Shark River df-8

by Randy Wayne White

  I held him, my muscles creaking with the strain, pretending as if his three-hundred-plus pounds was an insignificant mass, no problem at all holding him with one hand. I wanted him to look into my face and believe that I held his life in my hands. Wanted him to feel the same demeaning realization that I’d felt, knowing that whether I lived or died was his decision to make.

  I counted on his not knowing the truth about sharks-that it’s difficult to get them to eat even fish in captivity. That the only real danger of going into the water with them was the chance of being rammed if they panicked.

  I held him there as he used both hands to try and pry my fingers free, squeezing, squeezing, and I said, “The way you’re bleeding, those sharks are going to be all over you, Clare.”

  He could barely form words, his voice hoarse. “Don’t let me fall, man. I do anything you want. Don’t let me go there.”

  “They missed your buddy. I doubt they’ll miss again.”

  “Please, man. Please. I can’t even swim.”

  I said, “Can’t swim? Good. Those sharks are bottom feeders,” and pushed him hard over the railing.

  His falsetto scream was terrible to hear-but oddly gratifying, too. He hit the water with the grace of a boxcar and came up blowing water out his nose and still screaming.

  Clare was wrong about not being able to swim. Apparently, he’d never been properly motivated before. I watched him doggy-slap his way to the buoyed netting and throw himself over into shallow water where Izzy was already wading to shore.

  “We ain’t done with you yet, Ransom girl!” Clare was holding his face in obvious pain, his Rasta cap pouring water as he slogged across the muck bottom. “The Lion of Judah, He save me from the water demons, but He not gonna spare you!”

  Ransom gave it right back to him. “You Jamaican trash-you come back to this island, the police gonna arrest you and put you under the jail!”

  Which didn’t seem like a bad idea. I had not the slightest desire to test myself against Clare ever again. To Ransom, I said, “You go in, call the Sanibel Police. Just dial 911, tell them it’s for me. I’ll stay out here and make sure they don’t come back.”

  Now Izzy was yelling threats as Ransom stepped closer to me and said, “Call the police… man, you think that’s a good idea?”

  “Hell, yes, I think it’s a great idea. You want those two creeps following you? Maybe jump you when I’m not around?”

  “Yeah, but the police, man. They listen to what Clare and Izzy have to say, then maybe they come askin’ about that ring. It down in the water, they know where that is. Or the seventeen thousand dollars. Then maybe they contact the Bahamian government, and I got to answer all kinds of more questions. Like how’d I get enough money to buy me one of them satellite dishes for my new TV, which I plan to buy soon as I get home. Or how’d I afford that fancy red sports car which I’m gonna buy, too. A car like that, on Cat Island where we only got a little piece of one paved road, it gonna be seen. Which means people gonna notice, man.”

  “You and Tucker,” I said, disgusted. “Two of a kind.” I was watching Izzy and Clare hurrying into the mangroves now, looking back and still yelling at us, but giving it less and less, eager to get the hell away. Probably convinced we really were going to call the police.

  I looked at my left arm. The bandage had been ripped away and I was bleeding again. “You go inside. Over the sink, there’s a little first-aid kit. You get that, and I’ll be right in.”

  “Where you goin’?”

  “Is that ring really worth something?”

  She shrugged and made a noncommittal face. “Man, I just thought it somethin’ pretty ’til Clare tell me. But them Rasta people, they sit around at their reasonins, smokin’ their herb and talkin’ shit, I don’t think they know what’s real, what isn’t. Haile Selassie, he the king of all the Rastas, they think he God. So, yeah, it could be worth some money.” She looked from me to the water. “What about them big sharks, though?”

  I said, “I’ll get the ring; you get the first-aid kit.”

  Tomlinson was looking at the ring, holding it up to the light. I listened to him say, “What we might have here… what you need to understand first is, Rastafarianism has two important symbols. One’s the Rastafarian bible, the Holy Piby. The other’s the royal ring of Haile Selassie. Wait, make that three important symbols. There’s also the Rasta colors, black, red, and green, or red, black, and gold. It varies. The red stands for the church triumphant, which is the church of the Rastas. Black as in black Africans. Green represents the beauty and vegetation of Ethiopia. The gold, it might have something to do with this ring. I did a research paper on the sect, back when Rasta was just beginning to spread from Jamaica to the other islands. I spent a couple months down there. Love the people, man. The kids jumped right into Rasta because it was a way of saying screw you to the establishment, particularly the white establishment. And let’s face it, who can blame them?”

  I have no politics, though I seldom share Tomlinson’s indulgent view of human behavior, but made no comment. I listened to him say, “The story behind the ring is, the Ethiopian Orthodox Church gave it to Selassie out of gratitude when he pledged loyalty to the church. This was back in the 1930s. Supposedly it belonged to King Solomon, who’d given it to the Queen of Sheba so that she, in turn, could give it to their son, Prince someone of Ethiopia. Menelik. That’s the name. Menelik was the first Ethiopian king in a dynasty that Rastas believe lasted for more than three thousand years. It ended in 1975 with Selassie’s death. Selassie wasn’t much of a leader-his people starved, lived in filth, and he didn’t much care. He liked to dress up in uniforms and get his picture taken with young girls. Didn’t matter. I don’t know why it is, but failed kings make the best gods, which is what happened. The Rastas think of him as the second Christ.”

  “The Lion of Judah,” Ransom said. “That what they call him. The way they paste their hair and rub it out, it supposed to look like a lion’s mane. I grew up dealin’ with the Rastas, that how I know. But how you know so much about them, man? Down there writing your paper.”

  I said, “When it comes to religion and illegal drugs, Tomlinson’s IQ jumps about fifty points.”

  We were in the lab. My arm newly bandaged, I was sitting on the wooden roller chair by the Cabisco binocular scope. The marina’s black cat, Crunch amp; Des, was in his familiar spot on the stainless steel dissecting table by the window, tail thumping. Every now and again, the cat would lift his head, reconfirm our presence with yellow eyes, then flop his head down, immediately asleep again.

  Ransom said, “You think that really is the famous ring?”

  I didn’t. I’d already studied the ring under low magnification. I have no interest in nor appreciation for jewelry, but I don’t think it would have impressed me anyway. It was made of gold that was worn and smoothed from handling. Inset onto the face of the ring, in oynx, was the head of a lion, the design of which I associate with British royalty. The lion had two tiny diamonds for eyes.

  Stamped into the bottom of the band was a jeweler’s hallmark: 18K. Inside the band at the top, just to the side of the setting, was the apparent place of manufacture: NEW YORK.

  It wasn’t three thousand years old, that much was certain. Had never been worn by King Solomon or the Queen of Sheba. It also seemed very unlikely that an Ethiopian church would have given their new king a ring made in America.

  “You never know, though,” Tomlinson said. “It’s possible. For instance, say one of the archbishops or an Abun-one of the church’s patriarchs-happened to be visiting New York and got the idea that a ring might ingratiate him with the new king. So he finds one with a lion’s head or maybe had it made. Waited around spending church money in the Big Apple then sailed back on the Queen Mary. I can see it happening.”

  I said, “He plans to tell Selassie the ring’s a couple thousand years old, but lets the jeweler stamp New York on it? That’s a stretch.”

  Tomlinson made an open-handed
gesture- Who knows? -and handed the ring to me. It had some weight to it. He said, “I can make a few calls, do some research. The important thing is, it doesn’t matter what we think. The two Jamaicans think it’s the real ring. Maybe there’re others who think the same. Maybe hundreds of others, which makes it very dangerous, man. Screwing with people’s religious icons is a no-no.” To Ransom, he said, “The guy you stole it from, what was his name?”

  “His name Sinclair Benton, but I never saw it as stealin’. That man call me names and treat me mean. Worse, though, he call Daddy Gatrell names. Probably made it hard for Daddy come see me sometimes. The way it happened was, I walkin’ past the house of that ol’ dead witch, and one of his boys grabbed me and tried to make me to do the jiggy thing. I let him get drunked up good on cane rum, got his clothes off him, and let him pass out thinkin’ happy times was comin’.

  “That how I got the whole house to myself, but it spooky, man, ’cause of the feeling that old witch still around. I found me a box full of money and that ring laying on the desk, right out in the open. So I didn’t see it as stealin’. It more like a payment to me from the good Lord, cause that devil-man Benton, he so evil. Besides, how can you steal from a thief?”

  “Do you think Benton had the kind of power or the connections to get his hands on something so valuable? The ring, I’m talking about.”

  “Everyone through the islands know Sinclair Benton. Even the voodoo people in Haiti afraid of that man. And he rich. He charge people for the spells he cast. The more desperate a person be, the more he charge them. I know a woman in Arthur’s Town who give Sinclair her house to drive the demons outta her sick son.”

  Tomlinson looked at me. “See, then it is possible. When Selassie died in 1975, the ring disappeared. Somehow it ended up in London a couple of years later, where, supposedly Selassie’s grandson, Crown Prince Asfa Wossen, gave it to Bob Marley as a present. When Marley died… that was around 1981, I think. Anyway, it disappeared again. Some say it was stolen, some believe it was handed down to the next Rasta prince. What I’m saying is, even if no one else wore it or owned it but Bob Marley, it would still be valuable… and dangerous.”

  When I didn’t respond after a few seconds, Tomlinson said, “You’re not taking this seriously, are you?” Then to Ransom, he added, “Doc lives in his own little hermit world. Fish and test tubes and microscopes. I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t even know who Bob Marley was.”

  I knew. But I sat and listened to Tomlinson tell me the story anyway, tell me that Rastafarianism was never really popular in the islands until 1966, when His Imperial Majesty Haile Selassie visited Jamaica and converted Rita Anderson, who was Bob Marley’s wife. That day came to be called by the brotherens as “Groundation Day,” perhaps the most important day in Rasta history. Later, Anderson convinced Marley to convert to Rastafarianism and he and his reggae band, the Wailers, spread the teachings of Rastafarianism throughout the world with his music and lyrics. Everywhere, from Central America to Australia and the South Pacific, people listened. Not an insignificant number of the world’s population took the lyrics seriously and were converted to Marley’s religion. Selassie was the God, Bob Marley the psalmist and prophet.

  Tomlinson said, “People think Rastafarians just sit around smoking weed, singing, and dancing. That’s a part of it, yeah, but it’s not an easy religion to follow. Rastas aren’t allowed to eat just any food. A true Rasta only eats I-tal food. That’s food cooked but served as raw as possible. It never touches chemicals; it’s natural, never canned. Lots of Rastas are vegetarians since eating almost raw meat isn’t what you’d call appetizing. The ones who do eat meat can’t touch pork because pigs are the scavengers of land. Same with shellfish, because they consider lobsters, crabs, shrimp, stuff like that to be scavengers, too. They can eat fish, but the fish can’t be more than a foot long. Anything bigger is a predator, a danger to their spirit.”

  No wonder Izzy and Clare had not reacted calmly when introduced to the shark pen.

  “I love the Rastas, love their spirit and their faith. The Holy Piby, man, I read it. The black man’s Bible, that’s what some call it. Inspired, some very powerful stuff in there. It was first printed back in the 1920s in the Ethiopian language of Amharic. It says that God and all of his prophets were black, and some believe it contains the lost verses of the Old Testament. The reasoning makes more sense than some people want to admit. The way it goes is, Ethiopian nobility always considered themselves direct descendants of King Solomon. They were black, so Solomon was black. If Solomon was black, then Christ had to be black, too. Which is very cool, I think.

  “When I was in Jamaica, I lived with a Rasta group called the Twelve Tribes of Israel. For a time they were very heavy into the Black Power movement, which they needed to be, but in a very positive and peaceful way. Reform through education and political action. Some of the splinter groups, though, they believed violence was the answer. Still do. They were serious racists, too. Kill the whites-all whites-and there would no longer be oppression.”

  I had the ring under the binocularscope again. Nothing ornate about the typeface. Plain, very American: NEW YORK. Without looking up from the microscope, I said, “I remember that time. Kill without remorse for political gain. A lot of whites and blacks were doing it. Assassinations. Bombings. Overthrow the government at any cost. What was it Mao Tse-tung wrote? ‘In the struggle for socialism, the death of a million innocents means nothing.’ ”

  Tomlinson stood suddenly to leave. “Ransom? If I were you, I’d get in touch with some Rasta people you know and trust. Or I’ve still got some friends with the Twelve Tribes if you want me to do it. Tell them you have a ring, maybe Haile Selassie’s ring, and want to give it back. Today, I mean. By phone. Before the rumors start to spread. Before more of the violent types come looking for you.”

  12

  As I walked with Tomlinson to the marina to get the mail, he said, “All that stuff with the Rastas reminds me of something I’ve been meaning to bring up, Doc. Lately, more and more, the older I get, the things I did in my past really bother me. Some truly shitty stuff, man. I’d like just the two of us to sit down one day and talk about it, you don’t mind. About something I was involved with a long time ago, but it concerns you. I think it’s a talk long overdue.”

  In some inexplicable and maybe perverse way, I’d been goading him when I brought up revolutionaries and bombings. I wasn’t certain why. Perhaps it was because I was beginning to have second thoughts about the deal I’d made with Harrington. But I said, “Sure, we can talk. Another time, though. Getting beaten up, getting shot, arguing with Ransom about my uncle. Little stuff like that, I’m kind of pooped out for some reason.”

  “Okay. But soon.”

  “Yeah, soon. A couple of weeks, a couple of months from now, when we both have some time. If you can help me get this business with Ransom squared away, that would be a good way to start.”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “No worries.” He walked on in silence for a time before he spoke again. “I went through the stuff Tuck sent to Ransom. What a circus act that guy was. And what a romantic. He sent her drawings, which I know you saw, but also this cryptic letter.”

  I said, “You read it. I’m not going to waste my time.”

  “That’s my point. You don’t have to read it. I’ve already figured out where Tuck hid the six grand. It’s at his ranch. We’ve got to meet a guy there and he’s going to give us another letter. We can go get it tomorrow, you want. Or Sunday.”

  “Make it Sunday. I’ve got at least a full day’s work in the lab, plus a lot of phone calls to make. The Aquaculture Lab at Gainesville has been working on reintroducing Gulf sturgeon south of Tampa Bay, and I’ve been doing research for the director. Then I’ve got to contact all the offshore stone crabbers I know and see if I can buy some of their old rope because of an order I’ve got for gooseneck barnacles. But first I need to check with Jeth, see how the fish did while I was away.”

 
; Tomlinson said, “What?” already preoccupied with private thoughts. When I repeated myself, he said, “Did you hear what happened to Jeth? Between him and Janet?”

  Jeth was one of the marina’s fishing guides, a huge, good-looking guy with a big heart and a slight stutter. Janet was Janet Mueller, who lived up at Jensen’s Marina on her little blue Holiday Mansion houseboat.

  “What happened?”

  Tomlinson’s attention had wandered again. “Huh? What happened to who?”

  I stopped walking. Put my hand on his shoulder and turned him. “I gather that things didn’t go well with Nimba, did they? On your trip back from Guava Key.”

  He laughed bitterly. “It couldn’t’a gone worse, man. It was terrible. A faithful woman who finally decides to go out on her abusive husband, but the guy she chooses can’t consummate the relationship. A woman with her religious background, it was like having God in the room telling her she was a sinner and damned to Hell. Like that was the reason He wouldn’t allow me to perform. The moment we got back, she threw her luggage in the trunk of a cab and headed for the airport.” He sighed. “I don’t blame her, man. She worked and worked on me, the whole trip down. Zamboni tried to rally a few times but never really made it across the blue line.”

  “Maybe it’s time you spoke to a physician. I hear they’ve got drugs now for that. Some kind of pill?”

  “I’m way ahead of you. I talked to Dieter today when he got back from lunch. He’s got his license to practice in the States now, which I really don’t give a shit about, but it means the drug companies give him all kinds of interesting samples. He gave me a pill to try.”

  Dieter Rasmussen was a retired Munich psychopharmacologist who lives over on A Dock in his gorgeous Grand Banks trawler, Das Stasi. He’s a big guy with a shaved head, good-looking-judging from the reaction of local women-brilliant, rich, and he loves the kicked-back, happy life of Dinkin’s Bay. I hadn’t liked or trusted the man at first, but he’d done a good job of fitting in with the marina community, so now we played chess occasionally, or sat around on my deck at sunset talking science, genetics, natural selection-things that interested both of us.