Monterey Bay Read Free Page A

many Renoirs, the most predictable Manet in existence, something that looked like a lesser Picasso but was probably a Braque. There was also, however, a work she admired: Caravaggio’s rendering of Bacchus, his ruddy face and sunburned hands those of a cheerful outdoorsman, a torpor in his heavy-lidded stare that seemed both inept and threatening all at once.
    â€œThe god of wine,” the biologist explained.
    â€œI know.” She looked down and straightened her blanket.
    â€œCaravaggio.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œA great artist, but an unpleasant man. Nervous, temperamental, violent. Kept bad company.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œArt, then. Do you practice? Or do you just preach?”
    She made fists, the blanket bunching between her fingers. “Neither.”
    â€œDon’t lie.”
    â€œHow dare—”
    â€œBeg pardon.” A voice from the doorway.
    The biologist swiveled around and beckoned the interloper forward. She recognized this young man, but just barely: his hive of red hair, his stout limbs and blocky posture. He had been there postfall, amid the confusion and fear, but she couldn’t remember what role he had played or if he had been as nervous as he was right now. His hands trembled as he approached the bed and offered her the cup. She took it, drank, and passed it back without comment.
    â€œThank you, Arthur,” the biologist said. “She’s quite grateful.”
    â€œIs there anything else?” Arthur murmured.
    â€œYou’re sure you don’t want that beer?” the biologist asked her.
    â€œI’m sure.”
    â€œHow about some oil? From a basking shark liver?”
    â€œFrom a what?”
    â€œArthur. The oil, please.”
    â€œNo, I—,” she insisted.
    â€œArthur, there’s a fresh box down in the garage.”
    â€œThere’s a fresher one at the market. I delivered it yesterday. I’ll go back and—”
    â€œI said no!” she barked.
    The two men froze, eyes wide. The biologist cocked his head in the direction of the door. Arthur scurried out of it. Margot clenched her calf muscles until they cramped.
    â€œSounds strange, doesn’t it?” The biologist’s words were coming much slower now, and with a new undertone of caution. “But it’s known in the East for its general tonic properties, especially for allergies and arthritis. It’s chock-full of something akin to cortin, a substance used to keep cats alive after they’ve been adrenalectomized. Also something of an aphrodisiac, if John’s Hollywood friends are to be believed.”
    â€œKeep treating your son like that and he’ll revolt.”
    When he threw back his head and laughed, a strip of white skin flashed beneath the border of his beard.
    â€œOh, is that what’s got you so worked up? Arthur’s not my son, I’m afraid, not at all. He’s an orphan of the classic type, dust bowl and whatnot, plucked straight from the pages of John’s book. Came to town to make a living in the canneries but seems to spend most of his time here in the lab. Fixing the Buick, catching the cats, being generally underfoot.”
    She considered the Caravaggio again. Its initial appeal had faded a bit, its cheeks and lips now bordering on the feminine. Escape was pointless. Pointless then, pointless now.
    â€œFunny,” he said. “I think I’ve forgotten your name.”
    â€œMargot.”
    â€œYou’re French.”
    â€œAnd Swedish.”
    â€œAh, yes. Form and function, all in one.”
    Her legs went stiff again, causing the blanket above them to shiver.
    â€œWhy don’t you explain it, then?” he continued. “Tell me how wrong I am.”
    â€œI’m in business with my father. Or at least I used to be.”
    â€œThey say he’s got the sardine game in his sights. I hope he isn’t too upset when he finds out most of them are already in