by Carl Hiaasen
From the moment he first read those words, Sammy Tigertail had dreamed of shedding his plain life as a Chad and disappearing into the Big Cypress, hideout of Sam Jones and Billy Bowlegs and other heroes of the second war. Above all, the great-great-great-grandson of Chief Tiger Tail would not allow himself to be degraded and destroyed by the white man, a process he feared had already commenced during his suburban childhood. He planned grandly to recast himself as one of those indomitable braves who resisted the intruders, or died trying.
But then he was only a teenager, stoked with idealism and newfound native pride.
Now, re-reading MacCauley by firelight, Sammy Tigertail struggled to envision the noble and fiercely insulated culture so admiringly documented in those pages. He wondered what the journalist-preacher would say about the twenty-first-century clans that eagerly beckoned outsiders to tribal gambling halls, tourist traps and drive-through cigarette kiosks. For not the first time the young man contemplated the crushing likelihood that the warrior he aspired to become had no place to go.
As much as Sammy Tigertail cherished the Mark Knopfler guitar, embracing it made him think of the casino from whose garish walls it had been lifted. The great Osceola would not have allowed his people to put their name on such a monstrous palace of white greed; more likely he would have set a torch to it.
But Osceola was long gone, dragged in chains out of his beloved Florida and left to die on a dirt prison floor at Fort Moultrie, South Carolina. As for Dire Straits, the band had split up while Sammy Tigertail was still in grade school.
Morosely he closed the MacCauley book and reached for the Gibson. He didn’t feel torn between two cultures so much as forsaken by both. Soon, he knew, the spirit of the dead tourist would appear again. Sammy Tigertail was certain that what had happened to Wilson on the airboat was no ordinary heart attack; it had been arranged by the Maker of Breath, to touch off the events that now found the Seminole marooned on a mild winter night in the Ten Thousand Islands.
Obviously the high spirits were testing him.
Sammy Tigertail let his left hand wander up and down the frets of the guitar while he chopped at the strings with his right. For a pick he used a broken seashell, half of a pearly pink bivalve. The music he made was in its dissonance both melancholy and defiant, the bass notes pounding a martial beat. He played until his fingertips stung, and then he stretched out on the ground near the fire.
Before long he drifted off, lulled by the soft crackle of the embers and a breeze moving through the leaves. After a time his sleep was interrupted by singing, which he assumed was the ghost of Wilson returning to pester him. Who else would be warbling “Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer” in the sacred dead of night?
Yet Wilson didn’t show himself, and the unseen chorus began to swell. Soon Sammy Tigertail could make out several voices, some unmistakably female.
He sat up, realizing it wasn’t a dream—the wind had switched direction, bringing not only white man’s music but harsh bursts of laughter and acrid whiffs of lighter fluid. Hurriedly the Seminole arose and kicked sand over his campfire. Then he loaded his rifle and headed upwind into the darkness. He was not an experienced tracker, nor was he particularly light-footed in the bush, but his heart was true and his aim was improving.
Lily Shreave hadn’t expected to see her husband when she walked in the front door.
“What’re you doing here? It’s six-thirty—you’re late for work,” she said.
“I called in sick,” Boyd Shreave told her. “You were right. We need to talk.”
“Well, well.” Lily motioned him to the couch. “I’m gonna have myself a cocktail. You want one?”
Her husband said definitely not, and sat down. He felt steadier than the last time they’d spoken, having now devised a more compelling explanation for his monkish behavior. In a fog of vanity, Shreave believed that Lily’s simmering hunger for him was genuine. He would have been poleaxed to learn that she’d just returned from meeting a private investigator who was compiling evidence for a divorce.
When Lily returned to the room she was sipping a martini. She had also stripped down to thong panties as red as a pepper.
“So.” She put down her drink and straddled him. “Let’s talk.”
But Shreave couldn’t. He sat mute and immobilized as Lily planted both fists in his sternum and began churning piston-like against his crotch. That her gyrations reminded him of Eugenie Fonda wouldn’t have been so bewildering had he known that only an hour earlier his wife had been studying his mistress’s upright style of lovemaking on a videotape recorded by the private eye, shooting through a window of Eugenie’s apartment. Later, while viewing the tape, Lily had commented with clinical neutrality upon Boyd’s weak performance.
He wasn’t doing much better on his own couch. His wife’s uncanny mimicry left him numb with confusion.
“Lily, please don’t,” he bleated.
“Oh, just sit back and enjoy.”
“I saw another doctor today!” Shreave practically shouted. “The news is bad!”
Lily ground to a halt. “You went to a new shrink? Why?”
Shreave nodded somberly. “After what happened at the bagel shop, I was desperate. His name’s Dr. Coolidge.”
“Yeah?”
“He says it’s much worse than depression.”
“Go on.” Lily seemed in no hurry to dismount.
“I wrote it on a piece of paper. It’s in my pants,” he said.
“Right or left pocket?”
“Right one, I think.”
As his wife went delving for the note, Sheave squirmed. He had mixed feelings about the stubbornness of his erection—as reassuring as it was after the humiliating episode with Eugenie, it definitely sent the wrong message to Lily.
“Is this even in English?” She frowned at the lined scrap of paper she’d found.
“It says ‘aphenphosmphobia,’” Shreave said. He’d practiced pronouncing it all afternoon—the weird stuff you could find on the Internet was amazing.
“So, what is it exactly?” Lily didn’t sound nearly as concerned as her husband would have hoped.
He said, “Aphenphosmphobia is the fear of being touched.”
“By your wife?”
“No, Lily, by anybody.”
“Touched where?” she asked. “Just on your pecker?”
“Anywhere,” Shreave said impatiently. “Fingers, toes, lips, ears—all skin-on-skin contact triggers what they call a ‘phobic reaction.’ Could be anxiety, the sweats, even a panic attack. Dr. Coolidge says it’s a very rare condition.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet he’s only seen a handful of cases—get it? Handful of cases.”
“Oh, that’s hysterical.” Shreave was appalled at her heartlessness. What if he’d been telling the truth?
He said, “You think this is funny?”
“What I think, Boyd, is that you’re still hard.” Slowly she pressed down on him. “That means one of two things: Either you’ve been miraculously cured, or you’re totally full of shit. Here, let’s take off your pants and try a little experiment—”
Shreave bucked loose and bolted for the den, locking the door behind him. “Look it up yourself!” he called out. “A-p-h-e-np-h-o-s-m-p-h-o-b-i-a.”
Lily knocked lightly. “Open up,” she said.
“Not ’til you apologize.”
“Boyd, I’m sorry. I had no idea.” Lily was smiling on the other side of the door.
Shreave said, “And could you please go put some clothes on? This is torture.”
I’ll bet, thought his wife. “You chill out. I’ll be right back.”
Alone in the den, Shreave began to pace. Being rejected by Eugenie Fonda had imbued him with something that resembled determination, a trait heretofore lacking from his flaccid personality. A quitter by nature, Shreave now felt positively propelled. He was resolved not to let his girlfriend slip away, and not to be diverted by his wife in her fiery thong underwear.
The phone ra
ng on the desk. Shreave didn’t feel like answering; however, he’d been harboring an inane fantasy that his boss at Relentless would call to offer him a second chance. Of course he would demand his old cubicle next to Eugenie.
He picked up the handset. “Yes?”
“Hello, is this the Shreave residence?”
It was a woman. She sounded remotely familiar but then so did everybody these days. Shreave had calculated that during his call shifts at Relentless he’d conversed with at least seven thousand strangers, and had heard just about every kind of accent, dialect, pitch, timbre, drawl, twang and speech impediment on the planet.
He glanced at the caller ID, which read BLOCKED.
“I’m Mr. Shreave,” he said curtly.
“Oh, good. My name is Pia Frampton and I’m calling with a very special offer—”
“Save your breath, lady.” Shreave chuckled mordantly. In happier times he’d been working at the call center during the dinner hour, so he hadn’t had to deal with telemarketers phoning his own damn house.
“Please don’t hang up, Mr. Shreave. If I could just have a minute of your time—”
“You’re new at this, aren’t you, Pia?”
“No, sir—”
“Come on, tell the truth.”
“Okay, yeah. It’s my first week on the job.”
“Thought so,” Shreave said. “Free piece of advice: Don’t ever tell the sucker not to hang up, because all you’re doing is putting the idea front and center in his head. Just keep talkin’, okay? Stick to the script. And don’t beg for a minute of his time because then you sound desperate, and nobody trusts a desperate salesman.”
“Wow,” the woman said.
“It’s what I do for a living, Pia.”
“Seriously? You work at a call bank, too?”
“One of the biggest.” Shreave told her she had a nice voice, almost too nice for the phone.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Lacks authority. It’s too, I dunno, creamy-sounding.”
“Creamy?”
“See, the guys on the other end might want to date you, but that doesn’t mean they’re gonna buy whatever it is you’re selling,” Shreave explained. “Sexy doesn’t work when you’re hawking Krugerrands or discount equity loans. You ever thought about hiring on with one of those adult chat lines? I hear the pay’s pretty good.”
There was silence on the line. Shreave wondered if he’d offended her.
“I was just thinking,” the woman said finally. “Talking to you is just what I needed—all my friends said I wasn’t cut out for this job, and I guess they’re right. Thanks for being so straight with me.”
“Now hold on, don’t give up so easy.” The new Boyd Shreave, dispensing motivational advice. “Tell me what you’re pitching.”
“Real estate.”
“In Florida?”
“Where else,” she said. “West of Naples, on the edge of a swamp. Royal Gulf Hammocks is the name of the company.”
“Raw lots?” Shreave asked.
“Oh yeah. Underwater at least half the year,” she said. “That’s why they save the sales push for winter, when it’s dry.”
“Beautiful. What’s the deal—a free weekend, I bet. And all they’ve gotta do is sit through a sales seminar.”
“And sign a purchase option,” she said, “which you can cancel within thirty days, or so they promise.”
Shreave thought the pitch sounded stale. “It’s been done to death,” he told her.
“No, they also give ’em an ecotour,” the woman said. “That’s the newest angle.”
“A what?”
“A breathtaking ecotour through the Ten Thousand Islands,” she recited, “in kayaks.”
“Well, it’s different.”
The woman said, “I’ve heard it’s real pretty down there. You and Mrs. Shreave ought to go. Heck, you don’t have to buy a darn thing—like I need to tell you.”
“You get a commission on the sign-up?”
“Right, but it’s not much.”
“Never is,” Boyd Shreave said. She’d gotten him thinking.
“Travel included?” he asked.
“Yessir. Two round-trip plane tickets.”
“What about the accommodations?”
“A four-star eco-lodge,” the woman said. “If you can stand the sales push, it’s a pretty sweet deal.”
“Yeah, not bad,” Shreave agreed. He and Eugenie had never taken a trip together. They’d never even gone to a motel.
“Only thing is, the offer expires in two weeks,” the woman added. “That’s what it says here on the read sheet.”
Shreave heard the doorknob rattle, then Lily saying: “Let me in, Boyd. I promise not to touch you anywhere.”
Shreave covered the handset and told his wife he’d be out in a minute.
“Let me ask you something,” he said in a low tone to the telemarketer. “Are there really ten thousand islands, or did they just make that up to con the tourists?”
Honey Santana had ferreted out Boyd Shreave’s home number all by herself. Fry had refused to help, and then her brother had made up some fishy excuse, claiming he couldn’t track down Shreave’s lawsuit because the courthouse computers were down.
So, after talking Fry into letting her on-line, Honey had found a person-locator service that was offering a one-day trial—supposedly free, although she had to give a credit card number. Once the Web site was accessed, she typed in “Shreave” and got twenty-seven hits, including several repeats. There were three Boyds, four B.S.’s and two Lilys with the same telephone number and South Willow Street address in Fort Worth.
Honey timed her call for 6:45 p.m. in East Texas. She was hoping Boyd and his wife were in the midst of dinner.
I’m Mr. Shreave.
Honey knew it was him. That voice, dripping confidence and cordiality, was unforgettable.
She was caught off guard when he interrupted her pitch, but she rolled with it, letting him play the wise old pro. His description of her telephone style as “creamy” was amusing, since she’d deliberately softened her tone to sound different from their only previous conversation.
The moment he asked about travel expenses, Honey knew he was hooked. It was a total high; she was almost ashamed by how excited she felt. Now all she had to do was talk her ex-husband out of the plane tickets.
In the car Honey reached to turn down the radio, only to find that it was off. The music she heard was coming from inside her skull, one of the usual symptoms. Today it was two oldies—a wretched disco number, and the peppy “Marrakesh Express” by Crosby, Stills & Nash. The static, over which Honey had no control, was worse than on the Cuban stations from Miami.
Her mouth was dry by the time she pulled into Perry Skinner’s driveway. The house sat on the Barron River, up the bend from the Rod and Gun Club. It wasn’t a huge place but she liked its old, comfortable look. The floors and beams were made of real Dade County pine, which these days was practically impossible to find. Perry Skinner had purchased the house shortly after the divorce, Honey suspecting that the down payment was left over from his smuggling days. Three doors down lived a famous fishing guide who’d taught Fry how to cast for tarpon.
Skinner was alone on the front porch, having a drink.
“Where’s the boy?” he asked when Honey got out of the car.
“Track practice. He’ll be home around nine,” she said, letting Perry know she couldn’t stay and chitchat—she had a tight schedule.
He nodded toward a wicker rocking chair.
Honey sat down but made a point of not rocking. This was a business appointment, after all.
“Fry said you had some problems with the plane tickets.”
Skinner said, “Not problems, just questions.”
“All I need is two coach seats on American. I remembered you had tons of frequent-flier miles from visiting Paul out West.”
Paul was Perry’s older brother and former partner in the marijua
na trade. Thanks to his arrogant Tampa attorney, Paul got heavier time, and for spite the feds stuck him in a prison camp way out in Oregon.
Skinner said, “I can buy you the damn tickets, Honey. That’s not the issue.”
“Then what is?”
“Are you taking Fry somewhere? I’ve got a right to know—it says so in the settlement.”
Honey puffed her cheeks and blew out the air. “Honest to God, the kid’s like a mini-you. He asked me the same ridiculous thing.”
“So the answer is no.”
“A big fat capital N-O! What—did you think I was moving away?” she asked. “I wouldn’t do that to Fry. He loves it here.”
Skinner said, “I heard you quit the fish market.”
She shrugged. “There’s other things I want to do with my life. And don’t give me that sideways look of yours.”
Lord, he’s still a handsome guy, she thought. Nobody could ever say I didn’t have a good eye.
“Did Louis Piejack really grab one of your boobs?” Skinner asked matter-of-factly.
Honey Santana felt herself blush. “Word sure gets around. Yeah, but don’t worry—I fixed his sorry wagon.”
Skinner leaned close and whispered, “Hold still.”
Honey almost broke into a tremble, thinking he was going to kiss her, yet all he did was very gently brush a mosquito from her neck. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed.
Skinner said, “So who are the plane tickets for?”
“A couple of friends of mine from Texas,” she said. “I’ll pay you back as soon as I get another job. I already put in for cashier at the Super Wal-Mart in Naples.”
He smiled. “You don’t have to pay me back. And, no offense, Honey, but Wal-Mart ain’t ready for the likes of you.”
“Hey, I’ve been doing real good,” she said defensively. “Didn’t Fry tell you how great I was doing?”
“Still on the medicine?”
“Twice a day.”
“Because otherwise I’d offer you a drink,” he said.
“No mixing booze with the happy pills. Doctor’s orders.” It was the easiest part of the charade; Honey had never cared much for alcohol. “So, we’re cool with the tickets?”