come out, talking loud. Well, that did it. That snapped me out of it. When he tried to pull my hand back, I let him pull me, then gave him a hell of a shove. I must have screamed at the same time, too; yelled something, because the people heard me. We were behind some trees, but they came running. Rios was lying there trying to get his zipper up, and I wanted to kill him, and I was crying, and people were asking, 'What's wrong?' and all I could think to say was, 'Take a look at this twerp's dong. Wouldn't make a meal for a bird!' and I left the party."
His mouth open, scooping oxygen, Ford grinned. Dewey said. "I should have hit him. Hit him right in his goddamn fat face, then called the cops. But I didn't. I figured just let it go. I mean, it was humiliating. Then ... Christ, this is the worst part... then, a few months later, my friends begin to hear rumors. It's getting spread around that I'm gay."
Ford said, "Oh?"
"None of the people I know would've started anything like that. My personal life is strictly nobody's business. Nobody's."
Ford wondered just what that meant.
She ran in silence for a time, then said, "Then one of the investigators from the tennis association calls me and says she has information that suggests I've been using steroids. Damn! So I submit to more tests than they already make us do. Then a reporter from a sports magazine calls, very polite, and hints around at it, but finally comes right out and asks if it's true I've tested positive for AIDS. He's gotten an anonymous tip. Then my mother calls from Chicago, practically hysterical. She's crying because she's gotten a call. too. Someone's asked her about this crap."
"Rios," Ford said.
"I think so; can't think of anybody else who'd do that ... that sort of garbage. But my lawyer said there was nothing we could do unless we found someone who would testify he was starting all this stuff. We hired an investigative firm. Cost me like five grand. All they came up with was it was maybe Marvin Rios or a male accomplice, but nothing solid enough for a suit." She said, "I'd hurt the little schmuck's ego in front of some Sanibel hotshots. He was out to plow me under. I mean, a purely evil little son of a bitch."
Finally, they were at the shell road into Dinkin's Marina, and Ford came clomping to a stop at the entrance to his stilt house, bending at the waist, hands interlaced over his head, sucking air.
Dewey said. "Seven-ten miles. Not bad. old man." Sweating, but not breathing that hard, studying her watch.
Ford said, "Why haven't I heard any of this stuff... this stuff about you and Rios?"
Dewey said, "I told you: I don't talk about it. Besides, you're the kind of guy people tell their problems to, but not the real creepy stuff, the real dirty stuff. Be like trying to tell their chemistry professor; someone who's above that sort of crap."
Ford said, "Oh," looking at her to see if she really believed that.
She said, "Plus, between you and me. I didn't want anyone but my attorney to know."
"I guess that makes sense."
"Yeah. I'd have never done it. but I couldn't help thinking of ways to have that bastard killed."
Going up the walkway to Ford's house, stripping off her running shorts and throwing them over the railing, she said, "But now, it doesn't matter. Like freedom." Dewey said, "Ding dong, the witch is dead."
3
At 6 p.m., stretched out on a lawn chair on his porch, writing in his notebook, Ford watched across the water as the guide boats filed back into the marina. Jeth Nicholes's boat was not among them.
He wrote: "T = tide; W -= wind; R = resistance; L = lag; U = unknowns. TW, - TW 2 + - 2[L]+ -U x R = X."
He puzzled over the formula for several minutes, then carefully erased it, as unsure that resistance factors could be computed as he was certain there were too many unknowns.
He knew that drowning victims sink for a period of time, which varied with water temperature and salinity, but certainly the victim's own body composition