Mr. Small showed me how he did his fishing. It wasn’t much different than what some of the big birds did that stood along the edge of the creeks. It mostly involved staying real damn still in a spot where the fish was likely to be and throwing a spear. I watched him do it and I figured I could do that; it looked easy. So, of course, it was a lot harder to hold perfectly still than it looked. The skeeters weren’t as bad in the daytime, but they were still bad, and that sure didn’t help. The bugs didn’t seem to bother the old man all that much, and when I asked him about it, he said the skeeters got tired of him a long time ago.
The more I was around Mr. Small, the more I realized he always seemed to know what was going on in the swamp all around us, even in places before we got to them. We were easing on over to the garden one time, and he stopped poling and listened.
“I hope that big gator doesn’t walk where we put in those tomato plants.”
Sure enough, when we got there a little while later there was a big old bull gator swimming away from the high ground where the garden was. I gave the man a look.
“Now how did you know that gator was up here when we were still a long ways off?”
He waited to answer until we had pulled his little boat up on shore. The old hermit had me sit down there with him where fresh gator tracks went straight toward the rows of little tomato plants, before turning off toward the water.
“There are always circles of energy in the world. Every movement, no matter how small gives off an energy that affects everything around it. Something as big as this lazy old gator here gives off signals that are spread by all the plants and animals around. Just like you might not hear the tree fall in the distance, but you would hear the bird call out that was frightened by the noise the tree made.”
I give that some thinking, and was about to ask him again just how he knew about that gator, when he gave a little smile and a wink.
“It’s just something I picked up by being out here in this wilderness for so long by myself.”
That seemed to be the end of that line of discussion, so I started telling Mr. Small about the real vivid fever dream I’d had when I was so sick. I could still feel the sensation of being very young and moving through the woods without leaving a trace or making a sound. But before I got too far into the telling, and before I could tell him about lucid dreams and seeing my hand just before I woke up, he raised his hand to stop me.
We sat there in the sun with just the sounds of the swamp. Looking down at his hands, Mr. Small started talking even more slow and careful than usual. I had to lean in to hear what he was saying.
“I have had that same dream for several weeks now. All the years I’ve lived here in the swamp, I never had dreams like that before.”
I didn’t know what to say, but I sure thought it was curious we both had the same dream.
“You got any idea what that kind of dream might mean? I been thinking it over, Mr. Small, and I ain’t got a clue.”
The old man looked up at me with them intense little eyes of his.
“I don’t really know either, but I think it has to do with the Fountain of Youth. Sometimes, at the end of the dream, there’s a stranger bringing me something, but I never can tell what it is.”
We sat there for another minute, and he was looking uncomfortable, like he had something else to say. I was learning some things from Mr. Small, one of them being patience. I waited him out. Finally he cleared his throat.
“There’s something else. I saw something moving through the swamp. I could never get close enough to tell for sure, but it looked like a small person poling a canoe. I was following it the day I found you by your boat in the creek.”
We sat there for a few more minutes before the old man said it was going to be dark soon, and we’d better be getting some firewood and vegetables together for the evening meal.
∨ Key Weird ∧
48
The Watson Place
Carol needed to see Sam. As soon as she got back from Sanibel Island she told Jeremy to set up a meet with the old bastard. Jeremy, who was still on his best behavior and all full of himself for doing something right, got back with her right away. Sam was in Miami with Butch, but would be back the next afternoon.
As much as Carol didn’t like, much less trust, Sam Turbano, she knew he would be her best bet for finding whatever was in this old house the woman at Sanibel had called the Watson Place.
Since Sam was gone, she went to the library and found out what she could about the house.
The fact that it had been blown away years ago by a hurricane was not a good sign for openers. Supposedly, the house had been built on a forty-acre island that was mostly an old shell mound left by the Calusa Indians. This guy Watson was known in the early 1900’s for his sugar cane syrup and his habit of knocking off the farm help on payday.
From what Carol could find out, there wasn’t much left on the island except an old rusty syrup kettle and a concrete cistern for catching rainwater. She didn’t want anything to do with going out to this island where there were probably bugs and no decent restrooms, but she sure didn’t trust Sam to go without her either.
Carol decided to do what she did best and go shopping for a nice outdoorsy ensemble to wear out to the island. Maybe something in black.
∨ Key Weird ∧
49
A Tarpon for Taco Bob
“Hot damn but that’s a fish!”
I was showing Mr. Small the two fishing poles I still had on my boat, and he was checking them out thoroughly. I asked him if he’d like to try one. He said no, but if I wanted to go exercise some fish sometime, he could show me a couple good spots.
The next morning I got a chance to show off my boat to Mr. Small. I followed his directions and poled us on out that maze of little creeks and swamp. When we got close to the coast, the creek we were on widened out some so it looked more like a real river. After carefully looking through my tackle box, Mr. Small handed me a big topwater lure and indicated it was his choice for the morning’s fishing. I tied it on my line.
He gazed on up ahead as the boat slowly drifted along with the tide. I stood up in the bow while he was keeping the boat lined up in the current with the paddle.
“On the next corner, the branch that hangs out and almost touches the water. A nice fat snook fish waits there for your lure.”
I turned around and stared at the old fella. He had spoken in a clear, sharp and strong voice. My mouth must have dropped open because he was grinning big and gave me another of those winks before pointing to the place coming up in the river.
I cast, missed the spot by a good ten feet, reeled in fast, and hit it dead center on the second try. The plug lay there on top of that clear black water and I gave it a little bump. BAM! Water flew, and the fight was on!
It took me a few hard-fought minutes with him pulling line all over the river to tire that big snook. Mr. Small finally reached down in the water next to the boat and held the fish by the mouth with one hand, and popped the hooks out with the other. As soon as the old man let loose of his mouth, about ten pounds of fish gave a big splash and was gone.
I was grinning ear-to-ear, and Mr. Small was looking kind of proud of himself too. I realized I had the ultimate fishing guide.
We moved on out the mouth of Lost Man’s River, and I caught several more nice fish the same way. I was having the best day of fishing I had ever had, and Mr. Small asked me if I wanted to go air out a tarpon or two. I’d caught a lot of different kinds of fish while I was in Key West, but I hadn’t caught a tarpon.
“Hell yes, I imagine I could use to try out a tarpon, see what all the fuss is about with those bad boys!” So we ate us some lunch we had brought along while catching a few hand-sized pinfish for bait.
I had tried to ask him about his voice while we were fishing, but he said to wait. I tried again, and he answered in his new voice after he finished a pear he’d been working on.
“I just wanted you to listen. The
way I talked quiet, you had to concentrate to hear every word. Most people, after they hear the first few words a person says, feel they already know what the other is talking about, and start thinking about what they’re going to say next. So they don’t listen carefully, and miss a lot.”
As usual, he was giving me his full attention. He rarely talked if he was doing anything else at all.
“If you think about it, you’ll realize most people’s minds are usually running ahead. That’s why they don’t hear everything that’s being said.”
I had to admit, it was true for me as well. Before I could get into too much more heavy pondering though, the old man had another surprise for me.
“You aren’t the only person I’ve found troubled in the swamp.”
He paused a second like he was making sure I was listening. I was.
“Many winters have passed now. I found an old Indian on a beach once. The buzzards were already circling his body. He had been shot days earlier, and I was surprised he could even be alive.”
I reeled in a nice pinfish and dropped it in the livewell. Mr. Small gave me a nod that we had enough bait.
“The old one could not speak he was so weak, and when he did, it was a language I had never heard before. He lay in the cabin for days fighting death, and wanting me to speak to him, tell him stories. He won his battle with death, and learned to speak English.”
Mr. Small looked all around like he wanted to make sure no one would overhear.
“The old Indian stayed with me for a summer. He taught me many things about the plants and animals. He taught me how to talk to them, and how to listen.” He gave that a second to sink in and smiled a mischievous, toothless smile.
“He said he was a brujo, a medicine man. He was the last one to sleep on the mat where you say you sleep so good now.”
There was just the littlest shiver went up my spine.
“Before he left, he showed me a power place close by, and helped me build a sleeping platform there. The next morning he was gone when I came back to the cabin, and I never saw him again.”
♦
We went on offshore a mile or so to a place where the clear green water dropped off into a deep blue channel, and I seen a couple boats go by way off in the distance. Other than Mr. Small, it was the first sign of other people I’d seen since leaving Key West.
We got the anchor set where we were on the edge of that drop-off, and I got the other rod and reel with heavier line set up with a big hook and a heavy leader with a small float. I put one of the pinfish on there for bait, set him down in the water next to the boat, and stayed ready while Mr. Small stood up on the poling platform real still and slowly looked all up and down that clear deep channel. It was another beautiful day and there weren’t any storms around yet, and just enough breeze so it wasn’t too hot. I was just noticing that it was the first time in days I’d been outside without skeeters buzzing all around me. We were both looking along the edge of that deep water when he held up a hand.
“Get ready, they are coming!”
I looked over in the direction he was looking, and I seen a little ripple on the surface of the water and then a big fin come out like a porpoise, but it wasn’t a porpoise. Then I saw more fins and I realized it was a big school of tarpon coming down the channel.
“Cast your little fish up the channel as far as you can!”
I made the throw, then watched the float on the line move around some while the pinfish swam around underneath. The school of tarpon got closer, and I could start to see the dark green backs of individual fish when they’d surface. Mr. Small was holding stock-still, and I don’t think I was even breathing as the school of huge fish came closer. The pinfish started getting real frantic and then suddenly jumped clear out of the water. When he went back in, there was an explosion like somebody threw a concrete block in the water as hard as they could. I leaned back into the line hard to set the hook, and the old man was yelling.
“It’s the lead fish! You have the lead fish on!”
About then, this silver fish as big as me jumps all the way out of the water, makes a helluva splash, and starts heading west for Mexico in a big hurry.
Mr. Small pulled the anchor, hit the key, and started the outboard up like he’d been doing it all his life, and with me standing on the front deck we were in hot pursuit. The fish had just about stripped all the line off my reel, but in a few minutes I was gaining some back while the old man motored us along, just a little faster than the fish. That big old silver monster jumped again, and Mr. Small said he would guess the fish was easy over one-fifty.
About twenty minutes later the fish jumped again but only came about halfway out of the water that time. The fish was getting tired. I was getting a little tired too, and by the time Mr. Small cut the engine a few minutes later, me and the fish were both a bit winded.
I had to do some heavy rod work to get that big fish up close to the boat, but I finally managed it without breaking the line. Mr. Small leaned over the side, grabbed the fish by the lip, and had his other hand down inside a mouth as big as a bucket, trying to get the hook.
I laid down the rod and reached for my tackle box to get my little one-shot camera. Something hit the bottom of the boat hard enough to make me lose my balance, and I hit the floor. As I was going down, I just seen the soles of Mr. Small’s bare feet going over the side of the boat. I pulled myself up as fast as I could and seen a huge hammerhead shark with the struggling tarpon in its mouth swimming away, and Mr. Small splashing around there just a few feet from the boat. I lunged out and grabbed him by the arm and pulled him toward the boat just as another big hammerhead broke off from following the one with the tarpon, and come back after the man in the water. I pulled the old man in the boat, and we both fell on the deck just as the big shark missed making a huge splash right next to the boat.
I got up and checked Mr. Small out, and he was holding his hand. There was some blood.
“Mr. Small! Are you all right? Where are you hurt?”
He showed me he’d lost the little finger on his left hand.
“Use this towel and keep pressure on it. We got to get you to the hospital in Key West!”
He shook his head no, and calmly sat on the seat in the back and started in humming. I was in a state. He stopped humming and gave a shrug of his shoulders.
“Don’t worry about this, I’ve survived worse. I always thought it was unusual for a man to have lived so long and not lost even a finger.”
I told him again I wanted to take him to the hospital, but he wouldn’t hear any of it, just kept on with his humming.
We sat there for a while and I started to calm down. The old man looked out where the sharks had been and stopped humming. A few minutes later he said he was ready to go home.
∨ Key Weird ∧
50
Out on the Water
The next afternoon Carol met Sam in his office at the Snapper.
“Okay, I got something for you, partner.” Carol checked her nails, making sure the old fart was listening. “I not only found the niece, but talked to her. She told me about a house the old crabber used.”
This got Sam’s attention. He sat up straight and leaned forward in his chair.
“Go on.”
Carol held his gaze for a second before continuing.
“We go there together. I want to be around when you find whatever is there.”
Sam frowned, then gave her a big smile and held his hands palms-up by his shoulders.
“What. You don’t trust me?”
Carol gave him a hard look and a little smile.
“In a word, no. I don’t trust you.”
Sam lost the smile.
“But you must need me, or else you would have already checked the place out. Quit screwing around. Tell me where the house is and you can tag along. I really don’t give a shit.”
Carol had figured out there was probably a lot more gold at stake here besides her Chacmool. But she didn’t r
eally care about the rest; there was only one thing she wanted. Sam could have whatever else there was, and if he wanted to sell her the idol, that would be a good problem to have because it would mean he had it in his sweaty, wrinkled old hand. She could deal with that.
“We’re going to need a boat, there’s no road anywhere close. The place is up along the coast on the Chatham River…”
“The old Watson place!” Sam said before Carol could finish. The old man got a faraway look in his eyes and leaned back in his chair. Carol could see the gears working in the old man’s head. He obviously knew about the house. Probably knew hunters and fisherman had used it as a temporary shelter before the storm blew it away. Judging by the look on old Sam’s face, this had to be it.
“All these years, I never even thought of that. That must have been where he was coming - ” Sam looked up at Carol and was suddenly all business.
“We’ll leave in the morning. I’ll need to get some equipment together and see about a boat. And get yourself some decent clothes. This isn’t going to be a photo-shoot for Cosmopolitan.” Carol gave Sam the finger and stood.
“Call my hotel when you get it figured out, partner.”
Carol found Jeremy in his usual place by the stage, and broke the news to him that he was going along in the morning.
♦
The next morning Jeremy was nowhere to be found. Carol called the dive where he was staying and talked to someone strangely familiar, demanding he find Jeremy immediately.
Sam and Butch already had the rental boat loaded and were getting pissed waiting. Sam had on a pair of square sunglasses that looked way too big for him.
“Look, sweetheart, we got a big day ahead of us here. You coming or not?”
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