Ten Thousand Islands

by Randy Wayne White

  Tomlinson and I stood beneath a thatched chickee at the end of the boat basin, watching. Tomlinson, who followed yachting magazines, said, “That’s their new hull, they call it a Picnic Boat. It’s got a water-jet propulsion system, only draws eighteen inches. Base price is over three hundred grand.”

  “A half-million-dollar picnic boat?”

  “Yeah, when you add a few options. But think of all the money you save not going to restaurants.”

  Nora came up beside us. We’d been in the bar listening to Bauerstock talk to Della on the VHF radio. He told her he was only ten minutes out, could she have a pot of fresh coffee ready for him and his two-man crew? Maybe some sandwiches to go, too. They didn’t have a lot of time to spare. He had to scoot back across Florida Bay for a fund-raiser in Naples the next afternoon.

  Now Nora stood, hands on hips, watching the yacht with obvious admiration. “Is that thing gorgeous, or what?”

  It was, too, with its flared hull of midnight blue, its waterline trimmed with apple red and its white lobsterman cabin.

  Her expression of admiration didn’t change much when Teddy Bauerstock appeared on the aft deck after backing the boat in smartly and tying off. He wore a white pressed guaybera shirt, a Latin touch, plus khaki slacks and white boat shoes. He had the wind-blown look of someone who’d gone to a good fraternity, owned more than one tuxedo but who could also tell a joke or two. He swung down on the dock wearing a big smile, combing fingers through his black hair, and singled out Della right away. He went to her, hugged her like he might have hugged his mother, then saw Nora. He hesitated, looking from Tomlinson to me, then swept up Nora, too, lifting her feet briefly off the ground. He said to her, but loud enough for everyone to hear, “Sorry, but I couldn’t help myself. You’ve got the most beautiful eyes!”

  Then he was done with her, moving down the dock shaking hands, his left arm thrown over Della’s shoulder, leaving his crew to tend the boat. There was a tiny man, thin-haired, dressed in white—the actual skipper of the boat, I guessed. B. J. Buster, with his pumpkin-sized head, was coiling a line on the stern, wearing a black T-shirt stretched over his shoulders and biceps, bunched up at his skinny waist. In golden letters, the T-shirt read: “Bauerstock for Senate.”

  On the stern of the boat, in much larger golden letters, was the yacht’s name: Namesake

  Key Marco

  Tomlinson was kneeling, trying to see the boat’s underside. There had to be a state-of-the-art jet system down there. Some kind of tunnel hull with no propeller. To me, he said, “The man knows how to make an entrance, you have to give him that. I like his style.”

  I watched Nora using her long legs, hurrying to stay close to Della and Bauerstock. “Everyone does, apparently.”

  Buster had moved across the aft deck and was looking down on Tomlinson. “Hey … you there. Get yourself away from the back’a this here boat.”

  Tomlinson glanced up. “I was trying to see the stern drive. The mechanics of it. How it works.”

  “I don’t know nothin’ ’bout no stern drive. But you get your ass away. Hear?”

  As Tomlinson and I walked toward the bar, I said, “I suppose you like his bodyguard, too.”

  He shrugged, not upset. “No, but I understand the philosophy. It’s easier to be a genuinely humane person if you can afford to hire your own personal son-of-a-bitch.”

  Theodore Bauerstock was sitting across the picnic table from Nora, Tomlinson and me. He was sandwiched between Della and Conch Jerry, one of the locals.

  No telling why Conch Jerry was sitting in. He floated around from table to table, listening, hearing, but not saying much. The Mandalay was that kind of place.

  On the table before him, Bauerstock had a nonalcoholic beer and a laptop computer, the screen opened to our side of the table. Attached to the top of the screen was a dime-sized micro-camera with a cord that was linked to a satellite cell phone, its antenna blossomed round like a metallic daisy.

  As Bauerstock pieced together the components, he told us that his boat had a fully integrated electronic computer system, everything—Global Positioning System, weather satellites, telephone and single sideband radio, satellite Internet and World Wide Web, plus a special mobile Doppler radar system mounted forward on the cabin roof right next to the aircraft-rated spotlights.

  “I’ve been watching the satellite shots and the Doppler. The storm’s … well, here, I’ll show you.” His fingers made a plastic sound on the laptop, and, a moment later, we could see the swirling red shape of the tropical storm, just like on the TV back at Sharkey’s Bar. “Okay … what do we have here? The storm’s moved north and west a few tenths of a degree, wind speed at a steady sixty.” He looked up. “That’s good for us. It’s moving offshore, away from land. Got lots and lots of rain in there. Big bastard, though, isn’t it? It’s got to be a hundred miles wide, maybe more. The eye’s already clearly defined. Let’s see how deep the eye is.” He touched more keys, and we could see a cross section of the storm; the picture transmitted carrying an explanatory line at the bottom: “Graphic based upon NOAA 41-C Aerial Photo.” He gave a low whistle. “She’s already thirty thousand feet deep. Do you folks know how a Doppler radar system works?”

  Before he could continue, Tomlinson said, “It’s named after an Austrian physicist, the Doppler effect. It’s like when we hear a train or a plane, the pitch of the sound is higher as the object comes toward us. Then the pitch drops as it passes and moves away. The radar calculates wind speed and precipitation by measuring the distance between sound waves. At least, that’s what I’ve read.”

  Bauerstock was smiling at him. “I defer to the more informed man. What I know is far more basic, but here I am trying to explain it. You like computers? Modern gadgets?”

  “Nope. I keep spilling stuff on them. But I find symmetry interesting. Think about it: we use our eyes and ears to measure speed and distance. Built-in Doppler. We’ve all got it, but few of us make an effort to get in touch with our own gifts.”

  Now Bauerstock was laughing; he really seemed to be enjoying Tomlinson. He was enjoying Nora, too, judging from all the eye contact, the private winks. To Della, he said, “This is a very intelligent man. You have good taste in friends.”

  “Tommy-San? Oh, he’s been a blessing to me. Been here just over a week, and he already draws a lot of water at the Mandalay.”

  He returned his attention to Tomlinson, gesturing to the computer. “You want to give her a test drive? It’s the fastest portable system around. My family’s in the business, so I get first crack at all the new toys.”

  “Normally, sure, I’d love to. Fast computers and fast women, huh? But, hey, I need to be honest: I’m a little too drunk to be trusted with anything breakable. Been overserving myself all day.”

  More laughter. “Then let me show you. If you like computers, modern technology, you’re going to love this.” He punched the keyboard again. There was a dial tone, the sound of electronic digits, then a warble. Now, instead of the tropical storm on the computer screen, we could see the face and upper body of an older man, thick silver hair combed back.

  It was Ivan Bauerstock.

  He was wearing a dark sports coat, sitting in a red leather chair, books, plaques and mounted cattle horns on the wall behind him, looking at us; looking into his own computer screen, I realized, apparently seeing a wide-angle shot of the Mandalay, because first thing he did was smile a formal smile and say, “Good evening! You’ve got quite a crowd there with you, Theodore!”

  “Before noon tomorrow,” Ivan Bauerstock said, “I will issue a formal, written apology to the Everglades Museum of Natural History, its employees and board of directors. The fact that employees of mine are robbing Indian burials on company property is absolutely intolerable, and rest assured that I have put a stop to that for now and all time. Teddy? Can you think of anything in our family’s history that’s been as embarrassing as this?”

  Bauerstock was standing while the rest of us sat, everyone s
taring at the laptop’s small screen. “Dad, I truly can’t. When Ms. Copeland contacted me and told me what her friends had found on Cayo de Marco, I was shocked. What upset me the most was that the young man—Tony Rossi?—that Tony Rossi implied he was working under direct orders from you to plunder that site. I knew right away that couldn’t be true.”

  I spoke for the first time. “Rossi didn’t imply that he was under your direct orders, Mr. Bauerstock. He said it very plainly. That you and his father, Frank Rossi, were enthusiastic artifact collectors.”

  I was surprised that Bauerstock already knew exactly who I was. “Dr. Ford, it’s my understanding that Frank Rossi’s son was under extreme duress when he spoke to you. Coercion so … well, let’s be frank. Methods so brutal that there’s been some talk of charging you with assault, perhaps even attempted murder. The boy’s in the hospital, you know. Ruptured spleen.” He paused for a moment, letting it sit there. “Personally, I think it would be unfortunate if law enforcement gets involved. We’re all reasonable people with similar goals. We all want to protect the history of this great state. I’d prefer to drop the whole matter. Under the circumstances, Dr. Ford, don’t you think it’s possible that you misunderstood what the young man said?”

  “I didn’t misunderstand him, Mr. Bauerstock. The kid said you’d been robbing sites for years.”

  “Marion!” Nora’s voice was surprisingly sharp. “Mr. Bauerstock is trying to help. Let’s not argue with him.”

  “Thank you very much, Dr. Chung. Theodore has already spoken to me of your intellect and your professionalism—”

  Ted was laughing, showing himself to be an eager peacemaker. “I told you about her eyes, too, dad. They’re amber, the color of a cat’s eyes.”

  Nora blushed, pleased by the compliment, but Ivan Bauerstock clearly didn’t see the humor. “Theodore, if I might continue? Along with the written apology, I will also deed over fifteen acres of Cayo de Marco for the museum’s ongoing archaeological studies. Finally, this afternoon, I told our attorneys to begin the legal groundwork to establish a scholarship fund in the name of Dorothy Copeland. She was a delightful young woman and deserves to be remembered for the contributions she made to archaeology. Would that please you, Mrs. Copeland?”

  Della was dabbing at her eyes. “I think it’s wonderful, Mr. Bauerstock, and I think your son is wonderful. If there’s anything I can do to help you or your family, please just let me know.”

  The fixed, formal smile appeared on his face once more. “As a matter of fact, there is, Della. Make sure that son of mine goes straight to our boat and shoves off for Marco. I don’t like the way those storms are shaping up out there in the Caribbean. And get him all the Key Largo votes you can. We need Theodore Bauerstock in the Senate.”

  “May I speak to you privately, Dr. Ford?” Ted Bauerstock was talking, being respectful and very serious. It got me another sharp look from Nora—why was I such a troublemaker?—and an abstracted, drunken shrug from Tomlinson.

  As Bauerstock and I stood to leave the tiki bar, Conch Jerry, who hadn’t spoken a word all evening, said to him, “How’d you get that cut on your hand?”

  Bauerstock stopped, momentarily surprised. “This?” I hadn’t noticed the flesh-colored surgical tape angling from the palm of his left hand to his wrist. “I’m a klutz, that’s how I got it. Slipped and fell on the dock yesterday. Almost went into the water.” His expression said, I’m a dope.

  Conch Jerry said, “Really?” then got up and walked away, carrying his beer.

  Now Bauerstock and I were standing side by side at the marina basin, close enough to No Más that I could smell the incense that Tomlinson was burning below, patchouli, his favorite. Bauerstock was looking past his yacht toward Ronrico Key. The island was glazed with gold in the sunset light.

  In a low voice, he said, “May I speak to you confidentially, Dr. Ford?”

  “Please don’t. Not if it concerns any of my friends.”

  He chuckled, resigned but amused. “You really are a straight shooter, aren’t you? And you don’t believe my father.”

  “No. No, I don’t believe your father.”

  “Would you be surprised if I told you that I don’t believe him either?”

  I turned to look at him. “If you’re trying to get my attention, you’ve succeeded.”

  “My father is the most ruthless person I’ve ever met. He’s built his great financial empire on the bodies of men who chose ethics over survival. I don’t mean that he’s actually murdered anyone—not that I’d put it past him. But he’s only interested in people who can help him, people he can use or manipulate.”

  I said, “Why are you telling me this?”

  “The truth? It’s got to be confidential.”

  “As long as it concerns just you or your father, fine. The only caveat is Tomlinson. We tend to bounce things off one another. But privately.”

  “I don’t blame you, he’s a brilliant man. Rhodes scholar, the Sorbonne, threw it all away to pursue his own philosophical interests. You know, of course, that he was involved with a political terrorist group that was responsible for the deaths of at least nine people. Two of them Chicago policemen. Yes … I see by your expression that you do know about your friend Tomlinson.”

  I looked at him for a moment, then motioned him away from No Más. When we were at the end of the jetty, I said, “That was nearly fifteen years ago. No charges were ever formally brought against him—”

  “I wasn’t speaking badly of the man, I admire him—”

  “I wasn’t finished, Ted. Let’s drop the gamesmanship. You speak of Tomlinson, but what you’re really telling me is that you have people to do your homework for you. That you have avenues of information not available to the average citizen. You found all this out in, what? a little more than twenty-four hours.”

  “This is the computer age. If you carry enough political weight and can press the right buttons, there’s instant information available on everyone. Including you, Dr. Ford.”

  He said more with his intonation than his words.

  “Don’t believe everything you read in government files.”

  “With you, it’s just the opposite. My guess is, your life is more accurately described by the blank pages. By what my staff didn’t find in government computer banks.”

  I said, “You still haven’t answered my question. Why are we having this conversation?”

  “Did you see the expression on my father’s face when you called him a liar? I’ve seen that expression before. He won’t tolerate that kind of disrespect from anyone. Period. Believe me, you’re on his shit list. You will pay for humiliating him like that.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Dr. Ford, I’m being as sincere as I can be. It’s a warning. My father scares the hell out of me. He should scare you, too. You want a couple of for-instances? You’ve secured a very dubious federal lease on a stilt house off Sanibel with the help of some of your old colleagues. You work for Mote Marine, which depends on state and federal agencies for permits. That expression Della used, ‘He draws a lot of water.’ I liked that. Honestly, Dr. Ford, my father draws a massive amount of water in Tallahassee and Washington. If you cross him, everything you have is at risk. Your house, your association with Mote, everything. And there is also the very real possibility that he could arrange for your secret past to become public record. Think the international courts would take an interest in prosecuting you?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course you don’t.”

  I said, “We’re being honest? Okay, then tell me this: You think your father could’ve had anything to do with exhuming Dorothy Copeland?”

  I thought he’d be offended by the question. He wasn’t. “No. Not directly, anyway. Not that the indecency of it would bother him, but the risk is greater than the potential for gain. That’s how he makes decisions. More likely, it was …” He paused for a moment, waited for one of the locals to check
his boat lines, then walk away. “It was probably one of his flunkies. Steal the totem, then sell it to my dad, that was probably the plan. If someone knew he wanted it, they’d try to get it for him. All dad would have to do is mention the thing in casual conversation, and his staff would get the wheels turning. He owns so many people in this state. You have no idea. To an average guy, the totem would be well worth the risk. A year’s salary, dad would pay that without blinking an eye.”

  I said, “But why? It can’t be worth one-tenth of that on the market.”

  “Actually, you’re wrong, Dr. Ford. Auction it at Sotheby’s or Christies, or—what’s the famous auction house in New Mexico?—auction it at any of those places and it would sell for close to six figures. I just read that pre-Columbian arrowheads in fine condition sell for more than $1,000 each. In a global economy with the population booming, rare collectibles are far more valuable worldwide than gold. That totem”—he looked frankly at the black briefcase I continued to carry—“is worth a bundle. But see, that’s not the reason my father wants it. It’s not the monetary value.”

  “Then what?”

  “This is the part that needs to remain confidential. If you repeat it to anyone, I’ll swear you’re lying.”

  Once I’d nodded, he continued.

  “I know a side of my father that the public will never see or even suspect. He’s obsessive to the point of—how did a psychiatrist once put it to me?—he’s prone to manic fixation, that’s the phrase. The same psychiatrist told me that his obsessions were also key to his success. It’s true of many great men. Most people let up, back off or come to an ethical crossroads their conscience won’t allow them to cross. Not men like my father. Ever. That’s how they get so rich.

  “Something else about him, he’s just as obsessive about his ideology. Let’s face it, nearly all of us are superstitious to a degree, but some of his beliefs have become fixated. We used to have this Colombian maid, Bella, who called herself a bruha, meaning a Santería witch. She’d laugh like it was a joke, but she meant it. Bella raised me until father sent me away to boarding school. Bella was very beautiful. She was his mistress for years.”