Sanibel Flats

by Randy Wayne White

  The bell didn't work, so he rapped on the door . . . waited . . . rapped again . . . waited . . . then followed the sound of thudding rock-n'-roll and the smell of chlorine to the screened pool behind the house.

  The pool water was the color of lime Jell-O, and a woman there lay on her back in a lounge chair, pale pink thread of bikini bottoms tracing the curve of her buttocks, pink bra top in a tiny heap beside the chair, heavy breasts taut in the heat beneath a viscous coating of oil, arms stretched behind her head to form a pillow, eyes closed.

  Helen Burke Hollins, Rafe's ex-wife, was spending this quiet afternoon at home.

  Ford had to speak loudly over the music. "Hello? HELLO?"

  The woman stirred lazily, reached for the drink on the table even before opening her eyes, saying "Come on in, babe—you're way early."

  Ford opened the screened door and stepped into the muted sunlight, replying "Rafe's funeral didn't last as long as I thought."

  Focusing her eyes, she said, "What?" Then: "Hey!" as she snared the bikini top and pressed it against her breasts, saying "Who the hell invited you in, buddy?"

  Ford said, "You did," trying to smile as if embarrassed, averting his eyes. "I didn't realize you were . . . not dressed. I'm really sorry, Helen. I had no idea."

  She had the top on now, squirming to get herself placed just so, standing to face Ford. "Who the hell are you, anyway? How do you know my name?"

  Ford was still smiling at her—the kindly stranger who had done a dumb thing. He started as if to answer, then said, "Man, Rafe was sure right. You sure are pretty," as if a little in awe. Which was a lie. Helen Hollins had mousy bleached-blond hair, a chubby little-girl face with thin pouty lips beneath the pink lip gloss, a bulb nose, and a thick layer of brown belly fat that rolled over the elastic of her bikini bottoms. From the way Rafe had talked, Ford had expected better. But the lie softened her; he could almost see the hostility drain from her face. She said, "You knew Rafe?"

  "Yeah. We were friends back in high school, then we did some work together down in Masagua. I thought I'd stop and see if you needed anything. I thought you might be at the funeral."

  "Not goddamn likely." She was back on the lounge chair again, sitting, taking a gulp from the tall glass and shaking a nearly empty pack of cigarettes. "You must not of talked to Rafe lately if you thought I'd be there. We didn't part on what you'd call the best of terms. The bastard. "

  Ford said, "Oh. I'm sorry. Rafe always spoke so highly of you. ..."

  "That's a laugh."

  "Well ... I didn't know. I hadn't seen him in more than two years, then I flew back into town just in time for another friend of ours to tell me about the funeral. It was quite a shock."

  Exhaling smoke through her nose, using her thumb to flick at the filter of the cigarette, she said, "What did you say your name was?"

  "Rafe used to call me Doc."

  "And you worked with him down there in Central America? You know what he did?"

  Ford said, "Same thing he did for Sealife Development, right?" Playing it coy, as if he knew the whole story.

  That made her snort. "He sure as hell didn't make the kinda money he was making spraying mosquitoes for a bunch of spies."

  "Different pay for different payloads, Helen."

  "And that's what you do? You fly?"

  "No. There's money to be made other ways down there."

  She liked that, the inference that he had money; staring at him, her eyes moving from his thighs to his face in appraisal, she began to smile. "Rafe was the type to always pull out the high school yearbook, brag about the good old days. I remember your picture. The handsome one. Rafe used to mention your name. Told me all about the wild things you two did." She let that hang in the air for a moment before adding "He said the girls purely loved you two. Said you had something to offer."

  Ford said, "Well, Rafe was always one to exaggerate."

  In the long silence that followed, her eyes took on a sloe, sleepy look, never leaving Ford's eyes, and for the first time, Ford could feel more than see what Rafe had meant that morning on the phone.

  That's what she does to guys....

  A bead of sweat fell from her nose to her chin, then down onto her left breast, and she wiped it away with a slow massaging motion of her right hand. Ford felt a stirring in his abdomen, and he watched her meaty thighs squeeze, then spread slightly as she said, "Hey, I'm not being much of a hostess. Let me get you a drink or something. Gin and tonic? A beer?"

  "Tonic and ice would be fine."

  She was standing, not bothering to adjust the suit now even though a blood-pink half circle of areola peeked over the thin bikini bra. "You don't look like any Boy Scout to me. Maybe just a splash of gin? Or maybe something you don't put in a glass. "

  "No thanks. I've got a long drive ahead of me."

  She had a high, girlish laugh. "Long, huh?" and was off across the deck, wide hips swinging on the pendulum of narrow back, thigh fat echoing the impact of bare feet on cement, sliding the glass doors open without closing them behind her.

  Ford released his breath, then laughed softly at himself. Loosen your belt, boy, and get some air to your brain.

  In his life, Ford had met four, maybe five women who had affected him in exactly the same way; women with that same quality of animal sexuality, a sexuality so strong that it bypassed the conscious fabric of awareness and struck some deep visceral chord. It had little to do with beauty. None of the ones Ford had known had been model material. They had been tall and gawky, lean and sharp, or ripe and doughy like this one, Helen Hollins.

  Rafe had said, "She smells like she wants it."

  From inside the house, the music changed from heavy metal to mainstream rock as the woman switched stations and lowered the volume, then called out, "Hey, you—Doc. Give me a hand in here."

  Ford stepped through the Florida room into the refrigerated chill of air conditioning, his eyes trying to adjust to the darkness. Plush carpet, heavy drapes, the chemical smell of synthetic fiber mixed with the odor of soiled clothes thrown on the couch and coffee table. Suburban decor beneath a layer of dirt. Then she was standing before him with that same sleepy look in her eyes, a bottle of tonic water in her hand, but giving him all her attention. "Can't get the damn thing open."

  Ford took the bottle, opened it with an easy twist of the wrist, trying to keep his eyes off her but not succeeding, and she said, "I know—am I cold or just glad to see you?" as she turned, brushing her hand across the front of his pants, and that quick she was in his arms, her mouth on his, stripping off the bikini top as if Ford just couldn't do things fast enough, her nipples sharp, hard projectiles against his shirt. She was whispering "God, laying out there in that sun, with all that oil on me, God, how I need it," but Ford was already pushing her away, holding her by the shoulders, his own sexual wanting replaced by a growing revulsion.

  He said, "Rafe said something about a little boy. You sure you have time for this?" hoping that would jolt her out of the mood.

  It didn't. "He's gone, babe. Just you and me in this great big house," and she was back in his arms, touching him, touching herself, mouth open . . . but then a banging sound came from outside, the sound of a car door shutting. "Oh, shit, it's Robert!" and she was hurrying to get back into her bikini top. "Hey . . . you—"

  Ford interpreted the blank expression. "Doc."

  "Yeah, Doc. Why don't you walk on out by the pool, have a seat. I was expecting this friend of mine, only—" She was walking toward the front door, glancing at the small gold watch on her wrist. "—only the shithead's early."

  Ford took the bottle of tonic and strolled back to the pool. He could hear the muted conversation coming from inside, then the woman led a man out onto the deck: a tall man, early thirties, with a tennis player's body to match the tennis shorts and sports shirt. Neatly styled brown hair, glasses, bookish face, and a cold look of disinterest until Helen said, "Robert, Doc and Rafe used to work together down there in Central America."
>
  "Oh? Doing what?"

  From the screened pool door he was about to open, Ford could see a blue Porsche in the drive. The judge who had railroaded Rafe had driven a Porsche; Judge Robert Alden, if his computer printouts were correct, a sizable stockholder in Sealife Development. Ford decided to take a chance. He said, "We were in the antique business," and got just the forced nonreac-tion he was hoping for.

  "Ah, well . . . that must be exciting." Suspicious, but not willing to pursue it.

  Ford said, "Depends on who you deal with," and stepped out into full sunlight as Helen took his arm, saying "Hey, wait—I'll walk you out. "

  At his truck, she glanced back at the pool, then held her mouth up to be kissed, but Ford touched his finger to her lips. "You'd better save some of that for later." Which she misinterpreted, winking. "The guy 's kind of a dud in the sack, so give us an hour or so to talk, huh? We've got some business. Then come back and the two of us can get some real exercise."

  Ford shut his door, started the truck, and smiled. "Don't bet your firstborn on it, lady. "

  He was being followed.

  The white car had come out of nowhere; must have been doing over a hundred, then slowed when it got on his truck's rear bumper. Looking in his rearview mirror, Ford recognized the white unmarked squad car and knew that the driver must be Sheriff Mario DeArmand. Image of a big, swarthy face, no hat . . . carrying a passenger with him, too; a man, but Ford couldn't make out the features.

  Judge Alden must have gone straight to the phone.

  Ford assembled a plausible story in his mind, expecting to be stopped.

  But DeArmand didn't stop him; just followed half a car length off his bumper, giving him a message, then slowed and turned away as Ford crossed the county line.

  Late that afternoon, Ford worked in his lab, finishing up the order for Minneapolis Public Schools, hoping the phone would ring. Once he had looked upon phones as little plastic invasions of privacy just waiting for an opportunity. Now he seemed chained to the damn thing.

  When he finished injecting the last shark, he laid them all out in a row on the stainless-steel table, savoring his handiwork. Like a carpenter reveling in his tongue-in-grooves, he felt kind of proud. He put the unpackaged specimens in laminated barrier bags, added formalin, sealed the bags, and boxed the whole lot. Then he typed out an invoice—Sanibel Biological Supply's first—and taped everything nice and neat, ready for mailing.

  It was after dark by the time he finished, and he decided to try Henry S. Melinski, the investigative reporter. It was possible—maybe probable—that Durell could get the governor's office interested in the malfeasance of Everglades County officials on his own. But Ford knew that while political appointees sometimes acted out of a sense of the righteous, they acted faster when publicity and righteousness were combined.

  Melinski wasn't at the paper, so Ford tried the home number again. This time, Melinski answered. He sounded bored; real bored and hard to impress. Yeah, he knew about the suicide on Tequesta Bank, so what? Sure, it was murder-—this guy Hollins murdered himself, right? Not joking, but not serious either; a man who had to deal with a lot of cranks on the phone.

  Ford said, "An anonymous caller told the police where to find the body. I was the anonymous caller."

  Which knocked some of the boredom from his voice, but Melinski still wasn't impressed. So Ford told him that what he saw on the island and what the Everglades County Sheriff's Department concluded didn't match up, and now he was pretty sure the governor's office, probably the Florida Department of Criminal Law Enforcement, was going to investigate. Melinski said, "Pretty sure they're going to investigate? To me that means you probably had a couple of martinis, decided to call Tallahassee so you could act like a big shot, and the secretary you reached at

  CLE was polite. What's this pretty sure bullshit? You're wasting iny time, mister."

  "Major Les Durell didn't think I was wasting his time. He's the one who's going to contact the governor's office."

  There were a couple of beats of silence. "Durell's in on this?" Impressed, but not wanting to show it.

  "You'd better ask him. Or you could wait for him to call you."

  "That'll be the day. When it comes to giving information, that guy's so tight you couldn't yank a pin out of his ass with a Land Rover. The question is, if Durell's involved, why do you want to let me in?"

  "Because Rafe Hollins was a friend of mine. "

  "So what? Friends send flowers. They don't call reporters."

  "The governor's office investigates criminal matters, not civil. And Hollins got a raw deal the whole way around. The judge who presided at Hollins's divorce hearing is having an affair with Hollins's ex-wife. Judge Robert Alden. It may have started before the hearing, I don't know. She's a drunk and a drug user, but she got full custody of their son. Plus all the money. Hollins kidnapped his son after an eyewitness described to him how this judge hit the boy and bloodied his nose. The boy, by the way, is eight years old. The eyewitness called the police, and I'll give you one guess how that went."

  "I don't need to guess. I know some of those wormy bastards on Sandy Key. They stick together . . . which is why we never hear about it when one of them slips up."

  "They slipped this time. Like the way they handled Hollins's autopsy and cremation. Plus what I saw on the island."

  "What did you see on the island?"

  "I can't tell you. Major Durell said if the people involved suspected they were under investigation, the case would be ruined. I was sort of hoping you'd just concentrate on the way Rafe was railroaded in the divorce. When that boy's found, they sure as hell shouldn't give him back to his mother."

  "Do you remember who you're talking to? I'm the reporter you called. You can trust me."

  "Durell said specifically not to trust any reporters with the information. He said they'd print it way too soon, blow the whole thing—"

  "Listen, buddy, I don't need some mystery voice or some Eagle Scout cop to tell me how to do my job. I've held more stories and hung more corrupt assholes—Hey, Durell didn't mention me specifically, did he?"

  "Well, your name came up."

  "That son of a—"

  "He said he didn't want you looking over his shoulder."

  "His shoulder? Well, it's a little bit late for that, chum. Let me tell you what I think. I think you and Durell are involved in a conspiracy to withhold state's evidence. There's a Sunshine Law in Florida, sport. Everything, and I mean everything, is public record. So you can tell me now, or I can hear it when you're on the witness stand, sweating out a felony charge."

  "You don't know who I am."

  "Shit. By tomorrow afternoon I'll know your shoe size."

  "You can't trace this call—"

  "Durell will tell me, Einstein. You think he's going to deny it after all I already know? He's tight, but he's not dumb."

  "Hey, look, I don't want to get in any trouble. I just want to help Rafe. But if you're not interested in the way he was railroaded—"

  "Do you have ears? Can't you hear? I'm interested, for Christ's sake. The corrupt judge, the druggie ex-wife, the father who wanted to protect his son so much that he was driven to kidnapping. Shit, it's great. But I want it all. And I want it all now."

  Ford was leaning back in his office chair, feeling sneaky— and not pleased with the feeling—but he really had no damn choice. Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young were on the stereo doing "Wooden Ships," nice and soft. Ford started wagging his feet in time with the music, saying "Well, if you really think I should ..."

  Within minutes of hanging up, Ford's phone rang. It was Les Durell. Ford said hello, then said, "Les . . . Les . . . Les . . . Les, let me have a chance to explain—" Then he gave up and just listened for a while, then he said, "Les ... I hope you don't have a blood pressure problem—" Then he listened some more.

  Durell said, "I thought it was understood you wouldn't tell anyone else, damn it! Now I'm going to have that—that vulture on my ass!
What I ought to do is just wash my hands of the whole business."

  Ford said, "Take a breath, Les. Take a big breath. Even you need to breathe."

  "I just can't believe you told Melinski. Just the damn stupidity of it!"

  "The power of the press, Les. If Melinski's good, he can expose things the law can't touch and he can print evidence the courts would never entertain—"

  "He could blow the whole damn thing by writing too soon!"

  "He was your choice. You recommended him. I got his name from you, remember?"

  "Like choosing my own poison. I don't like being tricked, Ford!"

  "You weren't tricked. I don't work for you, Les. I'm a private citizen who can do what he damn well pleases. What pleases me is making sure the people who set up Rafe get squeezed and squeezed hard—"

  "And I don't like being cornered! You know damn well I've got no choice but to follow this thing through now. Melinski knows all the terms: suppression of evidence, dereliction of duty, failing to arrest a confessed felon—you. If I don't find a way to hang DeArmand and his crew, that reporter asshole is going to spread my nuts above the fold right there on page one. You knew that. That's why you did it. At least have the decency to admit it."

  "Okay. I admit it."

  Durell groaned. "He's going to be goosing me along, second-guessing me every step of the way—"

  "Do you really think he's dumb enough to print too soon?"

  "That's not the point—"

  "Come on, Les. Do you think there's a chance he'll break the story before you're ready?"

  Durell was silent for a moment. Then he said, "No. He's a pain in the butt, but he's good. God, do I hate to admit that."

  "Then you really don't have anything to worry about—if you do your job. Besides, all you have to do is collect enough evidence to convince the governor's people they should get involved. That shouldn't be too hard."

  "Ford, do you have any idea how lucky you are you're talking to me on the phone and not face to face? I mean it. Do you have any idea?"