Mangrove Bayou

by Stephen Morrill

  “I read it each morning,” Troy said. “Faithfully. Mostly I like the comics and the crossword.”

  “There aren’t any comics. There’s no crossword.”

  “I knew that. Just checking to see if you did.”

  She looked back at the office door and at his desk. “Director of Pubic Safety? And where’s your name? I see you scraped off Bob Redmond’s name but didn’t add your own. You don’t even have a nameplate for your desk.”

  “Troy Adam. Police chief on probation.”

  “I knew that.”

  Troy spread his hands. “See?”

  “And the door?”

  “Didn’t scrape off Redmond’s name. Didn’t even know he had his name up there. Someone must have done that before I showed up. So what’s your full name? It can’t be Cilla. Aren’t those the little wavy things that make paramecium move around?”

  “Those are cilia. And I think the plural is paramecia. My name is Priscilla. Call me that and I tear off your nose.”

  “OK, Cilla, I must say I have always been a huge fan of the First Amendment. I’ve just never seen it so…monumentally presented.”

  “Thirty-four C in fact. I suspect that you would wear a Second Amendment shirt if any were available.”

  “There are tons of them available. But you suspect wrong.”

  “Really? Why is that?”

  “Between me and thee? Off the record or whatever you people say?”

  “Well, I didn’t come over here to get your take on the U.S. Constitution, but I suppose I’m curious. Off the record.”

  “Guess this is as good a way as any to see if I can trust you,” Troy said. “So, off the record. The Second Amendment was a tragic error on the part of our founding fathers, who had no idea how it would be misconstrued today or what sort of weapons would be available to the average nutcase. Did you also want my opinion of the national debt? The Mideast?”

  “Closer to home. Tell me all you know about John Barrymore. On the record.”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure he’s dead,” Troy said. He pulled out a bottom drawer and put a foot up on it, leaned back and folded his hands on this stomach. “We sent the body up to Naples for an autopsy.”

  “An autopsy means you think he was murdered.”

  “An autopsy means he didn’t die in bed of old age or in a hospital of some disease. The medical examiner checks everything in-between. What’s your background for this job?”

  “Am I qualified to be a snoop reporter?” Dowling grinned. “Been a reporter on a big city newspaper. Worked wire service for ten years with Reuters. Last work was with their Miami-Caribbean Bureau. But I always wanted to retire and run a small-town newspaper. By the time I got around to it there weren’t too many newspapers left. Small-town news web site is good, though.”

  “Lot like being a small-town police chief, I guess.”

  “It’s exactly the same thing. A chance to be up close and personal, get to know everyone and everything, and actually see any difference you are making. And you and I, cops and reporters, are like the body’s white blood cells.”

  “White blood cells?”

  “Sure. The other cells all stay in one place, do their thing. But white cells go everywhere, in-between, roam around, to look for trouble.”

  “So a leukocyte gobbling a bacterium is me arresting a burglar? Or you writing up a story?”

  “Exactly. Plus, we get invited to every social function in town. At least I do. You, probably not so much. You look to be Native American. Seminole? Local Miccosukee?”

  “White Asian Negroid.”

  “I don’t think you’re allowed to be something in thirds,” Dowling said. “Usually it’s halves or quarters.”

  “Or octoroons,” Troy said, “to go way back. Philip Roth wrote, in The Human Stain, about how, in our society, even the tiniest portion of Negro blood made you black. Slave states used to use the ‘one drop’ rule to make slaves of all those mostly white chillens from Massa and his ‘house’ girls. But I guess I’m half of something and a quarter each of whatever the other two are. Take your pick.”

  “I think you’re beautiful, just as you are.”

  “Why thank you. No one has accused me of being beautiful in days.”

  “Their loss.”

  “So, do you think I’m not suited to the social swirl here?”

  She cocked her head and examined him for a long moment. “I guess we’ll find out, Chief. Do you care?”

  “No. Anything else on your mind?”

  “One more item. What’s with the Mexican farmhand your guys dragged in here this morning with a broken nose and all beat up?”

  “You don’t miss much. Got spies all over town?”

  Dowling smiled. “I do check the medical clinic each day. I also check with June, out front. So, is Calvin Smith up to his usual tricks?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “It’s usually Calvin. Bob Redmond sort of encouraged him. Let’s just say that Calvin Smith featured prominently on my police blotter web page.”

  “I see. The two men in question violated a town ordinance. Officer Smith responded to the situation. Officer Smith says the one man needed to be quelled. And he did so.”

  “Quelled?”

  “Yes. Used to play Scrabble a lot and you always save back a U and look for a way to use the Q. And, at this time, that’s about all I have to say about it.”

  Dowling grinned. “Might be the first time I’ve used quelled on my web site. Or heard a Scrabble-playing White Asian Negroid police chief say it.”

  “Let’s start a trend.”

  Dowling stared at Troy a moment. “I do hope you won’t be the sort of police chief that Bob Redmond was.”

  “Why? What sort do you think he was?”

  “An ignorant asshole bully.”

  “Have I mentioned our no-swearing policy? Stop by June’s desk on the way out and give her a dollar.”

  “You’re joking, right? A police station with a no-swearing rule?”

  “Not joking. Run that tidbit on your web site, warn people to watch their mouths when they come in here. That would be useful.”

  “I’ll do that. Hilarious as it sounds.”

  Troy smiled. “You got a police scanner?”

  She nodded. “Back at my office. It’s not illegal.”

  “Remind me to tell my guys to use their cell phones more.”

  “Might be some public right to know thing there,” Dowling said. “So how did John Barrymore die?”

  “Ask the medical examiner. Let me know what he tells you. Kinda curious myself.”

  “You’re going to be a hard-case, aren’t you?”

  “Moi? Sweet, loveable moi?”

  “Tu. And I’ll break you down eventually.”

  “Ambition and boobs. Why, it’s just a matter of time before I’m jelly in your hands.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up. Or anything else.”

  Chapter 17

  Wednesday, July 24

  At ten o’clock Troy parked his Subaru in a visitor slot in the elementary school parking lot. The elementary, middle and high schools were all together, two buildings side by side on a peninsula off the southeast side of Barron Key. One building housed the elementary school, one contained both middle and high schools. There was a football field, baseball diamond and track and bleachers behind, and the open expanse of Oyster Bay beyond.

  The elementary school office was just off the lobby, inside the front door and to the right. A woman at a desk in the outer office was short, plump and wearing all black to match her hair, which was teased up into some sort of topknot that Troy suspected was held in place with a lot of hairspray and probably some rebar. There was a pure white streak running through the topknot. Troy thought her hairdo looked like a skunk sitting on top of her head. He decided against telling her that. The years had taught him wisdom. There was a large microphone on the table to her left, probably the school’s public address system. Likely used it t
o announce the lunch menu for the day, that the Chess Club meeting after school had been moved to Classroom Five, and today’s uplifting message from someone like Gandhi. School interiors always made Troy feel tired and rebellious.

  “May I help you?” the woman asked, a bit sharply, and the tone of her voice said she didn’t think that very likely.

  Troy looked around and saw a red fire alarm pull-unit on the wall behind Skunk Hair. “Excuse me,” he said and pulled the alarm.

  Pandemonium erupted. A terrific gong began to sound. “What…what are you doing?” Skunk Hair shrieked. Troy walked back out to the lobby. In the hallways classroom doors opened and teachers looked out. Troy had his iPhone out and was using it as a stopwatch. A few kids began to trickle slowly out into the corridors. A tall, thin white-haired woman in a good blue knit wool suit with a lightweight pale yellow scarf tied at the throat burst out of the inner office and joined Troy in the lobby. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “That was really fun,” Troy said. “Always wanted to do that.”

  “He just walked in and pulled the alarm,” Skunk Hair said. “There’s no fire.”

  Troy was wearing his usual jeans and vented fishing shirt worn out over his gun. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out his chief’s badge. “Fire drill,” he said. “I’m Chief Adam. I’m guessing you would be the principal?”

  She looked at his badge and back at him. “Angela Phipps. Yes, the principal. We already have fire drills twice each school year. There’s a schedule.” They both had to shout over the din from the bell.

  “Yes. I know. I’m going outside. I need to see how long it takes you to evacuate this school and for the fire truck to arrive.”

  Outside, a few kids were milling around by the door. In the distance Troy could hear the community siren blowing, calling all volunteer firemen to drop what they were doing and get to the fire. He grinned. That siren was atop the town hall building and must be deafening up close.

  It was eight minutes before the fire truck showed up and it had only the one on-duty man in it. Troy met the truck and explained that this was only a drill. The siren at the town hall stopped. The other volunteers, ten men, arrived within fifteen minutes. They all had cell phones and text messaging to tell them where to meet the truck, and they all carried their gear in their vehicles. Mayor Groud beat many of the firefighters to the scene. Councilman Principal Dr. Howard Parkland Duell walked over from the high school.

  The firemen hooked up the pumper truck to a fire hydrant, unrolled a representative sample of hose, and stood around sweating in their heavy yellow coats, small air tanks on their backs. Even twenty minutes after the alarm not all the kids were out of the school.

  Troy explained things. Principal Phipps complained bitterly. Skunk Hair was helping the teachers get the kids sorted out so they could count heads. Troy checked his timer again. Twenty-five minutes and they were still trying to count heads.

  Lester Groud looked at the men standing at the fire truck. “Don, can you come over here?” he called. Troy had already met Don Roberts, the head of the volunteer fire department whose small office was in the same town hall building as the town offices, police department and the town medical clinic. Technically, being the director of public safety, Troy was also the fire chief and ambulance driver, but his first impression of Roberts had been that Roberts, who had retired from some fire department in Michigan, knew how to run fire departments better than Troy did.

  “Bad showing, Les, Troy,” Roberts said. “I’ll do some chewing. No excuse for taking so long. But also, we need the teachers to be getting the kids the hell away from the building.”

  “And faster,” Troy said. “Some are still inside now.”

  Roberts nodded. “And faster. And we need the head count.”

  “I plan to repeat this sometime next week.” Troy looked from Lester Groud to Dr. Howard Duell to Don Roberts to Angela Phipps. “One of these two schools each time, alternately. And the week after that and the week after that and so on, until your guys, Don, get the truck here in three minutes and enough of the crew in five. And those kids will be out of the buildings by then. Truck in three, men in five, kids out in three and all noses counted and accounted for in five. Every kid. Every time.”

  “Head count varies with the day,” Phipps said. “Sick kids, kids off somewhere else with their parents.”

  “Then make up a roster every morning,” Troy said. “Just in case.”

  “Yes. We can do that,” Phipps said.

  Duell bristled. “We have classes to conduct. We already have scheduled fire drills. There’s no point to this childish game.”

  Troy nodded. “What was the reaction time for the last scheduled drill?” he asked Don Roberts.

  “Around two minutes for the truck, four for the crew,” Roberts said.

  “And the guys all knew exactly what time the drill was to take place?”

  “Yep.”

  “So they were probably sitting in their cars, waiting for the text message to come in and then they could tromp the gas pedals.”

  “Probably so.”

  “I think we’ll do a few more unscheduled drills. Until the guys get lighter on their feet.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “You good with that, Les?”

  “Damn right.”

  “You’re going to let this jerk run all over my class schedules?” Duell asked. “We have the state on our case all the time with these tests and measurements. We hardly have time to actually teach now. A drill like this wastes an entire half-day.”

  “Don’t exaggerate,” Groud said. “And not much point to book learning when you burn to death in a fire because nobody practiced getting out. I knew Troy Adam was a hard-on when we hired him…”

  “Hired him on probation,” Troy said.

  “Hired him on probation. He’s already managed to stir up his department. By next week his guys are going to be running around town looking like they’re on safari. He’s got my sister’s kid on the phone to me blubbering about having to work a night shift. I imagine he’s deafened everyone at the town hall this morning. I’m starting to warm up to the guy.”

  Chapter 18

  Wednesday, July 24

  Troy was walking along Beach Street at four that afternoon. Beach Street was the tourist focus, several two-story motels faced the Gulf and nearby small islands across the beach. The beach was beyond a low brick wall separating it from Beach Street and there was white sand that was mostly trucked in periodically. Actual Mangrove Bayou sand tended to be the color of mud. Some restaurants fed food to the hungry and alcohol to the thirsty. Behind Beach Street and running back to 7th Street were assorted motels, tourist shops, bars and more restaurants. The restaurants and shops were mostly done in gray distressed cypress wood with lots of nets, net floats, crab traps, paddles, several kinds of dead sea fans and sponges, all splattered across façades, walls and even ceilings. Out front there were scattered rusty anchors and half-rotted rowboats. Troy had never understood why looking nautical seemed to involve only old, dead, or rusty things.

  The stores sold tee-shirts, sponges, seashells, tee-shirts, beach towels, sandals, swimsuits and more tee-shirts. If there was a tee-shirt in Mangrove Bayou without some clever slogan on it, Troy had never seen it. The bars served so many frou-frou drinks that Troy thought they must bring in tiny Japanese umbrellas by the truckload. The restaurants featured grouper sandwiches in season and fresh mahi-mahi when grouper was off the menu. Since mahi-mahi was a Hawaiian fish, Troy had always wondered just how fresh they could possibly be. What was worse, he knew, was that, locally, the fish was actually called a dolphin. But people just confused the fish with the loveable mammal of the same name, and letting your diners think they were eating Flipper didn’t exactly increase sales. Well, maybe at Bert’s Crab Shack.

  Troy was on the sidewalk on the Beach Street side of the brick wall, carefully examining the bikinis on several young women on the beach for any possible v
iolations, when June called on his radio. “Chief, sheriff’s deputies got an accident of some sort up on Forty-One. Said you might want to take a courtesy look.”

  He took the radio off his belt. The new uniform shirts would have a place to hook on the lapel mike, but he wasn’t wearing one yet. He thumbed the transmit button. “Where?”

  “At the bridge over the river.”

  “The Collier River?”

  “We got any other fucking river?”

  A few tourists looked at him. The two girls in the bikinis looked over, made some unspoken assessment of his character, and moved away.

  “You owe a dollar.”

  “I know. It was worth it.” June was laughing.

  “On my way.” Troy headed to the station, a ten-minute walk, but that was where his car was.

  From Mangrove Bayou to U.S. 41, the two-lane Barron Road was elevated on a continuous berm. On his left as he drove east out of town, Troy could see, just on the other side of the grass strip and the guardrail, a water pipe a foot in diameter that supplied the town from a filtration plant in Naples. Steel towers standing in the marsh adjacent to the road carried a power line to Mangrove Bayou. The road was actually built atop the fill originally put in for a railroad track in the 1920s. The fill had come out of what were now canals on either side of the road.

  Barron Road met U.S. 41 at a “T” intersection with a flashing yellow light. In southwest Florida, U.S. 41 was historically called the Tamiami Trail, having been the route from Tampa to Miami. Sometimes people still called it that even though it was less used today. There was a billboard sign at the intersection reading “Mangrove Bayou, Sportsman’s Paradise” with a crude painting of a 1930s-style Chris-Craft mahogany powerboat full of smiling fishermen. There was an arrow pointing down the side road. There were no buildings at the intersection, just more palmetto and scrub. The sign had bullet holes in it and was, aside from the flashing yellow light, the only thing to mark Barron Road as having any significance.

  Troy turned left on U.S. 41 toward Naples. He rolled down the driver-side window. The marsh air was thick with water vapor and a hint of sulfur. In July all the standing water held the heat of the day and the air scarcely cooled overnight. Troy actually liked the smell, which reminded him of both death and life, the full spectrum of struggle, happening out there in the Everglades. There were occasional faded signs along the way advertising swamp buggy rides, airboat rides, even a helicopter ride. Anything to see the Everglades without actually having to come into contact with the Everglades, he supposed. Those and alligator wrestling (Four Shows Daily!) were occasional income-generators for the local Miccosukee.