His face scorched and hair smoldering, poor Mario Groppo found himself lost in a crater. Haplessly he weaved in circles, using his sand wedge as a cane. “Holy God!” he mumbled, squinting through the smoke and silicate dust for some sign of the doomed threesome. “Holy Jesus God!” he said, as the sky rained wet clumps of sod and flesh, twisted stems of golf clubs, and bright swatches of Izod shirts.
Mario sat down in the dirt. In a daze he thought he heard a man’s voice, and wondered if one of the other golfers had been spared.
“Hello! I’m right here!” Mario cried. “Over here!”
But the voice that replied was much too far away, and much too sonorous. The voice rose in proclamation from a stand of tall Australian pines bordering the thirteenth fairway.
“Bon voyage, Dr. Goosefucker!” the voice sang out. “Welcome to the Revolution!”
Jenna stood at the door, hands on her hips. “Boy, everybody in Miami’s looking for you!” She wore an indigo Danskin and a white terrycloth headband. Her forehead was damp; the Jane Fonda workout video was on the television.
“May I come in?” Brian Keyes asked.
“Of course. I’m making granola bars. Come sit in the kitchen and talk.”
Jenna was in her element, and Keyes knew he’d have to take it slowly. One wrong move and it was lights out.
“Cab called. He’s hunting all over for you.”
“I’ll bet.”
“What about these cops?” Jenna emptied a box of raisins into a mixing bowl. “Cab says the cops want to talk to you about what happened. Hey, are you feeling okay? How come you left the hospital so soon?”
“I got better,” Keyes said, “thanks to this incredible nurse.”
No reaction. Jenna stood at the kitchen counter with her back to him. She was stirring the granola mix.
“You’re really something,” Keyes said playfully. “I got in all kinds of trouble, you know.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“The doctors chewed me out, moved me to a private room. They said we violated about five hundred hospital rules. The whole wing was talking about it.”
“Yeah? You like carobs? I’m gonna add some carobs.”
“I hate granola bars.”
“These are homemade.” Jenna’s stirring became rhythmic. “I talked to Skip today.” She glanced over her shoulder at Keyes. “He wanted me to tell you how sorry he was about the Cuban. He said the little fellow means well; he just gets carried away with the knife. I told him you were doing better and he was quite relieved. He wanted me to tell you it won’t happen again.”
“How thoughtful,” Keyes said acidly. “Where is the Madman of Miami, anyhow?”
“We didn’t talk about that,” Jenna said. She was padding around the kitchen in jazz exercise tights and no shoes. “Skip made a bunch of new rules,” she said. “Rule number one: Don’t ask where he is. Rule number two: Don’t use his name over the telephone. Rule number three: No more horny love letters.”
“Jenna, you’ve got to help me find him.”
“Why? He’s done nothing wrong. He told me he’s got a clear conscience. Here, want a taste of this?” She thrust a wooden spoon in his mouth. “See, that’s good stuff.”
“Not bad,” Keyes said, thinking: She’s at it again.
Jenna poured the granola batter into a pan, and put the pan in the oven. She took a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator and poured herself a glass.
“Fewer calories than you think,” she said, her green eyes sparkling through the wine crystal.
“You sure look great.”
“As soon as the granola bars are done, I’m leaving town,” Jenna announced.
Keyes said nothing.
“I’d ask you to stay for dinner, but I’ve got to catch a plane.”
“I understand,” Keyes said. “Where you going?”
“Wisconsin. T’see my folks.”
No hesitation; she had it all worked out. Keyes admired her preparation. If he didn’t know her so well he might’ve believed her. He tried to stall.
“May I have some wine?”
“Unh-unh,” Jenna said. “Better not. You know how you get.”
“Sleepy is how I get.”
“No, sexy and romantic is how you get.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Tonight it’s wrong.”