be. Well, here’s my card. You need anything, just call. Come on, Bryce, grab the vacuum cleaner and let’s let Mr. Benson settle in.”
5.
Jake put his suitcase on the bed and began looking for ways to make the place his own. The first priority, of course, was settling on where he would write; he chose a small desk in an alcove near a bedroom window. Then he propped his shaving kit behind the faucet of the bathroom sink. He checked out the kitchen and found a wineglass and a coffee cup that were good enough. It was while he was in the kitchen that he heard the altercation by the pool.
It was a terse and basic altercation. He heard the compound gate whoosh open and slam shut, then Bryce said to someone, “I really don’t think you should be here.” The tone was languid and mild but held a firm note of moral certainty.
The answer came back quick and nasty. “Mind your business, faggot.”
There was a brief pause, then Bryce, still mild, unshaken, said, “You shouldn’t go in there. She isn’t home.”
The other man, apparently of limited vocabulary, said, “I told you mind your business. I got a key. You don’t think I got a key?”
There was the click of a door opening, then another pause, a slightly longer one, then the door clicked shut again. Bryce said, “Hey, you