Shark River df-8

by Randy Wayne White

  Shark River

  ( Doc Ford - 8 )

  Randy Wayne White

  Shark River

  Randy Wayne White

  1

  The day I met the Bahamian woman who claimed to be my sister, and less than an hour before I was shot during the attempted kidnapping of a diplomat’s daughter, my eccentric friend Tomlinson said to me, “Know how desperate I am? I’m thinking of having Elmer Fudd tattooed on my ass. Seriously, the cartoon character. You know who I’m talking about? The chubby guy with the red hunting cap, the one with the shotgun.”

  My eccentric, drug-modified friend Tomlinson.

  I was lying in a hammock, leafing through a very old issue of Copeia, Journal of the American Society of Ichthyologists and Herpetologists. It contained an article on Gulf sturgeon, written back in the days when the occasional sturgeon was still caught in saltwater south of Tampa Bay. I paused long enough to straighten my glasses and stare at him. “You’re kidding. From the Bugs Bunny cartoons? Even a regular tattoo, I’ve never understood the motivation. Something like you’re talking about, I just can’t comprehend.”

  “I told you about the… difficulty I’ve been having.”

  Yes, he had. Over and over he’d told me. Which is why I thought: Boy oh boy oh boy, here we go again.

  “I did tell you, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, and I don’t care to hear any more about your personal problems. It’s sunset. In your own words: The Mellow Yellow Hour. I’m trying to relax before I change shoes and run. Don’t screw with the molecular harmony-again, your words.”

  “I know, I know, but this is serious.”

  “So you keep saying.”

  “ Anything that concerns Zamboni and the Hat Trick Twins is serious. They’re just not theirselves, man.”

  Zamboni and the Twins-my friend’s private name for his private equipment.

  He explained, “The inflatable monster has finally turned all control over to my brain’s moral guidance system, which is like a stone cold downer.” He made a fizzling, whistling sound. “Sooner or later, it happens to every man, right?… Right? ”

  It was the fourth, maybe fifth time he’d asked me that question, but when a friend fishes for reassurance, you must reassure. “Of course. Very few exceptions.”

  “Okay, so you at least have a minor understanding of the motive behind the tattoo. Picture it”-Tomlinson created a frame with his huge, bony hands-“Elmer Fudd on the cheek of my ass, aiming his shotgun toward the shadows, and he’s saying, ‘Come outta there you wascally wabbit!’ Lots of bold color, reds and greens, but still… tasteful. Something that lightens the mood but also makes a statement.”

  I was nodding. “Yeah, choose the wrong shades, a tattoo like that could seem almost frivolous.”

  “Sarcasm. My equipment hasn’t worked dependably in more than two months, yet my compadre offers sarcasm.”

  “Only because it’s such a ridiculous idea. I still don’t understand the motivation. Or maybe you’re just joking.”

  We were on the second-floor veranda of a tin-roofed house, eye level with palm fronds and coconuts. Looking downward through the palms, we could see clay tennis courts, a swimming pool, sugar-white beach, and bay. Florida’s Gulf Coast has a couple of exclusive, members-only islands. Guava Key is the one you read about occasionally, always associated with the very rich and rigorously private. The island is south of Tampa, north of Naples: a hundred acres of manicured rainforest and private homes centered on a turn-of-the-century fishing lodge built on an Indian mound. It is an island with no roads, no bridges, no cars, and no strip malls, so it has the feel of a solid green raft at sea-boat and helicopter access only.

  We were on Guava Key as guests of management. Tomlinson, an ordained Rinzai Zen Master and Buddhist priest, was there to teach a moneyed few members a course called “Beginner’s Mind,” which, I knew from our long association, has to do with Zen meditation and breathing techniques. I have no interest in meditation, nor do I feel the need to take vacations. Life in my little Sanibel Island stilthouse, collecting marine specimens to study and sell, is sufficiently satisfying. Plus, I tend to fret about my fish tank and aquaria if I’m gone for more than a few days. In them are delicate creatures that interest me, such as immature tarpon, sea anemones, and squid-fascinating animals that require a lot of care. Even so, he’d pestered me about tagging along until I finally lost patience. I told him enough was enough. Unless he came up with a good and practical reason for me to leave my work and go to Guava Key, drop the subject, damn it!

  I should have learned by now never to refuse one of Tomlinson’s invitations by invoking a preferred alternative. He’s probably right when he says that I’m obsessive. I’m almost certainly right in my belief that he’s manic. When the man becomes fixated, nothing can untrack him.

  What he did was hunt around until he came up with a gambit that was professionally compelling and made too much sense for me to say no. It turned out that the state required Guava Key Inc. to file periodic fish counts from adjacent waters, all data to be assembled by an accredited marine biologist-something to do with past zoning variances. As owner and lone employee of Sanibel Biological Supply, I am an accredited, independent biologist for hire. He’d contacted management, and management had offered me a generous figure, all expenses paid, for myself and a guest. Jeth Nicholes had already assured Tomlinson that he and his girlfriend, Janet Mueller, would keep an eye on my stilthouse and feed my fish, so I had no choice but to accept.

  Finding an appropriate guest, though, turned out to be more difficult than you might imagine.

  The first person I called was Dewey Nye, the former tennis star. Dewey and I are old friends. For a time, we were on-again, off-again lovers. On-again, off-again until we both realized that the chemistry was wrong, quite literally. Mostly, though, she is my all-time favorite workout partner. By telephone, we agreed that, after the holiday season just past, a couple of Spartan weeks on Guava Key was just what we needed to shed a few pounds and cleanse our systems.

  “Every morning,” she told me, “we’ll do a long swim, then a kickass run. Really push the envelope. Finish everything at P-squared.”

  I had to ask. “P-squared? What’s P-squared?”

  “I keep forgetting what an out-of-touch old hulk you really are. So I’ll be delicate. It’s jock for ‘Upchuck pace.’ Only, the first P doesn’t stand for upchuck.”

  “Ah.”

  “They’ve got a health club? So we lift weights heavy every other day, then limit ourselves to two, maybe three cocktails in the evening. Our own little basic training retreat. After New Year’s in New Jersey-it’s been gray and sleeting for like twenty damn days in a row-after a couple weeks of this, shut up indoors with Rita, her poodle and her aluminum Christmas tree, I’m not sure who or what’s gonna die first: my holiday spirit, or that damn yapping dog. What I need is a serious dose of Florida heat.”

  But five days before she was to fly in from Newark, Dewey’s roommate, Rita Santoya, suffered an all-too-familiar bout of jealousy. Latin men are said to be possessive. It’s an unfair generalization, yet Latin woman, apparently, can be just as bad as their cliched counterparts. After a series of quarrels, Rita issued an ultimatum: If Dewey visited me in Florida, there was no need for her to come back.

  As always, Dewey acquiesced.

  “Maybe next time, Doc, when Rita feels a little more secure in our relationship. Don’t worry, we’ll get together again.”

  I told Dewey, any time, lady, any time, knowing there would probably never be a next time.

  Male or female, the possessive ones never feel secure. Nor do their mates.

  So I went through the short list: Dr. Kathleen Rhodes, but she was back in the Yucatan, doi
ng field work. Nora Chung was available, but now had a romantic interest in a solicitous, sympathetic physician and didn’t want to risk burdening the relationship so early in the game. Erin Bostwick was already scheduled to work the late shift all month at Timbers; Sally Minster (formerly Sally Carmel) was in the process of divorcing the neurotic abuser she’d married, but didn’t feel right about slipping away with me until the legalities were complete.

  She was disappointed. “I’ve had a crush on you since I was, what? Eight years old? Since the days you were living with your crazy uncle Tucker Gatrell, the dear sweet man, on that funky little mangrove ranch of his. So now you call.”

  Here’s one of the ironies of male-female association: With women of sufficient character and humor, it takes only a few weeks to forge an intimate relationship, yet their well-being remains a matter of concern even years after parting. Their dilemmas still squeeze the heart.

  One night, I found myself in my little lab, sitting beneath the goose-neck lamp, making a list of desperate last-minute replacement ladies. Thankfully, I caught myself. I’ve reached a stage in my life in which the little social interaction I have is guided by a simple maxim: I’d rather be alone than with people with whom I feel no emotional connection. That includes women.

  Solitude is much preferred to the more disturbing isolation of sharing loneliness with a stranger.

  I made no more telephone calls.

  When I told Tomlinson that Dewey’d backed out, he lost none of his enthusiasm. “You’re batching it? Perfect! Two weeks of island living. Fresh air, fresh fruit, plus lots and lots of cold, clean alcohol. It’s just what the doctor ordered. We’ll each have our own cottage, so the vacation ladies can choose for themselves. With the problem I’ve been having, escape may be the only sure salvation.”

  Even then he was obsessed with his perceived problem.

  Now he was sitting in full lotus position, balanced strangely on the roof next to the veranda where the hammock was strung between rafter and rail. We’d been there for nearly an hour in silence, listening to the ambient bird-and-breeze sounds of a day so warm, during a winter so tropical, that jacaranda trees were already flowering bright as lavender parasails on this late February afternoon.

  “Joking about having Elmer Fudd tattooed on my ass?” he said. “I wish to hell I were joking. You refuse to hear the details, even though I’ve made it clear that I need to vent. I’ve got feelings, man. Listening is one of the things that friends are supposed to do.”

  “I’m not a psychologist, for God’s sake.”

  “You think I’d waste any more of my time with shrinks? Hey, let me tell you something, amigo… no, let’s put it this way: If psychiatrists gave frequent flier miles, I’d have my own charter service to Fumbuck Egypt. Half my shrink friends call me for advice. The other half worry about the possibility that I snuck off and slept with their wives-which I did in way too many cases. People in the mental health professions? They’ve got the horniest wives in town. Not that I’m in a position to help them these days.”

  Tomlinson was pulling at his stringy hair, biting it nervously. I noticed that his hands, which often had a slight tremor, were shaking more than usual. “It’s not a physical problem. That much I know. The other morning, I woke up with a piss hard-on, and the damn thing nearly knocked the wind out of me when I rolled over too fast. My problem’s spiritual, man. The fucking wheels are coming off my Dharma nature and my daishinkon faith is way back on its heels. I need to talk.”

  I had no idea what he was saying, but his tone told me it was important. I sighed, folded the magazine, and swung my feet onto the deck. As I did, I had a peripheral awareness of two young women below, jogging the footpath southward. One was blonde in a heavy blue sports bra and white tank top. The other was all legs and long chestnut hair, ponytail swinging like a flag.

  I glanced at my watch, even though I knew the time: 5:30 P.M. plus or minus a few minutes, on a Wednesday, seventh day of February.

  Every day for six days straight, an hour before sunset, I’d watched these two pass beneath our veranda, always headed the same direction. I’d seen them often enough to know that the blonde would be on the left, ponytail to the right and a half-step ahead. Blonde was the chatty one with a cheer-leader stride and the bold, dominant voice. Ponytail was stoic, tomboyish, quiet, the apparent subordinate member.

  I’d never exchanged a word with them, yet I knew their pace and I knew their schedule, just as I knew that half an hour later, near the island’s grass landing strip, I’d see them once again on the little dock at the end of the nature boardwalk that trailed through mangroves.

  The girls would be standing at the rail in a citrus-colored afterglow. They would watch the sun vanish before turning homeward, offering me the vaguest nod of greeting as I clomped up onto the dock, completing my second run of the day.

  I am a creature of routine.

  So, obviously, were they.

  From old habit, though, and having once lived a life that required necessary wariness, I still practice a very simple precaution: I always vary my route and my routine. You never know who might be out there watching, logging your movements, waiting. I was never officially attached to any branch of the military, but I endured enough military training to have certain behaviors stamped so deeply that they have become part of the autosystem.

  More than once when I saw them, that same ambient awareness noted the rich-girl genetics, knew the wealth that membership on Guava Key implied, and a secret little room in my brain sounded warning bells. It was an ancient alert, warning how easy it would be for a predator to become aware of these two women, track their movements, isolate them and take them.

  As it turned out, I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed.

  There seem to be more and more predators these days.

  Tomlinson gestured toward the swimming pool. “See the woman on the beach chair closest to us? The one with the Egyptian skin and hair down to her waist? Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

  Oh, I’d noticed. I’m not a gawker; not the sly woman-watcher type, but there are certain females who move with such animal grace, who exude such a fertile sexuality, that it’s impossible not to react. It’s also impossible not to follow them with the eyes.

  Through palms, the pool was a gelatinous blue. A dozen or so Guava Key members, mostly women, soaked or dozed in the late sunlight. Some day, a brave sociologist may write a paper that explores why a high percentage of very attractive women will predictably interact, socially and sexually, with only a tiny percentage of wealthy men.

  It would be an unpopular paper, indeed, with the disingenuous and politically correct types.

  These were the beautiful ones: women with sculptured hair and nails, wearing Saks straw Bahamas hats and boutique poolwear, women whose bodies illustrated the discreet attentions of plastic surgeons and silicone implants, and of hours spent laboring with personal trainers.

  There was something different about the dark woman, though. She possessed a girlish reserve, a muscle and bone indifference that set her apart.

  Now she lay on her back, one arm thrown behind her head, eyes closed, breasts flattened beneath their own weight, body a-glistening with oil. Her bikini consisted of three white napkin swatches connected by string. In contrast, the white fabric turned her skin a deep and vivid mahogany.

  “Takes your breath away, doesn’t she?”

  I said, “She reminds me of women I saw on the Ivory Coast. Something about the cheekbone structure. Or maybe North Africa, with those legs.”

  “Her mother’s from Senegal; her father’s Saudi Arabian.”

  “You know her, then.”

  Tomlinson’s voice had a sad, rueful tone. “Oh, I know her all right. Remember last year when I spent two weeks in Aspen at the International Bodhi Tree Conference?”

  I nodded, suddenly more interested than before. I’d forgotten the name of the conference, but I remembered that he’d gone to Colorado.

  Thus
the increased interest.

  Tomlinson was, apparently, much in demand at such events. There are very few westerners who are Rinzai Zen masters and roshi s-a Japanese word for teacher. The man has his accomplishments but also his quirks. He can be infuriating, but he possesses an amazing intellect and his intuitive powers are the best I’ve ever witnessed. More important, he makes me laugh.

  He said, “Nimba flew into Aspen via Paris and enrolled without her husband. That’s her name-Nimba Dimbokro. It was a very confusing and painful time in her life. Her husband, supposedly, is a Saudi prince, but he acts more like some abusive camel-jockey redneck. You’ve read about vaginal circumcisions? He’s exactly the sort who advocates that sort of thing.

  “He’s rich, of course. His family’s made billions in oil. I mean literally billions. They have private jets; they own politicians in several countries; they have homes all over the world. Whatever she wants, Nimba gets. Except for one thing-freedom. Happiness. A couple of the biggies, huh?”

  “I hope you’re not telling me you slept with one of your students. What is she? Twenty-two, maybe twenty-five years old?”

  Tomlinson’s tone seldom approaches anger, but now it did. “Please tell me you’re joking, then apologize. You think I would violate my moral obligations to a student?”

  “I’m sorry. I apologize and withdraw the comment.”

  “I should hope so. Nimba came to the retreat in absolute emotional turmoil. She went through ‘Beginner’s Mind.’ She learned how to sit, how to count her breaths. All very basic stuff. I was working with the advanced students, holding dokusan three times a day, and serving as monitor at sesshin s, so I wasn’t her teacher. We had no interaction at all at the retreat.”

  I said, “Then you were lovers.”

  He shook his head. “Through karmic intervention, we met coincidentally at a ski bar. A place called The Slope.”

  “I’m familiar with the bar,” I said, looking at him closely.