Moonlight Water Read Free Page B

Scots’ brogue.
    They looked into each other, one man a hungry skeleton, the other a car wreck and wandering soul.
    â€œMy grandma,” Robbie said, “she died early on. Then it was just me and Grandpa Angus—my mother was off chasing romance. Pretty soon she married an accountant and moved to Ohio. Me and Grandpa, we lived in the old apartment, rented out the downstairs for a shop, made ends meet. We were the gravity of each other’s lives. When I think of him, I start striding big, like him. Scots all the way, he was, with a fighting spirit.”
    Somehow Robbie wanted to talk about his family, and this man had the need to taste these lives and swallow them whole. Robbie looked at the caretaker and understood. The man was less a guardian of the dead than a spirit cannibal.
    â€œI’m a musician,” Robbie said, as if that were a shield. Looked at the strange man once more. “Think I’d better go now.”
    â€œGlad to hear your stories, Mr. Macgregor.”
    Robbie’s stomach went into a double knot. How’d this ghoul know his name? “I won’t be seeing you again,” Robbie said.
    â€œEveryone comes back, sooner or later.”
    Robbie leveled him with a gaze. “Give me a moment alone with him, will you?”
    â€œCertainly.” He wafted away.
    Robbie turned back to the canisters.
    Deep breath. He relit the Balkan Sobranie and blew smoke toward the canisters. “So long, Grandpa.” Robbie kissed his fingers, touched them to the glass, and strode out. There was a friend to see, things to do.
    *   *   *
    Revulsion. Walking into Gianni’s law office, Robbie realized he couldn’t talk with his friend here. Deep rugs, polished wood, gleaming metal, a receptionist decked out for show—the room oozed glitter and luxury. Gianni owned this law business with a single partner, and they specialized in keeping tax money out of the hands of the government by setting up living trusts. They had two young lawyers who did most of the actual work. A wealthy man’s enclave. The ambience writhed around Robbie like a serpent.
    Gianni strode into the outer office, steps long, arms wide. For a little guy he acted big. “Hey, paisan .” His Italian ancestry served him well in San Francisco. He’d been born Johnny Montella to the only Catholic family in a tiny Mormon town, but now he called the upper echelon of a great city paisan. And he was Robbie’s oldest friend. They grabbed each other in a bear hug. Gianni’s head came up to the middle of Robbie’s big chest.
    â€œWhat brings you to the city?”
    Robbie let out a big breath. “I need to borrow your cabin for a few days, maybe a few weeks.”
    It was a big request. Gianni had a one-room house on a hill above Stinson Beach. He called it his cabin, perhaps to minimize its luxury. On weekends he used it as his personal refuge from the world. He invited almost no one there, and even Robbie had never stayed overnight.
    â€œI’ll need to hang out alone, except for tonight. Tonight we need to talk.”
    â€œWhat’s going on?”
    â€œToo big. I’ll tell you when you get there.”
    Gianni handed over the keys. “I’ll bring cartons of Thai.”
    He was the best of friends.
    *   *   *
    Robbie spent the rest of the afternoon in a chaise longue on Gianni’s deck, looking out at the Pacific and toward the Farallon Islands, just beyond the horizon. As a devoted weekend sailor Robbie knew those waters well. But he didn’t think about sailing. He didn’t think about anything at all. He was not an analytical man. His way was to sit with something, whether a new song or a personal problem, and just keep it company until he had a feeling about what to do.
    So now he lay back and sucked the ocean into his lungs. He felt the sun on his skin and the wind in his long, thick red hair, now streaked with gray.