Fever Tree
Tim Applegate
Amberjack Publishing
New York, New York
Amberjack Publishing
228 Park Avenue S #89611
New York, NY 10003-1502
http://amberjackpublishing.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, fictitious places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, or events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Tim Applegate
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, in part or in whole, in any form whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data
Names: Applegate, Tim, author.
Title: Fever Tree / by Tim Applegate.
Identifiers: ISBN 9780997237733 (pbk.) | 9780997237740 (ebook) | LCCN 2016930498.
Description: New York [New York] : Amberjack Publishing, 2016.
Subjects: LCSH Florida—Fiction. | Drugs—Fiction. | Writers—Fiction. | Criminals—Fiction.| BISAC FICTION / General.
Classification: LCC PS3601.P664 F48 2016 | DDC 813.6 –dc23
Cover Design: Red Couch Creative, Inc.
Artwork: Marco Smouse
Printed in the United States of America
“There are always two plots:
a man rides into town, or a man leaves.”
Penelope Scambly Schott
Sometimes I Sleep in Dufur
One
1
That afternoon he crossed over the last mountain pass and dropped down into the valley, into hardwood forest, hardwood swamp. Hill country for the next twenty miles but bottomland too, brackish water the color of iced tea swirling around trunks of cypress, the swamp’s oldest trees. Slowing down, taking his time, avoiding the interstate for less-traveled roads to satisfy an urge, an ache, for real country, for red clay. Not a watery bowl of grits at some shiny new franchise off Exit 36 but an honest-to-God barbeque joint owned by the granddaughter of the man who first opened it, the son of a slave. What’s left of a still in the woods out back next to the original pit grill, abandoned now too. Leafy silence, patches of sunlight, two or three picnic tables crowning the bank of a copper creek.
Then a blur of pines as the land opened up and the sun blistered the pavement, the air streaming through his open window no cooler than the rest of the air, just faster. A tarpaper shack with requisite junk cars littering the front yard and a Rottweiler snapping on its chain as Dieter’s pickup flew by. He twisted the dial on the radio, looking for something to settle on: fire and brimstone, honky tonk, pork belly futures, then fire and brimstone again, venomous preachers railing against those malcontents who still railed against the war in southeast Asia four years after the fall. He had watched it unfold on TV at his dad’s house, helicopters hovering over the rooftops of downtown Saigon while Kissinger, in his Washington office, denied blame. Dieter’s father, close to tears, gaping at the screen, ashamed of the country his father, in the wake of the horrors of Verdun, had adopted, cherished, loved.
A shallow ditch parallel to the highway and wider spaces between the trees now, aisles of light. Dips and rises in the pavement, dappled shadows, blade of a road severing a patch of forest that Dieter, with his attention to detail, could readily identify: loblolly pine, southern red oak, persimmon.
As he approached the town, low coast fields of red clay gave way to savannas of sandy loam once submerged under ancient estuaries; in the riverbeds, kids still found sharks’ teeth polished to an ebony finish by the sea. And now the names of those languid streams flowed through his mind—Carrabelle, Blackwater, Santa Fe—while the road unraveled its long yellow cord. Sparse woods punctuated by splashes of sudden color—flame azalea, St. John’s wort—then a scattering of homes. Shotgun shacks but bigger homes too, the men who managed the mill or ran the casino staking their claim in the American dream: three bedrooms with two-and-a-half baths and a pool, with a view.
At dusk he crossed a bridge spanning a horseshoe of gunmetal gray water and discovered the town unchanged since the last time he was there, two decades ago, the year he turned nine. The harbor a tangle of masts and riggings, the town plaza dominated, as it was in Dieter’s memory, by a statue of General Lee. When the last of the light flamed against the old brick storefronts, it was not hard to imagine, in fact, what Crooked River must have looked like a hundred and fifty years ago, at the height of the boom. Freight cars topped with Alabama cotton offloaded into the holds of those British schooners that would carry the bales, in the dead of night, across the wine-dark sea.
He parked in front of the Gibson Hotel and stepped into the lobby, struck for the second time since he pulled into town by déjà vu. The same chandelier hanging from the same domed ceiling still in need of a fresh coat of paint. Cracked leather chairs circling a badly stained rug, vaguely Persian. Tiffany lamps. A cuspidor. Behind the front desk, an oak cabinet’s two dozen cubbyholes held flat gold keys, room-numbered, and Dieter remembered those too, the stamped keys.
Hearing a customer’s footsteps approach the front counter, Mr. Gold, the Gibson’s aged, genteel manager, shuffled out of the back room wearing a gabardine jacket and a paisley bow tie, an outfit so old fashioned, a fob watch wouldn’t have seemed out of place. He offered Dieter a polite, professional smile.
Good evening, sir. May I help you?
A room, please.
Certainly.
Following a quick, cursory appraisal of the solitary traveler and his apparently much used duffel (a military man? a vagabond?) Mr. Gold opened his ledger, frowning in concentration while he worried a finger down the lined pages, as if the Gibson, which was nearly empty, had few available rooms.
And how long will you be staying with us, Mr. um . . . The manager squinted down at the crabbed signature on the rental agreement, unable to decipher the name.
Dieter. It’s Dieter.
Ah yes, Mr. Dieter. Sooo . . . how long?
Observing the traveler’s hesitation, Mr. Gold swept a twitchy hand through the few remaining wisps of his white hair, unable to hide his concern. A nice looking young man, but one never knew these days.
Perhaps you’d like me to hold the room then, with a credit card?
Cash. I’ll pay cash.
The manager’s head bobbed up and down. Currency was good. Checks could bounce. Credit cards could overwhelm their limits.
Of course.
For a week.
Excuse me?
Cash, Dieter repeated. For a week.
Certainly, sir.
As Mr. Gold watched the Gibson’s newest guest ascend the shadowy stairwell, he felt a shiver of apprehension. Because something about young Mr. Dieter bothered him. His indecision? His reticence? The manager couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but after forty years in the business a man developed certain instincts, a nose for such things. With a shudder he recalled last month’s suicide in room 37. By the time the maid discovered the poor man’s body, rigor mortis had set in.
2
If Maggie Paterson thought the world was going to end the night a phone call from Colt’s lawyer woke her at 4:00 a.m., she was mistaken. She had been dreaming about the apocalypse again—fire, famine, flood—when the phone woke her, but no, the world didn’t end, it just added a few new twists to its dire story. Like the three-inch gash above Jimmy Santiago’s right eye, that Howard Simmons, in his lawyerly baritone, now
described. Or the broken beer bottle Colt had used as a weapon. Oh, I almost forgot, Simmons added, Santiago’s right arm? Well that’s broken too, nearly wrenched right out of its socket.
Maggie rubbed her eyes. While the lawyer droned on about Jimmy Santiago and the latest hyper drama down at the Black Kat Club, she couldn’t quite shake the dream—carrying Hunter through the flames, racing toward the safety of the harbor—even though this new nightmare, unlike the other, was all too real. Colt’s usually were. Unscarred, her beloved was sleeping it off down at the drunk tank, Simmons reported. There was still, of course, the question of bail, but that would have to wait until tomorrow. And no one knew at this point whether Santiago was going to press charges. Teddy Mink kept a close rein on those boys of his, Simmons said, but this bit of business was pretty damn extreme, even by Colt’s questionable standards.
As he filled her in on the rest of the sordid details, Maggie couldn’t help but note how pleased the counselor sounded to be telling her all this. She pictured him out on his screened lanai nursing a vodka tonic, gazing across the moonlit harbor. Assault, he sighed, with a deadly weapon, his voice breezy now, as if he were describing the recent heat wave, or the lack of summer rain.
Maggie had been dreaming about the apocalypse ever since she borrowed that book of paintings from the city library and became fixated on The Scream. A tingle of gooseflesh had crawled up her arms as she considered the woman on the bridge, her mouth flung open in a howl of terrible fear. In the background, two other figures were also crossing the bridge but for the life of her Maggie couldn’t figure out what they were doing there; they seemed to belong in a different painting. The next morning she had shown The Scream to Colt, who feigned enthusiasm though she was fairly certain he couldn’t care less. To placate her, he’d lingered over the painting, muttering that’s pretty good, Mag. Spooky. But even as he pretended to be immersed in Munch’s disturbing vision, his eyes drifted over to the hallway mirror, checking his act out. He liked to sneak these looks at himself almost as much as women did when they saw him on the street strutting his stuff, his Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirts and skintight blue jeans and Saturday night boots, alligator no less. Faux fucking cowboy, as vain as a Hollywood starlet and just about as bright; why, she wanted to know, am I still with him?
Simmons’s laconic voice came back on the line, disrupting her reverie by explaining how Colt, after cutting Santiago, had called for an ambulance, hoping Jimmy wouldn’t bleed out before the medics arrived. Arriving at the club at the same time as the medics, two cops listened to Colt’s rambling account of the incident, his halfhearted confession, before hauling him down to the clink. Where, cross-eyed with drink, he had used his single phone call to contact Simmons, knowing that the counselor would clean up the mess, because that’s what Teddy Mink kept him on retainer for. Barely listening now, Maggie stared out the bedroom door at the dark hallway, wondering if the phone call had woken Hunter.
At any rate, Maggie, I’m sorry I had to wake you with all this.
No problem, Howard, I got the early shift today. And you aren’t, she thought sourly, the least bit sorry. You fucking thrive on this.
She hung up the phone and went into the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. At the window she looked out at the pond, grey in the day’s first light. Soon she would have to wake Hunter and bundle him up in a blanket and drop him off at Lureen’s. Groaning, she took a sip of the steaming coffee and gazed out at the water, the cattails, the canoe. Beyond tears. Beyond caring. Mostly numb.
Because sometimes it just didn’t seem worth it anymore. She hated to give in to despair but maybe it would be better if the dream came true. Famine, flood, pestilence—all those cheery scenarios her sister Lureen, born again, cherished. The sinners vanquished. The slate wiped clean.
3
Like many other small southern towns that had once served as a conduit for King Cotton, and then reaped its share of that shameless industry’s outrageous rewards, Crooked River remained, at least on the surface, charmingly antebellum. The original town square was ringed by southern red oaks and weathered wooden benches, where pedestrians, depleted by the summer heat, could rest their weary bones. Two walkways crisscrossed the plaza, and from the four corners of that leafy hub, a wheel of streets branched out, dividing the adjoining neighborhoods into pleasant blocks of antiquated Victorian homes that retained, despite the ravages of time, their aura of former prosperity. To a passerby, their trim green lawns reflected in leaded-glass windows that offered beguiling glimpses of sitting rooms furnished much as they must have been a century ago: floral sofas, walnut sideboards, roll top desks.
From the window of his room at the Gibson, Dieter considered the town. In the glare of a late August sun, General Lee, proud and defiant even in defeat, sat astride Traveler. Uncle Billy, the elderly black man who had toiled as the town’s official gardener for as long as anyone could remember, strolled down aisles of flowerbeds spaced evenly across the square, watering his petunias. And in a nearby neighborhood, a middle-aged homeowner trimmed his front lawn with a push mower while a housepainter in whites draped a drop cloth over the hibiscus.
But no matter how many petunias Uncle Billy planted to spruce up the plaza or how many homeowners repainted their lap siding, it didn’t take long for a casual observer, much less Dieter, to determine that Crooked River had fallen on hard times. The town had never been much of a tourist destination in the first place, its links to Dixieland’s colorful history lost on those northerners whose taste for sugar-sand beaches and tall cool drinks drove them further down the coast. And yet, even a burgh as proud as Crooked River was not above a little civic self-promotion. With his photographic memory, Dieter recalled the town’s previous attempts to siphon off a few of the travelers racing down Highway 98 on their way to Clearwater Beach. The miniature golf course. The swampy pond where bare-chested men wrestled drugged alligators into submission. The drive-in theater. Four days ago, as he approached the coast, he had slowed down on that once memorable stretch of road, not particularly surprised to discover the miniature golf course abandoned, the alligator pond strangled by hydrilla, and the drive-in theater—where he and his family once watched Sterling Hayden in The Asphalt Jungle perish among his beloved mares—open only on weekends now, for swap meets.
Downtown a number of buildings stood empty, For Sale or Lease signs taped to their dusty windows, though there were a few encouraging glimmers of hope too, stubborn businesses that had found a way, in the face of falling profits, to hang on. Like the Delta Café with its greasy chicken dinners served up by brassy waitresses on the wrong side of fifty. Or the Blue Moon Tavern and its jar of pickled eggs, kegs of Pabst Blue Ribbon, and a refreshing lack of ferns. There was the Gibson, of course, in all its faded glory, along with Paterson’s Antiques and Keller’s Hardware and the former Opera House, which now showed second-run films. To the utter dismay of much of Crooked River’s God-fearing citizenry, there was even a new hippie emporium where those who had strayed off the path of righteousness could purchase a Jimi Hendrix headband, the latest album by Led Zeppelin, or a hookah from Katmandu.
And yet despite these game attempts to maintain Crooked River’s commercial viability, only the waterfront seemed as vibrant today as it was in Dieter’s recollection. He liked to go down there in the early mornings before the heat set in. After a quick shower, he would toss on a pair of worn khakis and an Indiana University T-shirt and descend the Gibson’s aged marble stairs. Invariably, on his way across the lobby, he would stop and chat for a few minutes with Mr. Gold, who hovered over the front counter like a kestrel protecting its nest. The lobby was Mr. Gold’s kingdom, and no one passing through it escaped his keen regard. Including Dieter, who, despite the manager’s initial reservations, had proven himself an amiable, if somewhat secretive, young man.
And how’s Mr. Dieter this morning?
Fine, Mr. Gold, just fine.
Looks like another glorious day out
there, though perhaps—the manager leaned over the front counter to peek, with a tremor of disdain, at a nearby sidewalk already flooded with morning light—a bit sticky?
Well, not too sticky I hope.
Mr. Gold’s placid smile never wavered.
Yes, well, there’s always the beach for that eventuality, ay? Christopher Key is it? The one you’re so fond of?
I applaud your memory, sir.
With a slight bow, the manager graciously accepted Dieter’s compliment. He was dressed today in a seersucker suit and a sky-blue tie. Catching the light, his bifocals glittered.
The fact of the matter, young man, is that it behooves someone in my position to take a certain amount of, um . . . interest in his guests. This is not, as you know, the Holiday Inn.
It certainly isn’t!
To anyone overhearing this conversation, the odd, stilted formality of the two participants might have sounded peculiar, but over the last four days, Dieter had come to understand that this was the kind of seemingly innocuous dialogue Mr. Gold preferred, and as one of the few long-term guests currently staying at the Gibson, he was happy to oblige. Even Mr. Gold’s gentle but insistent probing—Christopher Key is it?—didn’t particularly bother him, though he strongly suspected that his reluctant replies provided fodder for the gossip the manager surely engaged in as soon as his guest was out the door. He imagined Mr. Gold and Consuela the housekeeper trading notes. Consuela in particular would be intrigued by any juicy tidbits Mr. Gold might scatter her way, as she was the one who rummaged, daily, through Dieter’s belongings, searching for clues.
After grabbing a coffee to go at the Delta Café, Dieter took up his perch on the seawall that separated the sleepy town from its raucous harbor. Invigorated by the briny air and the Delta’s robust coffee, he watched a swarm of deckhands fit out their boats for the day’s labor, checking nets for tears, filling coolers with sandwiches and root beer, chopping bait. If they weren’t too hungover, the deckhands bantered with their compadres on nearby ships, shouting out increasingly fierce insults or placing friendly wagers on which vessel would catch the most fish that day. Meanwhile the fleet’s stern captains moved purposefully about the bridges, their thoughts on the latest weather report—tropical storms could blow up without warning this time of year—or the fluctuating market prices for the bounties of shellfish they would, God willing, haul back to the docks, already on ice, at the end of the day.
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