Deep Blue

by Randy Wayne White

  Marta Estéban was there, too.

  On the other hand, he thought, I totally respect Ava’s concerns about morality. If she doesn’t show, I’ll just have to muddle through.

  He recovered the oar and continued to eavesdrop while he rowed. There were many familiar voices, but only two popular topics: computer crashes and a great white shark that had supposedly attacked a boat.

  This was of interest. Before and after his own MacBook had crashed, he had done research on both subjects for his pal Ford. He had information to share.

  Separating the marina from the lab was a stretch of mangrove murkiness. The biologist was up there in a lighted window. He wore a lab apron and gloves for some reason, still hard at work. Seeing his pal, combined with the research he’d done, sapped some of the joy from his holiday mood.

  Shit-oh-dear. What to do?

  Work before pleasure, he decided.

  Tomlinson spun an oar and aimed the dinghy at Ford’s house.

  • • •

  Tomlinson’s research was on a 32-gig memory card, which the biologist accepted but said, “Tell me the important stuff. The last time I used one of these, it wiped out my computer and backups. In a way, it’s a relief not to have the damn thing available, but I’m off the grid for now.”

  “No firewalls? Oh hell”—Tomlinson snapped his fingers—“I forgot who we’re dealing with. Julian, the Black Knight of the Internet. There’s a rumor he’s hiding out in an embassy in South America, but it’s bullshit. I called an old buddy of mine. Remember Ken Kern?”

  “Vaguely. He’s a scientist of some type. You both attended Harvard.”

  “Ken was big in the movement, a founder of Students for a Democratic Society—SDS. Back then, he had hair to the middle of his back; a very hip guy who wore a silver infinity necklace along with the Star of David and smoked nothing but unfiltereds. Cigarettes, I’m talking about. A purist, you know? Now he’s bald and has a Sigmund Freud goatee. He’s senior geneticist at Mass Labs—but still a purist.”

  At the mention of “geneticist,” Ford walked to the screen door. “Did you happen to see the dog out there?”

  “Probably swimming, but stay with me for a sec. Ken and Winslow Shepherd were tight until eight years ago.”

  Ford moved to the south window. “What happened?”

  “The U.S. had a national election. Maybe you heard about it.”

  The biologist didn’t bother to respond.

  “Actually, this was during the campaign. Ken and Shepherd were part of a candidate’s think tank. I’m not going to say what office, but it was national. They were policy types, low-profile geniuses, who chipped in whenever they were needed. The fact they’d both been arrested for blowing shit up and inciting riots required what politicos call a cushioning wall, so it’s not like they hung with the candidate—but they did. Quite a few times, in fact.”

  Ford focused in. “You’re telling me they had access to the White House?”

  Tomlinson stared for a moment. Inside his head, at the core, was a master entity, a serious, sober being who seldom appeared but who appeared now. “I’m telling you why I’m here. Why I’m narcing out a man who did what he did for all the right reasons but who couldn’t handle the power.”

  “Shepherd or the candidate?”

  Tomlinson kept going. “My convictions about this world haven’t changed. Same with Ken. He bugged out—or was kicked down the stairs. He wasn’t clear about that. Mostly, he spoke generally about Shepherd and some others in the movement. Julian included. Now that they’ve got power—real power—some have drifted over to the dark side. They use any means available to destroy governments that make war.”

  Tomlinson twisted a lock of hair and chewed on it. “Ken says they’re funding what he considers to be terrorists. They’ve aligned with someone—Chinese, maybe—to dismantle the whole sick scaffolding.”

  “Scaffolding of this government,” Ford said.

  “Anyone who gets in the way, they replace or publicly discredit or serve them up to guys with knives. I told him, ‘Hey, at least they can’t touch you now.’ Know what he said? He said, ‘I wish that was true, but I won’t be bullied.’ A good man, Ken Kern.”

  “I’m sorry to put either one of you in this position.” Ford took off his lab apron and sat. “What about finding Shepherd and Julian?”

  Tomlinson checked the pocket of his shorts, then the other pocket, and took out a piece of paper. “He gave me the number of another acquaintance. There are people still inside the movement who hate what’s going on. China isn’t a communal society, it’s a freakin’ military dictatorship. Ever think you’d see the day?” He unfolded the paper and extended his arm. “I cashed in a whole bunch of favors for this, Doc. Before you take a look, I want you to promise something.”

  “You have an address?”

  “It’s the name of a plastic surgery clinic, but not until you promise.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You haven’t even heard what I want.”

  “I already know. A promise Shepherd won’t be killed and I can’t do that. There’s too much at stake. Plastic surgery, yeah, that makes sense if he wants to disappear.”

  “Dude . . . you’re not even going to peek at the address? It’s right here. You don’t think it bothers me he killed those three kids?”

  “How about this,” Ford said. “If I get in a tight spot, you give me another shot. Same with what you know about Julian. Until then, let’s not change the rules. They’ve worked for us so far.”

  “But you asked me, man.”

  “Yeah, and I don’t know what disappoints me most. Me asking or you narcing out your pals. Why do you call it narcing when narcotics aren’t involved? Why not ‘providing evidence’ or . . . No, that’s too formal. And ‘squealing’ went out with Prohibition.”

  Ford was trying to lighten the mood. Tomlinson had to smile when the man showed his human side. “Good ol’ Doc,” he said and stuffed the paper in his pocket.

  End of subject.

  They returned to the reality of the moment. “I saw you through the window, coming in. You were wearing gloves. Why the hell?”

  “You ever hear of something called a Faraday cage? Come on, I’ll show you.”

  Ford started toward the door, Tomlinson saying, “A cage—perfect—we’ll need one. I have a whole new theory about that great white shark. Megalodon—a true prehistoric giant—I’m not the only one who thinks they’re still out there.”

  The biologist only laughed at that.

  • • •

  At tonight’s party, Dr. Ava Lindstrom, from Sarasota, felt out of place among people who, while gracious enough, were a tight little group unto themselves. More like a family than friends, even though their ages and backgrounds varied.

  Tomlinson had offered to meet her around six, but still no sign of the man, and it was almost seven. A small part of her hoped he wouldn’t show. He didn’t scare her, but his lifestyle did. Chaos and chemical indulgence had nearly destroyed her as a teen, and a nagging voice still warned that passion was dangerous, and pleasure was the enemy of success.

  On the other hand, she’d had a hell of a good time last night. Where was that stringy scarecrow man?

  Wearing jeans, boots, and a red collared blouse, she helped herself to an NA beer from a tub filled with ice and roamed for a while. The only person she recognized was Figuerito, a small, fit guy with muscles, who, instead of mingling, was playing with the dog near a boat ramp far removed from the others.

  A Cuban, she remembered, who didn’t speak English. He’d been in the U.S. only for a month or two.

  She strolled closer and watched him hurl something heavy toward the bay—a coconut, it looked like. After what seemed several seconds, the coconut made a hollow thunk when it hit water. The dog charged after it.

  Over and over
, they did this. Still no Tomlinson, so she tried out her high school Spanish.

  “Hello. My name is Ava. Your dog is rapid.”

  Figuerito stopped, turned, and stared. Arm cocked, he held a coconut like a football. “¿Rápido?”

  “Sí, very rapid. He is also intelligent,” the woman responded.

  The Cuban laughed at that. “This dog is a dumbass and a pain in my head. I hope there is an alligator out there who eats him.” He crow-hopped and threw the coconut from what he imagined to be centerfield to an invisible cutoff man. “No matter how many times I do this, the dumb bastard keeps coming back.”

  To Ava’s ears, the man’s Spanish blurred, he talked so fast, but she did catch a few words. “Sí. The dog had pain. The dog has no pain now. What is your name?”

  “Fig-u-RI-tow,” he said phonetically, while the woman strained to see the retriever, out there in the night, swimming his ass off. “I’m glad you speak Cuban,” he added. “I have no one to talk to but that goddamn dog. He follows me everywhere and stinks like fish. I was told an alligator sometimes lives under the mangroves. If the alligator eats him, I would appreciate it if you don’t bring him back to life again. On the other hand”—he looked at her and shrugged—“I have only myself to blame.”

  The doctor woman didn’t understand any of that. Figuerito could tell, but she was tall and blond, slim in her cowboy jeans, with a stretchy white band in her hair. And very nice chichis, which he remembered from yesterday when she’d waded out in her wet blouse. Her chichis were the size of firm avocado pears and he loved avocadoes.

  The dog returned with slobber dripping from the coconut. The woman didn’t mind. She knelt and stroked his head, cooing, “Good Pablo, nice Pablo, what a smart dog you are, Pablo.”

  “Pablo?”

  “Sí.” She continued to coo while the dog’s tongue slapped at her face.

  “That can’t be. If he was Pablo, he would understand when I tell him to get the hell away and leave me alone. Doc never said anything about him being a Spanish dog.”

  Smiling, the woman looked up and translated, “Peter, yes, that’s his name in English,” then continued her fawning. “Pablo, so intelligent . . . Pablo such a good, good boy.”

  Figuerito stared. Mother of God, he thought, nice chichis, but the woman’s a babbling idiot—he’d met his share while incarcerated at Havana’s Prison for the Insane, which was next to a baseball field, not far from José Martí International.

  But that was okay. In a country where even babbling women were beautiful and rich, anything was possible for a man who was strong and willing to work hard. “That’s my motorcycle,” he said and pointed to the parking lot, where a 1957 Harley-Davidson with red fenders and lots of chrome was parked.

  “Motorcycle,” the woman repeated in Spanish. “Is very nice.”

  With his hands, he pantomimed twisting the throttle and made revving sounds. “Would you like to go for a ride?”

  The invitation required more gesturing, and the woman, who was six inches taller, appeared interested until she peered over his head and saw Tomlinson in the distance.

  “Maybe later,” she said in English. “Anyone who loves dogs, I already trust.”

  • • •

  Something Mack enjoyed about these parties was that no one played that god-awful Christmas music that hammered the skull when you were shopping or in a car. He’d paid good money for the outdoor speakers spaced around the docks—although a couple of them were fuzzy with age, and the sound quality generally sucked. Even so, he had a proprietary interest in choosing who was in charge of the song list.

  Tonight it was Hannah—Captain Hannah—who lived aboard a 30-foot Hinckley-type cruiser, but across the bay at the Fisherman’s Co-op, not at the marina. She was a willowy hard case with deep South Florida roots, but, for a change, tonight she had eschewed country twang in favor of Caribbean drums, but also mixed in the occasional opera classic.

  “I hope she doesn’t play Madame Butterfly,” Rhonda said, fanning charcoal smoke from her face. “It always makes me cry. The part where she puts the dagger to her chest, oh my god, I want to grab her and say, ‘Are you nuts?’”

  Rhonda had orbited slowly, subtly closer to the grill, until she was at Mack’s side. Across the water on A dock, her longtime partner, JoAnn, was holding court aboard Tiger Lilly, where lights and plastic mistletoe were strung bow to stern. Rhonda watched her heavyset friend for a while, then asked, “Think she knows?”

  Rather than answer that for the thousandth time, Mack stuck to music. “I saw Madame Butterfly in English once. I wanted to cry, too, but for different reasons. The main baritone in the opera, I didn’t realize he was an American sailor. He’s the one she should’ve—” Mack realized what he was about to suggest, so made a sudden tack. “Hang on to these.”

  He handed her the tongs and got another bag of alligator meat from the cooler. The fillets had been pounded flat until they were fibrous and white and tender.

  Rhonda, still watching JoAnn, said, “She’s suspicious about you buying the beach cottages, too.”

  “Let her think what she wants.” Mack reclaimed the tongs, turned the fillets, which were nearly done, and made room for more. “What we should be grilling is shark—but I admit that having Hello, Dolly! back is good for business.”

  “That’s a terrible thing to say.” Rhonda’s attention returned to the man beside her. “Besides, I heard it was a gag some radio DJ pulled. That’s what the Coast Guard thinks. It was on local news about an hour ago. They’re still investigating, but that’s what one of their spokesmen told a reporter.”

  “The reporter didn’t hear the guy’s voice when he was attacked,” Mack countered. “I did. I had a parley with the fishing guides. We’re going to go out there and kill that bloody bastard. But on the q.t. Greenies on this island would get their panties all in a tither if a shark was killed, but don’t give a damn if it kills three or four people.”

  “You don’t really believe that.”

  No, he didn’t, but it was better than talking about JoAnn, who, after a while, Rhonda got back to anyway, saying, “I keep telling her you’re buying the cottages for everyone.”

  Mack called hello to Ford and Tomlinson as they cruised past with a nice-looking blonde sandwiched between them. It was an opportunity to change the subject. “She’s a veterinarian,” he said. “Remember the woman from yesterday who helped rescue Doc’s crazy dog?”

  “Why don’t you want to talk about this?”

  “What am I supposed to say? I’m buying the beach property, sure, so folks will have a place to go if the feds kick us out. But you and I both know it is so we’ll have more private time together.”

  He felt okay about that until Rhonda melted him with her wistful look and asked, “Is that true, Mack?”

  No, that wasn’t true either . . . Well, it was sort of true. Hell . . . Mack didn’t know what the truth was anymore. He had lied his way across three continents and four decades before settling on this island to start a new life. The success he’d achieved as a businessman was unexpected, but nothing else had changed. He was still a dodgy, sneaking bastard.

  “Of course it’s true,” Mack replied and squared himself for a lightning bolt or whatever the hell came next.

  “Uh-oh . . . she’s waving for me to come over,” Rhonda said, then looked him in the eye. “Mack? I don’t care about the age difference, and I don’t care if it’s right or wrong. You are the kindest, most decent man I’ve ever met.” She traced the small of his back with an unseen finger as she passed behind him.

  The gator fillets were burning. Damn. Mack scorched a hand when he reached to turn them. “Bloody goddamn bastards!”

  His head swiveled to see if anyone had heard. It was unlikely with an operatic banshee wailing from outdoor speakers that had cost him fifty bucks apiece. He slammed the grill closed and mar
ched past the bait tanks, up a shell path to the office. Captain Hannah was inside, swaying to the music while she sorted through CDs. A pretty, big-boned woman with raven hair.

  “Do me a favor and don’t play Madame Butterfly,” he told her.

  “What?”

  “You heard me,” Mack said because she had.

  The woman didn’t like that one bit. “If you’re worried I’ll blow out those old speakers, don’t. The noise they make when there’s too much bass puts my teeth on edge.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with those speakers,” Mack countered, “but that’s not the reason. I’m going to do the drawing early. To me, all opera sounds like Madame Butterfly.” He offered a weak smile. “That’s all I meant.”

  Hannah was too smart to believe him, and didn’t care for his tone. She played along, but with an edge. “In that case, Mr. Elf, you’re going to need a bucket or something for the list of names.” She placed a jar filled with little squares of paper in front of him. “Here’re the names, now go find your own bucket. Oh . . . since I did all the work”—under the counter was a pointy green hat—“do me a favor and wear this.”

  It was the rare person who could back down Mack. Capt. Hannah was one of them.

  He took the hat and did as he was told.

  • • •

  Ford and the veterinarian were discussing the dog and canine genetics when Mack exited the office, wearing an elf hat and smoking a cigar. Trailing behind was Hannah. Ford’s eyes were on her, not Mack, as Mack dumped a jar of names into a bucket, made a few announcements, then said, “Everybody, line up. And remember the rules—no trading names, no gifts over twenty bucks, and if you pick your own damn name, you have to, by god, admit it.”

  By then, Ava was thinking Ford wasn’t such a bad guy after all. If she had to choose, she might have skipped last night with Tomlinson and gotten to know the biologist better. Her current relationship—a long-term affair with her business partner, a married man—was going nowhere, and sex was the ultimate game changer. It was the way her mind worked now. Survival mode, Ava thought of it, a way of taking stock before moving ahead with purpose. A year on the streets huffing meth as a teen, a broken pelvis, plus six weeks of rehab, had gradually channeled her toward men who were the safe, straight types. With Ford, she felt safer than usual. Strictly instinct, but too late to change what had happened, so she kept it light, saying, “I love the people here. Does everyone always get along so well?”