by Winton, Tom
“Here you are,” Julie then said, stepping out of trailer with the two glasses of Gatorade.
I thanked her, took a long swallow then nodded at the bridge to our right. “Have you heard they want to build something over there on Flagler Key?”
“Yes I have – resort, everybody’s upset about it.”
“A resort! Of all the things they can ruin that island with that’s got to be the worst. If they get away with that, things are going to be a lot different around here.”
“Yes they will,” Julie said in a mournful tone, her eyes taking on a vacant look like someone who was about to lose something very dear to them. “Everybody here is devastated. And poor Pa ... I’ve never seen him act so withdrawn. I don’t know what’s going on in his mind – what he might do, but it scares me. He especially doesn’t deserve this. He’s the kindest man I’ve ever known.”
“Yeah, he sure seems like a super guy,” I said. “He told me the other day that the entire key was state-owned land. Any word about how that character Lionel Topper got ahold of it?”
“Yes. We did some checking. It seems he and Monroe County struck up a sweetheart deal with their connections in Tallahassee.”
“What kind of a deal?” I asked, feeling my eyes narrow and the skin on my forehead folding up.
“It’s very simple. The county buys the land from the state, and then the commissioners sell it to Topper for a so-called ‘nominal fee’.”
“Those snakes!”
“The icing on the cake is that the nominal fee is just a fraction of what the property is really worth.”
“Terrific. The old ‘your tax dollars at work’ spiel once again,” I said, looking as though I’d just swallowed a wedge of lemon that had gone bad.
“That’s exactly right. They buy the property with tax dollars so that Topper can build a five-star resort. He gets richer – the politicians get their usual kickbacks – they all claim that the place will bring more jobs to the county. That’s their old standby excuse, the same sorry excuse politicians at all levels use time and time again. Do you have any idea how much those jobs pay, Sonny?”
“I can only imagine! Do you know if the county purchased the land yet?”
“No, they haven’t. They’re holding off until the rezoning is officially approved. They already have a written commitment from the state. Once it’s rezoned at the courthouse all they’ll have to do is cut the state a check and set up a rush-rush, hush-hush closing with Topper.”
“What’s the land zoned for now?” I asked.
“Would you believe a nature preserve!
“Yeah,” I said, shaking my head as I looked out beyond the channel again. “I can believe it alright. So, in essence, what’s going to happen is the county’s going to buy land that already belongs to the state’s taxpayers – using the county taxpayers’ money. Talk about pathetic.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what they want to do.”
There was a pause then. Our conversation, despite the disheartening subject, was going far smoother than I had expected. And I could tell Julie felt the same way. She now looked at me for a moment, and I mean looked at me. Just like she had before what happened in her bedroom that morning, I could see the same special fondness in her eyes as she studied my face.
Finally, she broke the silence saying, “Your perception is truly uncanny, Sonny Raines.”
“Don’t you see it that way?” I asked.
“Oh yes, exactly that way.”
She smiled then, exposing two rows of gleaming-white teeth and went on. “It’s just that ... well, I think you have an exceptional ability to look at a situation, analyze it and then put it so perfectly into words.”
“Really? All I’ve ever done is told things as I see them.”
“Anyway, we’re getting off the subject here,” Julie went on, “Do you remember me telling you that I work part-time in Key West?”
“Yes. I sure do.”
“Well, I waitress down there three days a week – at an upscale restaurant called The Golden Conch House. Usually I work afternoons, but last night I had to go in and cover for a friend of mine. She’s a hostess there and needed the night off. Anyway, I was standing at the greeting station when Lionel Topper and some of his confidantes came in. There were quite a few of them, and the only table large enough to accommodate them was right behind the station. After I sat them down, I went back to my stand and listened very closely to parts of their conversation.”
“Don’t tell me. They were talking about Flagler’s Key.”
“That’s right. Counting Topper there were six of them there – an even half-dozen of Monroe County’s most successful bottom feeders. Carlton Webb was there. He’s Key West’s most successful real estate attorney and, ever-so-conveniently, State Senator Roland Webb’s twin brother. Campbell Bryant was there too. A third generation builder, his family is second only to Henry Flagler himself when it comes to developing the Florida Keys.”
Julie paused then. She picked up her glass of Gatorade – with her right hand of course, took a sip of the orange drink then continued. “The fourth man I recognized was a little bald guy that looks like Mister Magoo with glasses. Always with an expensive Cuban cigar in hand, Oscar Giddleman is the accountant for everyone who is anyone in KW. Anyway, it didn’t take them long to get half-pickled. I was standing with my back to them, and had to leave a few times to seat customers, but I still got an earful.”
“Boy,” I said, “do they sound like a cast of bad actors.”
“They sure are! It’s true what they say about birds of a feather.”
“What did they say?”
“Well, it didn’t take them very long to get half-pickled on martinis and whatever else they were drinking last night. I think they were talking louder than they realized. Anyway, Carlton Webb the lawyer said he didn’t see them hitting any snags in the deal, as long as they move quickly. He said as long as they did “the damn environmentalists” wouldn’t have enough time to build up any momentum. Bryant, the builder, assured Topper that their buddy the judge down there would only slap him on the wrist after he tears down the mangroves. Bryant said the judge was obligated to hand out the usual token fine so it would keep what he called the “Sierra types” quiet. He also said that Topper should get four or five crews going at the same time. That way Topper could level the two miles of shoreline he wants to in no time. Bryant also told him he should do it at night.”
Shaking my head in disbelief now, I said, “Talk about the lowest of the low.”
“They sure are. They want to excavate at night when there will be virtually no resistance. And Giddleman said he’d arrange it with the sheriff so that there’d be no patrol cars within miles of Flagler’s the night they do the job.”
“Shit, this just gets uglier and uglier. Did they say when they were planning to do it?”
“No,” Julie said, shaking her own head then in a defeated way, “if they did, it was when I had to leave to seat customers. But I did hear Bryant say something about the possibility of getting some resistance from, and I quote, ‘the bunch of misfits living in a dilapidated old trailer park across the channel from Flagler’s Key.’ He also mentioned he’d had trouble before with old Man Bell – the owner of that garbage collection of tin cans. Can you imagine?
“Yeah, I can. There are all kinds of people out there. Believe me ... I’ve met more than my share.”
I then reached to a front pocket of my denim shorts but quickly realized I’d left my cigarettes in the trailer when I’d gone outside to lift weights. That was when Julie told me the very worst of the news. Her face took on a look of deep, deep concern when she said, “The last thing I heard before they all left to go to a place called Hugs and Jugs is what bothers me the most. I mean it really frightens me.”
“Tell me. What’s bothering you?” I did not like seeing her looking so fearful.
She breathed in deeply, let it out then said, “Well ... Giddleman gave Topper a phone number.
He told him to make the call at a payphone outside the strip joint as soon as they got there. The number is Brock Blackburn’s. Sonny, he’s Key West’s most dangerous character. Everybody knows who he is. He just recently got out of Raiford – the state prison! It was the third time he’d been up there. Once before he did time for manslaughter, and everyone knows that the man he killed wasn’t the first. Just thinking of this guy sends chills up my spine.”
“What are you saying, Julie? You think Topper’s going to contract this lunatic to hit somebody?”
“I think he wants to have Blackburn at the ready. In case he needs him.”
“Oh shit, this is not good,” I said, bringing a hand up to my chin. “You think he might turn him loose on Pa, don’t you?”
“He very well could. Pa is not going to take this sitting down. And anybody else who gets in the way would be in jeopardy as well. Oh God ... I don’t like any of this. Why did this have to happen?”
Julie was fighting back tears by now. Again it bothered the hell out of me. And I of course didn’t like seeing Pa in danger either. But my hands were tied. What could I do? I hadn’t come to the Keys to get involved in anything like this.
“Look, Julie,” I said reaching across the table between us, resting my hand on her bouncing shoulder, looking into her reddening eyes. “Stay strong. You don’t know for sure that anything is going to become of this. Things sometimes have a way of looking far worse than they really are.” That’s what I said alright, but it wasn’t much consolation to either of us. Julie well knew that I was only trying to downplay the situation. She knew it as well as I did.
She sniffled then and her eyes turned to the road. “Here comes Sissy. It’s time for her lesson. I’ve been helping her prepare for her G.E.D. She wants to get it and start taking classes at Florida Keys Community College, on Stock Island. I’ve got to pull myself together here. Please, don’t mention any of what I told you to her.”
“Of course not, I’ve got to get going anyway. I don’t want to hold you girls up, and I need to get cleaned up,” I said rising to my feet. I certainly didn’t feel like dealing with Sissy at this point, particularly with all the new negative clutter churning wildly inside my head. “I’ll talk to you soon, Julie, okay?”
She also stood up then, and she glanced at my bare chest. It made me felt a little self-conscious, but I liked it as well. She looked absolutely incredible. You just don’t see women like her every day, not even in the biggest of cities.
“Sonny,” she said, “if you get up early tomorrow how about stopping over for coffee?”
Feeling the corners of my mouth rise into a small, heartfelt smile then, I said, “I’d like that, but I don’t know for sure if I can. Buster called me at the tackle shop yesterday and asked if I wanted to go tarpon fishing with him and the guys tonight. I don’t know how late we’ll be out. But if I wake up enough, and you’re out here that early, sure, I’ll stop over before going to work.”
“Either way, be careful tonight, you hear? Stay on the alert. Topper and that crowd can play awfully rough. Is Pa going with you?”
“I think so.”
“Watch out for him too, please. Those lunatics might not wait to be provoked”
I was going to tell her not to be silly – not to overreact at this point, but I didn’t. The last thing she’d said had me thinking in directions I didn’t want to go. Nevertheless, I said, “Sure, Julie. I’ll keep an eye out.”
Then I left.
Chapter 11
At the tackle shop the minutes and hours dragged by like you wouldn’t believe. When I checked my watch countless times, I could have sworn the thing was moving backwards. Then, of all the days to be late, Cap’s wife Maggie didn’t relieve me until a quarter after five! Not wanting to miss the fishing trip for the world, I bee-lined it back to Wrecker’s the moment she came in the door; left the van at the trailer, and double-timed it straight to Pa’s dock.
By the time I arrived all the guys were already onboard the cabin cruiser. Pa, Fred, and Jackie, all with a beer can in hand, were watching Buster expertly throw a nine-foot cast net from the stern. I could see it as I walked out on the dock. Sailing wide open, in a perfect circle, the nylon mesh encompassed a small school of mullet school when it hit the water. The boat captain let it sink a few seconds then started hauling the long rope in, hand over hand. That’s when Jackie Beers spotted me. In his usual hoarse voice he shouted out good-naturedly, “Get your ass into this tub, we wanna catch the tide!” He then took a gulp from what was probably his umpteenth Budweiser of the day.
As I climbed over the boat’s gunwale, Buster pulled the net out of the water and opened it over a live well. About a dozen mullet splashed into the bait well, but two of the pungent smelling fish fell to the deck and started flopping around. Quickly, I scooped them up and flipped them in with their school mates. Grabbing a rag, I then glanced at the four well-maintained fishing outfits protruding straight up out of the boat’s rod holders and asked Buster if I should have brought my own tackle?
Carefully lowering the now empty net, weights first into a five-gallon bucket, he said, “Nope. Got everything we need.”
Pa, who was standing at the helm, then turned on the ignition. As if objecting at first the twin inboards rumbled a bit but in no time at all smoothed into a steady assuring hum.
“Grab a beer,” Fred said, pointing to an Igloo cooler way back in the stern.
I popped one open, took a swallow, lit a smoke, and savored a familiar feeling of excitement as the powerful engines labored beneath my feet.
It was a windless evening, the air thick and humid. The southern sun was creeping toward the western horizon, and as far as I could see in that direction the calm water and wide sky were both turning a surreal pink. To the north, near Marathon, there was a small gathering of thunderheads. But they were a good ways off.
A few minutes later The Island Belle slowly made its way up the channel toward the Wreckers Key Bridge. Carefree and jovial, all the men were horsing around by giving each other a ribbing. But as we closed in on the bridge’s tall pilings, all of that came to an abrupt stop. I could feel everybody’s high spirits taking a sudden nosedive. There was a long row of newly-planted survey stakes running along Flagler’s Key shoreline. For five minutes not a word was uttered. I may have been a newbie, and didn’t have as strong a tie to the island as the other guys, but I too felt a profound sense of loss. During the silence I tried to imagine how the Bell’s must have felt and what they might be thinking. The ambiance was funereal – as if the four good buddies were gathered around the grave of a recently departed fifth friend.
It wasn’t until after we had motored under the bridge, and those wooden stakes were out of sight, that Jackie Beers finally broke the silence. Sitting in his wheelchair, inside the cockpit next to Pa who was at the wheel, he tried to elevate the mood by saying in a good-natured tone, “Okay, Sonny boy, we all kicked in for gas and I covered your end. How about forkin’ over a ten spot?” I stepped over to them, pulled out my wallet, and handed Jackie a ten. As I stuffed the billfold back in my pocket, I glanced at Pa Bell. Staring through the windshield as if he detested what he saw on the other side of the glass, he turned the boat north then slammed the throttle lever all the way forward. The boat lurched hard, and in nothing flat the hull was up on plane – hauling along the ocean’s surface. Nobody said another word during the run up to Bahia Honda Channel.
In the waning light, just before turning into Bahia Honda Channel, Pa again suddenly swung the boat hard, seaward, to avoid a surfacing loggerhead. The turtle was huge. Probably five feet in length, and its head looked like a coconut floating on the ocean’s surface; a green, unripe coconut. Spooked by the boat, it submerged back into its silent world as quickly as it had appeared. With the creature out of harm’s way, Pa then expertly swung The Island Belle back to the port side and slowly brought her down off plane. Minutes later we were idling beneath the old Bahia Honda Bridge.
As he k
illed the engines Pa looked to the north, but not very far. We were much closer to those storm clouds now than we were when leaving Wrecker’s. And they were still drifting toward us. A cloud-to-ocean lightning bolt lit up the sky as well as all the faces in the boat. Hurriedly, Buster lowered the anchor.
“Let’s get the baits in the water.” he said, yanking a thumb at the grumbling thunderhead. “Maybe we can get an hour in before she busts loose.”
“You sure it’ll hit us?” I asked.
“She’ll be here,” Pa said, as a great blue heron glided by us on its way to find a safe roost. “Grab a mullet and hook it through the lips,” Pa said, looking and nodding at me.
“They’ll stay alive longer in the strong current if they’re held head-first into it,” Buster added. “Allows water to enter their mouth and pass through their gills.”
Just as Jackie, Fred and I lowered our wiggling baits into the seemingly black, nighttime water, the boat began to rock a bit. In an instant the wind had picked up and the water became ruffled. I lit a cigarette and took a sip of beer. Then something startled me.
My eyes jerked down to the big reel in my left hand. The spool was revolving quickly, line ripping off faster and faster in erratic tugs. Then, about twenty yards out, the hapless mullet at the end of my line suddenly broke the surface. With the cabin lights illuminating the area around the boat, I could see the frantic fish out there trying to stay airborne for fear of what was under the water beneath it. As I watched I could also hear the doomed bait-fish’s small splashes out there as well. Then there was another splash – a loud crash really. It looked like a small bomb had exploded! Water flew in all directions as a hundred-pound-plus marine acrobat blasted the surface.
