The Mangrove Coast

by Randy Wayne White

  “I thought so. All things in nature are repetition on a theme, man.”

  “So you’ve said many times,” I replied dryly.

  “Make fun of me if you want, but you’ve heard of what the astronomers called ‘dark anomalies’? They are these extraordinarily dense … I forget the name for them … uhh-h-h, these things in space. Not planets, not suns, nothing that’s orderly and normal. They are energized globs created by negative energy. Anti-matter. Black holes. You’ve heard of them, haven’t you?”

  I sat there listening.

  “Mark my word, amigo, certain people have that same kind of anti-matter energy. Strictly negative. You’ve met women like that. Destructive bitches unrelated to their sex. Same with men. A very, very heavy counterproductive gig that gauges success by the amount of chaos and pain they can cause. You don’t believe me, take another look at this photograph. Not just at his face, but what the dude is doing.”

  Tomlinson slid the photo of Merlot across the table. Looked once more at Gail’s mild, expectant smile; saw the shape and richness and warmth of her, plus something else. Uncertainty? Maybe. She appeared uncertain and there was a curious glaze to her eyes, an expression that I associate with people in shock. Then I turned my attention to Merlot. Studied him for a while before I said, “The way he’s got his arm around her, it’s a possessive gesture. Is that what you’re talking about? Merlot’s hand is on her ribs, but his thumb has been elevated just high enough so that it touches the underside of her left breast. He’s making a statement. Familiarity. Intimacy. Ownership. He could be saying any of the three.”

  Tomlinson was leaning across the table, head tilted to see, twisting a strand of his shoulder-length hair, a familiar gesture. “Right, right, that’s exactly what he’s doing. But he’s claiming more than intimacy. You’re trying too hard, man … which is so typical of you. Relax, soften your senses, look at the picture and just let it happen.” Tomlinson waited impatiently for a few seconds before he added, “Don’t you see what he’s doing with his fingers, man?”

  Once he said it, I wondered how I’d missed it before. The middle finger of the hand Merlot had placed around the woman’s waist was extended ever so slightly, as was the middle finger of his right hand, the hand he had folded on his bloated marshmallow stomach.

  Tomlinson said, “He’s looking at the camera, flipping everyone the bird. Merlot picked out this photo. I’d bet anything on it. The daughter said she found it framed on her mother’s mantelpiece? Guaranteed, Merlot’s the one who had it framed and maybe even placed it over the fireplace where it was easy to find. See how the lens caught the woman’s eyes? A flash was used and it created a glare. She wouldn’t’ve had a picture like this framed, because she doesn’t look her best. That’s how I know Merlot did it. He had it framed because he’s telling the ex-husband, his old business partner, fuck you. Using finger-a-grams to do it. Probably got a big kick out of imagining this rich guy, the guy who helped put him in jail. Calloway? What’s his name, imagining Frank Calloway walk into the room, finding the picture and going ballistic. Saying to him, I’m screwing your wife, asshole! Like that. You see it now?”

  Yeah, I could see it.

  “The guy is evil, Doc. Slimy. One look and I knew. Your instincts are right, so why bother to be so intellectual about it? He’s sneaky evil but a force, so it’s no wonder he scares you.”

  No … that wasn’t true, I decided. I wasn’t frightened of Merlot; not just from looking at his photo, anyway. That he used his middle fingers to send a message seemed idiotically adolescent, not evil. What else? I didn’t like him … okay, that much I was willing to concede. And partly because of the way he looked. I could understand now why Calloway had reacted the way he did when he learned that Merlot was sleeping with his ex-wife.

  Revulsion, yes. There was something about Merlot’s expression, his appearance, that triggered the gag reflex. Another admission: The fact that Merlot was apparently manipulating Gail infuriated me on a visceral level. The worth of a man or a woman is established wholly by the worthiness of the people who are devoted to him or her. Gail had been the lifetime love of a good, good man, Bobby Richardson. That a person like Jackie Merlot could defile that bond seemed to illustrate the tragic potential of all life.

  What I knew of Merlot didn’t frighten me, though. Indeed, what I knew gave me confidence. Yeah, the guy was gigantic, but he was prissy huge, all fat. Something else: Demonstrations of ego—like pyromania—were strictly for amateurs. Clearly, the guy was an amateur.

  No, I was not frightened of Jackie Merlot.

  When I explained that to Tomlinson, he shook his head, refusing to believe me. “You fight your own instincts, man. You always have. Already you’re intellectualizing, telling yourself there’s no good reason to feel what you really feel.”

  “I’m afraid of a lot of stuff, Tomlinson. More things than you realize. But not of photographs. And I’ve got no fear of a tub like that.”

  Tomlinson’s expression said, You should, man. You should.

  He put the photograph away—end of subject—and began to inspect Gail’s withdrawal and deposit slips. Abruptly, then, he stood, removed the wooden hatch to the ice locker and began to paw around, searching for something.

  “Good God,” I said. He’d been sitting shirtless across from me. I’d assumed he was wearing shorts. Or maybe the sarong he favored. But I was mistaken on both counts.

  I said, “You mind putting some pants on, Tomlinson?”

  He was now holding a bottle of Hatuey, that fine Cuban beer, in hand, blinking at me, bare-ass naked. Seemed surprised that I’d noticed or that he’d forgotten, one or the other. Said, “Whoops. Sorry. Gets to be a habit living out here all alone. I was up on the bow taking an air bath. You know, letting oxygen molecules cleanse my pores. Refurbish all the little shadowy places that don’t get much sun.” He looked down and spoke in the direction of his waist. “Isn’t that right, boys?”

  I stood to leave. “I’m going. Take a look at the bank slips when you get a chance. You want, we can have dinner tonight and talk about it. I’ll call for reservations at the Timbers or maybe drive to the mainland and try the University Grill. I hear it’s pretty good.”

  Tomlinson’s chin was still on his chest. “Know something, Doc? Every problem I’ve ever had in my life started with this little bastard. Hey-y-y-y … I’m talking to you. Hello, hello!” Tomlinson chuckled, as if not the least bit surprised. “See that? The little son-of-a-bitch is listening to every word. And things haven’t much changed ‘cause he’s still causing problems.”

  I was standing on the top step of the ladder. “The Timbers would be good if it’s not too crowded. We can walk there and have a few beers, don’t have to worry about driving. I’d like to get this thing with Amanda’s mother in better focus. That’s why I want you to look at those bank slips, give me an opinion. Some behavior-and-cause scenarios.”

  “You want me to just look at the withdrawal slips? Or do you want me to get down and dirty, really try to figure out what the hell’s going on? We’ve got like five or six hours till dinnertime. I can do some serious kick-ass research on the subject by then.”

  “Then do it. It’s just possible I may have to fly down to Colombia and shake her loose from the guy. You could be right: She really could be in trouble.”

  But Tomlinson was once again lost in his own thoughts, alternately speaking to me and his own male member. He said, “You’re the only one I’ve confided in, the only one who knows I’ve been trying to get back together with Musashi.”

  “Me, you mean?”

  “Of course. Who you think I’m talking to? I invited her down from Boston to go on a cruise this week. The Dry Tortugas in spring, catch some dolphin, maybe see some sooty terns. Told myself it was to spend time with the mother of my sweet little daughter, but I’m afraid the truth is that Mr. Zamboni and the Hat Trick Twins are up to their old tricks.”

  “Mr. Who?”

  “Yes, they’re achi
ng to win that little Japanese vixen back again. Musashi I mean. Set her free from the asshole politician she’s been sleeping with. And don’t mistake that for some kind of racial slur.”

  “Right, of course not. Not from an enlightened person like you.”

  “Little Japanese scum.”

  I was still lost. “Mr. Zamboni and the Hat Trick Twins? Who the hell are … oh. Okay, okay, a reference to your hockey days at Harvard. Now I know what you’re talking about. Yep … I’ve really got to run.”

  “Thought maybe the air baths would help, that’s what I was hoping. So … what you think, boys? Feeling any better after all that fresh air?”

  He looked up at me for the first time since starting his strange dialogue. “Let them breathe free, that’s my motto. I do my best, but you think it makes a damn bit of difference? Nope. Oxygen and assholes—the two most common elements on earth.”

  I shrugged.

  “They’re still obsessed with Musashi, and I can’t do a damn thing about it. Something about her body, those Japanese knobs of hers. And her voice. Zamboni is crazy about her voice. I’ll tell you something, Doc: Just ‘cause I can aim this bastard doesn’t mean I’m in command.” Then, to himself: “So I’ll tell you what, my stubborn little friend. How does a pair of bikini underwear sound to you? The tight kind without that little fucking escape hatch! No more midnight maneuvers. Think about it!”

  I was stepping out onto the cockpit, looking astern where my flats skiff was cleated. I said, “Call me on the VHF, Tomlinson. About dinner, I mean. Nels just sold them some fresh pompano. I know that for a fact, so even if it’s not on the menu, Matt will make sure we can have it if we want.”

  Speaking a little too loudly, as if he wanted to be overheard, Tomlinson answered, “Oh, I’ll be ready. You can count on it. And if I’m walking a little funny, we’ll all know why.”

  In April, Sanibel and Captiva Islands are as crowded and animated as any Carnival cruise ship, but with a basic difference: People who come to the islands tend to be like-minded, outdoors oriented and energized by a longing for quiet beaches and immersion in the subtropics: wading birds, gators, crocs, manatees, littoral fish, coconut palms, ospreys, you name it. Look at the people who come year after year, who make the islands part of their lives, and you will think of L. L. Bean catalogues. You’ll think of Audubon magazine. Or maybe Outside. The fact that the islands maintain more wild space than hotel space is precisely why they continue to be so widely treasured.

  Which is the reason I don’t mind getting out in the tourist rush occasionally, eating dinner at a favorite restaurant. The people you meet are usually pretty nice. Interesting, too.

  Tomlinson came tapping at my door at twilight, looking dapper in blue jeans and silk Hawaiian shirt, pink flamingos and golden tiki huts thereon, his bony hands offering two cold bottles of beer.

  “Its very important to rehydrate in this hellish spring heat,” he explained. “But if you want to wait for dinner, I’ll drink both bottles. Waste is a terrible thing. As we speak, there are Christian alcoholics absolutely Jonesing for a drink in places like Iraq and Libya. Parts of … somewhere else, too. Arkansas? Yeah, probably Arkansas. I’m telling you just in case you feel like refusing this beverage.”

  I took one of the beers from him. “Nope, I’m thirsty.”

  “Just checking.”

  “Did you go over Gail’s bank slips?”

  “I did indeed. Three, nearly four solid hours of pure cerebral exercise. I made a few phone calls, too. So … I have some ideas on what’s going on. Some very strong opinions, you might say.”

  “I thought you might. Frank Calloway left a message for me at the marina. He wants to get together in Boca Grande on Thursday. Which means I can work all day tomorrow. I hope. I’ve got to call him back.”

  “I don’t know why the hell you just don’t get an answering machine like everyone else. This fucking decade has cut the nuts off every male between here and Fumbuck, Egypt, but it hasn’t even scratched your paint. I think it’s because you haven’t been paying proper attention. Seriously, Doc, you haven’t been playing fair. The damn decade’ll be gone before you even realize it was here.”

  “Spare me, Tomlinson. But … yeah. I may get a recorder. I keep thinking maybe someone important has tried to call and I wasn’t home. That feeling, like I’ve missed something … I don’t deal with it as well as I used to.”

  “I know whose call you’re afraid of missing. Pilar calling from Central America.”

  “Nope. I don’t even think of her much anymore.”

  “Right. Just like you seldom think of Hannah Smith anymore. I’m going to tell you something you may not like: I still miss Hannah. She was the most sensual woman I’ve ever met in my life.”

  “If you know I don’t want to hear it, why say it?”

  “No disrespect intended.”

  “None assumed. So let’s not discuss her anymore.”

  “The island bookstores, they all say they’ve sold a bunch of her books.”

  “That ought to make you pretty happy. You wrote it”

  “Hannah wrote it. Orally, at least. I just typed it up.”

  I increased my pace. “Is there a reason why we’re still talking about her?”

  We’d crossed the boardwalk, through mangroves, onto the island. Now we were walking the shell drive from the marina that became Tarpon Bay Road. It was an hour after sunset. Dark. I could hear chuck-wills-widows making their whippoorwill sounds. I could hear screech owls and car traffic and Ralph Woodring running his bait shrimper on the grass flat outside the mouth of the bay. When he cranked the nets up or down, the rusty booms screamed like something that should be chained behind bars.

  Through tree limbs overhead I could see the demarcation between night horizon and stars. That line of trees, the muted colors, were as distinctive as a Navaho sand painting. It was a warm night with lots of island smells: jasmine and sulfur and windy beach. It was nice seeing the stars through the trees.

  We crossed Palm Ridge past the gas-pump fluorescence of the Pick Kwik and stayed on Tarpon Bay Road. The Timbers was just off to the left, across from the fire station, a restaurant decorated as if by beachcombers: life rings and mounted fish, bamboo umbrellas, driftwood and shadows.

  After Matt showed us to our corner table and after Lin brought us each another beer, Tomlinson folded the napkin across his lap saying, “The withdrawal slips and the deposit slips. I went over and over them. I even called a banker friend of mine to see what he thought. Well … actually, he’s not a friend, he’s an acquaintance. Bankers, the respectable types, tend to … let’s just say they tend to be very uncomfortable around me. As if I’m widely known as the islander voted most likely to climb the fucking bell tower. With a firearm, I’m talking about, which frankly, Doc, really pisses me off because I’ve never even fired a damn cap pistol … at least, not since that ugly incident in Chicago—”

  “Tomlinson … Tomlinson. You’ve drifted way off the subject.”

  He appeared surprised that I’d interrupted. “What?” Then: “Oh. Right. Okay, what the banker said was, with all that activity, the woman was either investing in something or gradually changing banks. Maybe transferring the money to accounts outside the country. Which can be illegal if you don’t go about it the right way.” He paused. “So that’s one possible explanation we’ve got to consider.”

  “Not just possible,” I said, “but probable. In any circumstance like this, the simplest solution is almost always the correct solution. So that’s your best guess? That she was moving her money?”

  He said, “No. As much as you hate to admit it, Doc, we think so much alike about stuff like this, the serious stuff, I bet you already know what my best guess is.”

  “Tomlinson, we so seldom think alike that I can count the times on one hand. Five times, max.”

  “Oh, is that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, it’s six times now. Or maybe six dozen.�
��

  “We’ll see. Tell me why Gail Calloway withdrew so much money before she left the country with Jackie Merlot.”

  He smiled. “You’ve gone over those withdrawal and deposit slips as many times as I have. Why do YOU think she was moving around all that money?” Before I could answer, he chimed in, “Blackmail, that’s my guess. Judging from the deposit slips, it’s blackmail. Same with you, huh? Tell the truth now.”

  I said, “I’ve got blackmail down as one of three possibilities.”

  Tomlinson’s expression said that he wasn’t surprised. “Damn right, blackmail.” He smiled. “You want me to tell you the other two most probable scenarios?”

  “No. I’d rather hear about the deposit slips.”

  I told him that the deposit slips were the only things I couldn’t make fit neatly into a plausible chain of action. I meant it.

  “Don’t feel like the Lone Ranger,” he said. “It took me a solid hour of very intense brainwork to figure out why they’re important. You got any ideas at all about them?”

  I shook my head.

  “But blackmail, you figured blackmail as a possibility. How the feds could miss this one is beyond me. See? We do think alike.”

  “Two peas in a pod, you and I.”

  “Exactly. I meant it when I said you’re starting to come along. That’s great news for the people who think your heart’s about half the size of your brain. No offense, Doc, but you’re working your way up to becoming a real human being.”

  Tomlinson surprised me by ordering the pompano cooked in parchment paper. He’s been an uncompromising vegetarian since the day I met him but, in the last few months, he’d broken form often enough for me to know that he was going through some changes in his life … as we all do.

  “I’ve decided that eating animal flesh is a way of ingesting cellular communion,” he explained when the waitress had finished taking our orders. “And let’s face it, if I dropped dead in a field tomorrow, every goddamn animal for miles would be scrambling to bite a piece out of me. A chunk of biceps, a chunk of my beezer. They wouldn’t give a damn. Protein is protein, when the shit really hits the fan. For those omnivore bastards, it’s any port in a storm.”