Page 38 of Sunset Beach
“Sometimes.”
He sighed and took his seat again. “What kind of post-op instructions did the surgeon give you? Did you do physical therapy?”
“He just said I should take it easy and gave me the name of a physical therapist I should call. Which I didn’t do.”
“Why not?”
“No insurance,” she said, shrugging. “I’m still paying for the surgery, which my father assures me the doctor screwed up, based on the look of the incision.”
“How’s your mobility?” he asked. “I did notice, when you were walking up, that you seemed to be favoring your good leg. Didn’t they give you a brace or anything?”
“My mobility isn’t great. It really hurts going down stairs. And yeah, he gave me a brace, but it’s too hot and itchy to wear this time of year. Anyway, I couldn’t tell that it was doing me much good. So I mostly don’t wear it.”
He shook his head. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-six. How about you?”
“I’m thirty-eight. But let’s talk about you. I’m guessing you must have been a pretty good athlete before your accident. Have you started back with any kind of physical activity?”
“I walk on the beach some,” she said, feeling instantly defensive. “But it’s hard, you know. I work in an office all day, come home, walk on the beach a little, and by then I’m kind of wiped out.”
“I get that,” he said, smiling. “That ACL of yours is still pretty loose. You need to start working on it, or it’s only gonna get worse. You mind if I give you some advice?”
“As long as it’s free,” Drue said.
“First of all, walking on sand, which isn’t the most stable surface, isn’t doing you any favors. Now, if you had a bike, that’s way better exercise for your knee.”
“I don’t have a bike, but I guess I could buy a used one, once I catch up a little on my bills,” she said.
“Here’s another idea—get yourself to a pool. You can do exercises, walking, pedaling, like that, without putting any weight on the knee. The passive resistance of the water is great for injuries like yours.”
“Again, I don’t have a pool,” she said. “And a gym membership definitely isn’t in the cards for me anytime soon.”
“No friends with a pool at their complex?”
“I’ve only just moved here recently,” Drue said. “My father and his, uh, child bride have a pool, but I don’t see me inviting myself over there for water aerobics.”
“Tell you what,” he said. “We’ve got a pool in my condo complex. This time of year especially, it’s mostly deserted, because all the snowbirds are back up north. If you want, I can get you a key card, and you can use our pool. We can set a time, and I’ll meet you out there and show you some simple exercises you can do.”
“Really?” Drue was taken aback. “That’s so nice of you. I mean, we just met.”
“It’s no big deal,” Corey said. “I’m sorry Leonard moved. I mean, he was one interesting old guy, but I’m glad to meet his replacement. You’re not into, uh, nude sunbathing, are you?”
She felt herself blushing. “No. Why?”
“That’s actually how I first met him. I was running down the beach, and I looked up here, and there was this old man, stretched out, stark naked on a towel. I ran up because I thought maybe he’d passed out or had a heart attack or something. Turns out he was just really into nudity. He’d move his chair down onto the beach in the afternoons, after the deck was in the shade. People were all the time calling the cops on him. He eventually got tired of the hassle, so he made himself a loincloth out of some washcloths. I asked him once why he didn’t just get a Speedo or something, and he told me…” Corey started to laugh. His chest rose and fell, and he tried to speak but couldn’t, he was laughing so hard.
“He told me…” Corey was wheezing, tears running down his face. “He didn’t even wear underwear, because he liked to air out his undercarriage. Swear to God, that’s what he called it. His undercarriage.”
15
After her guest departed, Drue wandered into the kitchen to consider her dinner prospects. In the end, she settled on her default comfort food menu: a bowl of ramen noodles topped with a poached egg and a dollop of her favorite, Cholula Hot Sauce.
She unloaded her backpack onto the card table—a yellow legal pad and some pens she’d swiped from the office, and the documents from the Jazmin Mayes file—and eagerly leafed through the docs, choosing to do a closer read of the questionnaire, transcribed by a CCK intake clerk whose name she didn’t recognize.
Not much information there that she didn’t already have, she thought, setting it aside and picking up what turned out to be a preliminary report by J. Zilowicz, or, as everyone at the law firm called him, Jimmy Zee.
She slurped noodles and jotted notes as she read about the short life and hard times of Jazmin Mayes, as seen through the lens of the investigator.
