I could see that Hal and his friends didn’t like it at all when she added to Mark, “If any our local girls come in here, warn them about this group of short-tails. They’re just slimy types on the make. O.K.?”
HAL, the Corporate V-P, couldn’t let it go. He had to follow us into the parking lot.
“Whoa, whoa, hold on you two. You think I’m going to let you say that kinda crap and get away with it?” Hal’s tone saying he had no choice—he had to stand tall for his team.
All I wanted was to be alone with Dewey, to try and explain why I’d said what I’d said. Not that I was even sure myself. The shock of it all had rattled me. It’d dredged up old feelings and long-gone memories. But Dewey was an integral part of my present. I hoped we were close enough friends that I could tell her about it, and that she’d understand. If she’d just give me a chance.
Which she wasn’t willing to do. Not here, not now.
Car door open, she turned to me and said, “Look, pal, it shouldn’t be such a big deal. You got caught screwin’ around. It happens to people all the time.”
I said, “Not to us, it doesn’t. Dewey, something’s happened I just found out about. I’ll follow you home and explain.”
She was getting in the car. “Yeah, I know, I know. The only woman you’ll ever love is on Sanibel. I heard. So go back to your love shack and tell it to her, Romeo.”
I realized she was feeling the margaritas.
When I touched her elbow, she yanked her arm away . . . and that’s when Hal, the Corporate V-P, came striding across the parking lot.
Saying, “Stay in the car until I get rid of this guy,” I turned and walked toward Hal to put some distance between him and Dewey. Which, as I should have known, guaranteed that she’d get out of the car.
Hal was saying, “Lady, I think an apology is in order.”
I was holding both hands out—Stop right there—as I said, “She’s not going to apologize to you or anyone else, so just drop it. What you should do, Hal, you and your buddies, is march yourselves back into the bar and have a drink. Because I’m really not in the mood to put up with you and your self-important bullshit.”
Behind me, I heard Dewey say, “Jesus, Ford, you really are in a mood tonight,” as Hal’s voice changed, all pretense of control gone: “Fuck you, champ. Who the fuck do you think you are? You don’t even know who I am. Do you have a clue who you’re talking to?”
Dewey was right. I was in an unusual mood. Whatever it was, I’d had enough. I walked toward Corporate V-P, saying, “I’m the guy who’s going to knock you on your ass in front of all your little playmates if you don’t turn around and leave us alone right now. Go. Get out of here. Leave!”
Which he couldn’t do. Not now. I’d left him no wiggle room, no honorable egress—a stupid choice on my part. So he took two fast steps toward me and tried to take me out with a single, mighty, overhand right fist. I stepped in close, absorbed most of the impact with my shoulder. Then I locked my left arm under his right elbow as I dug the fingers of my right hand into the delicate area behind his jawbone, just below the neck. I tilted his face back toward the stars as I applied pressure to his elbow—already furious with myself that I’d allowed the situation to escalate to this point and eager for a way out.
As I held him, I said, “I’m going to give you one more chance to walk away. The lady’s right. I’m no fighter. You win . . . O.K. ? So let’s stop it now. You go back to the bar, we’ll get in our cars and leave.”
Behind me, I heard Dewey call to him, “He’s wearing glasses, for Christ’s sake! You think that’s fair?”
Talking about me like I was handicapped, yelling to protect me.
Maybe Corporate V-P found encouragement in that, because, despite the hold I had on him, he began to kick wildly, trying to knee me in the groin.
I blocked most of them with my hip, but he got in one shot that nearly connected. Came close enough to make me woof and my lungs spasm.
That did it. He’d had his chance, and I’d had enough. I released his jaw, squatted slightly, then drove my open palm hard up under his chin. I used my thighs to create torque, twisting at the hips.
The blow cracked his teeth together—a sickening sound—and lifted him momentarily off the ground. I caught him in both arms, controlling his body, then pinched the thumb and middle fingers of my left hand around his throat. With my right, I slapped his face once . . . twice, and then I swung in behind him, threading my forearms under his armpits.
His voiced was an octave higher now: “You son-of-a-bitch. I’ll kill you for this.”
There was enough light in the parking lot to see that his mouth was frothing blood.
Breathing heavily, wrestling him, applying more pressure now, I said into his ear, “No more threats. You’re just making it worse.”
Then I leveraged my arms up through his, locked both hands together, and forced my palms against the back of his head—a dangerous pressure hold called a full nelson.
I was aware that Corporate V-P’s four men were not standing idly by while I humiliated their leader. They were the vocal type, at first calling out encouragement and instruction. Then commanding me to stop, to let him go, or they were going to call the cops or kick my ass. The threats varied. I thought I was keeping careful peripheral track of them—they were banded together off to my left.
But not all of them.
My hands locked behind his head, I walked Corporate V-P toward my truck and slammed his body hard against the fender, then slammed him hard a second time. I increased the pressure on the back of his head as I said, “It’s time for you to go home, Hal. What do you think?”
The pain he was in changed his voice, and his attitude. “Yeah, O.K., O.K., Jesus Christ, that’s enough. It was a misunderstanding. Seriously, no hard feelings . . . goddamn it! You’re breaking my neck!”
So I let V-P stand, releasing pressure, unthreading my fingers—which is when one of his sales crew jumped me from behind. The guy had a strong arm around my throat, but I got my fingers around his wrists and snapped his hands free without much trouble. Then I ducked under, pivoted, got behind him, and drove his arm up into the middle of his back. Drove it with such force that it certainly dislocated his shoulder, and maybe broke it.
Along with his scream of pain, I heard, “Doc, watch it!”
I turned to see Dewey intercept another of the salesmen—Hawaiian shirt, beer gut—who was charging toward me. She stopped him with a stiff-arm, then dropped him with a single overhand right to his nose. The punch had all the speed and accuracy of her once much-feared tennis serve.
That was the end of it. Hal’s underlings had risked enough for their Corporate V-P. He’d lost, so had they, and I knew they’d never look at him or behave the same around him again.
Something else I knew: Back at corporate headquarters in Chicago, the story about Hal, the fight, and how it started would spread quickly. Either Hal would soon be gone, or he would muster sufficient political muscle to oust his underlings. But there was no way his career could endure them hanging around, because he’d been exposed for what he really was, and they’d witnessed it. Authentic leaders are sustained by the strength of their own character. Sham leaders succeed only because they are passable character actors.
Hal had been unmasked.
The hierarchy of corporations is as complicated—and no less primal—than the hierarchies of pack animals. In such packs—wolves or lions or chimps, for instance—alpha males rise to power, then survive or are banished by jockeying underlings.
I didn’t feel the least bit sorry for the guy.
At her Lexus, rubbing her already swelling knuckles, Dewey told me, “And I tried to help you beg out of it because of your glasses. All these years, I didn’t have a clue. What were you back in school, some kinda hot-shit wrestling champion or something?”
Opening the door for her, I said, “Something like that.”
SHE didn’t want me to follow her home, but I did. Her bungal
ow has a Spanish tile roof and conch-pink siding. The house is built on low stilts a couple feet above a quarter-acre of bare limestone gravel, the property landscaped for minimum maintenance.
The moon was three days before full, high overhead—its mountainous polar regions visible where the temperature was 300 degrees below zero out there in space. In the moon’s cold light, I could see papaya and palms planted in ornamental clusters, and a banana thicket, too. The papaya and sugar bananas were good. Some mornings for breakfast, Dewey and I would eat them chilled, fresh lime juice squirted on.
Seeing the fruit trees in moon shadow caused me to realize something. Caused me to realize that I might not awake in bed with her ever again, the two of us lounging around, talking during breakfast, laughing at silly things, sharing small secrets. The end of something was in those shadows. I felt a quaking sense of loss.
I knocked. She refused to allow me in. Finally, though, she came out onto the porch. She had ice in a plastic bag, holding it on the knuckles of her right hand.
Standing in the moonlight, I told her about Lake. What had happened to my son. Her reaction—horror, revulsion—was genuine. She’d had some bad things happen in her life. She knew tragedy and grief.
I had to admire her core toughness when she added, “But that doesn’t change what I heard tonight. The words you said to the boy’s mother. I know you. The way your voice sounded. What I heard really, really hurt because I know you meant everything you said. Didn’t you?”
There was no anger in her tone now. Just pain and grief. I shook my head and made a sound of exasperation. “I have too much respect for you, our friendship, to do anything but tell you the truth. Truth is, I don’t know. It was a shock seeing her. Then finding out about the kidnapping. Hell . . . the only thing I’m sure of is that it scares me, thinking that I might lose you. Lose us. I don’t want that to happen.”
I put my hands on her shoulders. Listened to her try and repress a sniffle—Jesus, now I’d made her cry.
I said, “Can I come in? I leave for Miami in the morning. I don’t know how long it’ll take for me to find my son. If I can find him. This may be our only night together for a while.”
But she remained steadfast. “Doc, look . . . what you need to understand is, this not a small deal. If you really are in love with someone else, I’ve got to make some important decisions fast. We’re beyond the dating part. The kid games part. At least, I thought we were.”
There was an intentional, underlying meaning there that I didn’t grasp.
She removed my hands from her shoulders, touched her fingers briefly to my face, her blue eyes gray in the moonlight, as wide and sad as I had ever seen them. “I’m not telling this to hurt you. I know you don’t need any more pressure—not with what’s happened to your son. I’ve got to say it, though. You know how we’ve talked about maybe getting married, maybe one day having kids?”
I nodded.
“Well, pal . . . I’m more than six weeks late. My period, it’s way late. After work, I stopped at Bailey’s General Store and got one of those little test kits. The kind where you pee on the strip. It changes color if you’re pregnant. I went to your place thinking we could have a little ceremony. We could find out together.
“But there you were with a woman. A woman who’s already been through it. She’s already the mother of your son. I get out of the car kinda mixed up, but with all those hopes about us, marriage and a baby, and that’s when I hear you say those words to her, I’ll always love you. That’s exactly what you said. And meant it.
“You see what I mean? Why something like that would hurt so bad? So I’m not ready to talk about it. Not tonight. Not this week. Probably not for a long while.”
I said, “Oh Jesus . . . I am so, so sorry . . .”
She touched her fingers to my cheek again. “I know you are, you big idiot.” Then: “Go on home, pal. I’ll get in touch with you when I’m ready. We’ll talk. Just give me some space.”
I covered her hand with mine. “But, Dew, I want to know. Get the test kit. Go to the bathroom now and find out. You really think you might be pregnant? It’s . . . that’s kind of exciting. ”
Did I mean that? Maybe. Maybe I did.
But she shook her head.
No.
“Please.”
“Uh-uh, no, I can’t. Because I don’t want to know. Not now. I need to get my emotions under control first. After that, we have to have a serious talk. When it’s time.
“I don’t want the fact that I am or am not pregnant to have any influence. That way, when I find out, we’ll both know how things stand between us. The decision will already have been made about us being together. Do you see why I have to do it this way?”
Yeah, I did. A smart lady.
She let me hug her close to my chest and hold her for a moment before she went inside and locked the door.
SEVEN
SEEN from the I-95 overpass, downtown Miami is an island of ascending spires, silicon on steel, beneath a sky that is incandescent with Gulf Stream colors—lime, corals, blues.
We were on the Interstate now, Tomlinson, Pilar, and I. We were clover-leafing our way down into the city, jockeying among six fast lanes blurred with cars operated by Haitians, Jamaicans, Dominicans, and other tropical immigrants whose donkey-cart driving skills were superb at five miles an hour, but lethal at eighty.
Thrown into the mix were Winnebago Buckeyes, German tourists, and Friendly Sam New Yorkers, plus Cuban Americans who actually knew their away around the badly marked highways, and so used horn and accelerator as weapons of intimidation.
Driving in Miami, even midmorning on a Wednesday, is not for the faint of heart.
Because my old truck doesn’t have air-conditioning, and because Tomlinson’s Volkswagen Thing is only slightly safer and faster than four slabs of drywall bolted around a toy engine, Pilar asked us to drive her rental Ford.
Lucky me.
I’m at home in a boat under the worst of circumstances. The same is not true of cars. Waves, squalls, and sea bottom are relatively predictable. Miami drivers are not. Which makes me edgy. So I drove with hands at ten-and-two, concentrating mightily on the idiotic maneuverings and macho posturing of other lanes, while Tomlinson maintained a running dialogue with Pilar, the two of them already fast friends.
“Miami, my sister. Behold the great Concrete Mango—South America’s northernmost nation. Miami and I, we’ve got a kinda love-who-cares relationship going. I love her, but I just don’t draw enough water for Miami to care about me. Not many dudes do.
“See that building, the tallest building, the one that looks like it’s a geode crystal with a broken point? The way it’s sheared off at the top? That’s the Wachovia Center. A cop banged my head into a wall there a couple times during an antiwar protest way, way back. That thing’s built solid, believe me.
“Then see the Miami Deco-looking high-rise, the one that looks like it’s a chunk of chrome off an old Cadillac? That’s the Bank of America Tower. I dated one of the top execs there for a while. She was something, man. We’d go across to the Hyatt, Japengos, for appetizers and margaritas. Or eat on the eleventh-floor terrace, the whole city spreading out, then head back to her office. Spend the afternoon with the intercom turned off, making bunny-love magic—which is all I’m going to say about that.”
I interrupted. “Thanks for sparing us the details. What might be nice for a change is to hear some silence. Or maybe we could just listen to the radio.”
Still talking to Pilar, he said, “Mister Grumpy. It’s because of the driving stress. You can drop this guy into any jungle or island on earth, and he’s right at home. Put him on a freeway, though, and his knuckles turn white.”
“I’m trying to concentrate,” I said. “Something wrong with that? All these lunatic drivers . . . my God—did you see the stunt the idiot in that Explorer just pulled? And besides, you’re supposed to be helping me look for, what is it, the Second Street exit?”
�
��Northeast Second Avenue. That’s our exit. But first we jump on the I-Three-ninety-five. So we’ve got a little time.”
Pilar said to me, “I enjoy listening to Tomlinson. He’s very sweet, and he’s made me laugh for the first time since it happened. I don’t see why you should object to the two of us talking.”
I thought: Perfect. Now she’s bonding with my best friend.
I concentrated on driving, yet couldn’t help but listen as Tomlinson launched into his monologue about the evils of gas-guzzling SUVs such as the crazed Explorer, muscle cars, pickup trucks—a shot at me, there—and the petroleum industry’s scheme to control the world economy.
I find it amazing that someone of his intelligence and insight is a predictable dupe for every left-wing conspiracy theory that comes along. But an individual’s politics, like religion, I have learned, is not a reliable or fair gauge of intellect or humanitarian intent. I know intelligent people who embrace equally ridiculous right-wing absurdities. So I try to judge people individually, which is what reasonable people do.
Not that he didn’t have a good point about squandering the Earth’s fossil fuels. It is a commodity of finite measure, and a consistent agent of hypocrisy: Many Americans abhor the prospect of drilling for oil in our own boundary lands and oceans, yet we all live eager, modern, petroleum-based lives. I can certainly be counted among the hypocrites.
But at Dinkin’s Bay Marina, we’d become so tired of hearing Tomlinson’s anti-SUV lecturing, his save-the-Earth posturing, that Mack, Jeth, Felix, and a couple of the other fishing guides came up with an idea. A way to play a joke on Tomlinson.
Tomlinson’s Volkswagen is several decades old and looks like a German staff car. It’s a rusted antique with an 8-gallon fuel tank and a tiny engine that gets thirty-plus miles per gallon—a fact that he’s also hammered us over the head with.
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