Salt River

by Randy Wayne White

  I returned the money to the billfold. “Wait here,” I said, and got out. I removed both computer bags from the backrest, then gently laid the motorcycle on its side. “Which bag’s yours?” I asked when I was back in the car. “Open it, take a look. Make sure everything’s there.”

  He did while I rifled through Rayvon’s bag. Inside was the man’s passport, an iPhone, his Nassau customs ID and shield. There were also condoms and some other stuff that made me glad I wore gloves. I made a mess of the contents and left the main zipper open.

  “From here, you’ve got to ride in the trunk,” I told Leo. “Fifteen, twenty minutes tops.”

  “No way.”

  “I mean it, Leo.”

  “Screw you. Why? It’s gonna be a hundred degrees in the trunk. Let’s get the hell out of here.” In his bag, he had found the bottle of naproxen. His hands shook when he opened it.

  “Take a bus,” I suggested. “Or you can introduce me to Rayvon. How’s that sound?”

  Leo’s eyes widened. “Whoa! Don’t tell me you’re going back there. What, for that roll of bills you dropped? You told me it was less than a hundred bucks.”

  “A little over,” I said. “Mostly ones and fives.”

  “So what! Hell, I’ll split Ray’s wallet with you—five hundred each. Cash and credit cards, we’ll both make out.”

  Leo still didn’t understand.

  * * *

  —

  Rayvon was pacing the parking lot and charged the gate as I got out of the car. “You see where that asshole went?” he demanded. “What the hell took you so long, man? I thought you’d run off. We gotta call the police.”

  I said, “You were supposed to call. Where are they?” I looked around as if unnerved by what had just happened.

  “Damn phone’s on my bike, dumbass, with everything else. Shit! You get a look at him?”

  “Close. Must’ve just missed him,” I replied. “About five blocks from here, he dumped your bike and took off. Probably had a car waiting. An accomplice—I don’t know—but he was in a hurry. I found this in the middle of the street.” I reached into the car and carried the second computer bag to the gate, where the big man had just wiggled through.

  “Hey, that’s mine.” Rayvon yanked the bag from my hands and started pawing through it. “My bike still there? Did he wreck it?” He paused. “Shit . . . someone’s gone through all the pockets.”

  “I did,” I said. The man looked up and glared. “It was already a mess when I found it. Your bike’s on its side, but it looked okay.”

  The customs agent puffed up, his manner threatening. “You went through my personal shit? Man, that’s not cool.”

  I replied, “You could’ve had a kilo of coke in there, then the police show up? I’m not stupid. I found this, too.” I reached into my pocket for the alligator-hide wallet. “It was under one of the wheels, probably fell out when the thief dumped your Harley.”

  Rayvon stared, snatched the wallet away, then turned his back while he counted the bills. “Goddamn it, there’d better be . . . Hey, yeah, looks like . . . Hmm, I’ll be damned, it’s all here.” He pivoted, his manner not friendly, but less hard-assed. “You go through my wallet, too?”

  “I had to make sure it was yours. Look, let’s make this quick. I don’t want to be here when the cops show up.”

  “Police?” He pronounced it po-LEESE, Nassau-style. “You got a problem with them?”

  He was thinking about the wad of cash I had dropped.

  “I’ve got a problem wasting my time if I get subpoenaed as a witness because of a stolen motorcycle,” I said.

  “That right?” The customs agent stuffed the wallet into his pocket. “Then don’t expect no reward from me.”

  “It’s not that,” I said. “I live on the other side of the state. My plane’s at the Executive Terminal, but it would still be a pain in the butt if I was subpoenaed.” I motioned to the courtesy car. “Come on, I’ll drive you to the bike, if you want, and wait until you get it started. Then I’m out of here.”

  Rayvon didn’t know what to think of me. “You just an all-around nice guy, huh? Got your own plane, just doin’ what’s right. That’s cool.” His smile was pure cop. Still putting out snares, not convinced yet, but getting there.

  “Nice has nothing to do with it. I’m a businessman, not a thief.”

  He laughed. “I didn’t know there was difference.”

  “You got a point,” I conceded. “For anything less than a quarter million, being straight with people is the cheapest investment I know.”

  “You read that somewhere? Man, that’s pretty good—a reason to be straight.” The big man was grinning. “But see what you just did? A quarter mil. Dude, you just named your own price. Must be rich to live on the west coast. Some big money over there, Naples. I played golf there once.”

  “Sanibel Island, part-time,” I said, which got Rayvon’s attention. “Agent Darwin, is it? I saw your badge and ID in the bag. I wouldn’t have stolen your stuff anyway, but I like the Bahamas. It’s not often I get a chance to help out a Nassau customs agent. Give me the bills you picked up, we’ll call it even.”

  “Don’t even want a reward, huh?” He was still testing me.

  “Wouldn’t accept it if you offered.” I consulted my watch—a little after 3. “Come on, I’ll run you back to your bike. We can take a look around, maybe the thief dropped something else, but then I have to go. There’s a woman, a friend of mine. I’ve got to land in Belle Glade first and pick her up on the way home.”

  “Your own private plane, taking your lady for a ride.” Rayvon liked that. Decided it was okay to get in the car, where he did what I hoped he would do. Opened the glove box and read the paperwork. He looked from the rental agreement to me. “Capt. Morris Berg, that you? Executive Terminal—yeah, says right here. What kind of captain are you?”

  “Not the real kind. I’ve got a salvage business, but it’s more of a hobby.”

  “Salvage, huh?” The man was impressed. “I know what that means. No wonder you carry around a ball of cash.”

  “We’ve all got to make a living,” I agreed.

  He took another look at the paperwork. “Berg, huh? That means you’re one of the tribe?”

  “Depends on which one,” I said.

  His smile broadened. “Sure it does. Me, I been thinking about having that DNA test thing done. Ya see, my people date back to the Lost Tribes of Israel. Direct descendants of Emperor Haile Selassie. Know of him? The Conquering Lion of Ethiopia? My gran’mama told me all about my family roots.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “Personally, I don’t want my DNA on some company’s computer.”

  Rayvon got the message. Covert enterprises of all types communicate by subtext. Suddenly, we had a connection.

  “Sanibel Island, huh? Know many people there?”

  “A few. I try to avoid people. They can be a lot of work.”

  “For true, man. Always want something. But there’s a gentleman lives on that island who—” He paused, looked over. “Hey, you saw my badge. I’m a sworn officer of the Great Commonwealth of the Bahamas. You need to understand the importance of my position.”

  “Of course. A lot of responsibility.”

  “Okay, then. This gentleman we’re discussing—I never met him—won’t share his name yet, but he lives there. He’s a marine biologist, supposedly. Guy stole a bunch of shit from our national waters. Just ain’t right, you know?”

  “What’s his name?”

  Rayvon said, “That’s what we’re talking about now. A foreigner steals valuable archaeological treasures, could be worth your while to help my government out with a certain matter.”

  I shook my head. “Something else I try to do is mind my own business.”

  “Business, yeah. Big business, if you’ll listen. My friend, come on,
you proved to me you’re an honest man, can be trusted as long as your personal interests are taken care of. Am I right?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “How much are we talking?”

  “Oh, buddy”—he grinned—“way, way more than your named price of a quarter mil. You cool with this so far, Morris?”

  I let him watch me mull it over before replying, “Doubt it, but maybe. This biologist—I’d need to know his name.”

  “Dude named Ford. Dr. Ford. Sells fish and shit.”

  That required more time for thought. “Never heard the name, I’m fairly new on Sanibel. But fish? There’s no money in selling fish.”

  “Could be why the dude went stole some of our treasures,” Rayvon reasoned. “Morris, there might be half a mil in it, you find the information I need. What with your salvage connections and all.”

  I smiled a flat, tough businessman’s smile, and said, “Call me Moe.”

  Ahead, on the side street, was the motorcycle just as I’d left it. The asphalt shimmered with heat. I parked in the only strip of shade available and listened to what the customs agent had to offer. Finally, he got out of the car, stood over a Harley that wasn’t his to begin with, and inspected it before righting the machine.

  “Bastard took another bag I was carrying,” he said, meaning Leo’s bag. “Probably not all he took. And screwed up the saddlebags when he dumped it. Gonna have to take them in the car.”

  The saddlebags looked fine to me. “Sure,” I said.

  Rayvon knelt over the straps, then gave a hard stare. “Moe, you one very helpful dude. Mind if I put these in the trunk?”

  A final test. The bags weren’t that big. “They’ll fit in the backseat . . . Come on, I’ve got to go.”

  The cop smile again. “Paid five hundred for this set. Finest leather, man, they need to be laid out flat. What’s the problem?” His eyes moved to the key fob in my hand. I got the impression that he would grab it if I didn’t do something quick.

  I did. Stepping aside, I pressed a button and the trunk sprang open. “Help yourself,” I said.

  On my way back to Palm Beach Executive, I phoned Leo. “We need to stay in touch,” I reminded him. A little later, I admitted, “You were smart to take the bus.”

  THIRTEEN

  From the air, I texted Delia. I had already received clearance to land at Belle Glade Municipal.

  She responded, ok, phils here, dont come inside.

  There was no need to come in. Glades Municipal serviced a fleet of yellow low-winged crop dusters parked in the heat 300 feet below my amphib. There was a small office, professionally kept, with AC and a Coke machine. That’s all.

  To the east of the runway was a massive complex, the sugar refinery and co-op. Six boiler towers spewed white plumes into the air. It was steam, not smoke, yet it resembled Pittsburgh during its industrial peak. Sugarcane is a tropical grass, mostly water, first brought to Florida in the 1700s. It was Prohibition and moonshiners, though, that caused it to spread across the Everglades. But it was the Cuben embargo of the 1960s that brought what is now known as Big Sugar to Floride.

  “A noxious exotic,” some claim. “A valuable food source,” say others. Both arguments are espoused with a certainty more suited to theology than science.

  I landed, pivoted my little amphib, tail to the office, and got the doors open before shutting down. Temperature on the tarmac had to be a hundred degrees.

  Delia came out, a bag over her shoulder, taking long strides. She didn’t glance back when Phil exited in a hurry to catch up. I had no intention of getting involved—until the guy grabbed the girl by the arm and spun her around.

  Well, hell . . . I hopped out onto the portside pontoon and dropped to the tarmac.

  A mechanic in overalls watched the scene from a busy open hangar. Delia pulled away. The shaggy-haired college professor towered over her and yelled something. Delia responded. Inside the hangar, a power ratchet suddenly went silent. The former lovers didn’t notice. It magnified the volume of the exchanged that followed.

  “That’s exactly why I don’t want to see you again, Phil. For god sakes, just leave me—”

  “I’m not letting you get into a damn plane with a man you barely know, Delia. We’ll talk in the car. Stop acting like a—” Again, he caught her from behind. The mechanic, whom I’d seen a few times but never met, started toward them, wiping his hands on a towel.

  Delia noticed me. Red-faced, she yanked her arm free. Her computer bag slipped and fell hard on the pavement. Phil knelt to retrieve it. When he looked up, I was there.

  “This is between us,” he said. “Delia, tell this . . . whatever he is . . . to give us some privacy.”

  Delia said, “You know damn well who Dr. Ford is,” then addressed me. “Sorry you had to see this, Marion. I’m ready to go if you are.”

  The mechanic kept coming. He might have been a boxer, one of those lethal little flyweights out of Tampico. I said to him, “Tranquilo, mi amigo,” then continued, also in Spanish, “I’m glad to know a good man works here and is willing to help a lady if she needs it. But she’s okay now.”

  He stopped and gave Phil a burning look until the computer bag was returned to Delia. When he spoke, it was to me, also in Spanish. “That culo’s been back and forth, bothering our town all day. Some of the mierda he says . . . Brother, he thinks we’re too dumb to know English.”

  The professor, in his Birkenstocks and white cotton Gillian hat, would have stood out on the streets of Belle Glade. It’s an old cow town that still values cowboy ways.

  Phil demanded, “What’s he saying?”

  The mechanic ignored that and spoke to me. “He flying with you?”

  “Never met him,” I said. “As soon as West Palm gives me clearance, the lady and I are taking off.”

  “Good, leave his ass. At the Prado Cubano—you know the lunch counter there? He told some tourists that we, people in this town, we’re no better than slaves for the company. Ignorant, like mules.”

  “Said it in front of you?”

  “Didn’t need to, the Prado’s so busy. Shows how ignorant he is. Man, I’m a citizen, twenty years now. Three of those Piper Pawnees out there, me and my brothers own. Had them built custom in Vero. But we still hear this sorta mierda from outsiders. You know, about how dumb we are.”

  Yellow crop dusters, he was referring to, half a million dollars’ worth of aircraft moored in a row at the edge of the runway.

  The professor had gone to work on Delia, trying to shepherd her away, until I wagged my finger at him—Follow me. This allowed us a private moment. “Phil, knock it off before my friend here has you arrested.”

  The mechanic was standing by.

  “Has me . . . It’s Dr. Knox to you . . . And don’t think I didn’t do some research. You’re not a biologist, you’re a pay-to-play hack . . . That’s right, on the make for another naïve grad student. How much does Big Sugar pay for scalps these days?”

  This was so outrageous, I laughed. Delia drifted toward us as I replied, “Think of me as a concerned uncle, okay? It’s getting late, so why don’t you—”

  “Her uncle? That’s a lie. She would’ve told me.”

  Interesting. Dr. Phil had not been entrusted with Delia’s DNA revelation.

  I looked at the girl. She shrugged and rolled her eyes in a confidential way, then continued across the tarmac. It only made Phil madder.

  Behind us, he yelled, “I tried, I warned you. Delia, listen—in academics, sleeping with the enemy is a death sentence. Don’t expect me to cover for you.”

  Had he really said that?

  I motioned the girl further toward the plane. Had to motion again to keep her moving, then turned and didn’t stop until I had stepped on the bare toes of Dr. Phil’s left sandal.

  He was outraged. “You did that intentionally.”

  Voice low
, my manner friendly, I said, “That’s right, Phil.” Then issued a warning of my own.

  * * *

  —

  The enemy,” I said. “He actually believes that?”

  A small seaplane is loud. Headphones with filament mics allow for an exchange of short comments. But the noise makes thoughtful conversation impossible.

  Delia, on my right, nodded. “Big Sugar and phosphate mining, you know what I mean. But Phil, he has to take everything too far. What did you say to him back there?”

  “Enemies because of pollution?”

  “Yeah, of course. Lake Okeechobee’s become a sewer. At my interview, I asked about . . . And what they said was . . . But I don’t know whether to . . .” The end of every sentence was garbled until she gazed downward through the Plexiglas door. “How high are we?”

  We were at 1,100 feet, ascending. Lake Okeechobee, to port, was ocean-sized at forty miles wide.

  “This peninsula has a list of enemies so long, they’re hard to rank,” I said. “We’ve got time, weather looks good. Would you like to scout around a little?”

  Tomlinson’s daughter had recovered. In profile at the starboard controls, she emanated an Amelia Earhartish poise. Not as masculine, due to her build and cherry-black hair, but starched, attentive, and eager. She liked flying, I could tell, but didn’t agree right away to a recon.

  I took a guess. She hadn’t had time to use the restroom because of Phil. “We’ll be on Sanibel in less than an hour,” I said. “Or I can find a private place down there, if you don’t mind hanging off a pontoon.”

  “On the lake? Sure. I’m not the shy type. And I’d like a closer look.”

  The Maule’s communication is closed-circuit unless I press a transponder button, which I did before advising traffic control there’d been a change of plan. Off Boomers Island, along the lake’s western shore, I babied the flaps and set down. A water landing is a wild, rocking horse sleigh ride that kicks spray. It is also a demarcation of legalities. My plane was now a boat bound by nautical rules of the road just like any other power vessel.