The sea - different every moment yet familiar to everyone. Powerful, nurturing, abundant, deadly.
Red stands by the rail and watches the rise and fall of the waves as they remake themselves over and over, endlessly. Behind him, Coney Island's finest attractions chirp and wink and tumble. Couples in shorts and tees stroll in the sun; families call encouragement and admonition to young children. Kids race each other on bikes, yelling the latest slang. And there are others, alone like him, who are here to enjoy the sun or escape the city or relive old memories among the coloured lights and fried food smells.
Red adjusts his fedora and flicks at imaginary dust on his cuffs. His suit today is the colour of old champagne, his shirt as white as a Swiss alp. He wears shades, of course, but has abandoned the stiff black trenchcoat. It is August, after all. His brogues gleam in the painful sun and his tie boasts a tiny diamond, a token - call it a gift - from a minor arabian prince. It is important to maintain the right appearance, even at the pleasure beach.
He is not here for pleasure. He is working. A meeting, a receipt of something valuable, a goodbye forever. He does not like to chitchat with the help. It is unnecessary and tiring, and the garrulous ones are also frequently the ones who enjoy a little light speculation: who's this for, buddy? What you doing here, buddy? Say, don't I know your face?
"You do not," he says to today's unkempt specimen. "And if you want your own distinctive visage to remain in situ, I recommend shutting the hell up and making a beeline for the exit." Red gestures at the gaudy arch over the amusement park entrance.
The guy looks at him uncertainly. "What's your problem?"
"You," says Red. "Scram."
He turns his face away as if admiring the view in a new direction, and waits for the guy to leave. Eventually he does.
Dear God they are so slow on the uptake these days. Where is the initiative, the panache? Even a simple trade like this can be achieved with some style, but no. Today's couriers blunder in, mouths firing on all cylinders, practically announcing their dirty dealings to the world. It would honestly be no worse if they wore a sandwich board labelled, I Am Engaged In Criminal Activity.
Red smirks and wanders down the boardwalk a little. He loops back behind a crowd of kids and assumes a new position on a hundred year old bench. The bench has pock-marked varnish and green cast iron arms in the shape of lions. Very nice.
Red takes his purchase from his jacket and inspects it. Not bad. It is a facsimile, of course - they don't manufacture these any more, haven't in twenty years - but it should produce the desired result.
He sits, holding the item in his gloved fist, watching the sea and thinking of the reason he is here, until her shadow falls across his knees.
"Lizzie."
He gives her a fulsome smile as she edges onto the bench beside him, and is rewarded with her trademark I'm busy defensive frown.
"What is it Red? Why'd you drag me out here?"
She is pale, eyes shadowed. She wears a sky-blue blouse under her regulation black Fibbie coat, and has defiant red lips. Her hair is shorter than last time, and Red gets a glimpse of ivory neck as Lizzie glances around. He checks her hands: still no ring. Excellent. Apart from her obvious misery, things are fine.
"A message. A reassurance, if you will. And a gift." He quirks his eyebrows at her.
She stares at him, lips presed together in suspicion.
He rolls his eyes. "Here." He takes her hands and cups them together, then uncurls his fist and drops his purchase into her open palms.
She gasps.
Red watches as she lifts the tiny golden key to her eyes, turns it over, searches for the distinctive marks he has made sure are there for her to find.
"It can't be," she says. She turns on the bench and faces him. "Where did you get this? I used to have one just like this, a pendant on a chain -"
"I know." It is such a joy to see her emotions rise to the surface like sea spray, like treasure lifted painstakingly from from the deep.
"Red -"
Here it comes. The woman recedes as the FBI agent comes to the fore. He settles back to wait. The sea rises and falls, indifferent to Lizzie's doubt, to his fear.
"Is this some kind of trick?" she demands. "Some kind of tracking device?"
"Says the woman who implanted a subcutaneous GPS in my neck." He cuts his eyes at her.
"That was different."
"Not really. Lizzie - you are like me. Always in danger. And unlike me, you have help available, whenever you call for it. Wear the key. Just wear it, and know that wherever you are, I will always reach you when you need me."
"But is it a tracker?" she persists.
"No," he says firmly. It is strictly true. The key does so much more than that.
She sighs. Puts the key in her coat pocket. "I'm sorry," she says after a pause. "Rough week."
He stops himself saying I know, again. "Want to talk? I have a first class bedside manner. I once had Michael and Lisa Marie pour out their marital troubles to me over a frankly revolting dinner prepared in part by chimpanzees. An ape devoured my cravat but I didn't flinch because they'd just got to the part about the unhinged celebrity relations. Just fascinating."
She gives a tiny smile, ten percent humour, ninety percent pain. "No. It's nothing you can help with."
Tom, then. Red suppreses a scowl. Fire, guns, bombs, and nothing has hurt her as much as that man.
He peels off his gloves in two swift moves. He will not touch anything, there will be no trace of him here. "Lizzie -"
Just her name in his voice seems to soothe her. She sighs again and lets him take her hands. He chafes them gently, her skin warm and soft. He was going to murmur something comforting but meaningless but changes his mind. The moment is too precious and anyway she would immediately become suspicious.
She turns her eyes up to him and as always he is floored. She is delectable, a true beauty. Her physical qualities are lit on fire by strong emotion: scared yet brave, her toughness is matched against her broken heart. She is the sea on a bright spring day, clear waters shadowed by scudding clouds, transparent yet opaque. She is irresistible.
On impulse Red lifts her hand and presses her fingertips to his mouth. It is not a gesture of comfort. It is a gesture of sudden longing and ancient care.
Lizzie bites her lip and blinks. Tears form in her eyes. This is where she says Don't, what are you doing, let go of me.
But she is silent, just gazing, those blue eyes wary.
"I really must be going," Red says, affecting to realise the time.
"Yes."
Neither of them move and her knuckles are still clasped against his jaw.
He looks her in the eye, a look of measurement without a rosy tint, and kisses her fingers again. She is trembling, but gives him the look right back.
Oh really? But he cannot process this now and he genuinely must go - every second might compromise his plans.
He rises. "Goodbye, Lizzie."
She stands too and shrugs, scanning around. They are surrounded by tourists. No cctv. Red's rendezvous points are carefully selected.
Red adjusts his hat and pulls on his gloves. Back to work. Today's task has been accomplished.
Lizzie leans in and kisses his cheek, low down, next to his mouth really, and whispers, "Goodbye." He has the fleeting touch of her lips on his skin and her delicate floral scent - and then she is whirling away, hands in pockets, a busy woman.
Red swallows. Well. He pulls out his phone. "Denbe."
No other instructions are needed, and when the car slides up to the kerb by the amusement park entrance, Red climbs in without a word.
He removes his hat and runs his hand over his scant hair. The sea disappears in the rear view mirror, giant and anonymous. It treats all who venture over it with equal indifference, and suddenly Red is envious of its cruel neutrality. The sea has no ties, no desires, no weaknesses. The sea can give and take life, but it cannot love.
He flops back in his seat, suddenly exhausted. He has red lip gloss beside his mouth, he knows it.
Long Island slips past the windows in a blur of sunshine and insouciance, but Red doesn't see a thing.
Author's note: Just a oneshot after seeing pics of James Spader at a seaside location this morning.