Caribbean Rim

by Randy Wayne White

  “Believe what you want. Most fellas run away when I get mad, so I just stood there after it happened not sure what to do. Surprised, I guess, ’cause no one ever had the spine to hit me before, which is what I told him. You know, in a threatening way to scare them both. That’s when he hit me again. Damn near put me down.”

  Tamara had to slap the table.

  “Stop your damn laughing. Friends of mine was on the dock and saw it happen. Ask them if Professor Leo is a man to cross. They’ll tell you. That witch of a girl he’s with, she’s just as smart, and meaner, in her way. I think she hexed my boat somehow.”

  “How?”

  “I called her a witch, didn’t I?”

  “Funnier and funnier,” Tamara said. “You best get used to laughter. The only hex on you, Sandman, you put there yourself.”

  “All I’m saying is, I had nothing but bad luck since. One thing after another, then tonight, as I fired the engines, my GPS was blank as a roll of butcher paper. No indeed, I don’t want no more trouble from that pair.”

  Ford, closing his bag, getting to his feet, tried not to show amusement. “I’ve done work on marine electronics. What kind of GPS do you have?”

  Purcell was too busy seeking sympathy to respond. “All my waypoints,” he said to Tamara, “the best fishing and dive spots around, spent years marking those places. Guess my only hope is to apologize to the professor and ask him to fix it right. Trouble is, that little misunderstanding I mentioned, those two might not feel charitable toward me.”

  Tamara wanted to know what kind of misunderstanding, but Ford interrupted. “Take me to your boat. I’ll fix your GPS.”

  Purcell, startled, turned—comical, almost, the hopeful look on his face. “I’d do most anything if that’s true, sir.”

  “We’ll see.” Ford started toward the road. He didn’t speak again for a while. Purcell’s amended persona was deferential and dumb—an act, possibly. There were a lot of dangerous men with low IQs who were animal shrewd and had a gift for manipulation. And who had been hiding in the trees with a machete? When Tamara was far enough behind, he began to probe.

  “Your buddy should’ve joined us instead of running off like that.”

  “Who you talking about? If it’s the boy I pay as mate, he too drunk to run anywhere ’bout now.”

  “You came alone?”

  “Hell yeah, man. Why I need help dealing with a tourist such as yourself?”

  Ford stopped and said, “Gotta take a whiz.”

  From the bushes, he used the NV monocular to confirm they weren’t being followed. A little later, he asked Purcell, “Where are Dr. Nickelby and the girl staying?”

  “At a hotel, I guess. That’s what most tourists do.”

  “On Andros?”

  “Nah, think they left days ago. I ain’t seen them anyway. I sure am sorry, sir, ’bout giving you a hard time back there. I didn’t know you and the professor was friends.”

  “We aren’t. Just mutual friends, is what I said. That’s why I’m looking for him. Did he happen to mention a couple of coins he wanted to sell?”

  Purcell took his time formulating another lie. “Coins, hmm. Don’t think so. You a collector, sir?”

  “I’ll pay a finder’s fee if they’re worth buying. You had to drop him and the girl somewhere. If they’re not on Andros, which island?”

  “Hard to even remember, my head feeling like it does. Besides, that’s something I’d have to get the professor’s permission to share. When you say finder’s fee, how much we talking? Wouldn’t want to waste my time making inquiries for less than my time’s worth.”

  “So he hasn’t sold them.”

  “No. Well . . . maybe one of the coins. You carry that much cash on you?”

  Ford illuminated his phone and showed Purcell the phone number he’d copied from the boat’s logbook. “Call Nickelby and tell him I’m interested. It’s a Bahamas area code, your phone will work.”

  Purcell recognized the number. There was no doubt. “Tell you what, sir, fix my GPS, we’ll talk about it. That sound like a fair trade to you?”

  Like a threat, is how it sounded.

  “You haven’t asked how much I charge,” Ford said, a mild threat of his own that Purcell misunderstood. The man was still bemoaning his list of gambling woes as they boarded the Sandman.

  There was a cell tower close enough. Ford’s text to Tomlinson read Here’s the number. Talk Nickelby in before he gets hurt.

  7

  Before the phone rang—a stranger named Tomlinson calling—Lydia was on the porch of their beach house. Below were tiki torches that illuminated a private pool. She had been counting money, hundreds and fifties, but stopped when Leonard exited the bathroom and posed in front of the mirror. It made her feel good because he looked good, tanned, with a hint of muscle definition after seven months at her gym near Gainesville. That and some veterinarian magic used to bulk up Angus bulls.

  The clinic where she’d worked stocked a big selection.

  Prof. Leonard Nickelby would never be mistaken for a bull—or an athlete, for that matter—but try to convince him of that after twelve days in the Bahamas.

  “Where’s my brilliant little sea wench?” Leering, he turned, nothing but a towel around his waist.

  God, it was hard not to laugh when he said stupid stuff like that. His silliest line was I’ve got the grog if you’ve got the stein, whatever the hell that meant. Well, it meant he was horny, but he was always horny—another change in Prof. Nickelby.

  Lydia gave herself credit for the change. Injections of vet-grade testosterone had played a role, but there was no anabolic fakery in the way their bodies meshed. Since losing her virginity at twenty-one, she’d been with only three others, all bigger, younger, although not much younger, but none of them compared to the happy little bald man leering in the next room. The transformation had been so seamless it felt like they’d always been this way. That was not the case. Reassembling the man’s shattered ego had required tenderness—and an objective.

  “We have reservations, Leo,” she said, the prelude to a game they played.

  “Cancel ’em.”

  “What about dinner?”

  “Had it yesterday.”

  “You’ll be hungry.”

  “By tomorrow, who cares?”

  “We could do room service.”

  “Precisely, my beauty. Then eat later at the bar.”

  Lydia, for the first time in her life, felt unexpected moments of being loved, safe, and in control, yet, inevitably, reality yanked her back into a mess of her own design. But Leonard was now ready, his towel on the floor.

  Afterward, he lingered in bed while she showered. The bathroom was spacious, marble with gold fixtures, double doors opened wide so they could converse.

  “You know, maybe you’re right,” Leonard said from the next room. “Maybe I should get a doctor to take a look at this hand. Doesn’t hurt—not much—but the damn thing still looks swollen.”

  His right hand, the one he’d used to hit the charter boat captain five days ago. Leonard was like a kid with a trophy he didn’t want to lose—a child whose timidity had produced scars only on the inside. This was another similarity they shared. Yet something Lydia had not experienced was the methodical humiliation by a spouse. Mrs. Rebecca Nickelby was a hundred pounds overweight and had tried to destroy her husband emotionally and sexually as punishment for her own self-contempt.

  Lydia, the armchair shrink, was also a rescuer. How else could she rescue herself? She felt a surge of unwelcome emotion, so turned her face in to the shower before replying, “What’s the problem, prof? Can’t hear you.”

  “My damn knuckles. I can’t help thinking about the look on Purcell’s face when I punched him. What the hell’d he expect? I hated to do it, but even my patience has a limit. The big oaf had it coming.”


  “Leo the Lion,” she called out. “Yes he did. But honey? Try to keep your temper in check from now on, okay?”

  “I didn’t start it. Then the jerk threatens you? Makes me mad just thinking about what else I should’ve done.”

  That’s not the way it happened. Leonard had caught Captain Purcell going through a waterproof Pelican case that should have been locked, and probably was. It contained the stolen logbook, their last silver Spanish real, and one extraordinarily beautiful gold doubloon. The stricken look on Leonard’s face, pure terror, as the captain, giant-sized, had stepped toward him. Then smack, like a cornered animal, Leonard had fought back, before fleeing to the stern of the boat.

  Purcell had stumbled along in pursuit. Then glowered at them both—that’s all—before Leonard swung another wild fist. Again, the sickening sound of bone on skin. Blood, too. The giant with a bewildered expression, while six of his buddies, watching from the dock, whooped and laughed.

  On the ferry to the resort, Staniel Cay, Leo the Lionhearted had vomited, he was so overwrought with nerves, but did it privately. Lydia had pretended to be unaware. Then, after a shower and three margaritas, presto, another transformation. Leonard had rallied on the beach by stripping her naked in moonlight and taking her from behind.

  Was this really the same nervous little man? His wolf-like growling had been unexpected. Very sexy, in a way, but it had also scared her. His inflated confidence still did—Capt. Purcell could’ve crushed both their skulls with one bare hand. Lydia had helped create the new Leonard Nickelby. Now the problem was, how to keep him under control and safe?

  She exited the shower and selected a towel of Egyptian cotton while speaking through the open doorway. “Point is, we don’t want to draw attention to ourselves. I think the locals got the word loud and clear about who not to mess with. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “The coconut telegraph.”

  “You don’t need to prove yourself again, prof. What time are we supposed to meet that man?”

  “Who?”

  “The coin dealer. Or collector. Or whatever he is. I’m still a little miffed you didn’t include me in the decision.”

  “There’s a good example, for you,” Leonard said. “Primitive communication is always underestimated. Columbus, in his journals, wrote about the Taino people—Indios, he called them, una gente en Dios, meaning ‘a people of God.’ Why? Because they were naked. Savages, the Spaniards considered them. Isn’t that a laugh from so-called explorers who slaughtered an entire race?”

  Professor Nickelby, archaeologist-historian, lectured on until he finally got to his point. “They used drums and signal fires. The Indians along the Florida coast knew about the Spaniards forty years before they actually landed. Now it’s cell phones. Same concept. Did you see the way the security guy looked at me when we checked in? I think they already know. Probably Purcell’s pals—the story of our little fight has spread from here to Nassau.”

  The pride the little man felt was obvious.

  Lydia stepped out wearing a black sleeveless dress, local pearls, and high heels of raspberry red. She’d paid cash at the resort boutique, an outfit that cost more than the dented Toyota she’d left behind at the airport in West Palm. “The coin dealer, Leo. What time?”

  “My god, you look delicious. Come here, I want to show you something.”

  The stolen logbook, leather-bound, lay open on a desk. A chart of the Exumas—three hundred islands, most of them deserted—was nearby. “Fitzpatrick is a shrewd old bastard, but the amateurs are all alike in one way. They can’t see the bigger picture. Not just historically, but in terms of hydrogeology. But why am I telling you? You worked for Benthic. Oh yeah, the great Jimmy Jones. Mr. Big Shot Con Man until a few weeks back when his cell mate—”

  “I know, I know, let’s not go over that again,” Lydia said. News of Jimmy’s death had catalyzed too many barbs, an equal number of lies, and had led to their only blowup thus far. Jealousy was new to her. Flattering, in a way, but enough already. Her hand massaged the professor’s neck as she seated herself on the arm of the chair. “Show me what you found.”

  Leonard hadn’t found anything. He had hijacked an idea and formulated a theory. It was based on two small chunks of ambergris that Capt. Purcell had plucked from the sea. Both were found in shoal areas, as directed by the logbook, but miles apart.

  Ambergris was a strange substance. It resembled gray volcanic rock yet floated on the surface like Styrofoam. Profitable—very profitable—because Lydia had insisted on a fifty-fifty split. This was before the “big fight.” God, the stuff stunk, which is why a buyer in Nassau had paid only six dollars per gram, half the wholesale rate. Thirteen pounds equaled almost six thousand grams—$37,400 cash, Bahamian dollars.

  It was Capt. Purcell who had stumbled upon the idea. After losing his sixteen grand playing roulette at the Hyatt, he had suggested, “Could be that book of yours is better at finding amber wax than some damn ol’ wreck where there’s sharks and other shit. Me? I don’t like the water.”

  Locals called ambergris by several names. Often it was a humorous reference to whale feces.

  Leonard was terrified of sharks, too, but had become more assertive after two days aboard the filthy trawler Sandman. “Have I asked you to get in the water? Just punch in the numbers and run the boat like you’re paid to do. There’s a little reef ahead I want to check out.”

  “A captain does more than steer,” Purcell had replied, “and he sure don’t take orders. You got something against money? By rights, the way the law of the sea works is, the boat gets a third, the captain gets a third, and that’s what you and the missus shoulda got. Not half.”

  “More for you to gamble away, in other words.”

  “Whatever I want to do, that’s none of your business. What I’m saying is, let me have a look inside that book, maybe I’ll find us another good amber wax spot.”

  This was the first sign of trouble. Leonard had been oblivious, already seeking a connection between wreck sites and coral intersections that had snagged blobs of ambergris.

  The results, paid in cash, now lay on the desk of their expensive beach house, far from the main resort.

  ‘This is what your common treasure hunter types would’ve never figured out,” Leonard said. “I’ll show you.” He re-folded the chart to display only the southern tip of Andros, Staniel Cay, and the leeward rim of Cat Island. Several miles west lay a pair of tiny islands, unnamed. They were joined like beads in a trough called the Tongue of the Ocean.

  “Think they’re inhabited?” Lydia asked.

  “Doesn’t matter, because we won’t need a dock,” Leonard said. “See how the currents carom toward deep water? Fitz and his goddamn fake GPS numbers. But he was sloppy when it came to magnetometer readings in shallow areas. The same with his notes on triangulation, most in Spanish, but some in English like these spots.”

  In pencil, Leonard had drawn arrows to indicate tidal flow where, years ago, Carl Fitzpatrick had marked possible wreck sites. The arrows formed whirlpool vortexes around several reefs.

  “Picture a Spanish galleon being beaten to death in a storm. Hydrology, there’s something called the venturi effect. Current accelerates through constricted spaces—imagine water shooting out of a garden hose. Then it explodes in reverse if the flow’s deflected by a reef.” He tapped the chart for emphasis. “Thermoclines—denser water—have an effect, too. In a storm, tidal velocity would have accelerated. See what I’m getting at?”

  During her eighteen months working for Benthic Exploration, Lydia had risen from deckhand to Jimmy Jones’s “smart little geek.” Soon, she was his secret adviser that no one else on the project bothered to give a second look. At Jimmy’s insistence, she had tended to his less savory needs as well. The concession had allowed her freedom to learn a great deal about finding small objects on the bottom of a big blue sea. />
  It had also helped her appreciate Leonard, a man she might be falling in love with—something she hadn’t planned. “I feel dense, Leo. I hate you spending so much time on ambergris when we both know what we really want.”

  Their own private island. That was the late-night fantasy they’d chattered about like kids. Somewhere safe. Remote. A sunny place where they could be themselves without apology.

  “Working our asses off to find what Fitzpatrick never found in the first place isn’t the only way,” Leonard replied. “You don’t see it, do you?”

  She listened patiently while he explained what she already understood. The whirlpool vortexes that positioned sunken objects along a reef also directed floating objects onto a reef.

  “Then Capt. Purcell was right,” she said.

  “Purcell? Christ, it was a lucky guess. You don’t really give him credit for—”

  “That’s not what I mean. What worries me is, Purcell made the connection. Those friends of his watching from the dock when you hit him? They were scary. Gangster-looking. They liked seeing his blood. And, my god, the way they humiliated the man by howling like animals. What if they know?”

  “About the logbook?”

  “Any of it. The equipment we brought is worth a fortune to people like them. Purcell knows we’re carrying a bundle of cash. And the coins—are you sure he didn’t see them?”

  Nickelby wasn’t sure but replied, “How many times do I have to tell you? Yes, they were in the Pelican case, but in their own little box, just like always. Stop being such a nervous Nellie.”

  “But he was going through the logbook when—”

  “Not in a million years could Purcell or his pals figure out Fitzpatrick’s notes. He’s not smart. But he is smart enough to realize the book’s useless without me beside him to—”

  “That’s exactly why I’m worried. And he knows where we’re staying, Leonard.”

  The girl seldom used his formal first name. Nickelby, seated, put his arms around her waist and pulled her closer. “How about this? Tonight, if the guy makes a decent offer, we’ll sell the other silver coin and buy our own boat. Something big enough we can live on for a while. There’s one at the marina I liked with a broker’s sign on it. We spend a week or two looking for ambergris and use that money to finance a bigger boat so—” He stopped, aware the girl had gone rigid. “What’s wrong? Don’t worry, I can handle Purcell. His friends, too, if it comes to that.”