Everglades df-10

by Randy Wayne White

  Tomlinson put his hand on my shoulder, and pointed to me, adding, “Ask this man. He knows me. I’m the island drunk-and that’s saying something on these islands.”

  I was nodding. “Oh, he’s a drunk, all right.”

  “In the entire history of the Sanibel Police Department, I’m the only person to have ever been stopped for DUI while on a skateboard. And the police chief is a distant relative.”

  True.

  “I’m no longer fit to teach!”

  We were idling away, nearly out of earshot. Touching my hand to the throttle, I said to them, “This man’s scum. Worthless trash that I wouldn’t trust with my daughter. Do yourselves a favor. Leave him alone.”

  Tomlinson said, “That’s right, I am scum-” but then stopped. Looking surprised and offended, he turned to me and said, “Hey. That’s pouring it on a little heavy, isn’t it, man?”

  Smiling, I said, “Why are those kids following you?”

  He sighed and sat in one of the three seats bolted into the stern platform. “Remember that paper I mentioned? The one I sent to Mr. McRae to help him deal with his wife’s condition?”

  I pretended as if I had to think about it. “Yeah. That’s the one you were supposed to send to me, too. But didn’t.”

  “I wrote it when I was in college. I’d drunk a case of Bud weiser, eaten two blotters of acid and a candy-looking substance that might have been mescaline. I’m not sure. Or it was an M amp;M. Whatever the hell it was, I sat down and wrote this paper for a class I was taking on world religions. The whole thing in one frenzied sitting. ‘Twenty Ways to Duct-Tape Your Life.’ That was the original title. Then I changed it to ‘One Fathom Above Sea Level.’”

  I said, “So?”

  He sounded sad and concerned, saying, “So someone’s been circulating it on the Internet. People all over the world have been reading the thing. It’s been translated, for Christ’s sake, like, into twenty-some languages. People who read it get the entirely wrong idea about the kind of person I am. There are some-an increasing number-who come looking for me, thinking I’m… well, that I’m some kind of prophet. Tomlinsonism. That’s what some are calling it. My own religion. Like Taoism.”

  “That’s scary,” I said.

  Tomlinson was standing now, rummaging through the ice locker. “You got any beer in here?”

  A few minutes later, a Bud Light in his hand, he said, “You’re telling me.”

  I followed the markers across Dinkin’s Bay to Woodring Point, cutting behind the fishhouse ruins. Pelicans and egrets flushed off the spoil islands, their wings laboring in the heat and heavy air, gaining slow altitude as their shadows panicked baitfish in the shallows.

  I ran straight across the flats, but at reduced speed, concentrating on the mangrove fringe to my left, then on the horizon of water that opened before me.

  My skiff’s big 225-horsepower Mercury made a pleasant Harley-Davidson rumble as we sped along, but it was still quiet enough to converse in a normal tone.

  Mercury Marine, once a maker of classic American outboards, had had a bad couple of years in which their image and their reputation took a beating. It was not a good time for the company, or boaters who used their product.

  Those of us who make our living on the water are necessarily fussy about equipment. We talk freely about what is good and what is bad. A year or so back, I’d begun to hear the rumors that Mercury was back on track. They’d finally gotten it right again.

  So I made the switch. A lot of the guides were making the switch, too.

  It was a nice day to be on the water. The bay was a gelatin skin that lifted and fell in broad sections; moving with the slow respiration of distant oceans, faraway storms. The air was balmy, scented by the tropics, it had a winter clarity. The sky was Denver-blue, and on the far curvature of sky, beyond Pine Island, were cumulous snow peaks. The clouds were coral and silver: vaporous sculptures, carved by wind shear, adrift like helium dirigibles.

  Standing at the wheel, I could look down and see the blurred striations of sea bottom. I could see white canals of sand that crossed the flat like winding rivers, and I could see meadows of sea grass-blades leaning in the tide as if contoured by a steady breeze. Ahead, there were comets’ tails of expanding water as redfish and snook spooked ahead of us. The fish created bulging tubes on the water’s surface, as if they were trapped beneath Pliofilm.

  Behind us, in our slow, expanding wake, the tiny clearing that was Dinkin’s Bay Marina-wooden buildings, a few cars and docks, the Red Pelican Gift Shop, my house on pilings-was the only break in the great ring of mangroves.

  Sitting to my right, Tomlinson finished his beer, crushed the can in his hand and said, “When’s the last time you and I did a Bay Crawl?”

  “Bay Crawl” is a local euphemism for an afternoon spent going from island to island, barhopping-or pub-crawling-by boat.

  “It’s been a while,” I said. “Too long. But I have to fill that order for horseshoe crabs. This time of year, it’s not going to be easy.”

  Which was true. Each winter, horseshoe crabs appear on South Florida’s mangrove flats en masse; a slow, clattering minion plowing blindly to copulate. Thousands of creatures ride the floodtides into the shallows; the big cow crabs dragging smaller males behind, each tuned in to the instinctive drive to exude and spray; to lay and fertilize. They are animals as archaic as the primal ooze to which they are attracted, dropping bright blue eggs in the muck; hatching one more generation of a species that has not changed in two hundred million years.

  Come spring, though, they are not as easily found.

  Tomlinson said, “I don’t want to go back to the marina for a while. So I’ll help you collect the little darlings. Then let’s say we start at the Waterfront Restaurant at St. James City, have a few beers and say hello to the twins. Then hit the Pool Bar at ’Tween Waters. After that, work our way up to Cabbage Key, and maybe even Palm Island. The Don Pedro softball team’s supposed to play the Knight Island team tonight. Plus, Passover begins at sundown-what better reason to celebrate?”

  I touched the throttle; felt the pleasant, momentary G-shock as we gained speed, a jet-fighter sensation, as I listened to Tomlinson add, “Speaking of baseball, I got an e-mail from Marino today.”

  Marino Laken Balserio is my son. He lives in Central America with his brilliant and beautiful mother, Pilar. Having Marino was unplanned; a surprise to both of us.

  I said, “I know. We trade letters a lot now.”

  “He told me he loves the Wilson catcher’s mitt you sent him. Said the Rawlings mitt is a piece of junk, plus he hates the way that Rawlings does business in Costa Rica. Can you believe they’re still connected with Major League baseball? Bionts have infiltrated our sport.”

  I chuckled. “He inherited his mother’s intellect, and her heart.”

  “So there’s another good reason to go bay-crawling. You have a brilliant son.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” I said, pushing the throttle forward.

  Much of what Tomlinson and I did that night remains a blur. Like most drunken intervals, the evening came back to me in a series of lucid snapshots rather than a continuous flow of memory.

  After collecting more than a hundred horseshoe crabs and depositing them in a holding pen near my stilt house, we ran east across the bay to Pine Island, where we had two or three beers at the Waterfront, and ate a bucket of local clams. Then we sped back-country to Pineland and the Tarpon Lodge, where we had more beer, and a spectacular portabello stuffed with fresh oysters.

  By then it was close to sunset, so we made a straight shot between Patricio Island and Bokeelia to Boca Grande, and tied off at Mark Futch’s seaplane dock. We walked to the Temptation Restaurant where Annie, behind the bar, served us drinks, but refused to read the tarot cards for us.

  “Not when you two are together,” she said. “I done it once, and once was too much.”

  Weaving only slightly, Tomlinson told her, “I remember when you did the reading. But
you didn’t tell us what the cards said. What’s our fate?”

  He was grinning.

  Annie wasn’t.

  “I didn’t tell you for a reason,” Annie said cryptically. “So please don’t ever ask me again.”

  The next mental snapshot I have is of us pulling into the Palm Island docks, off Lemon Bay. We had ribs with Swamp Sauce at Rum Bay Restaurant, then borrowed Jill Beck-stead’s golf cart and drove around Don Pedro Island with a tin bucket filled with ice and beer, feeling a dark, sea-oat wind, smelling Gulf air off the beach.

  On the way back, we stopped at Cabbage Key-two more beers with Rob and Terry at the bar-then we were at the Green Flash, drinking Rogerita Margaritas with Andreas, the owner. I remember getting into an intense discussion with a tourist lady from Seattle-her name was Gail-about the important role horseshoe crabs play in cancer research.

  As scientists around the world have discovered, I told her, the blue blood of the horseshoe crab, Limulus polyphemus, reacts dramatically when endotoxins are introduced. Endotoxins, which are dead cell walls and bits of bacteria, cause horseshoe crab blood to clot immediately. The blood is an excellent diagnostic tool.

  I told her, “It’s actually an arthropod, not a crab at all. It’s more closely related to ticks and scorpions. Fascinating, huh?”

  Gail was an attractive redhead with lively green eyes. Turning away from me, she said, “Not really.”

  Moonrise that Wednesday night was a little after ten, and by the time Tomlinson and I idled into the Dinkin’s Bay Marina boat basin, it was adrift above the mangrove rim, a gaseous orange mass in a sky that was weightless, black.

  “The paschal moon,” Tomlinson said. “The first full moon before Easter Sunday.”

  When I told him it was a couple of days past full, he said, “Details. It’s still the Passover moon.”

  We’d both sobered on our trip back. Comfortable silence is one of the barometers of friendship, and we rode most of the trip wordlessly, watching the moonrise, enjoying the familiar bay nightscape of strobeing channel markers, hedgerows of mangrove shadow, pocket constellations of light on island enclaves such as Useppa, Safety Harbor, De mery Key, South Seas.

  As I banked through the mouth of Dinkin’s Bay, Tomlinson finally spoke, mentioned the moon and then said, “If I haven’t told you already, I’m embarrassed about the way I behaved at Sawgrass. It makes me want to scream, the way that wicked bastard manipulated me. I feel embarrassed. Weak and guilty as hell.”

  I said, “I can relate,” in a tone so bitter that the intensity startled even me.

  “That’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about, man. Doc, there’s something been chewing you down to the core. You’re not yourself, and we all know it. A couple of days ago, I walked into your galley. You weren’t there. There was a gun lying out, bullets on the table. A square black pistol. Why?”

  I waited for a moment before I said, “Cleaning it. That’s all.”

  “Cleaning a gun for no reason.”

  I didn’t reply.

  Tomlinson said, “I don’t buy it, my brother. That’s why I want to tell you this. I’m drunk, but not too drunk to say what’s true. I’m aware that you have blood on your hands. But so do I. You know it now, you’ve always known it. Since we met, you’ve always known what I really am.”

  I said, “Yes.”

  “And you were assigned to take care of me. Right? Right? Like you took care of Jeff Ruben at the Slope Bar in Aspen.”

  I said nothing.

  “Well, guess what, man. I’m guilty. Guilty as sin. But not you. Guilt requires malicious intent. You were an employee. A messenger. ”

  I chuckled. “Tell that to Amelia Gardner. Or about fifteen other people.”

  Tomlinson put his hand on my shoulder. “Billie Egret called me yesterday. We talked about Shiva. We also talked about you. Because of her father, what you meant to Joseph, she takes her relationship with you very seriously.

  “Know what she told me? She said that balance and equilibrium are the central elements of the Maskoki universe, the Seminole world. Reciprocity, she called it. If you give bad, you get bad in return. If you take, you have to give.

  “Doc, you give as much as any person I’ve ever met. There’re a bunch of us who depend on you, count on you. Goddamn it, you’re the strong one. It’s scaring us that you’re acting weak. You’ve given back a hell of a lot more than you’ve taken.”

  I steered silently, the stainless-steel wheel cool beneath my fingers, seeing a sprinkling of lights in the mangrove lake darkness: Dinkin’s Bay Marina.

  Tomlinson said, “Billie told me to tell you that. I don’t know why. Something else I’m supposed to tell you, too: After that little tremor on Sunday, water level in the marsh around Chekika’s Hammock dropped. Remember James Tiger saying they could only find Lost Lake when the water’s down? Well, the lake’s visible now. The tarpon have shown up. She wants you to come with me Sunday, and see it.”

  I said, “I’d like that. It’s something I’ve always heard about. A hole in the Everglades that opens out to the ocean. Maybe take some dive gear if there’s any visibility.”

  Then I said, “Hey, why Sunday? The traffic will be a pain in the ass, and we can’t go by boat.”

  Tomlinson said, “I don’t know. A strong woman like Billie, she didn’t leave much room for discussion.”

  “But we’ve got a game. Baseball at Terry Park.”

  “Not this Sunday,” Tomlinson reminded me. “This Sunday, we’re off because it’s Easter.” chapter twenty-four izzy

  On the morning of April 18th, Good Friday, Izzy Kline took a cab to E-Z U-Haul Rental Center off Powerline Road and S.W. 10th Street, Deerfield Beach. He used a postal money order, a Social Security number he’d lifted from the Internet and a newly counterfeited driver’s license to rent a truck.

  He’d already given them his assumed name, a credit card number and expiration date over the phone.

  What he chose was U-Haul’s four-wheel-drive, five-ton “Thrifty Mover,” a medium-sized diesel with a fourteen-foot cargo trailer built over the back. Its maximum load capacity was three thousand pounds. That was more than enough for what Izzy needed.

  As he left, the clerk said, “Thanks, Mr. Tomlinson. See you on Monday.”

  Izzy, wearing a baggy, knitted Rasta hat, and an expensive theatrical goatee, waved to cover his face, and replied, “Save the Earth, brother! Fight the madness!”

  The hat and goatee were in a 7-Eleven trash Dumpster before he got back to the Interstate.

  After that, he went straight to his condo in West Palm Beach, and moved the last of his personal items-a DVD player, a big-screen TV, similar electronic stuff-into the truck, and drove to Port of the Everglades. He paid three Mexican illegals to pack it all in boxes alongside his Astro van, his Suzuki motorcycle, all his furniture and clothing, in a semi-sized container that was already loaded on a cargo ship. The ship was scheduled to leave tomorrow, Saturday, for Central America.

  With the truck empty, Izzy drove south on I-95, headed for Sawgrass. He had the speakers turned loud, playing one of his favorite CDs, World’s Most Beloved Waltzes.

  “Edelweiss” was playing now, the Boston Philharmonic, one of the classics. That one-two-three beat made him want to dance, so he pounded out the rhythm on the steering wheel, feeling good; pleased with himself and smiling, until his cell phone rang.

  A minor irritation.

  He checked the caller ID. It was Shiva’s private number.

  Izzy turned down the volume, pressed the talk button and said, “Talk to me, Jerry!”

  He could call Shiva by his first name now. The Bhagwan was delighted by the results of the coordinated explosions on Sunday. The two men had never been on friendlier terms.

  Izzy listened to Shiva say, “I’m spending the weekend at the Cypress Ashram. We still all set for the second service?”

  “Service” meant “detonation.”

  Izzy said, “I’m on my way there
now.”

  “Easter Sunday at sunset?”

  “Yep. Seven fifty-seven sharp. I checked the almanac.”

  “The church appreciates your dedication.”

  “Thanks,” Izzy said. “One more thing: Make sure to remind Mr. Carter to answer his cell phone when I call. If he doesn’t, I’ll be seeing both of you on Monday.”

  They had reason to be encouraged. The first series of explosions had been more convincing, and had received wider attention, than Shiva anticipated.

  A reporter for the Seminole Tribune, “Voice of the Unconquered,” had interviewed a number of people, including Shiva, for a story they were doing on the recent earthquake. Izzy didn’t know or care about the particulars, but Shiva had jabbered on and on because the Indian writer knew about Tecumseh right away; what he’d predicted.

  The real reason Shiva was so happy? It was because the Seminole Tribe of Florida were at least talking to him. They’d treated him like a con man right off the bat.

  That might impress the less savvy tribe of Egret Seminoles.

  Izzy was kicked-back, pleased with himself. He’d pulled it off. It had all gone so damn smoothly. And so far, the Feds hadn’t come snooping around.

  Not that it was all luck. No.

  First off, he’d taken the trouble to make certain Tomlinson, Ford and the Italian dick-Frank something-hadn’t eyeballed him when he was down there in the rock quarry, scoping out where to park the U-Haul while he was filling boreholes with ammonium nitrate. Which was a risky pain-in-the-ass, but had to be done.

  They hadn’t. Didn’t say a word about him when they were sitting alone in the waiting room.

  He’d taken his time learning how to do explosives, too. Did all the reading. Found out how to do it right. He’d put together a booklet of Bureau of Mines publications describing research on acceptable levels of underground disturbance. Cross the lines, you were inviting scrutiny.

  He’d also learned that there was a subscience to achieving maximum efficiency with fewer explosives by drilling several “shot holes” or boreholes in a precise semicircular pattern. The holes had to be five to fifteen feet deep or so, with small diameters. Then the boreholes had to be “stemmed,” or packed tight with rock.