Sanibel Flats

by Randy Wayne White

  There had been no hint of desperation in Rafe's voice then. But it was evident on the phone that morning. Ford had stood at the marina desk looking out at the glittering elliptic of bay, listening while Hollins worked his way into whatever it was that was bothering him, talking about his wife like some cocktail lounge comedian. "She used my charge cards like Monopoly money. The mailman had to think she was having an affair with a guy named J.C. Penney. J.C. was probably the one guy she didn't hump. That woman handled more tallywhackers than an army urologist. And I was so busy traveling around, trying to earn enough to keep her happy, I never found out till later. Silly me."

  There was the sound of traffic from Hollins's end, the wind-wake of passing trucks: Hollins was calling from a phone booth. Ford had already decided it was because he needed money, and he tried to gentle him along, saying "If there's anything I can help you with, Rafe ..."

  There was a pause, and Hollins said, "Good ol' Doc. Christ, we used to get ourselves into some shit, huh? Goddamn high school and all that stuff seems about a million miles away." The careful thread of control was beginning to unravel, his voice wistful. "Remember after that game in Key West, we marched up to Customs House in our uniforms, and you had everyone stand at attention and salute while we stole the flag? I thought we'd go to jail for that one for sure, but naw, no way, not with you. Told the cops all about flag etiquette, and there shoulda been a spotlight on the damn thing at night, and they ended up apologizing to us for interfering. God, I never met anyone could think on their feet like you, Doc. I used to tell the other chopper pilots in Nam that I had a friend back home could think his way outta any kind of shit, had balls that clanked when he walked."

  Ford said, "So this call's about old times, Rafe? If it is, let's meet someplace and get a beer."

  "Well, it's more than that."

  "I know." Still looking at the bay, Ford's eyes had come to rest on the little house built on stilts thirty yards from shore—his stilt house now. It was a pretty little house with very thick walls (before modern refrigeration, it had been used to store ice and fish), painted gray, with water all around it and a rust-streaked tin roof. Ford said, "If you need money, I've got some."

  Hollins, uneasy now, said, "I never could bullshit you, Doc. So, okay, I'm in a jam, but it's not money, not really. It's something else."

  "Then let's hear about something else. "

  "I need someone I can trust. You believe all the years I lived here, I come up with exactly one name: yours. Plus, you speak Spanish good—"

  "Spanish? Ah, Jesus, Rafe—"

  "You lived long enough in Central America, that's what you told me that time—"

  "This can't be legal—"

  "Guatemala, you said, and Costa Rica, too. Come on, Doc, everything's legal down there but peeking up the Pope's skirts and certain kinds of murder. But it's nothing like you think. See, I got involved with some guys, real hard cases, and they owed me a lot of money; money I earned, but they wouldn't pay up. So I took something of theirs to make sure I'd get paid. Like collateral, only without their permission. Now they've taken something of mine, and I have to get it back. "

  Ford said, "I knew it wasn't legal."

  Hollins's tone changed, taking an edge. "I didn't think it'd bother you so much. After that time I ran into you in Costa Rica, I called the American Embassy in San Jose, trying to get your address. They said you weren't registered. Said you'd never registered. So then I called the embassy in Guatemala City. They said they'd never heard of you either. Alien residents have to register with their embassies, Doc—that's not the kind of thing a guy like you'd overlook . . . unless there was some reason you didn't want them to know you were around. So then I talked to some of the Americans I met. Funny, in those kind of places Americans always know about each other. But I only found one who knew of you—and she said you had a real good reason for not being on the books."

  Ford said nothing for a moment. He picked up a pen and began to doodle on a tide chart, drawing tiny sharks and starfish. He said finally: "Okay, I'll listen, Rafe. No guarantees, but first I want you to tell me one thing. I want the truth, too. This problem of yours, does it have anything to do with running drugs? If it does—and I'm not kidding—you can count me out right now. I mean it." Jethro Nicholes, one of the marinas fishing guides, was sitting behind the desk reading Field & Stream. When Ford said "drugs," Nicholes looked up, mildly interested.

  From the other end of the phone came a snort of laughter, derisive, self-directed. "It's not drugs. Shit, nothing that simple. "

  "Then what?"

  Hollins said, "I'd rather tell you about it in person."

  "I'd do anything for you but go to jail, Rafe. Tell me now."

  "Okay, okay. I guess I owe you that. Let's see ... it started with the divorce. My ex-wife got me over a barrel, man. She went into court wearing braids, looking like some kind of virgin homecoming queen. This young judge took one look at her and the horns started to grow. Sweat on his upper lip and everything, like he wanted to grab her by the hair and drag her off in his Porsche. You never saw her, Doc, but that's what she does to guys; God knows, she did it to me. I mean, she smells like she wants it.

  "The son-of-a-bitchin' judge gave her everything: froze my assets, even got the bonds I'd been assembling to convert into a trust for my little boy. Then he provisoed my visitation rights on an alimony payment about the size of Great Britain's debt. If I didn't pay, they wouldn't let me see my son."

  Ford had already heard most of this from old acquaintances. He said, "And that's when you began to press these other guys for the money they owed you. "

  "No, not right off. I still had ways of making money, money on the sly the court couldn't touch, but these guys owed me, damn it; owed me a bunch, and I wanted it. If they paid me, I wouldn't have to worry about alimony and all that shit for a long, long time. But I didn't start pressing till I'd taken something from them to sort of use as a bargaining tool; like I said: collateral. I knew I had to give them a good reason before they'd pay me 'cause they are first-rate dangerous; real bad cattle. After I got the collateral, that's when I began to press. I had to have the money, understand? That's why I pushed so hard. But then . . . then the money didn't matter so much anymore, but I still had the collateral. Hell, I didn't know it was that important to them. I kept it like a sort of insurance. "

  "Why'd the guys owe you the money?"

  "I was flying for them."

  "Not drugs."

  "No. No way."

  "And what did you steal?"

  "A couple of things. It's complicated. "

  "I've got an orderly mind. Try me."

  "I'll tell you—just not right now, okay? Not on the phone. See, it's not the money. I don't give a damn about their money anymore. That's not why I need your help. It's my little boy." Hollins's voice thickened, the emotion evident, and he paused to clear his throat. "Not being able to see my son was the real killer, Doc; the final straw. He's a really great little boy. Jake, that's his name. Throws lefty and hits from both sides, and he just turned eight. After the divorce, I stayed in touch with the old neighbor lady across the street to kind of see how things were going. She's a nosy old lady and doesn't miss much. Helen—that's my ex-wife—she was sleeping with a different guy about every night, this old lady said. Different car in the drive almost every morning. Said Helen would lay out by the pool in her bikini all day, then go off at night. So I figured she was staying wired most of the time—vodka, dope, coke; she liked it all. And her with an eight-year-old boy at home.

  "I called this old lady about two weeks ago, and she was real upset. Said that morning Helen had walked some guy outside to kiss him good-bye, and Jake came wandering out, still in his pajamas. Said she could hear Helen yelling at Jake to go back inside, and Jake started crying so this guy gives my boy a slap and bloodies up his nose. The son of a bitch hit my son, Doc! The old lady called the police, but the guy turns out to be the judge who railroaded me. They're not going to
touch a judge, of course, plus I've never been what you'd call A-one popular with all them Yankees on Sandy Key. That did it, Doc. I mean, I went fucking nuts when I heard that.

  "I got a plane back to the States that night and waited until Helen left the house. Poor little Jake was there all alone, and he was so damn happy to see me. I didn't exactly know what I was going to do till. I got there. Then I knew. There wasn't any doubt once I saw him."

  Ford said, "You took him." He had heard that already, too.

  Hollins said, "You're goddamn right I took him." Still angry, but desperate, too. "Jake helped pack his own suitcase, that's how anxious he was. I knew of a secluded spot on the Pacific coast of Costa Rica where no one would bother us and I could rent a place that had enough pasture to make a decent airstrip. Flying's my business and I'd done some work down there off and on over the last three years. But you already know that—hell, you're the one that give me the names and got me started. A buddy flew us cargo commercial to Mexico, then another pilot friend flew us down the rest of the way because I knew we couldn't get into Costa Rica without our names ending up on a computer someplace. There's a nice little village out there on the Pacific coast, and there's a school and nice kids, and I figured Jake and I could just live there, say screw the rest of the world. You can't blame me for that, Doc."

  Ford said, "I don't blame you, Rafe. But it's called kidnapping, which is federal. And taking him out of the country is going to make them want to lock you up and melt the key. "

  "You think I give a shit about that? I grew up with a drunk for a mother. I wasn't going to let it happen to Jake. But Christ—" This last came out in a rush of pure despair. "—I never thought those Central American bastards would take Jake to get back at me. Hell, it never entered my mind the stuff I had was that important. "

  "They took your son? Who?"

  "Masaguans. The Indios. You ever deal with those people? Now they've got my little boy."

  Ford exhaled, a noise of disgust. "And you think you're going to work out a trade with them?"

  Hollins said, "I've got to," his voice charged, near panic. "And it's got to be soon. They've already had him four days, and it's driving me crazy thinking what they might be doing to him. See, I can't go to the feds. What am I gonna tell em: I kidnapped my son, then someone kidnapped him from me? They'd throw me in the pen—which I wouldn't mind if it got Jake back safe. But the feds don't have any pull with those Indios. Up there in those mountains, the way the Indios stick together, they'd never find the men, let alone find Jake. It's got to be me, Doc. I'll give 'em their damn junk back. I'll do anything just so long as they give me Jake. But I need someone to help. If I tried it alone, they could cut my throat, take their stuff, and still keep my boy. See? I need a hole card. I need you."

  Ford said, "Jesus, Rafe. Of all places—"

  "Come on, Doc, come on. This is serious. I need help, man."

  "That's the one place I can't go back to."

  "What, they got a warrant out?"

  "No, it just wouldn't be smart for me to go back. Not now."

  "You're saying you won't help. I'm trying to get my son back, and that's what you're telling me?"

  In the abrupt silence, Ford thought Hollins was about to hang up. He said quickly, "Okay, okay. Where do you want to meet?"

  "You mean it?"

  "But you're going to have to tell me everything. Understand? I'll help, but I need to know everything. Then maybe I can find a better way. We can figure something out."

  Hollins said, "Christ, this has all gotten so crazy I can't even think anymore. It's like I'm losing my mind, the way everything's just gone all to hell at once."

  "Sometimes it can seem like that."

  "You got some time tomorrow?"

  "I've got time today."

  "Naw, tomorrow. Meet me on Tequesta Bank."

  "The island? Couldn't we just meet at a restaurant or something?"

  "I got people looking for me, remember?"

  "Okay."

  "Say . . . late afternoon, about six? I've got an appointment with some a my old buddies from Sandy Key; got to make a little money to finance this thing. Meet me at six, and I'll tell you about it. Everything."

  "Tequesta Bank. Up on the mounds."

  "Right. Just like old times. I've been kinda camping out there, keeping a low profile."

  "The FBI's already after you?"

  "Someone's after me, but it's not the FBI I'm worried about."

  "Then who?"

  Hollins said, "Doc, I've got more enemies than a Dallas whore with herpes. So it's hard to say."

  Ford stepped out of the skiff, dropped the anchor in the bushes. He could see a boat hidden in the mangroves down the creek. The wedge of bow suggested a small trihull, a piece of junk Rafe Hollins would never have owned by choice.

  The path leading into the island was overgrown, no wider than a rabbit trail. It twisted through mangroves and up a steep shell hill. Jungle crowded in beside him, above him, and there was the smell of heat and vegetation like wood ash and warm lime peelings, an odor that was pure Florida. For just a moment, the smell of the island brought it all back; made it seem as if he had never been away, back when he and Rafe were teenagers and had adopted the island as a sort of second home. Rafe's mother was a drunk, his father a commercial fisherman. Ford had lived with his uncle, an ex-triple-A pitcher who picked up the bottle the day his contract was dropped. Rafe and he had pretty much come and gone as they pleased.

  They chose Tequesta Bank because of the Indian mounds and because it was uninhabited and no one was likely to bother them. They'd built a cabin on the highest mound and they had had beer parties and brought girls and sometimes just sat looking at the stars, the two of them, talking on the high mound by a campfire which flickered in a wind that blew straight out of Cuba.

  Ford ducked under a spider the size of his fist. He stopped and watched the spider longer than he normally would, impatient with the charge of nostalgia, wanting it to fade. He noted that the spider was rebuilding its web, the upper half first, and that it was a golden-silk spider, a female that had recently made a kill. Probably some kind of butterfly judging from the orange dust clinging to the hair on her legs. What was butterfly dust called? Prismatic-something . . . prismatic scales, right. He stood looking at the spider; stood in the silence of his own heartbeat, his own breathing, the whine of cicadas; stood wondering why Rafe had yet to yell some greeting; realized that something really might be wrong. Eighteen years ago it could have been the prelude to a practical joke: a surprise party with a keg of beer and half the football team stashed in the bushes. But not now. Not after the urgency in Hollins's voice. Rafe was here and he was alone and he had yet to make the first sound.

  Why?

  Down the mound, the path disappeared into shadows.

  Ford leaned and picked up a chunk of old conch shell, discarded it, then picked up a broken limb about the size of a baseball bat. Carrying the club, he moved quietly through the brush and up the highest mound, his heart pounding.

  When he got to the top, he stopped again. To the west was the bay. He could see the domino shapes of condominiums on the barrier island that fronted the Gulf of Mexico three miles away: Sandy Key, the island where Rafe said he had lived. Back in high school, Sandy Key had been an undeveloped spit of land just beyond the county line, a good place for parties because it was outside the jurisdiction of the local sheriff's department. Now there was a causeway and the steady thunk-a-thunk of heavy construction. To the east was the grove of avocado and gumbo limbo trees where they had built the cabin. Ford stepped into the shadows of the grove, surprised to see the rotted walls of the cabin still standing and at how small it seemed; surprised that someone had thrown fresh palmetto limbs over the top . . . and then he saw what he knew must be Rafe Hollins and nothing could have surprised him more than that.

  The Rafe Hollins Ford remembered best was still eighteen, long, lean, with a Kirk Douglas chin on a hell-raiser's face and hands
that could palm a basketball. This Rafe Hollins was not a man but a thing, a bloated creature with a huge gray head and a shrunken distended body turning slowly in the late-afternoon shadows, his arms slack, his eyes dull slits, hanging from the limb of an avocado tree with a rope around his neck.

  Ford stood motionless for a time taking it all in but still not making any sense of it, thinking Come on, Rafe, come on, say something because this is one poor excuse for a joke....

  The vultures not in the air were perched, looking heavy as bowling balls in the sagging trees. A black vulture with a cowl like an Egyptian priest dropped down onto Rafe's shoulder, and the rope creaked as the bird's head rotated to feed.

  "Hey . . . get away!"

  The vulture lifted away unconcerned as Ford ran toward it. Two more birds landed on the ground behind him, their gray heads as high as Rafe's knees. Ford whirled and threw the club just to scare them. Threw it above them, but one of the vultures tried to fly at precisely the wrong time and the club caught it across the chest. The bird spun to the ground with a guttural scream that set off the other vultures and they all flushed from the trees at once, making a noise in the leaves that sounded like rain but, Ford realized, was excrement.

  He covered his head for a moment, then didn't even bother because it was useless to try. The injured bird continued to thrash, making it impossible to think about anything else, so he chased the vulture down, penned it with his foot, fought the beak and the six-foot wingspan, and snapped its neck, trying to make it quick and painless. Then he stared at the fresh gouge on his hand, thinking I survive two revolutions and a hemorrhoid operation so I can come back to Florida and die of infection from a vulture bite. Boy.

  He slung the bird back into the bushes, wiped his hands on his pants, looked up. Rafe Hollins turned in the breeze to face him then turned away again, his expression like something Ford had once seen in Amazonia, Peru, a shrunken head with its lips sewn shut, that same look of humiliation, of total submission. He stared at the corpse, which had once been his best friend, wondering why he felt no grief, none, only a sense of loss like seeing something useful wasted, nothing more. Only a few weeks ago an artist friend of his, Jessica McClure, had said, You've got a cold, cold eye, Ford—her talking in that analytical, dreamy way, half prophet, half Ph.D. The way you study all the data trying to make it fit because you won't abide anything that can't be weighed or measured. Trouble is, some things don't fit, never will fit, but you still go plunking along collecting pieces, weighing the evidence, trying to neaten up a world that seems way too emotional and untidy. . . .