A Second Chance in Paradise

by Winton, Tom

  As I poured the steamy-hot brew into a cup the bigger man with the graying beard asked, “Where ya gonna fish?”

  “Oh ... I’m just going over to the Wrecker’s Hey Bridge to see if I can get a few snapper for dinner.”

  “You new here, or just on vacation?” he asked glancing out the front window at my New York plates.

  “I’m planning on staying awhile. As a matter of fact, I wanted to ask about the job.”

  “What job?”

  “Well, I saw the sign on the door when I came in.”

  “Oh yeahhh,” he said, turning toward the captain as he returned with my bucket of shrimp and four good sized mullet wrapped in newspaper.

  “This here feller wants to know about the job, Cap.”

  I didn’t think Forest had noticed my license plates but was pretty sure he did notice my accent. Knowing all too well that most people beyond the George Washington Bridge have no great love for New Yorkers, I figured he’d quickly blow me off.

  “Where do ya live?”

  “Bell’s Trailer Park. Down on Wreckers Key.”

  “How long you been there?”

  “As I was just telling this fella, I’ve only been here a few days. But I plan on staying,”

  “Sorry, but I’m really lookin’ for somebody who’s been here awhile ... someone who knows about fishin’ these parts.”

  “I realize that I’d have a lot to learn about your methods and fish, but I’m a quick learner. Up in Long Island, I’ve fished offshore for Mako shark, trolled, surf fished, and bottom fished too. I can rig baits, wrap rods, fix reels – the whole nine yards.”

  I could feel my sales instincts kicking in. I was selling myself the same way I’d sold hundreds of sofas in the past, and it seemed I might be turning things around now. Cap extracted another Doral cigarette from his pocket and tapped the unfiltered end over and over on the counter, as if he were considering me. Knowing that timing means everything in sales, I moved in for the close.

  “I was going to look for work in Key West, but I’d love to work in a more relaxed atmosphere. I like things quiet.”

  Cap Forest ran a twitching hand back through his oily black hair one time then eyeballed me for a few seconds.

  “You know what? You seem like a pretty sharp guy. I just might be able to give you a shot. But the job’s only gonna pay eight an hour ... under the table.”

  I knew it would pay peanuts. But that was okay, I didn’t know how long I was going to last in the Keys. There was a good chance I’d end up going back to New York. For the time being I could get by on the ridiculous salary, especially with the sweet deal Pa was giving me on the trailer. If things became tight, I could always take a few dollars from the money I’d brought with me.

  “That’s okay,” I said, feeling my mouth pull into a small smile, “a guy’s got to start somewhere, right?”

  “Okay, I’ll give you a try. I’ll need you to work Saturdays to Tuesdays, seven till five. That’s only four days, but it’ll come out to 40 hours. My wife, Maggie, she works the other days and the three evenings we stay open. You can start day after tomorrow. I’ll work with you for two days, but after that I’ve got charters the rest of the week. You’ll be on your own.”

  He extended his hand then and when I reached for it I couldn’t help noticing all the fresh thin cuts on the heel of it, and on the outside of his pinky. I knew he’d gotten them from breaking monofilament.

  “Name’s Forest, but everyone calls me Cap,” he said as we shook.

  “Sonny, Sonny Raines.”

  Cap then looked at the other man and said, “This here’s Dalton Judge. You’ll be seein’ him around here plenty. Can’t seem ta keep him the hell away. Who knows? Maybe you can,” Cap actually smiled for the first time.

  “Okay, I’ll see what I can do. Thanks! Thanks a lot. I’ll see you in the A.M. I’ve got to go put a hurting on some of those snapper now.”

  After I paid for the fishing tackle and was making my way toward the door, Cap said from behind me, “Say hello ta Pa Bell for me. Haven’t seen him in a month a Sundays.”

  I promised I would and when I reached to door Dalton Judge blurted in his husky voice, “Fish the fourth set of pilings on the south end of the bridge ... on the bay side.”

  “Thanks for the tip. I’ll give it a try.”

  I did fish that fourth set of pilings. And even though the tide was running out, I managed to get a few nice mangrove snappers for the pan. Content with my catch, I was walking off the bridge when a white pickup truck with a Monroe County logo on its door pulled behind my van where I’d parked on the Flagler’s Key side. Then a black Mercedes 560SL with dark shaded windows parked behind the truck. Just before the luxury car became obscured by the pickup though, I’d caught a glimpse of the vanity plate on its front bumper. It said WATERFRONT.

  Two county workers in drab uniforms got out of the truck, and a tall, lean, middle-aged man, wearing what appeared to be a tailor-made white linen suit, got out of the Benz as if he were a conqueror climbing out of his chariot. As he strode alongside the road toward the pickup truck, I saw him looking at me. Once he reached the front of the truck he shifted his eyes to the New York plate on my old van, and he took one last glance my way. Probably thinking I was just another nickel-and-dime tourist, he then joined the two workers who were huddled over a sheet of paper one was holding. Quickly, as if the whole procedure were being timed by a stopwatch, one yanked a sign out of the back of the truck, and the three then double-timed it down a steep incline to the water. By the time I approached my van the workers were digging a hole by the shoreline – right smack in front of a dense group of mangrove trees – federally protected mangrove trees. The suit, who watched them closely, was holding the sign now.

  I stole a few more peeks as I slowly loaded my fishing rods into the back of the van. The sign was yellow with black print that proclaimed, “Notice of Zone Change Request – There will be a hearing at the Monroe County Courthouse in Key West, Florida on Monday, August 19th to consider a zoning change. Request filed by L. Topper.” From where I was standing I could make out the words – but just barely. There was no way in hell anybody driving by would be able too. And the whole purpose of the public announcement was supposed to be so that anybody wanting to challenge the zoning change could go to the courthouse and do so. But where these guys were planting the thing, behind the bridge abutment, it would be well-hidden.

  I’d seen enough. Smelling the stench of trouble in the sultry tropical air, I cranked up the van and drove over the bridge to the Wrecker’s Key side.

  Back at the trailer I almost cut my thumb as I hurriedly filleted my catch. I wanted to get back over to Pa Bell’s place to tell him what I’d seen. I’d have gone directly there after fishing, but I didn’t knowing how long I might be there and didn’t want the fish to go bad. After cleaning the last fish, my wet hands up in front of me, I stepped over to the front window and looked out across the channel. It was too far away to see the sign they’d planted on Flagler’s Key, but I could well see that clump of mangroves growing out of the water along the shoreline. Of course that truck and car were long gone by then. Returning to the sink, I rinsed the fish well, placed them in a bowl, covered it with tinfoil and put it into the refrigerator. With that done, I left to go to Pa’s.

  After stepping outside I dropped a bag full of snapper skeletons and entrails into a plastic trash standing next to the entrance. Then I walked around to the other side of the trailer and glanced over at Julie’s place.

  Damn! She would be out on the porch right now. This is going to be awkward as hell ... living here with her right next door.

  Dressed in short cutoff jeans and a white tee, Julie was on her toes watering one of her many hanging plants. As I stepped over to the van, I couldn’t help but to watch. With her back to me, she stretched way up high – flexing her luscious calves and all-female thighs. Then she reached a little higher yet. The back of her shirt lifted out of her shorts, exposing
her narrow lower back. At the bottom of her shorts, a peek of her two bare cheeks suddenly made an appearance as well. Whoosh, I thought, shaking my head. But I didn’t want her to catch me gawking at her – for the second time that day. Forcing my eyes away, I climbed into the van.

  When I closed the door she turned my way, and I leaned toward the windshield, giving her a weak little wave. She did the same thing then immediately turned right back around to her plants. As much as my gesture had been an acknowledgment of her presence, it was also an apologetic gesture. I rolled out of that driveway feeling like hell – even slimier than the fish I’d just cleaned.

  Chapter 8

  Pa wasn’t home when I went to his place so I stopped into Barnacle Bell’s later that afternoon. When I plopped down on a torn, red upholstered stool, there were only a handful of customers at the bar. It was quiet and with the front door wedged open it was a bit lighter inside than usual. Pa was breaking open rolls of coins and putting them in his old cash register. Without looking up, he asked, “What can I get ya Sonny?”

  “Can of Miller Lite would work.”

  He set a cold, damp can on a bar coaster and said, “Saw you out on the bridge before. Any Luck?”

  “I got a few snapper before the tide ran out. I also jumped a good-sized tarpon on a heavier outfit. Man, was he something.”

  “Yep,” Pa said, “with that new moon the tides are at their lowest now. Anyway, if you got some snapper you musta found that rock pile at the edge of the channel.”

  “Sure did. A guy up in Big Pine at ‘Big Time Bait and Tackle’ told me about it.”

  “Cap Forest?”

  “No. A friend of Forest’s. A guy named Dalton Judge.”

  “Don’t believe I know him.”

  After taking a swallow of beer, I said, “I did meet Captain Forest though, and he gave me a job at the shop. I’m starting tomorrow. He told me to say hello to you.”

  “Yep, I know him and his daddy, Franklin Munro, for a lotta years.”

  “Oh, I thought Forest was Caps last name.”

  “Nope,” Pa said before taking a pull on his Lucky Strike and spraying the smoke up toward a rotating paddle fan. “Ran some Hoover’s gold back in the thirties with Franklin. We was just teenagers then, but we knew our way through them mangroves like nobody else. Authorities took after us a few times, but they never had a chance of catchin’ us.”

  “Forest seems like an okay guy,” I said, “just a bit quiet.”

  “Yup, both him and his father are stand-up guys. Forest had some of the bootleg in his blood too. Ran some ‘square grouper’ a few times. That is until he got caught one day near off Lois Key – the island where the monkeys live. But that was back in the early 80’s, before the law started flying over this part of the Keys in Fat Albert ... the blimp. Day Forest got caught the coasties were swarming ’round him like sand flies before he knew what hit ’im. Impounded his boat, ‘The Low Key’.”

  “I guess he did time?”

  “Four years at Raiford. He came out a much more serious man than when he went in. Been hittin’ the whiskey real hard ever since.”

  Pa pushed back a wisp of his thin white hair then scratched the back of his head a couple of times. Figuring it was as good a time as any to tell him what I’d seen that morning I said, “I wanted to tell you something Mister Bell. Something I saw when I was fishing this morning.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, when I was leaving – walking off the bridge, a county truck and a black Mercedes pulled off the road at the foot of the bridge. This was over on the Flagler’s Key side. Anyway, two county workers planted a change-of-zoning sign behind an abutment. It seems like they were hiding it so nobody driving by would know it’s there. The suit driving the black Benz was supervising them.”

  “Damn!” Pa said, suddenly narrowing his eyes real tight. “What did he look like – the guy with the suit?”

  “Tall, trim, deep tan, good head of silver hair, sharp dresser, probably in his early fifties.”

  “That god damned Topper!” Pa blurted, spinning his head, glancing out the front window at the road.

  I then shifted my eyes that way. Heat waves undulated atop the torrid asphalt. The afternoon sun was ruthlessly hot, but not as hot as Pa had become.

  “That’s state land over there on Flagler’s Key!” he said, balling his fists at his sides. “How the hell is he gettin’ ahold of it?”

  “I guess you know him,” I said.

  “Damned right I know him! That’s Lionel Topper, some sleazy real estate baron from Michigan, came down here ’bout six years ago after tearin’ up half the Midwest. He’s the one responsible for most of the building goin’ on in the lower keys. I knew it was just a question of time before he’d work his way up here.”

  Pa then snatched my empty can from the bar, crushed it tightly, and put a fresh one in front of me.

  “They say that when he was up north he and his banker buddies tried to run a monastery full of monks off their property, in a place called Grassy Pointe, Michigan. They wanted to build a damn country club on the site. Only reason they didn’t get away with that one was because the monks had been there for close to a hundred years. They had no mortgage or encumbrances.”

  “Yeah, I know his type,” I said, nodding my head. “They’ve got their own ways of getting whatever they want done. It’s their country and their laws, and if they don’t have the necessary legal tools their buddies just whip them up. Whenever they want to they either change or make laws to fit their needs.”

  “Yeah. That’s exactly how it works,” Pa said, glancing now at the few other patrons at the bar. “I’ve gotta take care of them fellas. Be right back.”

  As he padded down the other side of the bar I turned to the open door and squinted. Jackie Beers was rolling in on his wheelchair with Fred Sampson behind him.

  “Let the games begin!” Beers howled.

  Two men, commercial fisherman who obviously knew Jackie, shook their heads, shared a chuckle then resumed their conversation.

  “Hey, what’s happening?” Jackie asked, as he pulled out the stool next to me with one hand and parked there – literally.

  Once he’d rolled in, Fred said, “Hello,” and sat on the next stool down.

  “I was just telling Mister Bell that I saw some guys put a sign, a zoning change notice, on the shore just over the bridge this morning.

  “What side?” Fred asked and then held his lower lip between his teeth.

  “The Gulf side. Right by the channel.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Fred said.

  “Let’s get drunk and trash the County Courthouse,” Jackie said. “I’m not afraid of those bastards!”

  Pa had overheard us and as he placed matching boilermakers in front of Jackie and Fred, he said, “We can’t go gettin crazy now. We’ve gotta take our time and think this thing out.”

  “When’s this meeting, hearing, whatever they call it?” Fred asked, pensively rotating the full shot glass in front of him. Without waiting for an answer he then swallowed the drink, took a gulp of beer and said, “Sneaky bastards! What about that law they passed a few years ago that states you can’t destroy coastal mangroves. They’re supposed to be protected. What happened to that?”

  “I’ll tell you how that one works,” Pa said with a hint of helplessness now in the tone of his voice. “What they did down in Cudjoe and Sugarloaf Keys was buy up a bunch a waterfront property for a song, wherever there were a lot of mangroves. Folks who owned them were told they couldn’t build on ’em because the trees were protected.”

  “Right,” Fred said, stretching out the “i” in the word as he slowly raised his head and eyebrows, “because you can’t develop it. Then, after that bottom feeder Lionel Topper collected all the available lots, he built on them anyway.”

  “Yup,” Pa said, “he bought ’em dirt cheap. Then he came in with a John Deere Payloader and mowed down all the mangroves. After that, he throws up a dock so pros
pective buyers would have a place to tie up their boats. This raises the value of the property even more. He even dredged channels up to those docks illegally.”

  “Didn’t anyone report him for destroying the mangroves?” I asked.

  “All of the owners lived out of the state.” Pa came back. “Topper made damn sure of that. Most of ’em never even saw what was happening after they sold.”

  “All you have to do to find out who owns what parcel is check the tax rolls at the county courthouse down in Key West,” Fred said. “Just go into the computers. They’ll tell you when they took possession, their home address, and how long ago they purchased it.”

  Pa popped open a can of Busch for himself, took a swallow before lowering it to the bar then said, “Finally, one guy who got swindled came to Key West on business and took a drive up to see his old lot, the place he’d dreamed of retiring on. What does he see but a brand new house on it, and what a home. Damn thing looked like a castle on stilts – with not a single mangrove on the shoreline. They’d been cleared.”

  “What’d he do about it?” Sonny asked.

  “He went on down to the court house screamin’ and a yellin’ and finally the County Commissioners agreed to take a look at the situation. Well, the guy who got ripped off went back north when his business was finished down here. The commissioners didn’t address the problem till he was long gone and then they only did it because the scam had stirred some of the locals up real good. You know, the ones that care about what’s left of the environment.”

  “Yeah, I remember that now,” Jackie said. “It finally went to court and Topper’s good buddy, ‘The Honorable J.T. Simonton’ heard the case. He just slapped Topper on the wrist, and gently at that.”

  “That’s right,” Pa said, as he set us all up with drinks again.