The Orchid Keeper: A Sean O'Brien Novel

by Tom Lowe

  “Keep your seat,” Santiago said. He sat opposite him, back to the corner. He took his sunglasses off, his ferret eyes darting around the outdoor dining area. No one seemed to be watching. Good. It was time to talk business. He looked at Fazio. “Good to see you again.”

  “You, too. I was in Jersey last week. Nice to be back in the sunshine.”

  “I need to see your phone.”

  Fazio lifted his phone from a pocket inside his jacket and slid it across the table. “I should take offense at that. We have a history together. You really think I’d record our conversation?”

  “No, but this move is just like putting on my seatbelt. It’s automatic, standard procedure at times like this.”

  Fazio said nothing, moving a toothpick from one side of his wide mouth to the other.

  Santiago said, “We have a job for you. My employer is extremely frustrated with what’s happening, and he wants to change the course of action before the action of this individual changes the course of his business.”

  • • •

  I left Max with Dave and Nick and drove to Wynona’s home. We had a birthday lunch at the Gator Café before driving south for an hour, turning west on the Tamiami Trail and heading to Chester Miller’s place. Wynona wore jeans, a long-sleeve, beige shirt, and a touch of lip gloss, her purse on the floorboard. I told her about my conversation with Joe and Jessica Thaxton, the reason I turned down the job, and why I had mixed feelings about doing so.

  “That’s understandable,” she said, looking at the mangroves with their spindly roots like claws dipping into the water of a canal next to the road. She turned to me. “I think it’s because you admire what he’s doing, Sean. Or at least what he’s trying to do. Maybe the best way to help him is to vote for Thaxton or contribute to has campaign.”

  “I don’t live in his district, and he set a one-hundred limit per contributor. He refuses to take PAC or lobbyist money.”

  She smiled. “Another reason to admire him.”

  “The guy’s about to go toe-to-toe with some of the most well-funded lobbyists in the state, the influencers who are working for Big Sugar and Big Ag. And he’s not doing it using hyperbole, or some overinflated exaggerations. He’s got credentials, the chops, and he’s letting the facts—the data, win debates. His wife said the attack ads that Brasfield is running are landing hard blows.”

  “Why doesn’t he hit back? Surely Joe Thaxton won’t have to look far to find dirt on William Brasfield.”

  “That’s not the way he wants to conduct his campaign. He has challenged Brasfield to another televised debate. So far, the incumbent state senator refuses to commit.”

  Wynona said nothing. She took her shoes off in her seat. “I think you made the right decision. The Thaxton’s have suffered vandalism, threatening phone calls, and Mrs. Thaxton believes someone followed her when she dropped her child off at school. Definitely a police matter. Please don’t think I’m marginalizing anything, but I believe your skillset is somewhat above solving the push-back the Thaxton’s and their campaign staff are getting.”

  “I wish I could give them more than just advice.”

  “If someone had stolen a half-million from Thaxton’s war chest, you could be the guy to help him get it back. If someone fired a round at Thaxton, you could be the person to track down the shooter. When does Thaxton join Hal Duncan in the televised townhall meeting?”

  “Soon. I believe it’s on the second.”

  “That might be one debate I’ll tune in to see. Any changes in cleaner water entering the glades or Big Cypress will only be positive for life on the rez and the Seminole Tribe.”

  I drove a little slower, looking for the spot to turn off the road. “I’m not sure if there’s a sign on this side of the road.”

  “A sign for what?” she asked.

  “The entrance to Chester’s wild world of orchids. I do know that when you approach it driving east from Naples there is a sign about fifty feet from the entrance. The sign is small, hand-painted, the size of an average mailbox, and its nailed to a cypress post that looks like it’s about to fall to the ground.”

  “What’s written on it?”

  “Three words … orchids for sale.”

  She smiled. “Even if there’s no sign on this side of the road, I’m sure you can find it again.”

  “I can, but I have to be ready because the entrance is narrow and looks like a natural gap in the mangroves. It’s a dirt and gravel road that’s overgrown in weeds.”

  “Something tells me that Chester doesn’t put much priority in retail sales.”

  “He doesn’t. For him, it’s all about making the money to put it back into helping replant native orchids in the Everglades.” I came around a bend in the road and recognized the ingress. There was no sign on the west-bound side. I turned off the road. “We’re in luck. His gate’s open. Maybe he’s home.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  We’d driven less than one hundred feet onto the property, strands of old-growth, virgin cypress on both sides of the trail, orchids growing from clay and earthen pots wedged in tree limbs near the trunks and in the dark earth along the trail. Wynona said, “Oh my God … this is incredible … so beautiful. It takes my breath away. You weren’t kidding when you referred to it as Chester’s wild world of orchids.”

  A great horned owl perched on a thick cypress branch opened its yellow eyes the size of quarters, as if it was rudely awakened from an afternoon nap. The bird leapt from the limb, beating its wide wings in silence, fleeing into the dark shadows through the strand of trees. Wynona said, “Not only are the orchids spectacular in their rainbow of colors, the ferns and bromeliads are the biggest I’ve ever seen anywhere in Florida.”

  I chuckled. “The man has a green thumb.”

  “It’s more than that. It’s as if, when you turned off the asphalt road and entered here, we went through a time warp into a strange, primordial world. Maybe it’s the way the glades looked a few million years ago. This is a rare place in South Florida. I almost expect a T-rex to cross the path in front of us.”

  We drove another hundred yards through the winding trail and came to a drier area. His truck was there. So was the Ford Escape his granddaughter drove. But I could see no overt signs of them. As I pulled my Jeep near the cabin and greenhouse, I said, “Here is the home and research compound where an old man labors to restock the glades with native orchids while creating hybrid orchids from some of the rarest pollens in the world. He is more of an artist than a botanist, a man with a microscope and tweezers that he uses like a sculptor with a hammer and chisel, or a painter with a palette, brushes and a canvas.”

  “I can’t wait to meet him,” Wynona said, looking at a dozen orchids set up on a picnic table beneath a live oak tree, a white sheet under clay pots holding the plants.

  Callie Hogan walked from the greenhouse with two large orchids in either hand, both plants in full bloom with purple and pink flowers. She looked at my Jeep and smiled, setting the orchids down on the picnic table. Wynona and I got out of the Jeep, and I said, “The orchids I bought from you and your grandfather were a big hit. So big, in fact, I’ve returned for more.”

  “Awesome! It’s good to see you, again.” She made a quick smile at Wynona.

  I nodded. “Callie, this is Wynona. She’s the one I bought the orchids for, and she’s here to pick out some more for her birthday.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Wynona said. “Are any of the orchids on that table for sale?”

  “Some of them are, yes. I’ll get Grandpa. He’s in his lab working.”

  She took off a pair of cotton garden gloves and walked past us, entering the vintage Airstream trailer. Less than a minute later, Chester, shoeless, his glasses hanging from black straps around his neck, approached with Callie. He grinned, and his wild, snowy eyebrows arched. “Where’s your little dog?”

  “Max is back at the marina near Ponce Inlet. Chester, this is Wynona Osceola. I bought the orchids for her, and she
liked them so much she wanted to come here and buy a few more.”

  “Delighted to accommodate you, Wynona. Your last name rings all kind of bells in my old head. May I assume you are Seminole and perhaps related to the famed leader of the tribe?”

  “Yes, on both accounts.”

  He looked away for a moment, his eyes filled with thought. “One of the finest men I’ve ever met is Sam Otter. Every time I think I know a little something about botany, I find myself humbled in Sam’s presence, especially when he invited me into the glades to pick some plants for his medicine bundle. It’s as if he has a thousand years of handed down botanical history and expertise flowing through his veins. He knows the flora and fauna on a vascular level, and he views it all on a holistic level. Everything’s connected. It’s no exaggeration to say he’s a true plant whisperer. He’s always been generous with his time and knowledge. I hope Sam’s well.”

  Wynona smiled. “I think he’s doing as well as can be expected for a man who’s lived more than a hundred years. Has he ever been in here to see what you’ve done?”

  “Yes, a few times. Not in the last five or so years, though.”

  “I’ve lived on an off the rez much of my life. I’ve been to many places in the glades and Big Cypress Preserve, but I’ve never seen anything quite like what you’ve done here. This is such an oasis for the soul.”

  Chester’s eyes smiled. His beard parted with a wide grin. “Thank you for saying that. I’ve been out here probably longer than you’ve been alive. I got lucky when I bought the place. Although, I’ve let nature continue its stewardship, I took the liberty to add a few orchids, bromeliads and whatnot in here.”

  Callie laughed. “One of my grandfather’s whatnots is growing in that tree behind you.” She pointed. “About ten feet up, you can see the plant sitting on that wooden extension. Grandpa’s been waiting more than fifteen years for that orchid to bloom. When the Persephone orchid blooms, we believe it’ll be the rarest flower on the face of the planet.”

  Wynona looked at the big plant in the tree. “I would love to see that when it blooms.”

  Chester chuckled. “Me, too. I had a fella in here yesterday. He said he was representing a buyer in Miami who’d heard about the Persephone from an article National Geographic did on the stuff I do here. He offered me more money than I thought existed for the orchid if it flowers.”

  “Who is the buyer in Miami?” I asked.

  “The representative wouldn’t say. Called him an anonymous buyer and a passionate orchid aficionado.”

  “Would you sell?” asked Wynona.

  “No. The plant doesn’t belong in some millionaire’s house. The public ought to see it. Callie will make sure that happens with her skill at this social media thing.”

  Wynona said, “I hope it will be spectacular. Something I think is just as outstanding is what you and Callie are doing by replanting native orchids back in the glades. Sean told me about your program. How many orchids have you replanted?”

  “Callie has the exact number. It’s more than five thousand. And we’re delighted to report that ninety percent have taken root and propagated.” Chester used his thumbs to hitch up the suspenders that supported his thick dungarees. “Enough about all that. You, Wynona, came here to invite more orchids to join your family. Let’s have a look around to see if there’s something that catches your eye.”

  • • •

  Simon Santiago finished a phone call in a remote section of the café and walked back to the outdoor terrace. Michael Fazio sat at the table, shifting his gaze from the bay to Santiago. Fazio said, “I’m assuming you’ve chatted with your employer.”

  “He’s not my employer. He’s my client.”

  “It’s only a question of semantics. Tell me more about the person you’d like to see catch a one-way bus.”

  “Not a lot to tell. The man we’re talking about is running for office. The polls show him in a double-digit lead ahead of our guy, and this is coming in spite of all the attack ads we’re running against him.”

  “Give me his name. I’ll need to follow him for a few days, get a sense of the strategy for the hunt. Do you want it to look like an accident, or do you want to send a strong message to others?”

  “Accident. He’s already built such a brand—a profile, that we can’t have it remotely traced back to us.”

  Fazio grinned. “It never has in the past, what makes you think this is any different?”

  “Because this guy has become the darling of the news media and the voters. He’s poisonous to the industry, from subsidies to tens of millions in possible fines for environmental clean-up that the EPA could slap on them.”

  Fazio sipped from a Perrier water, looked at the bay, a windsurfer going by, the white sail reflecting from the water. “He won’t take money, and he won’t back down, huh?”

  “Do you think we’d be sitting here if he would. He can’t be bought, and he can’t be scared. We’ve tried. We’re coming up to our last option.”

  “Well, since this guy is different—a greater visibility for you and your employer, I have to take greater risks … meaning the fee is going to be higher.”

  “How much higher?”

  “Half a mil.”

  Santiago said nothing. He watched a young blonde woman in short-shorts and a halter top jogging down the sidewalk lined with tall palms. After twenty seconds, he said, “You’ve never asked for that much. I need to run that number by my client.”

  “Just give me your client’s name, and I’ll let him know what the job will cost.”

  “That’s not gonna happen. As far as you’re concerned, I am the client. I’m the one who hires or fires you, and I’m the one who pays you. Period.”

  “Hey, don’t get all territorial on me, all right. I could give a rat’s ass who your boss is, as long as his money’s good.”

  “If he agrees, half will go into your Caymans account. The balance deposited there when you’re done … if you succeed.”

  “You oughta be the first to know I never fail.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  “Testing … one … two … three. Testing … one … two,” said a sound technician in black jeans and a T-shirt, standing on stage and adjusting the microphones on the podiums. He nodded to an audio engineer in a sound booth to the far right of the stage. Techs adjusted lights as a television crew set up three cameras. The event, which had the vibe of a rock concert, was taking place in Port St. Lucie’s municipal amphitheater.

  It was 6:30 p.m., the evening still warm, palm fronds swaying in the breeze. The audience began taking their seats an hour before the candidates, Joe Thaxton and Hal Duncan, were to appear on stage. Reporters from across the state mingled, sipping coffee from white paper cups, sharing salacious details about some of the more exciting political contests. Because Florida’s large population makes it a key state in presidential elections, the governor’s race commanded wide national attention, too. The incumbent, having reached his term limit, was running for U.S. Senate. This left the door open for two Republican contenders, Hal Duncan and Carl Fanning.

  But it was a state senate race in District 25 that was grabbing its share of headlines, the battle between incumbent William Brasfield and newcomer Joe Thaxton. Tonight’s town hall meeting wasn’t billed as a debate because of the two different races. It was pitched as an opportunity for voters to see and hear two candidates who shared similar campaign agendas in terms of the environment. The placards, billboards and information on both candidate’s websites spelled it out: An evening with Hal Duncan and Joe Thaxton … everyone is invited.

  A narrow-faced newspaper reporter from Orlando, sleeves on his white shirt rolled to his elbows, sipped coffee and said, “Rumor has it that Duncan would have picked Joe Thaxton to run as his lieutenant governor if Duncan had known Thaxton earlier in the game.”

  A female reporter, blonde hair in a bob, iPad in one hand, said, “I can’t recall an election in recent years that’s generated the interest Tha
xton’s managed to get so quickly. Some people are saying he has the right stuff to go the distance and beyond.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “He’s got the moxie—the chutzpah, the damn balls to kick the leg out of a three-legged stool and see where Big Sugar lands. No one in fifty years of Florida politics has attempted to do that. In Joe Thaxton, I think Hal Duncan sees a bold ally who would do better in the state senate proposing environmental bills rather than as a lieutenant governor waiting patiently in the wings for the governor to serve out his term or terms.”

  Jessica Thaxton and daughter Kristy took seats in the front row near the center. Jessica leaned down to Kristy and said, “I am so proud of your daddy. This will be an event I hope you remember for the rest of your life.”

  “I will, Mama. I’m even prouder of Daddy.”

  The executive producer for the television station, a man dressed in designer jeans, blue T-shirt and a dark sports coat, walked out on the stage, a wireless, hand-held microphone in one hand. “Good evening everyone. Thank you for coming out tonight. This promises to be one of the highlights of this election year. We are thrilled to host an evening with gubernatorial candidate Hal Duncan and one of the candidates vying for state senate, Joe Thaxton.”

  There was a burst of applause. One man in the third row shouted, “Go Joe!”

  The producer smiled. “We’ll take questions from the audience. Please remember, this evening is being televised live to every PBS station in Florida, from Pensacola in the panhandle to Key West. Let me introduce you to your master of ceremonies for this evening. He is a retired political reporter and a former columnist with more than thirty-five years of covering politics in Florida, who backstage a few minutes ago, reaffirmed to me that there is no such thing as a boring election in Florida. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Mr. Howard Payne.”