Tango Key Read Online Free PDF

his temple, studied the ground, looked up again. The lines at the corners of his eyes, a seaman's eyes, deepened. "Murphy knows what's what, Al."
    "Not when it comes to Monica, he doesn't."
    He didn't seem to know what to say, and Aline felt foolish. Dobbs and Murphy had been friends for fifteen years. He'd been best man at Murphy's wedding. They'd been partners in vice together, before Murphy had been moved to homicide. They boated together. And here she was, maligning Murphy's judgment to his closest friend. Yeah, she was doing just terrific tonight. In fact, she was doing so great, she decided to go home. She had nothing more to ask Eve at the moment anyway, and she was sure that anything she'd forgotten, Murphy or Dobbs would cover.
    "See you tomorrow, Jack," she said, and left.
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    July 5, 5:40 P.M.
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    S he moves her cheek up and down against the dirty floor, trying to roll the blindfold off her eyes. The pine floor has spalled over the years from neglect, and now and then a thin, sharp splinter pokes into her skin. But Eve keeps moving her cheek up and down, up and down, the small movements of her head sending shoots of pain down through her neck and the right side of her body, the side she is lying on.
    C'mon, you can do it.
    She can do anything. That's what her old man used to tell her, especially when he was drunk. She remembers him sitting at The Dew Drop Inn in downtown Arcadia, hunched over his mug of ice cold beer, his words slurring. "Girl who looksa like you can d 'anythin' she sets her mind to. Anythin'. Your ma coulda done anythin', too, but she married me instead. Her ma shoulda tol' her it's jus' as easy to fall for a rich man as a poor man. You 'member that, Eve. You 'member that good."
    She remembered it. And look where it got her.
    She hears something. A car. Oh God, a car, his car. She knows it, is suddenly certain of it. She freezes, her cheek squashed against the floor, her breath coming so hard she nearly chokes on it because of the gag. Her heart slams against her ribs; her blouse is wet with sweat. She smells herself. She stinks of the hot dust in Arcadia. She starts to cry, but stops quickly because otherwise her nose will stuff and she'll suffocate. She strains to catch the smallest sound. Nothing. Maybe it was just a car passing on the Old Post Road. If it were his car, wouldn't she hear his footsteps by now? Wouldn't she hear him rapping his knuckles on the glass, saying, Hi, babe. I'm home, babe.
    The only thing she hears is the muted cries of a flock of wild parrots, flying over the island as they always do during the late afternoon. She can see them in her mind's eye, dark shapes against a saffron sky, passing directly over the farmhouse and the forest of trees around it. Where do they sleep at night? Where do they come from? Where do they go? In Arcadia, she used to ask these questions about herself, not about animals or birds. That's how far she has come, she thinks, and starts to laugh, laughs until she is crying.
    No no no. No crying.
    She swallows her cries, swallows them fast, tries to think of something else, something happy. She resumes moving her cheek against the floor in an attempt to roll the blindfold off her eyes. What's my happiest memory? The day she hitched out of Arcadia, left it behind for good. Yes, all right. She will think of that. And of her wedding. A wonderful wedding. But the two events are like islands, isolated in a sea of ugly memories. It's as if the highs were so high, the only place to go was down.
    The blindfold begins to give, rolling off her forehead to her brow. She presses her cheek harder against the floor and moves her head up and down, faster and faster, and now, oh God, now her right eye is blinking open, now a slice of the floor swims into view. She sees dust. Knots in the pine. Ribbons of sunlight. Her left eye is still covered, but she keeps moving her head, and presently the blindfold begins its low descent over her brow, her lid, and