by Tom Lowe
I followed her down the long pier, sailboats, trawlers, houseboats, yachts and everything in between were moored to the fourteen docks, A through N. My slip, L-41, was at the very end. Jupiter, my 38-foot Bayliner was there. Max stopped in her tracks and looked up as a brown pelican sailed over her, the bird’s shadow gliding down the stained planks. It flapped its big wings and flew toward mangroves near the Halifax River. Max glanced back at me and continued sauntering down the dock, stopping at a thatched roof fish-cleaning station to sniff the end of a rubber hose.
I walked and replayed some of my conversation with Joe and Jessica Thaxton. I thought about what Roland Hatter said, too. My decision wasn’t an easy one to make. It seems like there is never a good time to make hard decisions. Many of my values align with Thaxton. But in my gut, I knew he’d be better off working with police and a company that could provide surveillance and protection for his family, around the clock if it came to that. I hoped it wouldn’t. In my past as a homicide detective, I’ve found that most death threats were just that … threats. The real killers, the contract killers hired by deep pockets, never signaled their intent. They took upfront expenses, did the job and picked up the final payment. The last thing they wanted, or their employer wanted, was a dotted line to the source—the motive and the bullet in the chamber.
Max paused and watched a 44-foot Viking fishing yacht enter the harbor and motor toward M dock. The boat was equipped with tall outriggers, deep-sea rods in holders, a brown-skinned man in red swim trunks at the helm, two other men in sunglasses standing in the cockpit, cans of beer in their hands. I could smell the odor of diesel fuel and creosote, the boat’s wake slapping against the dock pilings. A white-haired man in his sixties, stepped from a houseboat and poured half a bag of charcoal into his grill on the deck. Japanese lanterns, strung from bow to stern, jiggled in the breeze across the marina.
In another minute, we approached the end of L dock, and I could just begin to hear Greek music coming from St. Michael. The boat was tied with its cockpit toward the main pier, the narrow ancillary dock led to the high-pitched bow. It was a bow that came with a Greek sailing design and pedigree. The 40-foot boat could take the brunt of large waves and blow right through the water. Its owner, Nick Cronus, was one of the best fishermen on the east coast of Florida. And he was simply the best at cooking seafood.
Max stopped on the dock near the transom, her nostrils testing the wind, sniffing to see if Nick was in the galley stirring a sauce. She barked twice and waited. Within seconds, Nick lumbered from the salon to the cockpit, like a bear coming out of hibernation. He grinned and lifted both hands, palms up. “Hot Dawg!” he shouted. “Where you been, ‘lil gal pal? Come here and see Uncle Nicky.”
Max scampered down the secondary dock to the wooden portable steps leading to the cockpit. Nick lifted her up and carried her in one hand like a football. She licked his salt and pepper whiskered cheeks. He grinned and closed his eyes for a moment. Nick had the shoulders and girth of an NFL tackle. He stood in worn flip-flops just under six feet; olive-bronze skin; a mop of windblown, wavy hair; walrus moustache; and eyes that had the humor and charm of a sleight-of-hand magician. “Sean, are you here to pay your boat slip rent and go back to your cabin, or are you bringing Max in for some real quality time with us?”
I smiled. “Both. Rent’s now paid, and Max is doing a Greek dance with you. Life is good and complete.”
Nick laughed. “I got back in yesterday from a four-day haul. Woke up this mornin’ with sore arms. Fish can really fight you, just like bein’ in the heavyweight ring. After my trip to the wholesale market, I kept about twenty pounds of snapper. I’ll fire up the grill later.” He looked at Max. “You hungry, tadpole?”
She barked. “There’s you’re answer,” I said.
Dave Collins stepped to the bow of his trawler, Gibraltar, moored across the dock from St. Michael. Dave wore a tropical print shirt, beige shorts and sandals. He said, “I thought I recognized that bark. Upon further investigation, I see it’s Miss Max. So good to see you Maxie.” Dave eyed me and grinned. “Sean, did you speak with Joe Thaxton?”
“Yes. Spoke with him, his wife, and Roland Hatter.”
“I know Roland,” Nick said.
Dave nodded, then looked up and down the dock. “I have a strong feeling Joe Thaxton has got some serious trouble following him. He’s a rare bird. An honest politician. An almost extinct species. And he’s stirring a sacred pot that almost all of Florida’s politicians shy away from except for Thaxton. Even in my short conversation with Thaxton, I could tell there’s a lot of anxiety that he’s sharing with his wife. I’d love to hear more about the meeting. Come aboard. I’ll pour the drinks.”
Nick looked up at me, grinning, scratching Max behind her ears. He said, “Life is good and complete, oh yeah. My man, Sean, now I know the real reason you’re here. Sounds like somebody’s in some deep shit.”
THIRTY
Dave sipped a Hendricks gin over ice with a twist of lime, Nick nursing a bottle of Corona, the three of us sitting around Dave’s table on Gibraltar’s cockpit. Max trotted into the salon and jumped up on a leather couch to sleep. They listened to me fill them in on my conversation with Joe and Jessica Thaxton. When I concluded, Dave cut his eyes over to a 40-foot Sea Ray, diesels rumbling, the captain easing the boat out of its slip at M dock.
Dave looked back at me. “Sounds like you made the right decision. Thaxton and his wife have filed police reports. They said that there will be more police presence in their neighborhood. Surveillance cameras are now mounted on their home. And I think your suggestion for them to inquire about the services of a company that can provide personal protection is a good and prudent one.”
Nick used his wide thumb to wipe the condensation from his bottle. “Too bad this shit happens to good people. I make my livin’ from the sea, and I can tell you that this guy’s spot on with what he’s sayin’ about the changes. Sure, we’ve experienced red tide blooms occasionally. But it was sporadic and brief. No more. Now it’s like an annual plague. You combine that with the pea-green goo that rises to the surface of a lot of water from the Indian River on the east coast to Pine Island Sound on the west coast, and you know what this guy’s sayin’ rings true.”
Dave nodded. “What I like is how Thaxton is using science—data he’s taking, along with statistics from county, state, and federal water monitoring agencies to combine with his degree and expertise as a fishing guide. Too bad it took the near death of his daughter to bring this to the forefront of the campaign.”
I said, “Often change boils down to cause and effect. The result of the on-going pollution and authorities looking the other way, is causing severe health problems in fish, wildlife, and humans.”
Dave sipped his drink, his eyes filled with thought. He looked up. “There was another casualty today from water-borne bacteria. A military veteran died. He wasn’t old, and I seriously doubt if he had a weakened immune system as he stepped in the water to toss his cast net. The news reports indicate the victim grew up boating and fishing those waters, back when he could see his toes in the sand standing in chest-deep water. No more. Sean, do you think Big Sugar and corporate agriculture could, in any way, be behind these threats to Thaxton?”
“I don’t know. I do know that when I was a detective, it was usually the cause and effect we’re talking about that went into almost every capital crime. In a homicide, you start looking at the family, close friends or business partners. What was the emotional motivation behind the killing? In spite of what we hear in the news, serial killers who murder anonymous victims are rare. The sad normal in murder is the connection between victim and killer, the first person to tip the first domino. Who has the most to lose or to gain? At least one of the seven deadly sins will always be at play. In the scenario with Joe Thaxton, he’s following the source of the pollution or the pollution to the source. So, who flipped that first domino?”
Dave said, “I heard a radio podcast, and Thaxt
on was talking about how federal sugar subsidies hurt the American taxpayers to the tune of two to four billion a year. The feds set prices on sugar, restrict the amount that can be sold and imported, which increases U.S. prices, ensuring artificially higher costs for sugar. And then the feds can sell sugar at pre-set prices to ethanol companies to be made into fuel. Sugar growers are in the catbird seat. Thaxton’s calling for an end or substantial reform of the government sugar subsidies, saying the taxpayers don’t get a sweet deal.”
I said, “That could certainly rattle some cages and pique the interest of some people in the industry. So, there’s more at play here than leveling fines for water pollution or restoring the water flow to the Everglades. He’s calling attention to a crony capitalist’s program worth billions to a few multi-millionaires.”
Nick shrugged his shoulders. “How does a guy like Thaxton, a fella I can relate to because we both fish for a livin’—how can he take on those big special interests and win? They’re a Goliath, and he’s a man who’s earned an honest livin’ taking clients out to fish the flats.”
Dave squeezed more lime in his drink. “Voters like an underdog if the message is real and resonates with them. Voters are hungry for change when they feel they have no voice and lobbyists control the voting booth because money counts more than votes.” Dave sipped his drink and then chuckled. “Oddly enough, Thaxton has a colleague in one of the most unlikely of places.”
“Where’s that?” Nick asked. “Heaven?”
“No, the governor’s race. Polls have both candidates in a close dead-heat thus far. They’re running the closest races ever seen on that level at this point in the campaigns. But only one is suggesting that the Comprehensive Everglades Restoration Plan is long overdue to be enforced. Gubernatorial candidate, Hal Duncan, is promising to adhere to the tenets of the Everglades restoration mandate and to begin by replacing the South Florida Water Management Board with all new people.”
I said, “That’s something I heard Joe Thaxton suggest.”
Dave nodded. “He and Duncan could make a powerful difference if they can both manage to get elected. In Thaxton’s case, if he can manage to stay healthy.”
Nick grinned. “Sugar is kinda like the world’s cocaine. Most people have an addiction. They gotta have a fix. If someone in the sugar industry is involved, a guy like Joe Thaxton might as well be facing the world’s biggest drug company.”
THIRTY-ONE
Chester Miller was careful not to touch the deadly manchineel tree, or beach apple as some people call it. He moved an aluminum ladder to the base of a cypress tree near the manchineel, securing the ladder against the cypress, looking up at the orchid plant perched on a small outcropping of weathered board, which Chester had fastened to the tree. He put one foot on the ladder, saw it move slightly at the top, and then adjusted it at ground level.
“Grandpa, are you going to climb that ladder?” asked Callie coming out of the greenhouse.
“Of course. Who do you think originally placed the orchid up there?”
She watched her grandfather, his face filled with excitement. She carefully chose her words. “If you want me to, I can climb up there and have a look.”
“Do you know what you’d be looking for?”
“The sign of a bloom.”
“That’s some of it, of course. But I need to inspect the heath of the plant. See if there is any rot or disease.”
She walked over to him. “Okay, but at least let me hold the base of the ladder for you.”
He grinned, his white beard parting. “Sounds like a deal.” Chester turned and placed his right foot on one rung and started climbing, the ladder shifting slightly. Callie held it tight with both hands as her grandfather took one slow step at a time. After half a minute, he’d made it to the top. He stopped, pulled his glasses from his front pocket, and begin inspecting the orchid. So lovely,” he said. “It’s like peering into a bird’s nest and hoping you’ll see cracked eggs and fledglings peeking back at you, their tiny eyes filled with the wonder of a new world.”
Callie watched the old man. “I hope it blooms before I go back to school.”
He chuckled. “Perhaps it will. It was here when you started high school. I’m hoping it’ll be blooming before you finish college. I see what could be construed as a bud. We’ll see.” He started the slow climb back down.
As he took the last rung before stepping to the ground, Callie said, “Maybe you can add some extra fertilizer—more nourishment to speed up the process.”
He stood on the ground and turned to her. “My dear child, there is no speeding up mother nature. She moves at her own pace. What would happen if you watched a chrysalis, such as a butterfly struggling to break out and you decided to help it by taking a knife or scissors to carefully open the chrysalis and free the butterfly?”
“I’d imagine that it would fall to the ground, unable to fly away.”
“Indeed. It needs time to open the door, to work its way out … to free itself. The wings have to be fully developed, and they have to dry in the sun as the butterfly sits on the branch and slowly fans its wings, gaining strength and confidence for the leap into the unknown. When the time is right, he’ll stop fanning and start flying.” He chuckled. “There’s a life lesson in there somewhere, I think.”
She smiled. “But of course, you’re going to let me come to my own conclusion. Just like when you pointed to the tall cypress trees, you showed me where to look, but I had to see it for myself. Did you and Grandma raise Mom with these little lessons you’re always helping me to discover?”
“Absolutely. Although, in those days, I was traveling more than I wanted to. A lot of the day-to-day responsibility of child raising fell into the lap of your grandmother. She did an outstanding job. I’m very proud of your mother.”
“I know it’s been a lot of years since Grandma died. Do you still miss her as much?”
He looked at Callie and reached for one of her hands. “I miss her more than ever. I miss her when I learn something that I want to share with her. I miss her laugh and her wisdom.” He glanced at her hand. “But I see her in your eyes, and in your hands. Through your mother and you, your grandmother lives and is still with me in the physical sense. In the spiritual sense, she never left. Above all else, I miss her love, her gentle touch the most.”
Callie smiled. “I hope one day I’ll find that kind of love. I’m not sure it exists like that when you and Grandma married. Things change.”
“But people don’t change, not in the depth of our core being. Most of us still want to be loved and to give love.” He looked up at the orchid. “Just like that Persephone orchid. When the time is right, it’ll grace us with beautiful blooms. When the time is right, when the love is right and real, you will know. Never rush it, Callie. Take your time to savor, to search. Not so much for the right man, but for who you are inside you … when you discover that, you’ll be surprised at how much easier it’ll be to recognize the right man when you do meet him.”
She put her other hand on top of his. “I love you Grandpa. Can I go up the ladder and see the orchid? I’ll take a picture of it, too.”
“Of course. I’ll hold the base of the ladder for you. But remember this … when it blooms, you’ll be able to see it from the ground. It’ll seem like it’s springing out of the nest, sort of like the ghost orchid. But this will be no illusion. It’ll be one of botany’s finest hours.”
THIRTY-TWO
Nick was in his element. White hot charcoal and mesquite glowing in the grill. Sizzling fish on the rack. Smoke, seasoned with Greek herbs, drifting across the marina letting boaters know Nick Cronus was in the culinary wheelhouse. I watched Nick turn inch-thick slabs of red snapper on the hot grill, humming a song. In addition to the fish, he’d marinated lamb shish kebabs with chunks of lamb, tomatoes, onions, and green peppers, three kebabs searing on the rear section of the large grill.
We were in Gibraltar’s cockpit, Dave making fresh drinks at the bar in th
e salon. Max near Nick’s bare feet, the sun setting over the marina, flat water reflecting cranberry red clouds in the western sky. I could hear a news broadcast on Dave’s TV near the bar.
Nick brushed the snapper with olive oil laced in what he calls his secret recipe of select herbs. He sang a Jimmy Buffett song, One Particular Harbor, squeezing lime on the fish, turning the kebabs, fanning the smoke with one hand, a beer in the other, closing the cover to the grill. He looked up, grinning. “A few more minutes, and they’ll be ready. Yesterday, the fish were swimmin’ in the deep blue sea. Hot Dawg … you hungry?”
Max barked once, turning a full circle. “Be patient, Maxie. We got plenty, even for your belly. Hey, Sean, can you tell me how such a little hound dog can have such a big appetite? Are you starvin’ her back at your river cabin so, when she comes here, she’s out of control?”
“I think it’s your cooking, Nick, that attracts her like a moth to a flame.”
He popped the rest of his lime into a bottle of Corona and took a long pull. “Yeah, it’s gotta be that—even Hot Dawg has good taste.”
Dave walked out onto the cockpit, a gin and tonic in both hands. He gave one to me and said, “Cheers, gents.” He lifted his glass. “It’s a fine evening over Ponce Inlet, stock market is doing well, and football season is just around the corner. We have much to be grateful for in this old world of ours. Sean, have you decided whether you are going to keep and maintain Dragonfly or sell her? Or are you going to sell Jupiter and keep the sailboat?”
“I was talking with Wynona about that, and she suggested that I don’t sell Dragonfly because it was a gift from two people who were deeply appreciative to be alive.”
