Sanibel Flats

by Randy Wayne White

  From the near distance came the sound of sirens.

  Ford stepped over and kicked Willis on the sole of his sandal. "I hear you're thinking about pressing charges, fat man."

  Willis looked up groggily, pressing a towel against the flaps of split skin. He slid back slightly when he saw Ford. "You just wait . . . just wait till my lawyers get through with you. You and this crummy marina and that idiot fishing guide—he's guided his last trip. You have no idea who you're dealing with, buster. No fucking clue."

  Nicholes was glaring at him. "Don't worry about it, Doc. He started it. We all saw. They can't ta-ta-ta-touch my license for this."

  Ford said, "You go right ahead, fat man. Stir up a lot of trouble. If you do, I may just have to call your wife. Your number won't be hard to get. The marina has the name of your motel, and the motel will have your address back in Ohio."

  "My wife . . . ?" He struggled to his feet. "Now just what in the hell does my wife have to do with—"

  "Remember the waitress you made a fool of yourself over the other night? Or was it last night? Well, she's a friend of mine, Willis. If your wife doesn't believe me, I'll have my friend tell her. What was it you said to that waitress again?"

  "You son of a bitch—"

  "Let's go, Mr. Willis." One of the junior execs had him by the arm, trying to steer him away. "I think we ought to go before the cops get here. And you're going to need some stitches."

  Willis jerked his arm away. "He's bluffing. Can't you see that? He doesn't know the waitress."

  "Then how did he find out? Come on, Mr. Willis. I think everyone here agrees we should go."

  "Bullshit! You think I'm going to let this creep suckerpunch me and get away with it! I'm staying right here—"

  The junior executive took him by the arm again, but much harder. "Willis, for once in your life, just shut that big mouth of yours and do what you're told. I'm not going to stand around and let you embarrass us more than you already have. "

  One of the other men took the other arm. "He's right, Mr. Willis. I'm getting a little sick of it myself. Let's go."

  They half walked, half pushed Willis to the parking lot. The police pulled in just as they started their car.

  Watching, MacKinley said, "I think it's time for Mr. Willis to think about a career move. Those men are never going to look at him the same again. And word spreads fast in a corporation."

  "Damn, Da-da-doc, damn ..." Nicholes was back in his skiff, moving things that didn't need to be moved, burning nervous energy. "We lucked out. That bastard woulda had us in court all year, and I ca-can't afford no lawyer. It's a good thing you know that waitress."

  Ford was rubbing his ribs. "I don't know the waitress."

  "What? You're ka-ka-kiddin'?"

  MacKinley studied Ford for a moment; reappraisal time. "I'm surprised you'd take a risk like that"—he looked at Nicholes—"being the nice, quiet soul you are."

  Ford said, "With a guy like Willis, there was bound to be an offended waitress somewhere on the island. It wasn't much of a risk."

  "And honest, too. Not the least bit sneaky or shifty."

  Ford said, "If you guys don't mind, maybe you could help me find my glasses?"

  Ford was lying on his bed in the stilt house. He wanted a beer, but his ribs hurt too badly to get up, and there was a fly buzzing around and he didn't want to deal with that either. His elbow hurt and his knees ached from the fall he had taken. His hands were fine, though. He'd learned a long time ago never to hit anyone with his hands unless he absolutely had to. Ford looked at his fingers without moving his head, wiggling them. Yep, they were fine.

  The door of the next room banged shut and a man pressed his face against the screen. "All done, Dr. Ford."

  "That's good."

  "Nice black phone, just like you asked for. Desk model. I put it on your desk."

  "Ah, the desk."

  "Sure you don't want a call-on-hold model? Or maybe redial? Push a button, redials last number you called. Now the cable's in, I can do anything you want. We got all kinds of models. Mavbe match the decor."

  Still not moving his head, Ford considered the ceiling and the walls. They had gray phones? There was no decor to match. "No, thanks. Black's just fine."

  "Dr. Ford, you don't mind some advice. Well, I saw you lay it on that guy with the big mouth. Best thing to do after something like that is make sure you keep moving, get some kind of exercise, maybe do some work. You don't, you're not gonna be able to get outta bed tomorrow."

  Ford shifted his eyes enough to see the man standing at the screen. "You really think so?"

  "Absolutely. I saw the spill you took. Made me hurt from where I was standing. But I'll tell you, that guy didn't have much experience to take a swing at you. Those wire-kinda glasses you wear and those baggy clothes might fool some people, but me, I take a look at a man's shoulders and his wrists. Guy your size, the asshole was just plain nuts."

  Ford was wondering how the telephone man would react if he asked him to get him a beer.

  "Anything else I can do for you, Dr. Ford?"

  "Ah . . . no, nope, not a thing. I'm going to get up and do some work here pretty quick. Maybe go for a run."

  "Best thing in the world for you. Well, enjoy. Your phone works fine. Have a nice day."

  Ford closed his eyes. "That's nice."

  FIVE

  Bernstein called at dusk, just as Ford finished dissecting ten of the twenty-eight small sharks he needed to fill the order from Minneapolis Public Schools. He'd taken the phone man's advice and gone to work. Why not? Phone men met knowledgeable people every day, and probably gleaned all sorts of useful information while buckled onto those poles, listening in on private conversations. He'd forced himself out of bed, did sdme pull-ups, dove off the dock and swam for twenty minutes, out to the first spoil island and back. Halfway in, he felt something brush past; something big and mobile, in the water right there beside him. Ford stopped, his heart pounding, but then this huge creature ascended, exhaling foul breath, looking him right in the eye. It was a manatee, about half the size of a Volkswagen, and Ford began to laugh, spitting water.

  "If you're looking for romance, you're blinder than I am."

  The sea cow submerged, rubbed past again, then came up behind him whoofing warm air.

  Ford swam the rest of the way with the manatee following, goosing him along. He got out, changed clothes, began to ready the dye and dissecting instruments, and the manatee was still there, hanging around the stilt house, stirring the water with its huge fluke tail. He'd had manatee come up to his boat and rub themselves before, but never anything like this—of course, he hadn't swum with many sea cows.

  He watched the animal for a while; watched it finally swim away, then took the ten sharks from the cooler. Small blacktip sharks, one to three pounds, their bodies cobalt colored, as if sculpted in metal. He worked carefully with scissors, scalpel, and dissecting pins, laying open the bodies and exposing the circulatory systems. He used red dye for the arteries, injecting the latex slowly into the dorsal aortas to begin, watching the efferent branchial arteries take definition like the branches of red rivers. He used blue latex for the veins and yellow for the hepatic portal system, enjoying the precision of the work; everything nice and neat, clear to the eye and the mind. He packaged the sharks in formalin and laminated barrier bags for shipping, and was just cleaning up when the phone rang. It was Bernstein, 1,800 miles away, but a clear connection, only a slight echo.

  "Buck! I'm glad you called. I appreciate it; I really mean that."

  Harry Bernstein said, "The message I got said it was important so, sure, what you expect?" Dour, suspicious, Bernstein was a tall, effete Texan who spoke Spanish with a drawl so southern that he sounded like Slim Pickens in a badly dubbed movie, so everyone called him Buck. He spoke English, though, without accent, or in black dialect when he was angry. With a black mother and a Peruvian father, Bernstein had been pulled in all kinds of directions, social, ethnic, and sexu
al. He had taken Ford's post in Masagua; hadn't liked it then, and there was no reason to think things had changed. Ford knew he must tread lightly.

  "I heard you're doing a great job down there—"

  "You haven't heard shit, man. You're calling 'cause you want something. What you want?"

  "Come on now, Buck. You've got no reason to be mad at me—"'

  "Reason to be mad at you? Man, I got no time to be mad at you. You been reading what's going on down here? Bombs going off, taking hostages, shootin' people in the streets. Even your buddy Rivera is losing control, his goddamn guerrillas up there in the mountains splitting into all kinds a' factions."

  "My buddy? Juan Rivera was never my buddy."

  "Helped him start a baseball team for Christ's sake. And you the one got them uniforms, balls, bats—"

  "Buck, Buck, what's more American than baseball?"

  "Rivera's a damn communist, man. But you out there taking the hit-and-run signal from him, tellin' him when to squeeze bunt and double steal. Aiding and abetting the fucking enemy, you ask me. Playin' pepper with guerrillas ..."

  Ford said that's what they needed to talk about, the guerillas, and he was about to tell him about little Jake Hollins, but Bernstein, still angry, cut in. "And you aren't going to say a word about President Balserio, are you? Man's gone off his rocker, walking around in robes talking about stars and moons and shit. Whatever it was got stolen from the Presidential Palace got him crazy. Happened on your watch, but you think me and my people can find out what it was—"

  "Everything I know is in the files, Buck. You're taking this stuff way too seriously."

  "Seriously my brown ass! Mayan artifacts got stolen, that's all you wrote down. Mayan artifacts. That's all it was, why he so worried? Why things so crazy up at the palace? You know his wife's retreated to the convent? Hasn't seen anyone for ten months—"

  "Convent? Which convent? I need to get in touch with her—"

  "That's just what you don't need to do, man. Balserio won't give me the time of day, but he still sends aides around every now and again to inquire bout you. Where's good old Ford? Ev'body liked Ford. His Excellency like to see that man again. They smiling but got firing squad in their eyes, and you wonder why I think you know more than you're telling? A fucking looney bin is just about exactly what this place is. But not a soul in the world blames you . . . Shit."

  Ford said, "Look, Buck, listen for just a second, will you? Take a deep breath, okay?"

  "I don't need no deep breath. Just tell me what you want."

  "What I want is just a little of your time. Okay? The son of a friend of mine was kidnapped. By some group in Masagua. Indios. Smugglers probably, maybe guerrillas, I don't know. I just found out yesterday."

  "They just kidnap him yesterday?"

  "No, five, maybe six days ago. I'm not sure about that either."

  "Why'nt you ask your friend for more details, do this thing proper, Ford? Go through the right channels for once—"

  "My friend's dead. The proper chain of dialogue is to contact the FBI herej and they contact Balserio's law enforcement people. What good will that do? Most of Balserio's people are on the smuggler's payrolls, and they couldn't find the guerrilla camps even if they wanted to—which they don't. ''

  "But the FBI would contact the CIA people down here on the sly. They'd find the boy. You listen to me, go through channels, let the CIA take care of it. Leave me alone."

  "If your son had been kidnapped, would you want the CIA trying to help? They'd send in a squad of marines, automatic weapons, and air support."

  "I don't have no son."

  "Come on, Buck, you've got to help me on this. The boy's only eight years old."

  Bernstein said he didn't have to do anything; the kid was no concern of his; he didn't like kids anyway.

  Ford said, "I didn't ask you to help, Buck. I said you've got to help." He let that settle, listening to beeps and echos, the silence of long-distance telephone.

  "Are you trying to blackmail me?" Speaking slowly, the black dialect disappeared. "You're out of your mind if you think you've got something on me. I have a clean file, man. I know that for a fact—"

  "Buck, I would have never used this. Never in a thousand years. But we're talking about the life of a little boy here, the son of a friend of mine ..."

  "You son of a . . . you had me followed, didn't you?"

  "I didn't say that."

  "Those first two weeks I was down here, I kept thinking someone was following me, but I thought, shit, they got no reason. I was on vacation, man, my own private time—"

  "This is important to me, Buck. I never wanted to use it, and I'll never use it again."

  Bernstein said, "Well, you try using this, you sneaky motherfucker," and slammed the phone down.

  Ford returned to cleaning the dissecting table, thinking maybe he had misread Bernstein, not given him high enough marks, but then the phone rang almost immediately, and Ford knew he'd read him just right.

  "Ford? Buck. Ah . . . sorry about getting mad like that. I mean, you just really pissed me off. Let's admit it, that was a pretty shitty thing, having me followed."

  Ford was looking through the window of his lab: The sun was a great gaseous orb of fire; the bay, molten. At the marina, the dock lights were just coming on: pale, pale rays on a lake of bronze. He said, "I do admit it, Buck, and I'm sorry. That was pretty crummy, trying to leverage you like that. I should have known you're not the type to tolerate it."

  "Well, yeah, I guess that's my rep, not being an easy guy to push."

  "I was stupid to even try."

  Bernstein said, "But I was thinking about that kid. You know, out there in the jungle with those Indios, probably seeing blood sacrifices, watching them go crazy on psychedelic mushrooms and . . . well, Christ, the kid's probably scared shitless. "

  Ford was still looking out the window. At the marina, Jeth Nicholes and the other guides were washing their boats, another charter done. Across the bay, Tomlinson was meditating on the bow of his sailboat, sitting naked, blond hair hanging down. Naked? Yeah, no doubt about it, naked. Holding a stick of incense, too. Ford said, "The boy has to be scared, Buck. Like I said, he's only eight."

  "Look, for someone that young, and the kid of a friend of yours . . . he's dead you say? Your friend."

  "As of yesterday. Murdered."

  "The Indios that took the kid?"

  "I thought it was a possibility. But not now. He was murdered by someone around here. In Florida."

  "For the son of a friend of yours, I guess I could help. I don't know what got into me. This mess down here just has me mean or something. What do you want me to do?"

  Ford had Rafe's address book by the phone. "You have something to write with? I want you to check out three names for me. Ready? The names are Julio Zacul, Raul Arevalo, and Wendy Stafford. Find out where they are, what they're doing, if they know anything about the boy. I know the last two personally, but Zacul only by reputation."

  "I know Zacul by reputation, too, man." Bernstein pronounced the name Zack-COOL, giving emphasis to the Mayan guttural, like a growl. "He's one of them that split away from Rivera; got his own band of guerrillas. Zacul got the boy, he's probably already dead. How the hell am I supposed to get in touch with him?"

  "You can talk to people who know Zacul; people who've worked for him. Come on, Buck, there's nobody around better than you at that sort of thing." Ford wondered for a moment if that might be a little strong, too obvious, then decided not to bother qualifying it. Bernstein wouldn't recognize flattery. "Another angle is, whoever has the boy is smuggling something out of the country or into the country. My friend was flying for them."

  "All the guerrillas smuggle stuff into the country and out of the country. They send out dope or refined coke, and bring in raw coca leaves from Peru. Or guns."

  "It may have been arms, but my friend told me it wasn't drugs."

  "Maybe he was lying."

  "Maybe. Write this down
, too: My friend's name was Rafe Hollins. He could have used an alias down there, I don't know. The boy's name is Jake Hollins. Brown hair, brown eyes, cleft chin."

  "Looking for a brown-eyed, brown-haired boy in Masagua. That's just great. Aren't too many of those around. " The sarcasm returning as the submissive Bernstein began to fade; an asshole to the end. "And what do I do if I find him? You going to come down and get him out?"

  "I had to sign papers saying I wouldn't return to Masagua for two years, you know that. Company rules. Besides, you say Balserio's men are after me. That I don't understand at all. They have no reason." Ford listened carefully, gauging Bernstein's tone.

  "Ah, shit, I don't know. Maybe I said that cause I was mad at you; overreacting. They just keep asking, that's all. Maybe they think you can help them find whatever it was that was stolen." A little too airy; Balserio wanted him, all right. Then: "But why you need a visa, man? Just fly into Guatemala, sneak across the border. Get in touch with me. No one has to know you're here. Not even our own people."

  Ford thought, Right, so you can have me arrested, put me in some Masaguan prison for twenty years. He said, "That's a good idea, Buck. Maybe the best idea. We can talk about it. But first you need to locate the boy."

  "And what about that other matter—my first two weeks here? Man, that really was some shitty thing to do, I hope you know."

  "What I'm going to do right now is type up a memo on my old stationery, in triplicate. I'll postdate it, make it a week before you arrived, and say I received word Rivera's people were considering plans to intercept you, give you a powerful narcotic, then photograph you in various compromising positions, all staged, all without your knowledge or cooperation—"