Page 58 of Saltwater

“I’ve told you,” I yell back, “I’ll let you know when I have everything organized. You can pay me then.”

“So he did it?” Stan says, his eyes hungry.

“I’m going to give you what I have,” I say, “but you have to pay first. That was the deal.” Who knows if Stan will find what he needs in the pages I’ve gathered for him, but by the time he figures it out, I’ll be gone.

He nods and pulls out his phone, holds it up to show me. “Just give me what you have and I’ll wire the money.”

I hate it, the idea that I might be giving Stan something he wants. Even if this time I’m being compensated fairly.

“Did you find out why?” he says, his face close to mine.

“You’ll have to see for yourself,” I say. I’ve never made Stan any guarantees.

Then he mutters under his breath, “Those fuckers.”

“I have to go,” I say. I stand up, turn the bottle upside down in the bucket, draining the last of the vodka.

“Do you want me to walk you home?”

I almost laugh. There is nothing I want less.

“I’ll be fine, Stan.”

He nods and points a finger across the room to the exit, a grin spreading across his face. He looks older in here than he does outside, his white hair matted against his temples from the sweat, and I wonder if he could have avoided all this, if maybe I could have, too.

I wedge my way through the crowd, my ears buzzing from the music, and I don’t stop until I’m pushing the front door open.

When I hit the street, I walk past Ferragamo, past the Piazzetta, where late-night partyers wrapped in Pucci and Gucci enjoy drinks. When I get to the funicular, it’s no longer running. There are groups of people gathered along the railing overlooking the Mediterranean, enjoying the view of Vesuvius. A cluster of young men look up at me, and I pull my skirt lower and start walking toward the road. I need a taxi but there are none waiting. The young men whistle, shake their hands.

“You want a ride?” asks a man idling on a motor scooter.

“I’m going to the marina,” I say. I’d always rather take a chance with an individual over a group. And his English is clean, sober.

“Yes,” he says, “me too.”

I get on the back, the heavy bag in my lap, and let the wind whip my hair into my face. At one point I turn around and see a taxi behind us. Then its lights disappear. The man drops me off at a well-lit corner, and his scooter sputters, echoing against the stone walls of the buildings, as he leaves.

I walk down the wide street that fronts the marina. There are noluxury boutiques here, no villas hidden behind rock walls, just apartment buildings, closed cafés, and cats yowling. I walk alone, checking the slips for a boat. It must take minutes before I notice them behind me. I hear their Italian, their laughter. The night is warm, but the sound chills me.

I keep my steps even, but the voices are gaining on me. I try to decide how long I have until they reel me in. It’s awful math but I know it so well. Their laughter high, like coyotes.

It’s so slow, this cat-and-mouse. But then, so many men like it that way.

I can see the outline of the cliffs ahead of me as the apartment buildings begin to thin out. At the end of the street is a low wall, where the road stops. There is nowhere else to go. Something clatters to the ground—it sounds like a beer can, or a gunshot. I can’t tell.

Options run through my mind—scream, run, hide, I’m fast, resourceful—when I hear a voice.

“Lorna?”

I’m not expecting the familiarity of my own name.

“Who’s there?” I stop, look around. But the street is empty except for me, the men.

“I was hoping I might catch you—”

I still don’t know who’s speaking, the voice almost muffled by the sound of the footsteps of the men following me. But before I can ask again, the group of men passes me by. They jump over the wall at the end of the street and onto a trail that cuts through the grass. As if that was always their plan.

It’s only when they’re gone that I realize I’m alone, and that is the real danger.