Beach Chairs
A private beach, of rarefied air.
Beach chairs lined the open, spacious pebble beach—blue and white striped, and red and white striped, empty in the early morning.
The placidity of the scene was interrupted by a fleeing man, racing between and over the chairs, knocking some of them down in his pell-mell flight. He wore a black leather jacket and carried a bulky package under one arm. He glanced back and redoubled his speed.
After him another man ran, curly hair flying out behind him. When he reached beach chairs that were in his way, he simply leapt over them, seeming to fly on long, slim, jean-clad legs.
He had nearly caught up with the running man when a car veered onto the beach, spraying pebbles and slowing down. A man leapt from the car and tackled the fleeing man, who went down with a yell.
The curly-headed man caught them up and grabbed the package while the other man put handcuffs on the prisoner. He licked his finger and touched the white powder, then licked it again and grimaced.
"Yeah, it's pure all right. You and your girlfriend almost made a bundle, mate." He threw the drugs into the front seat, and got out of the way while the driver manhandled their prisoner into the back.
The curly-headed man stared moodily at the beach chairs, arranged by twos. Suddenly he kicked viciously at the nearest two.
The smooth-haired driver cast him a glance. "Relax, Doyle. We caught him."
"World's made for bloody couples. Ow." He grimaced and hobbled back to the car.
"Thought you were getting over Ann?" asked the other man quietly. He glanced at Doyle as they got into the Capri and shut the doors, businesslike.
"Never mind. It doesn't bloody matter." Doyle stared moodily out the window, leaning his head on one hand, frowning. "Nothing's going to change. I'm married to my country, that's all, and instead of beach chairs and a nice drink on a Sunday morning, I'm chasing drug dealers." He jerked a thumb back at the prisoner.
The driver was silent a moment, tapping his fingers on the wheel, driving competently. They were on the road now, eating up the pace at slightly more than the speed limit.
"You can still have a drink after," he offered. He cast a concerned glance over at his companion, but Doyle's head was tilted back, eyes closed, mouth set in an unhappy frown.
"She wasn't worth all this, you know," said the driver.
"She was—to me."
Silence stretched long in the car, except for the man in the back seat worrying at his cuffs.
"Just going to keep punishing yourself then? Or me?"
"You've nothing in it, Bodie!"
"Have to live with your moods, don't I? Cheer up, sunshine! I'll take you to the beach if you want, and buy you a fancy drink. Forget about her, all right? At least for the rest of the day."
Doyle snorted. Then, quietly, he said, "I'll try."