Dexter in the Dark

Apparently not. “Dexter,” she said. “How many times will we get married?” And to my great credit I was still alert enough to clamp down on the urge to say, “At least twice, in your case,” which I think was probably very wise.

I quickly changed course, diving straight into tactics learned from pretending to be human for so many years. “Rita,” I said, “the important part of the wedding is when I slip the ring on your finger. I don’t care what we eat afterward.”

“That’s so sweet,” she said. “Then you don’t mind if we hire Ma

Once again I found myself losing an argument before I even knew which side I was on. I became aware of a dryness in my mouth-caused, no doubt, by the fact that my mouth was hanging open as my brain struggled to make sense of what had just happened, and then to find something clever to say to get things back onto dry land.

But it was far too late. “I’ll call Vince back,” she said, and she leaned over to give me a kiss on the cheek. “Oh, this is so exciting. Thank you, Dexter.”

Well, after all, isn’t marriage about compromise?

CHAPTER 7

N ATURALLY ENOUGH, MANNY BORQUE LIVED IN SOUTH Beach. He was on the top floor of one of the new high-rise buildings that spring up around Miami like mushrooms after a heavy rain. This one sat on what was once a deserted beach where Harry used to take Debs and me beachcombing early on Saturday mornings. We would find old life preservers, mysterious wooden chunks of some unfortunate boat, lobster-pot buoys, pieces of fishnet, and on one thrilling morning, an exceedingly dead human body rolling in the surf. It was a treasured boyhood memory, and I resented extremely that someone had built this shiny flimsy tower on the site.

The next morning at ten Vince and I left work together and drove over to the horrible new building that had replaced the scene of my youthful joy. I rode the elevator to the top in silence, watching Vince fidget and blink. Why he should be nervous about facing someone who sculpted chopped liver for a living, I don’t know, but he clearly was. A drop of sweat rolled down his cheek and he swallowed convulsively, twice.

“He’s a caterer, Vince,” I told him. “He isn’t dangerous. He can’t even revoke your library card.”

Vince looked at me and swallowed again. “He’s got a real temper,” he said. “He can be very demanding.”

“Well, then,” I said with great good cheer, “let’s go find somebody else more reasonable.”

He set his jaw like a man facing a firing squad and shook his head. “No,” he said bravely, “we’re going to go through with this.” And the elevator door slid open, right on cue. He squared his shoulders, nodded, and said, “Come on.”

We went down to the end of the hall, and Vince stopped in front of the last door. He took a deep breath, raised his fist, and, after a slight hesitation, knocked on the door. After a long moment in which nothing happened, he looked at me and blinked, his hand still raised. “Maybe,” he said.

The door opened. “Hello Vic!” the thing in the doorway warbled, and Vince responded by blushing and stammering, “I only hi.” Then he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, stammered something that sounded like, “Er wellah,” and took a half step backward.

It was a remarkable and thoroughly engaging performance, and I was not the only one who seemed to enjoy it. The manikin who had answered the door watched with a smile that suggested he might enjoy being in the audience for any kind of human suffering, and he let Vince squirm for several long moments before he finally said, “Well come in!”

Ma

“Come over here and we’ll have a little talk,” he said, sidestepping a pedestal holding an enormous object that looked like a giant ball of animal vomit dipped in plastic and spray-painted with Day-Glo graffiti. He led the way to a glass table by the window, around which sat four things that were probably supposed to be chairs but could easily have been mistaken for bronze camel saddles welded onto stilts. “Sit,” he said, with an expansive wave of his hand, and I took the chair-thing nearest the window. Vince hesitated for a moment, then sat next to me, and Ma

Beside me Vince took a ragged breath, but before he could do anything with it Ma

“Dexter Morgan,” I said. “But I’m not a very good blusher.”

“Oh, well, I think Vic is doing enough for both of you,” he said. And sure enough, Vince obligingly turned just as scarlet as his complexion would allow him to do. Since I was still more than a little peeved at being subjected to this ordeal, I decided not to come to his aid by offering Ma

Eduardo bustled in holding a vintage Fiestaware coffee service in several bright colors, balanced on a clear plastic tray. He was a stocky young man about twice the size of Ma

“Eduardo,” he said in a silky voice, and the boy froze. “Yellow? Don’t we remember? Ma

Eduardo practically fell over himself grinding into reverse, nearly dropping the tray in his haste to remove the offensive yellow coffee cup and replace it with the proper blue one.

“Thank you, Eduardo,” Ma

As it turned out, I got the yellow cup, which was fine with me, although I wondered if it meant that they didn’t like me. When he had poured the coffee, Eduardo hustled back to the kitchen and returned with a small plate holding half a dozen pastelitos. And although they were not, in fact, shaped like Je

Eduardo put the plate in the center of the table, and we all just looked at it for a moment. Ma