Sanibel Flats

by Randy Wayne White

  A couple of times, he actually came close to confiding in her.

  Ford slowed his boat enough to look into Jessica's house. Lights were on and he could see the silhouette of wind chimes above the door transom and the outline of a cat in the window.

  He idled toward the dock, turned into the current, and tied off. The metal box he had found on Tequesta Bank was beneath the console, and he considered carrying it in with him, but did not. Jessica switched on the porch light and stepped out just as he was about to knock. She was wearing a white strapless dress and her hair was combed long over one shoulder. She looked very pretty, and Ford realized he had never seen her in a dress before.

  "Ford? That's you, isn't it?" She stepped out into the light, and Ford could see that her face looked different; decided it was because she was wearing makeup. She said, "I've been trying to get in touch with you all afternoon, kiddo. Where've you been? I called the marina twice and then boated over to your place. When are they going to put a phone in that house of yours—" She stopped suddenly and touched his elbow. "Hey, what's wrong? You don't look right. Your eyes look funny. You been drinking?"

  "Drinking? Sure I've been drinking. But just a quart."

  "You just look upset or something."

  Ford said, "I got no work done; I was bitten by a bird. Mostly, I just need someone to talk to. Someone with a clear mind and an objective viewpoint."

  "A bird?"

  Ford held his hand up for inspection. "A vulture. That was after a couple of dozen of them dropped their load all over my shirt. Smell it? So maybe I can get cleaned up and we can go get something to eat. Or maybe you just got back?"

  From the dirt road came the sound of a car traveling fast, and Jessica glanced at her watch. "Ah, damn it, Ford . . . that's why I was trying to find you. There's a party tonight on Captiva. A lot of New York exhibitors are going to be there, a lot of rich collectors. I've known about it for a month, and I wasn't going to go, but then Benny flew in unexpectedly. I wanted to ask you to take me, but I couldn't find you, so now—" She looked at the drive as a car turned in, still going way too fast. Dust was like smoke in the big car's headlights. "—so now I'm going with Benny. I told you about him, remember?"

  "No ... I don't think so."

  "Benny from the gallery. Benny."

  "Oh . . . right. Benny. That one." It was the name of a man she had said owned the gallery in Manhattan that handled her work; the man who had also once been her lover, or so Jessica had implied. Ford said, "Well, that ought to be fun, you two together again."

  She took his arm. "Don't be so damn big about it, Ford. Come on, at least meet him."

  Benny swung open the door of the rental car and came toward them, walking fast. He was as tall as Ford, leaner, black curly hair styled close to the head, tight jeans, bright floral shirt open to the sternum showing glittering chains among the mat of chest hair, the cosmopolitan look with body by Nautilus.

  "Jess! My God, it's great to see you!" Big hug and a kiss, arm thrown around her shoulder, taking no notice of Ford. "You look marvelous, just marvelous. Island life agrees with you. I've been telling everyone in the city you're in your Gauguin period, off in the sticks creating brilliant stuff."

  "No, no, nothing like Gauguin, but I do have a couple of new things. ..." Jessica was smiling, too, happy to be talking about her work, but perhaps not as happy to see him as her forced expression made it appear, and a little uneasy as she made the introductions. Benny became even more magnanimous, catching Ford's hand just right, squeezing too hard, saying "To hear Jess talk on the phone, she doesn't have a friend in the world on this little island. I'm damn glad you locals are around to keep an eye on her," putting Ford right in his place with a big grin.

  Ford said, "Well, us locals think the world of little Jess," giving the dryness an edge, but Benny was done with it, already leading Jessica to the car, saying "What is that smell?" and Jessica, glancing back, gave Ford a searching Are-you-going-to-be-all-right? kind of look.

  When Ford didn't respond, Jessica said to Benny, "Oh, those damn vultures. You get used to it after a while."

  Ford touched the throttle and the skiff jumped on a line through Dinkin's Bay toward a pocket of lights in the encircling darkness: the marina. He ran straight across the flats, not slowing until he came abreast of the double markers beyond the marina basin. His own house was a dim shape three hundred yards to the east: two small cottages under a single tin roof on ^ wooden platform, all built on stilts and connected to the shore by ninety feet of old dock.

  It was Friday night, clean-up and cocktail time. Fishing guides hosed their skiffs after working the late tide and live-aboards were beginning to circulate among neighboring houseboats, drinks in hand, smiles fixed, everybody smelling of shampoo and looking for a party. Someone had put speakers out on the dock so that Jimmy Buffett seemed to be erupting from the water singing, saying that, on the day that John Wayne died, he'd been on the Continental Divide.

  Two tarpon hung from the support over the cleaning table, one about eighty pounds, the other well over a hundred. With ropes passed through their gills they looked like giant aluminum herring, weird, misshapen, and Ford pictured the corpse. He stepped onto the dock thinking he could use a few beers, just as in the song, wondering where he had been on that day, the day that John Wayne died.

  "Hey, Doc . . . come here, I ga-ga-ga-got to show you something." A man in khaki shorts and a long-billed cap was waving for him, Jethro Nicholes, muscular, dark-haired, one of the fishing guides. Nicholes was an easy laugher, good-looking, just a little younger than Ford. His stutter had burred the ego points, made him seem boyish, gave him an air of vulnerability not normally associated with men who opened Coke bottles with their teeth. Jeth made Ford wish more people stuttered.

  Ford said, "Looks like you had a pretty good day out there,

  Jeth." His own voice sounded strange to him, oddly carefree. "You bring in both for mounts?"

  Nicholes was still motioning, wanting Ford to come the rest of the way down the dock, shaking his head as he said, "Naw, Ted Cole's boat got that one there; the littler tarpon. My people got this one. Hundred twenty-six pounds by the ma-ma-market scale. Older woman on my boat caught him, blond-haired woman." He was grinning. "God, what legs, Doc. Had me keep my arms around her waist part of the time. 'Fraid the ta-ta-ta-tarpon was going to pull her in. Had to concentrate like hell to keep my mind on the fish and offa what I could see when she leaned forward cause she had on one of those kind of blouses and didn't wear nothing underneath. I'm telling you, Doc, you wouldn't expect a woman her age to look like that. Lord, you'd need safety glasses, that's how those things stood up. And smell good? God da-da-da-damn she smelled good."

  "Smell's important."

  "Smell, huh? Like in biological stuff?"

  "Yeah. Did MacKinley say anything about the phone guy coming? They were supposed to have my damn phone in a month ago. "

  "Why would MacKinley tell me? If I want to see you, I can just holler out the door." He stared at Ford for a moment. "You mad about something? You don't look right."

  "I've been drinking."

  "Oh. Good. Hey, look at this. See here what I saved for you?" Ford had followed the guide to his charter skiff, a blue Suncoast with Jacks or Better in white script on the stern. He watched as Nicholes opened the forward fish box and pulled something out. "Nice little b-b-b-bull shark, huh? Hit a pilchard of all things. You still want 'em, don't you, Doc? For your fish-selling business, I mean."

  Nicholes was talking about the marine specimen business Ford had started, Sanibel Biological Supply.

  Ford took the shark by the tail and swung it over onto the dock, saying "Sure, I'll take the shark; I'll take all you can bring me." It was a male bull shark, about twenty pounds, and he could see that Jeth had clubbed it to kill it.

  Nicholes said, "Tell you the truth, I thought you were kinda crazy, starting a business like that. I mean, what kind of a person would want to buy old sharks and stuff
?"

  Ford was standing by the tarpon, wondering how he could ask Jeth not to club the sharks without hurting his feelings. He said, "Mostly it's organizations—colleges and research firms. I got my first big order last week. Minneapolis Public Schools ordered twenty-eight sharks all dissected and injected. They ordered some sea urchin embryology slides, too, but I can't get those until this winter when the urchins are gravid. I can fill the shark order, though. See, the good thing about an order like that"—Ford kept his tone airy—"I can dissect the sharks, color-code the circulatory systems, send them off, and still keep the brains. I'm hoping I get some orders for isolated brain mounts. That way every shark I get does double duty. I won't have to kill so many that way. "

  Nicholes suddenly looked worried. "Jeez, Doc, I didn't know you sold their brains. I clubbed the pa-pa-piss outta that little bastard. I didn't even know they had brains."

  "You clubbed him? Oh yeah, yeah, I can see now. You open them up after that and their nervous system looks like somebody glopped dark paint all over. Blood clots. I don't sell the bull sharks anyway; they're for my own work. But maybe next time—"

  "No more clubbing, Doc, honest to God. What happens, I bring them sma-ma-ma-mall sharks aboard and they get to thrashing around and the people just go wild, thinking Jaws, like they're gonna get their toes bit off. I swear to Christ it's like the white Amos and Andy Show. "

  "Maybe if you just stick them right on the ice."

  "Right, yeah, that's what I'll do. Stick them right on the ice. Hell, no p-p-p-problem. Hey, you see MacKinley, remind him he's got a package UPS delivered for you."

  Ford had been squatting by the tarpon, picking off the dollar-sized scales, inspecting the rings as Nicholes began to ready the fish for the taxidermist. Now he stood. He was expecting a shipment of Riker mounts and two dozen Wheaton specimen jars. "You want me to bring you a bottle of beer back, Jeth?"

  "Sure, yeah, if they got any left. That party's shaping up pretty good down there on the Chris Craft. They've been making ba-ba-beer runs bout every half hour. There's a convention of women doctors staying over at Casa Ybel. You know, the business-suit kind that don't wear no bras, like maybe they used to be rich hippies before their daddies paid their medical school. Things ought to get pretty lively tonight."

  Ford said, "Oh?"

  "Yeah. Women doctors ain't exactly bashful when they get a few drinks down them, and they're a thousand miles from the country club. I'm going to put on a shirt with those flaps on the shoulders and introduce myself as Captain Nicholes. You want to stick around? Bring your painter friend who lives out on the point?"

  Ford shook his head. "I want to open up this shark before he gets stiff. Besides, Jessi has a date tonight."

  "Oh, so that's why you're pissed off. I know just how you feel; especially a woman like that who lives off by herself and owns cats. Woman has one cat, she's just a pet owner. Woman has three or four cats, though, that's different. That's the type woman lives alone cause she wants to. I fell for a woman like that once. They shouldn't call it love, they should give it another name, like a disease, maybe."

  Ford was already walking toward the marina office as Nicholes added, "I'd rather have a ga-ga-ga-goiter than have to go through that shit again."

  MacKinley said, "They'll have your telephone in tomorrow." He was standing behind the counter counting money, enjoying it. MacKinley was a New Zealander who had sailed around, bummed around, before embracing free enterprise on Sanibel Island.

  Ford said, "I heard that two weeks ago." Then, replying to MacKinley's stare: "I know, I'm grumpy. Jeth already told me."

  "The phone guy said it took so long because they've been so busy they've been working overtime, plus they wanted to run the cable underwater, but it got too complicated with the permits and stuff. So the office finally said he could run the cable along your dock. They don't like to do that."

  "Can I get four dollars in change for the pay phone? And two quarts of beer. "

  MacKinley said, "You can use this phone if you want. "

  "It's long distance."

  "You can pay me when I get the bill."

  "The pay phone's okay, Mack. "

  "Oh, private, huh? You got a package and some mail."

  Ford said, "I'll be back in a few minutes."

  He dialed the number from memory. It was a Washington, D.C., area code, but the number would ring at a compound outside Williamsburg, Virginia. Because it was after normal business hours, a woman answered, saying "Federal Transportation Pool, answering service." Ford, who knew he was not speaking to the Federal Transportation Pool or an answering service, said, "Extension W-H two oh-one." The woman said, "Who's calling, please?" A year ago he would have replied with his cryptonym—something which had always made him feel silly. Now he gave his real name. The woman said, "I'm afraid the extension is busy. Can they return your call?"

  He gave her the number and stood in the neon haze of the booth watching moths, slapping mosquitoes, waiting. He was about to walk across the shell drive into the shadows of the mangroves to urinate, when the phone finally rang. A man said, "I have a message to call a Mr. Ford."

  Ford said, "I need to get in touch with Harry Bernstein, Central American Division, Branch One. I don't know what his cryptonym is anymore."

  "Branch what? I don't know what you're talking about. Did you want the Federal Transportation Pool?"

  "I'm on Sanibel Island, Florida. I'll be at this number between nine and eleven in the morning. If he misses me, telephone information should have my home number under new listings as of tomorrow. I hope. "

  The man said, "I think you must have the wrong number."

  Ford said, "Thanks. Tell Bernstein it's very important."

  Ford was still in the marina office when Jeth Nicholes returned from his upstairs apartment, nautical in khaki shirt with epaulets. It looked as if he had maybe washed here and there and combed his hair, too. "I'm wearing cologne," he told them.

  MacKinley said, "You might as well stay for the party now, Doc. Seems like the guests are arriving."

  Looking past MacKinley, who was behind the counter, Ford saw a group of women in expensive leisure clothes. Creased slacks and pastel blouses; vacation women with tawny, tended hair, drinks in hand, careful expressions of professional control on their faces.

  "I like women da-da-da-doctors," said Nicholes to no one in particular, all three men staring out the window. "They always look like they grew up taking vitamins and ba-ba-brushing their teeth."

  "Right," said Ford, "I know what you mean."

  Nicholes said, "Another hour or so the dancing'll start. Then about midnight the dirty doctor stories and maybe a little cryin' cause they've been through so much together. That kind of stuff. Then they're gonna want to swim in the bay, sure as hell. No clothes. That's when the real fun will start. You really ought to stay, Doc; find you a nice smart one."

  Ford said, "I've got to take a shower."

  "Now you're talking," said MacKinley. "Might change that shirt of yours, too."

  Ford headed toward the door, then stopped. "Hey, Jeth.

  How many people do you figure know the way into Tequesta Bank?"

  "Why, you want to ga-ga-go?"

  "No. I was just wondering, that's all."

  Nicholes looked at the ceiling, thinking. "All that shallow water, and there's only the one little cut takes you in, and that's not marked. Not many, I'd guess. Hardly any at all, if you don't count the commercial guys. Unless they were in a real small boat and didn't mind tearing up their prop. Anybody could make it that way."

  Ford said, "Thanks. I'll see you guys later."

  When he had left, Nicholes said, "I like Da-Da-Doc. He's an easy guy to get to know."

  MacKinley said, "Been nice having him around."

  Nicholes said, "Smart, too. But in a booky kind of way. The kind of guy who puts his hand in the fan cause he's concentrating so hard on the manual."

  After a time MacKinley said, "Doesn't say
too much, though. You ever notice? Just asks questions and listens. Ends up, he knows all about you but you don't know anything about him."

  "What's wrong with that? Ma-ma-ma-most people, it's the other way around."

  "Nothing wrong with it. Just an observation."

  Nicholes said, "Besides, what's there to know? He likes to wade around the flats, collect stuff, and bring it back for his microscope. Doc's idea of a home entertainment center is a six-pack of beer and a dead fish. A guy like him, you trust right away."

  MacKinley was nodding. "I was just saying he's different, that's all."

  THREE

  Ford went through Rafe Hollins's address book while he fired the little gas stove and made dinner. He dumped a can of black beans into a pot, flipped pages as he chopped onion, garlic, squeezed in lime juice, added cumin, and put coffee on to boil.

  He recognized seven names in the book, three of them from Central America. Only one of the names surprised him. Most of the entries were in ink, but his own name and the marina's phone number were written in pencil—an entry Rafe had probably made within the last few days. Ford leafed through the book searching for other penciled entries, and found two, both inserted above numbers written in ink. Ford reasoned that the inked numbers had been changed, and Rafe had penciled in the new numbers after calling information. Each of the numbers had a Sandy Key prefix, but he recognized neither of the names.

  He could hear Rafe saying "I got to meet some of my buddies from Sandy Key. Make a little money to finance this thing ..."

  Ford wiped his hands on his pants and went out the door across the roofed walkway and unlocked the room that he had converted into a lab. Against the far wall was a stainless-steel dissecting table angled slightly to drain. Above it on a shelf were rows of jars containing chemicals and preserved specimens: the comb jellies and nudibranches, the sponges and brittle stars, the octopi, anemones, and unborn sharks he had collected since returning to Florida. He switched on the draftsman's lamp and in a very neat, very tiny script, he noted five of the names, addresses, and telephone numbers on a yellow legal pad.