Captiva df-4

by Randy Wayne White

  "You're sure this was Thursday night, not last night?"

  Nels said, "Last night, I was still in bed with a hangover."

  "So who patrolled the marina?"

  Felix said, "Jeth, supposedly. But probably from his bed."

  Nels interrupted. "The point is, I'm not the type to go around back-stabbing friends. You know that." He wiped a leather-dark hand across his wide face. "After Felix got me sobered up a little, we had a long talk about this whole business. Over the years, you've helped us, Doc, and we've helped you. Dinkin's Bay may be a weird-ass family, but it's still a family. The way I see it, we stick together. I don't agree with the way you voted—"

  "It was a dumb-shit way to vote," Felix put in cheerfully.

  "Yeah, it was. That's what I think. I'll say it to your face, but I'll never say it behind your back again. It's your business how you voted, not mine. And . . ." Nels shrugged. "That's what I wanted to tell you."

  I asked, "When you came looking for me Thursday night, did you stop at my place before you pulled into the marina?"

  "Yep. That much I remember. But you weren't home. I know you don't lock it, and you showed me where the key is if you do. I just knocked and left."

  "The three men were with you?"

  Nels thought for a moment. "One or two of them, yeah. But we didn't touch anything."

  "You think they live on Captiva, or just visiting?"

  "I think they live on the Keys. Marathon? Maybe Marathon." Nels was getting suspicious. "What's that have to do with anything?"

  I was tempted to tell Nels that in all probability, his drinking buddies had returned to vandalize my house last night. Gave it some thought before deciding not to. Why add to his guilt? It hadn't been easy for Nels to come to me with his story. Most wouldn't have had the courage. It's easier to allow a friendship to fade away than to suffer the occasional awkwardness it takes to maintain it. And he was right about the importance of allegiances in a tiny community.

  Felix said, "What I bet he does remember is getting sick off the dock, barking like a damn dog. I told 'im, 'Nels, just keep puking till something hairy and round comes up—that'll be your asshole.' Told 'im, 'You'll be needing that, so try to catch it before it hits that water.' "

  Nels said, "Don't remind me." Tired of talking about it.

  So, to seal and bury the subject, I changed the subject. Then, as we were returning to the party, I once again offered Nels and Felix the use of my flats boat. Why miss all those charters?

  But Nels said very quickly, "Nope. I couldn't do that. Not now."

  Which sealed that subject, too.

  Chapter 10

  I didn't hear from Tomlinson on Sunday, or on Monday, either. Tried to call him a couple of times. No answer. I didn't receive any more anonymous threats— Tell the hippie to get off'a our island—but that didn't mean that someone on Sulphur Wells wasn't targeting him, just as the sportfishermen from Captiva had targeted me. In any emotional debate, the first casualty is reason. Not that Tomlinson is a reasonable person—I had already warned him once, and there was no cause to believe that a second warning would convince him to return to his sailboat. He would stay on Sulphur Wells as long as he wanted; at least until his karmic mandate was fullfilled.

  So, because he might be gone for a while, I hauled his Zodiac up on the deck, and tied it fast near the storage locker where, days earlier, I had already stored his little Yamaha outboard.

  On Tuesday morning, I put off my run and swim until later, and I got to work trying the re-create Dr. Breder's and Dr. Shlaifer's tarpon procedure. What the two biologists had done was establish a control group of five immature fish in a small area, and observe how often the fish rolled. Then they charted the behavior in elapsed time, real time, and kept careful notes on how frequently a solitary rolling fish appeared to catalyze the same behavior in the other fish.

  I already had my control group of immature tarpon, and I had a contained area—my big fish tank. It wasn't as large as the tiny pond Breder and Shlaifer had created—ironically, they had dug it on what was then Palmetto Key, now Cabbage Key—but the water in my tank was clear. Their pond was not. The clear water would give me the added advantage of being able to identify individual fish. To make it easier, I had already tagged my six fish with tiny color-coded tags.

  It was not exciting work, sitting there in the January sun, watching tarpon drift to the surface, breach, then bank off in descent. But the marine sciences are seldom exciting-—unless you happen to be fascinated by the quirks and oddities of animal behavior. Few are; I am.

  During a break, I saw Janet Mueller on the docks, and told her what I was doing. She insisted on stopping by to have a look. Within an hour, she had read the Breder-Shlaifer papers, and had a clear grasp of what I was trying to accomplish. Not long after that, she had taken my place in the cane-backed chair beside the tank, and was using the stopwatch, making fastidious notes in a tiny, spidery hand on a log sheet attached to a clipboard.

  It is said that the human eye cannot show emotion. That is true in a specific sense, but false in general application. When a person becomes consumed by a project or a thought sequence, it shows in their eyes. The eyes seem to glaze and radiate light at the same time. Janet was consumed by what she was doing, sitting there lost in the world of precise time and the strange behavior of those silver-bright fish. For the first time since I'd met her, she seemed free of her introspective burden, free of whatever it was that had created her expression of chronic shell shock.

  The lady was happy in her work, so I went off and let her work. Did my run—four cheerful, bikini-studded miles in which my damaged toe didn't hurt at all, and only bled a little bit. Did a lazy mile swim, and I was only half finished with my daily assault on the pull-up bar, when the phone rang. It was Tomlinson.

  I picked the phone up to hear, "Doc? Sorry, brother; sorry I didn't call you back, but I am having one of the most un-damn-believable experiences of my life. I mean, it's like I've been invited to explore the inner sanctum; the workings of a whole, tight traditional society. Seriously."

  I said, "You sound serious."

  "Oh man, if you only knew."

  "You're talking about the commercial fishermen."

  "Of course! You got the ol' thinking cap on backward, or what? Yeah, the commercial fishermen. Men, women, their children. The island, man—Sulphur Wells. The whole scene,is like a living laboratory. Can you imagine what that means to an eminent sociologist such as myself? Thing is, it was here staring me right in the face the whole time. The whole time!

  I'm skipping off to Appalachia, the Yavapai reservations of Arizona, Brazil—hell, Fumbuck Egypt—to write papers about traditional people, and here I've got them living and working just up the bay, but I don't even realize till now. Go figure!"

  I could remember Tomlinson skipping off to Key West quite often. Arizona occasionally. Maybe Appalachia; I wasn't sure. Brazil—that had to have been before I met him. But Fumbuck Egypt? The man lived with a memory fractured by dealing with the real and the imaginary; factors I didn't even care to guess at. I changed the subject. "Anybody giving you a hard time? I told you about the phone call—"

  "No problem, man. People here love me. It's like a gift I've got. People just naturally love me."

  "How could I have forgotten?"

  "Search me. But what I'm calling about is my boat."

  When I told him I'd already hauled out his Zodiac, he said, "No, my sailboat. What you could do is let the engine run for a while, charge up the batteries some. And in the icebox. By the sink? I've got a couple fish fillets. A guy in a little boat came by and gave them to me, and I meant to give them to you for your cat."

  Crunch & Des, the marinas black cat, was lying on the desk beside the phone. I reached out and scratched his ears as Tomlinson said, "They're probably pretty stinky by now. Who's got time to buy ice? So I'd hate to come back to that. Just one of the many, many reasons I don't eat meat. And hit the bilge switch. I've got it on auto
matic, but you never know."

  "Bilge switch," I repeated.

  "And my dinghy outboard—"

  I told.him I'd already taken care of it. He seemed relieved. "Thing is, I got so wrapped up in Sulphur Wells, I forgot about everything else, man. See, what I didn't realize was, traditional people don't have to be isolated from the outside world. They can be isolated by the imperatives of their own lifestyle."

  "Fascinating," I said.

  "Fucken-ay! These people, these fishermen, their lives revolve around their work. The migration patterns of fish, season to season. That's the link. Those patterns haven't changed in two hundred years. Hell, forever! It determines how they fish, when they fish, how often they go out. It defines interaction between family members. It solidifies the bonds of families within the fishing community. You see where I'm headed?"

  "No, but—"

  "I'm saying it's tribal, man. You ever hear a kid from Kansas say, 'When I grow up, I want to be a mullet fisherman'? Of course not. It can't be learned in school, man, and it can't be learned from a book. You've got to be born into it. These traditions, they're handed down, father to son, mother to daughter. You know the way farming families used to stay on the farms, inheriting the fields? It's like that here, man. Only it's water."

  When Tomlinson gets on a roll, all you can do is sit back and listen. I moved away from the desk just enough to see through the window. Janet was still down on the deck, hunched forward in her chair, pencil in hand, clipboard in her lap.

  Heard Tomlinson say, "Are you still there?"

  ''Yeah, I'm here." Apparently I had missed something.

  He said, "What I mean is, that's another thing that insulates them. The economics. The best ones make a pretty good living. But no one gets rich. It's strictly lower-middle-class, and that's another thing that binds them but also sets them apart. See? Outsiders have no reason to want to join the tribe. Not enough money in it, understand? It's not like some company that pays hospitalization."

  I said, "I'm with you so far."

  "So the society is a caste within a caste; sets up a whole hierarchy. They've got their outlaws, they've got their tangent groups. People wrapped a little too tight for the general population. You know? They have all the tools to upset the whole applecart. Which brings up an interesting question: Should the scientific observer ever intercede? Like the Rockefeller expedition into New Guinea. Do you try to help settle obvious conflicts between natives, or do you just sit back and let the natives find their own solutions?"

  I didn't like the sound of that. "Getting caught in the middle," I said, "That's what I'm talking about."

  "Hey, man, no one's going to hurt me. I'm strictly the passive resistance type. Even if they did try to hurt me, I wouldn't fight back."

  "That's why you need to watch your step. Already, you're talking about conflicts."

  "In a hypothetical sense. That's what I'm saying. The main problem here is alcohol and drugs, man. Just like my brothers on the reservations— they've taken their toll. But mosdy, it's close-knit. I'm talking about Sulphur Wells now. Sure, there's some infighting. Name a group that doesn't have that. But there's also an infrastructure that sets the boundaries of what's acceptable, what isn't. Remember Arlis Futch? He's like one of the tribal elders. People don't screw with Mr. Futch. And Hannah, man—she is like the young chief. The way the men react to her. Seeking her approval, but not wanting to show how much. 'Cause they're men, right? And she's a woman. But she's stronger than them. She's stronger than them, and they know it."

  Hearing her name for the first time keyed the abdominal twitterings. I wondered if she was there, in the room with Tomlinson. Her bare feet thumping along the wooden floor; reaching out to touch her fingers to him as she passed. Maybe listening in, knowing I was on the other end of the line, but not acknowledging it, not even calling out a greeting.

  The sensation of her fingernail tracing the shape of my ear flashed and lingered. I said, "By the way, if she's around—Hannah—tell her I said hello."

  "I will, man, I will. She's down at the fish house with Mr. Futch now. Those two—that's a whole other intense story. But I will."

  "Things are going okay?"

  "With Hannah, you mean?"

  "Well . . . sure."

  "I can't even tell you, Doc. Seriously. The whole karma thing is just too heavy. It's like mixing LSD-25 with IBM—the most radical fucking business trip since Rasputin met the czar. I mean, my head is spinning. Mostly, I eat a lot of collard greens, drink a lot of well water, and work on her book. Doesn't even have a typewriter. We had to borrow one."

  As I tried to interpret that, he added, "She starts out with all this beautiful fishing folklore. Never carry money on a working boat. It's bad luck. Same if someone says the word "alligator." The blade end of an oar has to be facing the stern. If a pregnant woman goes into labor after dark, panthers will gather outside the house to watch. Or to stand guard. You get the shits, you make tea from this tree called white stopper. You get snake-bit, you make a poultice from Spanish moss. Very heavy into the medicinal stuff. She knows about herbs I've never even heard of."

  He hadn't answered the question that I could not bring myself to ask outright. "So you and Hannah are . . . you two are . . ."

  "Yeah, we're up to our Haras in work, man. People keep stopping around. What happened to Jimmy, the cops are still interested in that one. Plus, there's a lot of weird jockeying going on here. Because of the net ban? You know: who's going to sell what. There are about three hundred commercial fishermen on this island; most of them own property. So what happens in July if they all try to sell their homes at once? The property values, I'm talking about. Gumbo Limbo is a busy little place these days. People are trying to get themselves into position for when the big ax falls."

  I found that interesting, so pressed Tomlinson to expand on it. "Arlis Futch," he said, "is one of the main players. If he gets some cash from Tallahassee, maybe he can convert his fish house into a little marina. If not, he'll go out of business. Mr. Futch is like: Screw it, pay me, don't pay me. What's he care? He's no kid and he owns it free and clear—that's what Hannah told me. That, plus some acreage across the road where he keeps cattle. Another one's this guy, remember the guy we met? Raymond Tullock? He's part of the picture too, trying to pick his shots. Comes on very smooth, you know—'Hey, I'm just here to help out'—but he puts off very bad vibes. Hannah, she doesn't care. Nothing bothers her. Far as she's concerned, Tullock's just another guy who's got a terrible set of the hots for her. And let's face it, man—who doesn't?"

  From outside, I heard Janet's voice call, "Doc? There's a man here to see you." She sounded preoccupied—all her concentration still on the tarpon.

  Looked out to see Detective Ron Jackson standing on the deck, as Tomlinson rattled on about Hannah shipping Jimmy's remains off to New Orleans—she wouldn't even let him say a few words over the coffin—and how he, mostly, was just keeping the ol' nose to the grindstone. Death of a traditional society. That was the theme.

  He was talking about the book again.

  I said, "Anything else you want me to do with your boat?"

  "What I wanted," he said, "was to sail it up here. But there's not enough water to get a boat that size into Gumbo Limbo. So what I guess I'll do, Hannah's fishing tonight. She won't let me go because I won't help her pick mullet out of the net—no way will I kill a fish. So I told her, she gets down to Dinkin's Bay, you'd have my clothes in a bag, and you'd help her rig a towline for my dinghy. That way, at least, I'll have some transportation."

  I resisted the urge to offer to deliver his gear to Gumbo Limbo.

  Tomlinson said, "One more thing. About Hannah?"

  Detective Jackson was standing on the deck, trying to make conversation with Janet. Janet was being polite about it, but she was also trying to concentrate on the tarpon. "Make it quick," I said.

  "Hannah is, like . . . her own woman, man. She thinks of something? She does it."

  What the h
ell did that mean? "So?"

  "No restraints, man," he said. "Hear what I'm saying? She won't play the role. It's Hannah's way or the highway. Hell, I hinted at it, and she sat me right down. Made me see I was behaving like a typical male goof. She was right, too."

  I said, "Huh?" Was he talking about sex . . . the book . . . what?

  "She's free. That's what I'm saying. She'd be pissed if I let you think anything else . . . which is a scene I genuinely choose to avoid. Like, no strings attached."

  I said, "Tomlinson, if I'm supposed to understand anything you've said—"

  "Can't make it any plainer, man. And, Doc? Don't forget about those fish fillets, okay?"

  Jackson was wearing the standard uniform of the five-day-a-week county-salaried detective: inexpensive brown sports coat, dark stay-pressed slacks, and comfortable wing tips. He was so thick and bulky that everything he wore appeared to be a size too small. . . and he was still trying to talk to Janet when I appeared outside. He looked up and fixed me with a thin, formal smile. Said, "Seems like I'm always interrupting your workouts." Meaning my running shorts, Nikes, and sweaty T-shirt. "Are you all done? Or just getting started?"

  I said, "Just finishing up."

  He seemed disappointed. "Too bad. I brought my running clothes just in case. I was hoping we could maybe go for a jog and have a little chat. You know—mix business with pleasure."

  I wondered if he was bluffing. Also wondered why he wanted to waste my time and his with more questioning. I had already told him everything I knew. Looked at him standing there—two hundred or so pounds loaded onto short, stubby legs—and thought about him hanging around my fish house while I tried to shower. Pictured him trying to pass the time with Janet while she was attempting to work. The woman was just sitting there watching fish, couldn't possibly be doing anything important, so why not talk to her?

  I shrugged before saying with measured indifference, "I guess a couple more miles wouldn't hurt. If you're serious."