by Scott Cook
“I wear many hats these days.”
“A man of varied and well-developed talents.”
“So how can I help you, Senator?”
He sipped from his tumbler and got comfortable in his lounger, “First off, if we’re going to work together, son, I’d prefer you just called me Max. We can leave the sir and the Senator bullshit for public appearances if necessary. All right if I just call you Scott?”
“Certainly.”
“Excellent,” A big sip. “Tell me, Scott… what do you know about the history and disposition of South Florida?”
His sidelong look gave me the impression he had a more specific area in mind and wanted to see if I’d guess correctly. I smiled wryly and said: “The Everglades, you mean? Perhaps even more localized than that? The Ten G’s?”
He grinned, “I thought you’d figure it out. Good. I like a man doesn’t need every tiny thing explained to him.”
“Oh, on the contrary, Sen… Max,” I said. “I much prefer details, even if I think I know them. It’s sort of… well, detail is the life’s blood of my work. To a great mind, nothing is little… and never trust to impressions, my dear boy, but concentrate upon details.”
“Who’s that? Emerson? Thoreau?”
“Holmes,” I corrected.
He chuckled, “Well… are you aware of the status of the Ten Thousand Islands?”
“They’re protected, I believe,” I replied. “Environmentally and politically. No development, no mining and no screwing around other than eco-tourism and camping. You can’t even set up a tent on Cape Sable without a permit, if I’m not mistaken.”
“That’s mostly true,” Thorne responded. “The only islands in the Ten G’s, as you put it, that are developed are this one and Chokoloskee… at least officially. There are a few scattered here and there with a few old-timey hermits on them. Probably a bunch of undiscovered Calusa mounds, too. Although they call them the Ten Thousand Islands, there aren’t really that many.”
“Yeah, but there are still hundreds,” I added. “Not even counting the mangrove patches that aren’t classified as land. Hard to explore because it’s very shallow. I also know that like the Everglades, there is a problem with invasive species there. Burmese Pythons for one.”
“True,” Thorne confirmed. “But the biggest danger to the area is, as usual, man. There are folks who want to acquire some of the area privately and then develop it.”
I was silent for a moment, considering my next words. After a time, I decided to toss a hand grenade and see what happened after it went off.
“According to Congresswoman Marsha Davies… one of those people is you, Max. She says you’re trying to rile up the Seminole and the Miccosukee as well as the unincorporated remnants of the Calusa. She says if you can help them get better control over the Ten G’s, then you could pull the strings and get some things done or even simply steal the land somehow afterward.”
To my surprise, he looked over at me and laughed heartily, throwing his head back and roaring out with unrestrained mirth, “Did she! Oh, that’s rich… goddamn… that’s rich! I take it you met with her then?”
I shook my head, “No, an associate of mine did. My partner in fact.”
Thorne wiped his eyes and took a bracing gulp of his nearly empty scotch, “Oh, hell… she hires your partner and I hire you! That’s damned amusing… well, Scott, let me give you a different side of the story if I might. More separates Ms. Davies and me than a party line. Yes, she’s a champion of the poor and downtrodden. She fights for equality and she lobbies for a better deal for local fisherman, minorities and the poor. She waves the environmental flag whenever she can and it gets her plenty of traction in this district.”
“Sounds like a real bad one,” I quipped.
Thorne chuckled, “Yes, well… I have reason to suspect she’s not entirely altruistic in her motivations. Let’s just say that Marsha Davies might hug a tree, but she’ll mark it for cutting while she’s there.”
“Meaning what, exactly?”
“Meaning that she wants to gain control over the Ten G’s,” Thorne stated firmly. “She wants the Florida legislature to authorize that the area and even a portion of the Everglades preservation and management be placed under a private organization that she heads. This organization, privately funded and managed by a committee, would provide greater oversight and would further provide more employment specifically for native peoples and local watermen. Further, she wants the state and the federal government to subsidize the project, placing even more money in the organization’s hands.”
I gazed out at the early afternoon Gulf. The sun was only a little way past its zenith and the waters below were a light, almost turquoise color. Although there were few people in the water, the temperature still being in the low sixties even this far south, dozens combed the pale golden sands. Florida’s legacy. People from all over the country came to the beaches and required the development of high-rise hotels and condos, leaving very little of what was once beautiful natural coastline unspoiled.
These same people would laugh and point their fingers at Florida. All the crazy news stories and the colorful goings on. They’d visit a theme park or a barrier island built up to within an inch of its life and think they’d actually seen Florida for what she was. Now it seemed as if even more of what remained of the true Florida… the vast and wild expanse of Everglades and associated environments was still threatened.
Would people never learn? Could we never simply enjoy what nature had created without despoiling it, polluting it and reshaping it to our immediate desires? Sure, let’s destroy millions of years of creation because we want a new hotel. Who cares about some old mangrove trees? What does a bunch of grass and cypress trees and gnarly old gators mean against the profit that can be scraped from their ashes?
“Are you saying that she wants to do exactly what she says you want to do?” I asked finally.
“I am. With that much control… and that much funding, which is more to the point…”
“And what do you want, Senator?”
“I want to stop her,” Thorne replied. “I like the idea of privatizing Everglades’ management, or at least a part of it. We’ve already got Everglades National Park and the Big Cypress Preserve. I like the idea of a Ten Thousand Islands Refuge or something of the kind. Something more than what’s in place now, that is. But it shouldn’t be managed by a damned politician. Yes, perhaps the state and the federal government should have a position on any board that’s formed, just to make sure their money is being spent properly… but the management and the organization should remain private.”
“All right,” I said, emptying my own scotch at last. “And how do we do that? How do we stop her and make sure things go your way?”
“We need the help of the people of the Glades,” Thorne stated. “We need those people who can still claim to be Calusa to come together and stake a claim in the Ten G’s. Its they who should run a management group.”
“So what’s the problem?” I asked.
He sighed and rattled the cubes in his empty glass absently, “It all comes down to one man. One man who’s something of a figurehead in the Calusa community, if it can even be called that.”
“Richard Eagle Feather,” I stated, not at all surprised.
“I suppose Marsha wants him, too.”
“You’ve got it. But…”
“But he’s missing,” Thorne grumbled. “Yes, I know.”
“What I can’t figure out is why,” I stated. “I almost prevented it the other night… but why did somebody kidnap him and who?”
“That’s one thing I need you to find out,” Thorne said. “We need Eagle Feather. He’s the key to all of this.”
“Why?”
“Have you ever heard of the Meraux treasure?”
I shook my head and then something seemed to click. I turned to him, “I’ve heard the name Meraux… I don’t know if it’s the same man, but an ancestor of mine had a run i
n with a Pierre Meraux. A French privateer. This was in 1797.”
Thorne nodded, “That’s the man. Or at least I think so. Right around that time, a French privateer captured a Spanish convoy and made off with quite a bundle. A load of what they used to call specie. Gold and silver coins and bullion. He captured it in the Florida straits and rumor has it that a Royal Navy vessel chased him into the Gulf.”
“Sounds like the old Jose Gaspar yarn,” I commented.
“Yes… and it could be just as much falderal… however, what records remained and the statement of the British captain… name of Cook if I’m not mistaken… seem to back up the story.”
I thought it might be time to read more of my great, great, great, etc. grandmother’s journals.
“Anyway, the story is that Meraux escaped into the Ten G’s and buried the treasure on one of the islands. He was eventually captured, if I recall.”
“So let me get this straight,” I said. “There’s some Spanish gold buried out in the Ten G’s. Are you saying that’s what Davies really wants to get her hands on?”
“Yes, probably,” Thorne said. “Hell, I wouldn’t mind it either… but what we don’t need is a bunch of goddamned treasure-happy gold rushers pouring into the state and down into the Ten G’s and tearing it up looking for some treasure trove that’s just as likely as embellished as Gaspar’s treasure was.”
“How large a theoretical cache is this?”
“If the rumors are true… hell, if they’re even partly true… Meraux had several hundred pounds of gold bar, silver bar and a bunch of South American or Central American minted doubloons. I think five hundred pounds of gold, a hundred or two of silver and two hundred thousand full-sized gold doubloons. The full eight piece kind. I think there were a hundred thousand silver pieces, too.”
“Jesus…” I said. “At that time, if I’m not mistaken, that might have added up to a million or two in British pounds. Interesting… because six years later, the Spanish would try it again with about ten million Spanish dollars, about five or six million British pounds. Four Royal Navy frigates would capture it.”
“Probably not the first time Spain tried to bolster her coffers with American gold,” Thorne said. “But look at it today. The melt weight of the gold alone is something like thirty-seven million and change. The silver amounts to maybe two hundred grand.”
I whistled appreciatively, “that’ll keep the bulldog fed.”
Thorne chuffed, “Lord yes… but think about the historical value of those coins. We could be talking about ten times as much money. Imagine what three hundred million could do in somebody’s hands. Somebody who wanted to fund an organization to gain control over the Ten K’s.”
I nodded gravely, “Okay… but the state would get most of it, and after taxes… the finder of this hypothetical treasure would probably still end up with the original thirty-seven million or less.”
“Not necessarily,” Thorne said. “If the find was used as seed capital to fund a preservation organization, the state government might not lay claim to any of it, or maybe only a portion. The point is that Marsha Davies, in my opinion, wants that treasure. That’s what this is really all about. Once that much money is placed into the coffers of an organization that she controls… it’d be child’s play for her to embezzle some of it out again.”
“With all due respect, Max,” I said, setting my empty glass on a side table. “Isn’t that exactly what she’d say about you? And furthermore… how do I know that’s not your intention?”
“It is,” Thorne admitted. “Or well… if the treasure is there and could be used to fund a committee, so much the better. But I don’t really want to look for it. I’d prefer that the Meraux treasure legend remain just that.”
I cocked an eyebrow at him.
“Let me ask you this,” Thorne submitted. “Did Marsha Davies mention anything about the treasure?”
I frowned, “I don’t think so…”
Thorne tapped his temple and grinned, “Wonder why that is?”
I leaned back in my chair and pondered for a long moment, “All right, so here’s the situation as I see it. A Democrat congresswoman and a Republican senator both want to form a group to oversee a stronger Ten Thousand Islands State or National Park, let’s call it. There’s a buried treasure out there that, either before or after this committee is formed would fall under its jurisdiction. Both of you want… no need to find Rick Eagle Feather because he’s the key to his people’s backing, which you’ll need even to make the attempt at this thing.”
“So far so good.”
“All right… both of you accuse the other of being a criminal mastermind who either wants to seize the treasure, seize the land or both,” I continued. “Once either of you has this organization set up and can pull the strings, there’s some evil plan to wrest control from the Calusa and the Seminole and the Miccosukee or whoever and turn the Ten G’s into a fountain of gold doubloons, one way or another.”
“Exactly. Your job is to figure out which of us is the bad guy and which the good,” Thorne said. “To help the altruistic one keep the Ten G’s safe and prevent the other from exploiting it.”
“So what you’re saying in no uncertain terms,” I stated. “Is that the future of the Ten Thousand Islands, Florida Bay and the Keys… maybe even the Glades too… is entirely in my hands.”
“That’s about it,” He replied with a wry smile.
“Well then…” I sighed, lifting my glass and setting it down again. “I’m gonna need a refill and a decent retainer. Christ… no pressure though…”
24
Pulled from the remembrances of La Chica Fantastica
Lisa’s Journal Entry 8
After Scott went off to his meeting, Sharon suggested that we go and look into her uncle’s situation. We took her car and drove over to Everglades City to give Rick’s office another going over.
Yeah, I know Scott already did that but like he said, it was like two in the morning and he was tired. Also, I figured that maybe Sharon would recognize some sort of a clue that neither Scott nor I would. After all, she’d known this guy all her life and probably knew some of his secrets, too.
“So how did this guy become your unofficial uncle, anyway?” I asked as we headed over the Sanibel Causeway.
Sharon’s jaw tightened, and she closed her eyes for a moment. I get wanting to center yourself but like… we were on a bridge…
“He and my dad grew up together,” She finally replied probably a second or two before our fiery or watery death would have occurred. “They’re both from the area. Naples, to be exact. I guess Rick’s father was in World War Two and married Lucinda Granger just before it started. Maybe because of the war or whatever, they didn’t have a kid until 1950. Uncle Rick. I guess things went south after that… William was a fisherman. A shrimper out of the Naples area. Lucinda was something of a fancy pants, I heard. She was drawn to Bill’s rugged Indian looks and lifestyle… but I guess the bloom wore off the rose fairly quickly after the war and with the added stress of a baby.”
“Yeah, they divorced in fifty-three,” I said. “From what I found in the Orange County public records. Weird that stuff would be filed there and not in Lee or Collier County, though.”
“She left him and moved up to O-town,” Sharon explained. “She had family there, yadda, yadda. Anyway, she left Rick with his dad. Just up and abandoned him. The story is pretty sketchy. Rick didn’t talk about it much and he really didn’t know much. Bill had family in the area. Other native folks from the Glades and so on. I think his sister and her husband mostly cared for the kid while his dad was out shrimping. Anyway, the father died when Rick was only five.”
“Jesus Christ…” I muttered. “And his mom never came back for him?”
Sharon scoffed, “I guess not.”
“How’d the father die?”
“Boating accident… his shrimp boat went down one night. As I understand it, it was sudden. They never found the vessel, ei
ther. All that was ever reported was a broken-up radio message from another shrimper.”
“Damn…”
Sharon shrugged, “Well, anyway, Rick grew up fast. He and dad met in elementary school and hit it off right away. Typical south Florida kids. Especially considering one of them was a Calusa. Hunting and fishing and camping in the Glades. They got a little wild as they got a bit older and entered high school, though. They started their own fishing business. Inshore and offshore guiding. This was the late sixties and Vietnam was heating up. Dad never talked about much of any of his life before he met my mom… probably because I was too young.”
“Too young?” I inquired, a little confused.
Sharon chuffed, “Yeah, well… once Uncle Rick started to fill me in I got it. The Eagle Feather and Nolen boys weren’t just running fishermen offshore. They were running dope in, too. Big weed trade down here back then. Made some pretty good money, too. As Uncle Rick tells it, though, they were probably headed for trouble. In a weird way, getting called up to Vietnam probably saved their lives. Faced with a potential draft into the Army, Dad and Rick decided to beat Uncle Sam to the punch. They enlisted in the Marine Corps. Did several tours each and managed to come back alive.”
“So the Marines straightened them out?”
Sharon chuckled, “More Rick than Dad. When they got back, Dad started to fall back into the old ways. Uncle Rick took his share of the bread they’d made and started a new venture. Ecotourism… although it wasn’t called that back then. He decided that he’d rather make money honestly… showing people the real Florida. Dad eventually came around, of course, but it took him another couple of years and a semi-short visit to Rayford to set him straight.”
My mouth dropped open, “Your dad went to prison?”
“For two years,” Sharon said. “He met my mom a year after he got out and they got married a year after that and along came yours truly.”
