by Tom Lowe
I glanced throughout the dining area. I estimated that less than twenty people sat around the tables, eating or sipping cocktails, beer, or glasses of wine. Each table had a circular top, made of wood and, at one time, used by the power company as large spools to store electrical wire or cables. Now they were stained the tint of molasses, shellacked, and flipped over in vertical positions. Four adults could easily fit around each table.
I scanned faces, knowing I’d recognize Joe Thaxton and his wife from having seen them on television. And, I knew Roland Hatter. They were not here. I wondered if Dave had delivered my message to them. Maybe they couldn’t stay. Pressing appointments. No sweat. From what Dave had shared with me, on first glance, it seemed that the Thaxton’s would be better served letting local police conduct whatever investigation needed to be done.
I walked over to the bar, Max camping to the right, quickly getting the attention of Flo Spencer, the owner, who was working behind the bar as two college-aged girls waited tables. “Hey, Sean,” she said. “Max beat you to the bar, and it’s not even happy hour yet.”
“She left her watch in the Jeep,” I said. “How are you, Flo?”
“Good. It’s been a great season so far. Long as the tourists keep comin’ the beer and smiles will be flowin’ and that’s why they call me Flo.” She laughed.
For a woman in her late fifties, I thought Flo Spencer maintained herself well. She wore her dark hair up. Smooth oval face and eyes that usually reflected humor. She’d, no doubt, been striking in her youth. Flo ran a tight ship, giving high school kids their first jobs, and life-skills advice. She was a savvy businesswoman who hired good cooks and bartenders, and she paid them well. There was very little turnover.
She asked, “You and Max eating or getting something to go.”
“Actually, we’re meeting someone.”
She glanced down at Max. “Well, let me give Max a little snack.” She picked up a paper plate next to one of the draft beer dispensers, a half-dozen fried shrimp and two hushpuppies on the plate. “Since Maxine is a puppy, she ought to be allowed to have a hushpuppy, right?”
“Sure, but let’s keep her to one,” I said. “She has to save room for whatever Nick Cronus is cooking.”
“When Nick retires from fishing, I hope he’ll cook here, even part-time.”
A sunbaked fishing guide, whiskers bleached, deep creases around his eyes and mouth, laughed, a smoker’s hack deep in his lungs. He leaned back in his stool and watched Flo toss a hushpuppy to Max, the food never hitting the floor. “Does she ever miss a catch?” he asked, adjusting his billed cap.
“Only ground balls. Never flies,” I said.
He laughed, lungs wheezing, lifting a sweating bottle of Blue Moon to his parched lips, two fingers on his right hand yellowed from nicotine. He looked at me and said, “Roland Hatter was tryin’ to find you a while ago.”
Flo popped the cap off a bottle of Sam Adams and set it on one of the server’s trays with an order of steamed garlic shrimp. Flo looked at me. “It’s a couple, man and wife. I think Roland is givin’ them a tour of the marina. Maybe they’ll be back. I recognized the guy. He’s the fella runnin’ for office. Can’t remember his name, though.”
I said, “Give you a hint. He says he’s not your average Joe.”
“That’s it! Joe Thaxton. He’s on a roll, bringing the water pollution in Florida from the back burner to the front, and that pot is starting to boil baby.”
The fishing guide looked up at a TV screen above the bar next to a sailfish mounted on the wall. He pointed to the screen. “Speakin’ of water pollution, news is on, and it looks like they got a story about that subject. Can you turn the sound up a little, Flo?”
She nodded, reaching for the remote control and raising the volume enough for us in the corner of the bar to hear it. A reporter in her mid-twenties, shoulder-length hair, stood near a mangrove estuary and said, “This is the area where Johnny Nelson was said to have contracted deadly bacteria that took his life. You can see the Sanibel Causeway in the distance. Nelson’s wife told authorities that her husband was using his cast net in that water behind me when he accidently cut his leg in the shin area. An infection took hold quickly, and in spite of the doctor’s best efforts, Nelson succumbed to the infection, one that’s labeled flesh-eating bacteria known as vibrio vulnificus. County and state water quality officials say they periodically test these waters, as well as many of the beaches in the state and put up warning signs if they find higher than safe bacteria levels in the water. There are no danger signs in this immediate area, and we’re told its been months since the water was tested. Amber Nelson spoke with us because she wants to warn others, especially parents of children.”
The image cut to an interview with Amber Nelson, her eyes reddened, puffy, standing in her front yard, a weeping willow tree in the background. “My husband didn’t deserve this. If there are high levels of pollution and bacteria in the water, why aren’t there warning signs posted? I will never step into that water nor will my child. My husband survived heavy combat in the marines only to die at home when he was throwing his cast net and got cut in the water. What’s in our rivers, bays and estuaries? Why does the water turn green sometimes? Who’s responsible? All I know, right now, is my son lost his father, and I lost my husband … forever.”
The video cut to a middle-aged man dressed in a sports coat, button down blue shirt, no tie, standing in front of the county health department. The graphic in the lower part of the screen read: George Tenny - Florida DEP. He said, “We test as many places as we can with the manpower we have. Conditions for toxic bloom areas are more prevalent in the summer as the water temperatures rise. We advise anyone going in the water to make sure they don’t have open cuts or immune systems that may have been weakened.”
The reporter asked, “After the death of Mr. Nelson, would you suggest that people stay out of this area where he was cast-net fishing?”
“That would be sound advice, at least until we can finish testing water samples for the bacteria. People should understand that these things are rare and cyclical. There could be one high bacterial count at a certain depth, and on the other side of the estuary the water will be fine. Between the beaches, lakes, rivers and estuaries, Florida has more than eight-thousand miles of shoreline.”
The image cut back to the reporter standing near the water, mangrove islands in the background. She said, “Johnny Nelson was a decorated Marine who saw combat in two tours of duty in the Middle East. The tragic irony is that back home, an enemy he could never see, microscopic bacteria, killed him. He leaves behind a wife and baby son. Johnny Nelson was to have turned twenty-six next week. Now back to you in the studio.”
I could feel someone walk up behind me. I turned, and the man said, “We couldn’t help but overhear that tragic story. That’s one of the reasons I’m running for office. I’m Joe Thaxton and this is my wife, Jessica.” His wife stood to his left and smiled at the introduction. Roland Hatter stood to his right, arms folded, fishing cap just above his eyebrows. Thaxton said, “Roland here tells me you’re Sean O’Brien. We’ve been looking forward to talking with you.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Within a few minutes, I could see how Joe Thaxton appealed to his supporters. And, after a half-hour, I knew a lot about his personal and professional life. We sat at a table in the back corner of the Tiki Bar, Joe, his wife Jessica, and Roland Hatter. I sipped black coffee and listened to Joe tell me about the reasons he’s running for office. His passion for clean water couldn’t be faked. His research data as a marine biologist and his practical knowledge as a fishing guide with twenty years of experience brought a convincing package to the table.
“I tried my best to get other folks to run,” he said, stirring his coffee. “I was more than happy to work in the shadows if a good man or woman wanted to take the reins. But nobody would step up to the plate. My parents raised me to be part of the solution. And that’s what I’m trying to do.”
&nbs
p; Jessica said the decision for her husband to run for office had been a joint one, and it wasn’t reached without a lot of soul searching. “Our daughter almost died,” she said, both hands holding a cup of coffee. She motioned across the restaurant to the TV behind the bar. “And now look at what happened to that man who was simply tossing a cast net and caught a lethal infection from a flesh-eating bug in the water. These things can’t be ignored anymore. Do you have a card, Mr. O’Brien?”
I pulled a card from my wallet and slid it across the table to her. “Please, call me Sean.”
She smiled picked the card up and looked at it. “It just has your name and phone number. It doesn’t say what you do. What is it you do, Sean?”
“Fish, mostly.” I smiled.
Roland Hatter said, “He fishes for people and stuff that’s lost or hidden. Sean’s a private eye who keeps a low profile.”
I smiled. “That means I’m fairly selective about the jobs I take. Often, the reason is simply that the parameters of the job are beyond the scope of what I think I can do for someone.”
Jessica licked her lips. “I hope you can help us. I don’t think the scope is too broad.”
Roland Hatter tilted forward, his hands splayed on the top of the table. “Sean, you should have seen that crowd down in Stuart. Joe’s gettin’ one hell of a big following.”
Joe smiled. “When we jumped into the race, we had no idea how much this message would resonate with people. In terms of the environmental health of our state, Florida’s sick and getting sicker when it comes to its beaches, rivers and lakes. When you mix chemicals in Lake Okeechobee, the decades of pesticides and fertilizers pumped back in the lake from agriculture, when that combines with septic waste and is flushed down river, it can create this toxic soup of a blue-green algae that looks like an alien life form. It becomes a strange, creepy kind of dystopian world where the rivers and beaches are literally dying before our eyes. Somebody has to standup to the status-quo, to the political machine that’s fueled by agriculture and Big Sugar money to keep on doing what they’re doing. I’m pulling back the curtain on this problem, and the corporate interests want to stop me.”
I nodded. “On the newscast, I saw the damage to your truck. Do you think the people you’re spotlighting are behind this?”
“Yes. I just don’t know who they are in terms of names or how far up the chain it goes.”
Jessica said, “We’ve received threats on the phone. All have come from untraceable phones.”
“Are they death threats?” I asked.
Joe’s eyebrows lifted. “Not specifically, but that’s implied. Stuff like … we’re watching you, and now’s the time to shut up or get shut up. Does that mean they’re going to rough me up if I continue with these issues, or are they going to make an attempt on my life? I don’t know.”
Jessica said, “The last time, the caller said they knew where Kristy, our daughter, goes to school. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back.”
Joe nodded. “And our friend, Roland, suggested we get in touch with you, Sean. We need to hire a good private investigator to look under the rocks for us, and hopefully to expose who it is that’s doing these despicable things. Would you take the job?”
“What are the police doing?”
“Not enough,” Jessica said.
Joe added, “They got more involved when my car was damaged, not once but twice. The tire slashing, keying the paint, and then pouring water and sugar in the gas tank. I’ve installed security cameras around our home. Hopefully, they won’t try that again with our truck. But we’re concerned they might try something even worse.”
“Was it the same caller each time?” I asked.
“We’re not sure,” Joe said. “It’s always been a man. Some of our volunteers at campaign headquarters have answered the phone and heard the calls. They’re brief. Less than ten or fifteen seconds. Just a short, terse, ominous warning. Telling staffers to tell me to back off or else.”
“Have you personally received the threats?”
“I received one call on my cell phone. There was no caller ID. The guy said sweet revenge happens when I cross the line. Before he hung up, he said next time it won’t be sugar in the tank … that maybe my car might explode. He used the words … ‘go boom.’ Then he hung up.”
I nodded. “You need to work with police … try to get the calls recorded, traced, or both.”
“The police tell us the quick calls came from burner phones, making it hard to find the culprits. Police are doing extra patrols around our home, day and night. Yes, threatening calls are a crime, and we’ve been on the receiving end of vandalism, but it’s as if an attempt on our life has to happen before any real investigations will be done by law enforcement.”
“In other words, Sean,” Roland said, “looks like the cops are too busy with other stuff, and they’re not making this a high priority. We can’t wait for some knee-breaker to come outta the shadows and attack Joe, Jessica or their little girl.”
I said nothing, the unique rumble of Harley-Davidson engines in the parking lot. I watched one of the waitresses deliver tall mugs of beer to three men at a table, charter boat crew members, who appeared to have just returned from a few days at sea. Peanut shells tumbled like confetti from their table to the floor, falling on beer stains long ago etched in the slats of pine as if a drunken artist left discolored knotholes in the wood.
Joe sipped his coffee and looked up at me. “I really need to concentrate on the campaign, the message and the solutions to what’s really a state-wide problem. It’s especially bad from Lake O south through the Everglades. I have nothing against responsible farming. My grandfather farmed three hundred acres near Thomasville, Georgia. And he did it without polluting the creek that ran through his property. I’m backing all of this up with the latest research and scientific data. Some of it I’m conducting. I fly my drones for visual observations, take water samples for analysis. And, I work with independent labs to analyze results.”
I listened to Joe as three bikers took seats around a table. Lots of black leather, tats, fur and girth. One looked at the jukebox in the corner, got back up and fed the machine quarters, punching selections. Before he could sit back down, Creedence Clearwater Revival started belting out, Have You Ever Seen the Rain.
Joe said, “I believe farming and clean water can co-exist, we just need to work together to reach an amicable solution that keeps as much pollution as possible from our rivers and beaches. Antiquated septic tanks near rivers add to the problem. Sean, we’ll pay you whatever you normally get for your time and expertise. Can you take the case?”
I leaned forward, looked at Joe, Jessica, and Roland, shifting my eyes back to Joe. “First, I’d like for you to understand that I fully support the mission of your campaign. A workable solution to this problem is long overdue. If I lived in your district, I’d vote for you. Based on everything you all have shared with me, I don’t think I’m the right guy for the job. You might want to look at hiring a company that can provide security personnel—bodyguards and surveillance. I’m not that person. And, the bottom line is that it really is a police matter on the local level.”
Jessica pursed her lips. “But they’re not taking us seriously—we can’t wait until someone takes a shot at Joe or tries to blow up his truck.”
I nodded. “I wish it could be part of an FBI investigation because they have the advanced electronic sophistication to better track criminals who are primarily using digital sources to deliver threats. I will suggest this to you, though … continue doing what you’re doing with the passion you’re displaying. The greater your profile grows and the more awareness you bring to the situation, the less likely those people will be able to do something to you because they’d be the first criminal suspects should harm come to you or any member of your family or campaign staff.”
Roland blew out a breath. “Damn, Sean. I wish you’d reconsider. I know you’re like a bulldog when push comes to shove, at least
that’s what I’ve heard.”
“I’m sorry. I wish I could offer more.”
Joe smiled. “I understand. It is what it is. Do you have children?”
“No. Max is the closest I have to a child.” Max cocked her head and snorted.
Joe chuckled. “She’s got a fine personality.” He stood, glancing out the open window to the marina. “Ponce Inlet may be north of Lake O and a lot of the discharge we’re having down there, but if phosphate, pesticides, and waste continues to flow into these estuaries … this is part of the Indian River waterway. If that happens, I wouldn’t let Max go close to the water. She has small lungs. The fish go first. Then the mammals, such as manatees, start going belly up. Max and little animals like her could get awfully sick. And then it’ll be our turn. Look what just happened to the man on the west side of the state. He was attacked by something he never saw coming. And, in the art of war, when that wins … we, the people, are the losers. Dead rivers, lifeless stinking beaches and oceans create a dying planet. Sean, we appreciate your time here today.”
I stood from my chair and shook his hand. Jessica and Roland stood as well, Jessica putting her purse strap over one shoulder. They thanked me, turned and walked out the door to the parking lot, the wash of sunshine flooding the door. I looked at Max and said, “Let’s head down to the boat, kiddo.”
She followed me through the Tiki Bar, the scent of steamed garlic shrimp fanning from the kitchen, the music of CCR coming from the jukebox. The lyrics followed me to the door. Someone told me long ago … there’s a calm before the storm … I know it’s been comin’ for some time … it’ll rain a sunny day … I know shinin’ down like water.
TWENTY-NINE
I unlocked the entrance to L dock, Max patiently waiting until the gate opened wide enough for her to see daylight on the other side. And then it was off to the races. She bolted through the opening like a ten-pound thoroughbred horse, nose in the wind, legs galloping, butt rolling. The dock was her landing strip, her parade route. She loved coming back to L dock to renew old acquaintances, sample grilled fish handouts, and claim her spot, a bench seat on Jupiter’s fly-bridge, which overlooked the entire marina.