It took a long long time to flesh it all out. She became resigned to it, to the extent she did not try to drag her feet when I requested she list the fourteen. Nine was the best she could do, and she wasn’t sure of two of their names. She estimated the total take of just herself and Terry at close to four hundred thousand dollars. It was after two o’clock when she said in a tired whine, “Honey, my hand is going to drop right off, honest. It’s all full of cramps.”
“Take a rest while I read it over.”
There were fifteen pages in her unformed backhand, all the lines sloping up toward the right side of the sheets. It would give any investigator more than enough. There was little point in pulling any more details out of her. Her head sagged slowly, jerked upright. She was emotionally and physically exhausted.
“Okay, Del. Just a little bit to wind it up. Ready? New paragraph. I am not going to tell Ans about this letter. I am going to leave him a note… saying I have killed myself. Period. I will pin it to my pillow… after he passes out tomorrow night. Period. I am sorry about what. we did to those men. Period. I am glad I have written. this letter. Period. May God have mercy… on my soul. Period. Sign it, Del.”
I was looking down over her shoulder as she wrote her name Adele Whitney. She hesitated. “When I was booked a few times, like in Chicago, it was my right name.”
“Put that down too.”
“Jane Adele Strusslund,” she wrote. She dropped the pen, making a spray of ink on the paper under her signature. She stood, turning as she stood, to come up in the circle of my arms. She yawned deeply, shuddered, rested her forehead against my chin.
“Do I get a gold star, teacher?”
“Solid gold, Jane.”
Her head jerked back. “Please don’t call me that.”
“Okay.”
She yawned again. “I’m pooped something awful, darling. Would you like to undress me, maybe?”
“We’d better both rest up. Tomorrow could be rough.”
Her glance was coldly inquisitive. “The times I’ve been turned down you could count on one hand, friend. You gay or something?”
I slowly folded the bulky confession, stuffed it into an envelope. The Monica D. made a larger pitching motion, moving us both off balance, both taking a sideways step to catch ourselves, like the beginning of an improvised dance. The compartmentation creaked, and I knew we were well into New Providence Channel, where we would take the sweep of the weather.
“Tomorrow I’ll get you stashed in a safe place in Lauderdale. It will be four or five days before I can wind up a few things hanging fire. There’ll be all the time in the world to get acquainted then, Del.”
“Sure thing,” she said flattered and picked up the purse and flight bag and went into the head and banged the door shut.
When the door opened again, I had turned the stateroom lights off. I had arranged slacks, shirt and shoes in a handy pile on the floor half under my bed, on the side away from the other bed, with the thick envelope, folded once, in the hip pocket of the slacks, and my stateroom key in a side pocket. I was in my bed in underwear shorts. Through the il of lashes I saw her stand braced in the open doorway. her heavy hair was combed long like Alice’s. She wore the thing she called a jama shift. It fit loosely, blocked very little the light behind her, had lace at the hem, throat, short sleeves, and stopped about four inches above her knees. Costume for a drowning.
The light clicked off. Darkness loudened the noises of the Monica D., the buckety-swash of her rolling corkscrewing motion, the almost subsonic grumble of the marine drive downstairs, and the little phased chitters and whines that came and went as bulkhead portions picked up sympathetic sonances.
A weight came onto the bottom corner of my bed, tightening the blanket across my feet. A hand found my knee, stayed there.