ALSO BY RANDY WAYNE WHITE
DOC FORD SERIES
Sanibel Flats
The Heat Islands
The Man Who Invented Florida
Captiva
North of Havana
The Mangrove Coast
Ten Thousand Islands
Shark River
Twelve Mile Limit
Everglades
Tampa Burn
Dead of Night
Dark Light
Hunter’s Moon
Black Widow
Dead Silence
Deep Shadow
Night Vision
Chasing Midnight
Night Moves
Bone Deep
Cuba Straits
Deep Blue
HANNAH SMITH SERIES
Gone
Deceived
Haunted
Seduced
NONFICTION
Randy Wayne White’s Ultimate Tarpon Book (with Carlene Brennan)
Batfishing in the Rainforest
The Sharks of Lake Nicaragua
Last Flight Out
An American Traveler
Randy Wayne White’s Gulf Coast Cookbook: With Memories and Photos of Sanibel Island
Introduction to Tarpon Fishing in Mexico and Florida
AVAILABLE EXCLUSIVELY AS AN E-BOOK
Doc Ford Country: True Stories of Travel, Tomlinson, and Batfishing in the Rainforest
FICTION AS RANDY STRIKER
Key West Connection
The Deep Six
Cuban Death-Lift
The Deadlier Sex
Assassin’s Shadow
Grand Cayman Slam
Everglades Assault
FICTION AS CARL RAMM
Florida Firefight
L.A. Wars
Chicago Assault
Deadly in New York
Houston Attack
Vegas Vengeance
Detroit Combat
Terror in D.C.
Atlanta Extreme
Denver Strike
Operation Norfolk
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Copyright © 2017 by Randy Wayne White
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
For dear Rogan and Rachael
Contents
Also by Randy Wayne White
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Disclaimer
Author’s Note
Map
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
About the Author
Your office sent bones in cloth bags. These bags have rotted and caused much chaos. When people came to claim them, it was not possible to identify individual sets correctly. Our hearts have no peace.
—A letter from Tung Wah Hospital, Hong Kong, to the Chinese Consolidated Benevolent Association regarding the repatriation of Chinese dead, San Francisco, 1928
[DISCLAIMER]
Sanibel and Captiva Islands are real places, faithfully described, but used fictitiously in this novel. The same is true of certain businesses, marinas, bars, and other places frequented by Doc Ford, Tomlinson, and pals.
In all other respects, however, this novel is a work of fiction. Names (unless used by permission), characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is unintentional and coincidental.
Contact Mr. White at WWW.DOCFORD.COM.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This novel is based on events that occurred in Florida and the Bahamas during Prohibition, as reported (often vaguely) by newspapers of the time. One of those events catalyzed several murders that remain unsolved, so I warn the reader in advance that I have created a solution that is wholly fictional and have changed the names of most of those involved. Details pertaining to smuggling liquor and Chinese workers are portrayed accurately, as based on those old accounts, and interviews done personally or by contemporary journalists. The same is true of Marion Ford’s insights into biology, although, again, my personal suspicions creep in regarding exotics such as the invasive lionfish.
Florida was wilder than the Wild West during the turn of the previous century, and far more difficult to travel by rail or horseback. This is probably why reams were written about Tombstone, etc., but almost nothing about the cowboy smugglers who inhabited the Everglades. My interest in the topic spans forty years, so the old accounts held few surprises—until, while browsing issues of the St. Petersburg Times, I stumbled onto a reference to the Marco Island war of 1925.
War? This was news to me. Marco, now a prosperous coastal community, was, in those years, a Southwest Florida outpost inhabited by fewer than two hundred people, mostly fishermen and clammers.
I dug deeper, and found a series of articles on a “land war” that pitted homesteaders, squatters, and smugglers against a multi-millionaire developer, Barron Collier, who would ultimately open the region by building roads, a railroad, but first carved out his own county to provide the needed infrastructure. That infrastructure included a handpicked sheriff, the sheriff’s bloodhound and bullwhip, and his loyal deputies.
The headlines in the St. Pete Times during the summer of 1925 were tantalizing: “Developer and Settlers Near Blows . . . Deputy Sheriff Beaten, Disappears . . . Marco Island Calm; Collier Enlists ‘Navy’ . . . Governor Is Called Upon in Land War!”
The disappearance of the deputy, more than other events, struck me as a historical hub because it connected seemingly dissimilar elements: smuggling rum and Chinese workers, a developer’s wealth versus inhabitants who made their own laws, and who bristled at efforts to bring law into the Everglades.
Journalist Denes Husty found this article that suggests why the deputy and his family suddenly “disappeared.”
The Fort M
yers Press
April 18, 1925
A large mud hole on Marco Island, from which a terrible stench arises, is being searched today [by authorities] in belief that it might possibly hold the secret of the disappearance on February 19th of Deputy Sheriff J. H. Cox, [plus his wife, and two young children] for whom a state-wide search has failed to reveal the slightest clue.
Cox is the principal witness in some 19 indictments against smugglers and bootleggers in the Marco district, and a little over a year ago was badly beaten by a mob while arresting one of their number. Prior to his disappearance he had received several threatening letters. Cox paid little heed to the threats, but his wife, who is of a nervous temperament, lived in constant fear of the ruffians, it has been revealed. Investigation at Marco has only brought the news that he [and his family] suddenly moved away [without] disposing of most of his personal property.
A reward of fifty dollars has been offered by Sheriff W. H. Maynard for news resulting in the finding of the missing deputy and his family. Deputy Cox was described by Sheriff Maynard as 50 years of age, 180 pounds, 5 feet 9 inches tall, wide face, red nose, “fighting gray” eyes and of a tall slender build.
Where Cox went and how is a mystery that Sheriff Maynard has been tireless in his efforts to unravel. Cities and ports of the state have been searched and all authorities so-titled, without the slightest clue being discovered.
Telling, huh? Years later, a deathbed confession by one of the accused smugglers confirmed that the deputy and his family hadn’t just disappeared. They had been lured ashore, and murdered somewhere near a “bottomless” lake that was known, even then, as a place where saltwater fish such as tarpon could be found.
As stated, this novel is a work of fiction, but the scaffolding is based upon fact. Therefore, before thanking those who contributed their expertise or good humor during the writing of Mangrove Lightning, I want to make clear that all errors, exaggerations, or misstatements are entirely my fault, not theirs.
Insights, ideas, and medical advice were provided by doctors Brian Hummel, my brother Dan White, Marybeth B. Saunders, and Peggy C. Kalkounos, and my nephew, Justin White, Ph.D.
Pals, advisers, and/or teammates are always a help because they know firsthand that writing and writers are a pain in the ass. They are Gary Terwilliger, Ron Iossi, Jerry Rehfuss, Stu Johnson, Victor Candalaria, Gene Lamont, Nick Swartz, Kerry Griner, Mike Shevlin, Jon Warden, Phil Jones, Dr. Mike Tucker, Davey Johnson, Barry Rubel, Mike Westhoff, and behavioral guru Don Carman.
My wife, singer/songwriter Wendy Webb, provided not just support and understanding but is a trusted adviser. Bill Lee, and his orbiting star, Diana, as always have guided me, safely, into the strange but fun and enlightened world of our mutual friend, the Reverend Sighurdhr M. Tomlinson. Equal thanks go to Albert Randall, Donna Terwilliger, Rachael Ketterman, Stephen Grendon, my devoted SOB, the angelic Mrs. Iris Tanner, and my partners and pals, Mark and Julie Marinello, Marty and Brenda Harrity.
Much of this novel was written at corner tables before and after hours at Doc Ford’s Rum Bar & Grille, where staff were tolerant beyond the call of duty. Thanks go to: Liz Harris Barker, Greg and Bryce Barker, Madonna Donna Butz, Jeffery Kelley, Chef Rene Ramirez, Amanda Rodriguez, Kim McGonnell, Ashley Rhoeheffer, the Amazing Cindy Porter, Desiree Olsen, Gabby Moschitta, Rachael Okerstrom, Rebecca Harris, Sarah Carnithian, Tyler Wussler, Tall Sean Lamont, Motown Rachel Songalewski, Boston Brian Cunningham, and Cardinals Fan Justin Harris.
At Doc Ford’s on Fort Myers Beach: Lovely Kandice Salvador, Johnny G, Meliss Alleva, Rickards and Molly Brewer, Reyes Ramon Jr., Reyes Ramon Sr., Netta Kramb, Sandy Rodriquez, Mark Hines, Stephen Hansman, Nora Billheimer, Eric Hines, Dave Werner, Daniel Troxell, Kelsey King, Jenna Hocking, Adam Stocco, Brandon Cashatt, Dani Peterson, Tim Riggs, Elijah Blue Jansen, Jessica Del Gandio, Douglas Martens, Jacob Krigbaum, Jeff Bright, Derek Aubry, Chase Uhl, Carly Purdy, Nikki Sarros, Bre Cagnoli, Carly Cooper, Andrew Acord, Diane Bellini, Jessie Fox, Justin Voskuhl, Lalo Contreras, Nick Howes, Rich Capo, Zeke Pietrzyk, Reid Pietrzyk, Ryan Fowler, Dan Mumford, Kelly Bugaj, Taylor Darby, Jaqueline Engh, Carmen Reyes, Karli Goodison, Kaitlyn Wolfe, Alex and Eric Munchel, Zach Leon, Alex Hall.
At Doc Ford’s on Captiva Island: Big Papa Mario Zanolli, Lovely Julie Grzeszak, Shawn Scott, Joy Schawalder, Alicia Rutter, Adam Traum, Alexandra Llanos, Antonio Barragan, Chris Orr, Daniel Leader, Dylan Wussler, Edward Bowen, Erica DeBacker, Irish Heather Walk, Jon Economy, Josh Kerschner, Katie Kovacs, Ryan Body, Ryan Cook, Sarah Collins, Shelbi Muske, Scott Hamilton, Tony Foreman, Yakhyo Yakubov, Yamily Fernandez, Cheryl Radar Erickson, Heather Hartford, Stephen Snook Man Day, Anastasia Moiseyev, Chelsea Bennett, Guitar Czar Steve Reynolds, and Shokruh “Shogun” Akhmedov.
Finally, thanks to my wonderful sons Lee and Rogan for helping finish another book.
—Randy Wayne White
Telegraph Creek Gun Club
Central Florida
1
On the phone, Tomlinson said to Ford, “When the deputy’s wife and kids disappeared, moonshiners might’ve dumped their bodies in the lake—it was during Prohibition. It wouldn’t be the first time karma has waited decades to boot justice in the ass.”
“Tootsie Barlow told you that story?” Ford, a marine biologist, was referring to a famous fishing guide who ranked with Jimmie Albright, Jack Brothers, Ted Williams, and a few others as fly-casting pioneers in the Florida Keys.
“His family was involved somehow—the Barlows go way, way back in the area. I don’t know how yet, but I will. He’s in bad shape, so I need to take it slow, but you’re the one who told me about the lake—Chino Hole. That’s the connection. The access road cuts through Tootsie’s property.”
“I had no idea. He moved to the Everglades?”
“Smack-dab in the middle. One of those little crossroads villages like Copeland or Carnestown. The property’s been in his family for years. I’m driving down this afternoon. Since he quit guiding, it’s probably easier for him to wake up and see sawgrass instead of the Gulf Stream. The endgame, dude, for watermen like us, it can be pretty damn sad.”
“I’ve heard the rumor,” Ford said. “As far as your story goes, I’m still lost.”
“So’s Tootsie. How many fishing guides put away money for retirement? He’s broke, which is bad enough, but now he’s afraid that God has singled out his family for punishment. Like a conspiracy, you know? Not because of something he did, more likely something his father or a relative did. The cops won’t listen, his preacher doesn’t believe him, so who else is he gonna call but the Right Reverend, yours truly.”
Tomlinson, an ordained Rinzai Buddhist priest, seldom employed the honorific “Right Reverend.” The title had been bestowed by a Las Vegas divinity mill after cashing his check for fifty bucks.
“Tootsie wants you to put in a good word with God, I get it. I still don’t see what this has to do with us . . .”
“He wants someone to convince the cops he’s not crazy. And there’s another connection. The deputy who disappeared was J. H. Cox. That ring a bell? It should.”
“When was this?”
“Nineteen twenty-five. A few years earlier, a woman was murdered by a man named Cox. Same area; near Marco Island. I don’t know if it was the same man, but your Hannah Smith is a direct descendant of the woman he killed.”
Mentioning the biologist’s ex-lover, Hannah, was a calculated risk to catalyze Ford’s interest. In the background over the phone, Tomlinson could hear a steel drum band. “Hey, seriously, where are you?”
Ford, who was in the lobby of the Schooner Hotel, Nassau, Bahamas, said, “I’m in Lauderdale. At a convention for aquarium hobbyists. I’ll get back to the lab late tomorrow. Hopefully.”
“Bahia Mar, Lauderdale?”
“Close enough. Look . . . I’ve got a talk to give and I’m still working on my notes.” As he spoke, the child-porn dealer he�
�d been tailing stepped to the registration desk. Ford covered the phone and moved as if getting into line.
When he rejoined the conversation, his boat bum hipster pal Tomlinson was saying, “. . . Tootsie’s story is historical fact. I’ve got the old newspaper stories to prove it. In August 1925, Deputy Cox, his wife, and two kids all disappeared the night before a bunch of bootleggers went on trial. Marco Island or somewhere at the edge of the Everglades—get it?—all within a few miles of Chino Hole.”
“Moonshiners would need fresh water,” Ford reasoned while he watched the clerk encode the porn dealer’s room key.
“That’s who the newspapers blamed, but there was other nasty crap going on at the time, which I’m just starting to research. You ever hear of the Marco Island war?”
“Come on, you’re making this up.”
“It happened, man. Same time period. A bunch of heavy hitters had their fingers in the regional pie—Al Capone, probably Joe Kennedy, too, but they weren’t the worst. The elite rich were stealing homesteads, and smuggling in Chinese illegals to boot.” Tomlinson sniffed, and added, “Lauderdale, huh? Dude, the satellite must’a stopped over Nassau, ’cause I swear can I smell jerked chicken.”
Ford replied, “Call you back,” and hung up as the clerk addressed the porn dealer by name for the third time—standard, in the hospitality business—then handed over a key in a sleeve with the number 803 written on it and circled.
“I’ll be checking out in about an hour,” Ford told the clerk when it was his turn.
There were ceiling fans in the lobby and panoramic windows, beyond which sunbaked tourists lounged by the pool. A brunette in a red handkerchief two-piece was sufficiently lush and languid to spark a yearning in the biologist—an abdominal pang he recognized as discontent.
Focus, he told himself, and returned to his encrypted notes. It became easier when the brunette stood and buttoned up her beach wrap. Every set of poolside eyes followed her to the door.
An hour later, the porn dealer reappeared in the lobby, wearing shorts and flip-flops, and exited toward the tiki bar.
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