The Man Who Ivented Florida df-3

by Randy Wayne White

  Smart-alecky Indian; don't know when a person's trying to do something good for him.

  And Henry Short still hadn't arrived. Which wasn't so surprising, Henry being old and crazy both. But what the hell was he going to tell Miz Walker if he didn't show up at all?

  She'd walked up to him first thing and said, "Mr. Gatrell, I had other work planned for today, so you better have a very good reason for insisting that I be here this morning." That's what she told him, talking formally, but a little peeved, with that cop look in her eye.

  She hadn't much let him out of her sight since. She was always somewhere close by, with her pretty face and gray skirt and jacket.

  Tuck stopped as if to pet the dog, but really to take a look behind him, see if she was there.

  She wasn't. At least not that he could tell.

  That woman acts like she don't trust me!

  Otherwise, things were going like he wanted. The trailer park people were ready for the meeting. Lemar Flowers was, too, looking more like a judge than a lawyer with his black suit and leather briefcase. The only big disappointment Tuck had had all morning was that Marion hadn't arrived yet.

  Lemar had told him, "If that nephew of yours ain't here by noon, just go ahead without him. I never saw the point in the first place. It's not like it's an imperative."

  To which Tuck had replied, "You just do the thinkin', Lemar. That's what you're good at. But leave the planning to someone who knows how. He'll be here-I know that boy. We got the same blood, and he's almost as smart as me."

  But now it seemed as if Lemar might be right. Still no sign of Marion and, to Tuck, it was the biggest disappointment of the day.

  To the dog, he said, "Duke'll be here. You just wait and see," and tugged at the rope, telling the dog to follow.

  A couple of smart businessmen had brought little trailers that opened up into hamburger stands, and they had the flaps up, selling burgers and hot dogs and Coke. As he walked along the road, Tuck could smell the meat frying; made him think of the old county fairs that he'd loved as a boy but never got to go to much. His people were so poor.

  Tuck told the dog, "That's maybe what we'll do next. Open us up a restaurant. Potatoes and tomato gravy, and some Chinese food, too. When we get all this other stuff squared away."

  Near one of the hamburger stands, down by the bay, a television remote truck was parked. It had a strange corkscrew antenna sticking out of the top and cables strung all over the place. Tuck stopped and tapped on the side of the truck. When a man poked his head out the back, Tuck told him, "They want to start in about a half hour. You boys ready?"

  The man seemed a little miffed. "Perhaps I didn't make myself clear, Mr. Gatrell. You're not the producer here. I am. The meeting's not important to the piece we're shooting-"

  "I thought you wanted to interview Ervin T. Rouse."

  "We do. That's the point-"

  "Get him on camera, playin' and tellin' stories?"

  "Yes-"

  "Then the point is, Ervin'll be a lot more willing to give you the interview if you got your cameras set up for the hearing. I'm his manager, and you got my word on that." Tuck smiled sweetly at the man's angry expression, then turned away.

  In front of old Rigaberto's gas station, Tuck had built a nice stand so they could sell jugs of water. Well, he'd had the trailer park people build it, but it was nice just the same. Real simple, but right on the road, so it was the first thing people saw when they came around the sharp curve. Nothing fancy, just a plywood table, a chair, and a couple hundred milk bottles filled with springwater stacked behind. And a hand-painted sign tacked to the table that read:

  WHILE IT LASTS! GLADES SPRINGWATER

  $10

  Figured he'd start the price high, just to see how it went. They could always paint another sign. But these tourist people never even flinched, just took their wallets out and stood in line.

  Lloyd was sitting at the stand now, a couple of the Palm Valley women helping him. But there were only a half dozen people or so waiting to buy, so Tuck wagged his finger at Lloyd, called him over for a private talk.

  Tuck said, "Looks like business is starting to fall off a little, Lloyd. You been here all morning?"

  "I was over helping Dunn at the junk pile, so just the last hour or so. But it's been steady." Lloyd glanced over his shoulder. "You know how much we've made just since I've been here? Like four or five hundred dollars. Which makes it something like three or four thousand, total, just from yesterday and this morning. That's a lot of money."

  Thinking, We'd better make it while we can, Tuck said, "Sure, but we need more, a lot more. To get this place fixed up right, we need all we can get. Big Sky Ranch Fund, that's what I'm calling it. My lawyer's got the papers all fixed, making it legal. Takes money for lumber and paint, and to pay truckers to haul stuff. Say"- Tuck motioned Lloyd closer-"you been handing everybody one of them fliers Thelma typed, ain't you?"

  The flier, a single mimeographed page, began: "If you don't want the state to steal our springwater and all of Mango to boot, then make yourself noisy at the public hearing today…"

  Lloyd nodded. "Handing them out here and on the street, too."

  "You notice anybody coming back to buy more water once they used it?"

  "This is only the second day we've been open-"

  "After they tasted it, I mean."

  Lloyd was momentarily uneasy. "That's the thing. It tastes so sulphury. Like medicine, maybe that's what people will think. If it's good for them, they won't mind-"

  Tucker was saying, "Uh-huh, uh-huh, but I got this idea about using cherry flavor. I got a gallon of it up to the house. Just don't say nothing to the Indian about it-"

  "Joseph."

  "Yeah, he's real sensitive."

  Lloyd was nodding his head, agreeing with him. "You know, that's exactly what the women say about him. My wife, that's what she said. I guess Mr. Egret spent an hour last night showing her the barn, the horses, telling her stories. They sure like him. My wife seemed so cheerful after her tour."

  Tuck's eyes narrowed, reviewing what Lloyd had just said, matching that up with what he knew about Joseph's cow-hunter morality. But then he said, "Naw-w-w-w…"

  "Naw?"

  Tuck started to say, "Those ladies are too respectable," but then he remembered who he was talking with. "I mean, naw-w-w, 'cause they're such good women and they feel sorry for him, that's all. The poor old fool. But about that cherry flavor-"

  "Just between you and me," Lloyd said.

  Tuck said, "Mums the word," as he started to amble away, but then he stopped. "Oh, and there's one more thing. Them state park people want their table in the shade. The mango tree down by the water? You and the ladies get a minute-"

  "In the shade? The mosquitoes will eat them alive. That's where the bugs stay during the heat of the day. Even I know that."

  Taking his hat off to scratch his head, Tuck said, "Mosquitoes? Well, I guess that's true," like he hadn't even thought about it.

  He found John Dunn near the barn with some other men, sorting piles of trash in the junkyard. When Dunn saw Tuck stop and pull out his pocket watch at the crest of the mound, he called to him, "I know, I know, we've got to get cleaned up for the hearing. But while you're here, let me ask you about something."

  Tuck stepped through the fence into the pasture, listening to Dunn talk but not looking at him. He had his eyes on the bay, scanning the water, thinking, That damn Henry Short, I shoulda gone and brought him in myself!

  Dunn said something else, and Tuck said, "Huh?"

  "The way we're sorting this stuff," Dunn repeated. "You told me the things that would float or leak gunk, we'd pay to have that carried out by truck, right?"

  Tuck said, "We got the money for it. I was just down talking to Lloyd. A couple thousand bucks already, so we can get a crane in here and yank out the big pieces, yeah. Plus money left over." He was looking at the fly bridge of the ruined boat; the vines had all been cut away.

 
Dunn said, "And you want to make a reef out of the things that sink, so we're making a whole separate pile. But what about stuff like this?" Tuck had followed Dunn to the heap he'd created, watching him stoop to touch a twenty-foot length of rusty cable. The cable was an inch thick, freshly crusted with tiny barnacles, as if it had recently been pulled from the water. Clamped to each end of the cable were heavy grappling hooks. Tuck muttered, "Gawldamn!" as Dunn continued: "Something like this could tear the propeller right off a boat, couldn't it? Or ruin the underwater part of an engine? If a boat hit this, we'd be in a lot of trouble. Not to mention the people in the boat-"

  Tuck already had one of the grappling hooks and was starting to coil the cable. "Where the hell you get this?" He looked over his shoulder, hoping not to find that Angela Walker was still following him around, spying.

  "Inside that old boiler. It was filled with stuff, and I just… did I do something wrong?"

  "Hell, yes! I mean… hell, no." Tuck had the cable up, lugging it back toward the boiler. "What I mean is, you boys are working too hard at this. You don't have to be pulling stuff apart, looking at everything. I was talking generally; about the reef, I mean. Find us a good piece of deep bay water to dump this junk, give you folks a nice easy place to catch groupers and snappers. Plus save us the expense of trucking it out." Tuck dropped the cable into the boiler, thought for a moment, then piled more trash on top before slamming the iron door closed. "Just leave things as they is. I mean, the job ain't got to be perfect." Tuck's eyes surveyed the area again: barn, house, shade trees, people milling on the road, Lloyd and the women carrying the long table toward the mango tree, the state park people still sitting in their air-conditioned van. No sign of Miz Walker… but there was Marion, just pulling up in his truck, his blond hair all wind-scattered, wearing those thick glasses. Getting out with a manila folder under his arm.

  Tuck let his breath out, relaxed a little bit. To Dunn, he said, "You boys best get cleaned up now. When you talk to them park people, I want you looking like somebody."

  SEVENTEEN

  Ford was thinking, What the hell are you trying to pull, old man? He was looking into Tucker Gatrell's wild blue eyes. Stood there a minute or two listening to Tuck patronize him before finally cutting him off, saying, "The only thing I need to hear from you is the truth. Do you really want to keep your land, or are you trying to leverage the state into paying double what it's worth?"

  Ford didn't respond to Tuck's indignant reaction, but he almost smiled a little when Tuck said, "Your brain sure does come up with some strange ideas sometimes! Must get it from your daddy's side of the family."

  Ford said, "I need an answer."

  "Hell, it ain't even my land anymore. Most of it, anyway. Just a measly twenty-five acres. What leverage I got?"

  He sensed the slyness in the old man's voice; pointedly ignored the irritation it generated in him. Ford said, "I got the tests back you wanted me to do. The results can help you, or they can ruin you. That's why I'm asking. It all depends on what you want-"

  "Ruin me!" Tuck was laughing now. "Hell, boy, I been ruined 'bout a hundred times over. I'm an expert at ruin, which means I'm damn near fearless. So I hope you're not trying to scare me-"

  "I'm trying to get you to answer a simple question."

  Tuck patted Ford on the shoulder; took a look around. The waterfront was rimmed with people, some standing, others sitting on makeshift benches, all facing the table at which members of the Park Acquisition Board were now seating themselves. Tuck said, "Meeting's getting ready to start," and held an index finger to his lips.

  "You're not going to level with me, are you?"

  Tuck was silent for a moment, then turned to Ford. "I'll tell you this, boy. I'd rather fall down dead than see those shitheels take land that's always been mine." Tucker winked at him. "That right there is straighter'n I shoot."

  ***

  When Angela Walker spotted Ford standing off from the crowd's perimeter, listening to the Park Acquisition's staff introduce themselves, she thought, He's part of this? She watched him for a moment, standing there in his wrinkled khaki slacks and gray shirt, looking as if he'd just gotten off a boat. Maybe he had. Maybe he'd driven that fast jade-colored boat of his down all the way from Sanibel, then just stepped off onto the mud beach. Nice way to travel. No traffic, no stoplights. Just drive along looking at the birds and the dolphins until you got to where you were going. Easy, if you were good with boats and knew what you were doing. Scary if you didn't.

  Walker knew about that now.

  Each of the last three mornings, she'd rented a skiff from Barron Creek Marina, then headed out alone, going from island to island, looking for some sign of the missing men. Her plan was to follow the unlikely routes to the boundary of Everglades National Park. Start at the channel that led out from Barron Creek (Sandfly Channel, it said on the map), then head south. Trouble was, there weren't that many unlikely routes because a labyrinth of mangroves and shoals fingered out from the mainland, east to west, with no cut-through spots. Not that the map showed, anyway. To get around them, you had to drive a boat almost eight miles toward the Gulf, then turn left. Worse, it all looked so different when she was actually out there. Her boat, which had seemed sizable at the marina, shrunk down to almost nothing when the few channel markers ended, leaving her alone with all that water and sky and all those mangrove islands crowding in. There was something creepy about the look of mangrove trees. Their roots hunched up out of the muck like an old man's fingers, with a tangle of trees balanced on top. As if whole islands could crawl around if they wanted; could get up on those root fingers and walk. Like giant crabs.

  The second day, though, she had started to feel a little more comfortable about it. And yesterday, the third day, she'd actually enjoyed herself. She'd run aground a couple of times, but she still liked the feeling of driving a boat, being able to go anywhere she wanted. But she hadn't found a sign of the three men or the three missing boats. Not a thing. There was just too much area to cover, and too few routes to the park boundry.

  Plus, she kept reminding herself, almost all of it had already been searched. By boat or by air, most of the thousands of acres below Sandfly Channel.

  Which was when Walker remembered something Ford had said to her earlier, some innocent-sounding phrase that kept banging around in the back of her brain until, last night, lying in bed, she had finally isolated it. It had sat her straight upright, legs swinging out from beneath the covers, running to find the map. That quick, she knew where she would search; would have been out in the rental boat right now if Tucker Gatrell hadn't called her, saying, "You want a big boost for your career, show up in Mango for the hearing."

  Well, he was trying to use her,- she knew it. But she figured, give Gatrell enough rope, he'd hang himself. Not that she wanted that-strangely, she didn't. Still, the law was the law, and it was fascinating to play give-and-take with the old man, trying to guess just what he was up to, and why. And now to see Ford here…

  She stood looking at Ford; noted how miserable the park staff appeared beyond him, one man and four women at the table, all of them fanning at the peppered haze of mosquitoes that had formed around their faces. The man, who introduced himself as Alex Lon-decker, had thus far done all the talking, but he kept interrupting himself to slap at the bugs, so his sentences had a staccato rhythm, ruining whatever authority over the meeting he wanted to establish.

  Walker stood watching for a few minutes, then walked to her car and returned with a map of the Ten Thousand Islands folded in her hand. She tapped Ford on the shoulder, smiling at his expression of surprise as she said, "Somehow, I don't see you as the kind of involved citizen who attends public hearings."

  Ford smiled a little in return,-actually seemed kind of pleased to see her. "I'll let you know in a minute if I'll be sticking around." But what he was thinking was, All the dogs are closing on Tuck at once.

  "You're trying to help your uncle. That's why you're here?"

&
nbsp; "I'm not sure it's possible to help him."

  "But you'd like to. I mean, you're related. You'd like to help him if you could?" Ford was so hard to talk to!

  Ford listened to Londecker laying out the rules of the meeting, saying that citizens who were pro-park would speak first; the people against, second. Listened to Londecker say, "I'd like to stress again that wild claims about the beneficial qualities of… [slap]… water found on the land in question are a… [slap]… nonissue unless the speaker has legitimate scientific evidence to back up the claims." Then Ford turned to look at Walker and said to her, "You've met Gatrell. He's not an easy man to help."

  "I've got one way." She was unfolding the map.

  "A way to help you, you mean. Find the three men."

  "I know he's involved. You know it, too." She could see Tucker Gatrell over near the table, standing beside a white-haired man who, in his dark suit, looked like an old-time preacher.

  Ford said, "No, you're wrong. I don't know that." He was thinking, But I assumed it from the beginning.

  "Look at this." She handed him the map. "There was something you said to me a week or so ago. It was the way you said it, talking about the missing boaters. 'Why would they turn north to go south? Maybe you should look at a map.' Something like that. It kept bothering me."

  Ford had taken the chart; was unfolding it to see the familiar swirls and hedgerows of beige-green on blue. All those islands. "Oh?" he said.

  "The thing that bothered me was, you grew up here. Or so your uncle told me. Why would you need a map?"

  "Some people live here ten years, they still need a chart."

  "Not someone like you. So I just kept going over it in my mind. Why would someone turn north to go south? Last night, I figured it out." She touched a ginger-colored index finger to the chart. "See here? About a mile out of Sandfly Channel, you turn north… curve in and out through these little islands. What's that, about five miles? Almost due north. Then turn back east about two miles until you come to this tiny little cut-through here."