Fever Tree

by Tim Applegate

Teddy, Colt observed, was in fine fettle today; nothing pleased him more than this kind of confrontation. He swooped Colt’s glass off the table—Let me top that off for you, buddy—and stood up, his six-foot shadow slicing across the redwood deck. Now that he was a kingpin with nobody in particular to answer to, Teddy had let his blond hair grow out surfer style, a fashion statement which seemed to Colt, no stranger to vanity, faintly ridiculous, considering the man’s age.

  Was the worst of it over? Teddy Mink was, if anything, unpredictable, but Colt had the feeling that this might be his lucky day. There would be a tongue lashing of course; that was to be expected. He would probably make Colt promise to apologize to Jimmy the next time he saw him, as if they were two kids who’d just gotten into a little scrap in the schoolyard, but that was to be expected too. And then everything, he suspected, would return to normal, as it usually did. He could hear Teddy describing the next run down to the Keys, filling Colt in on the details, where to pick up the rental car and how much weight he was going to carry and who the contact would be. Business as usual. Because when all was said and done, Teddy still needed him, just like he needed Jimmy, to keep the peace at the Black Kat Club and to haul the merchandise down to the Keys. Who else could he count on to move that much product?

  He looked out past the pool at the wide sweep of the beach. On the incoming tide a lone surfer rode the crest of a wave while a pelican corkscrewed into the surf, bobbing back to the surface a few seconds later with a small fish in its comical beak. Yeah, Colt was sure of it now, everything was going to be fine. He stretched his arms up over his head and twisted his torso to work the kinks out, back in his comfort zone again.

  And then Teddy stepped out the back door with his cat-ate-the-bird grin and there, on his brawny arm, was Nicky Meyers . . .

  He dragged his paddle through the water, heading for the far cove. If this were a river he’d just keep going until he was so far away no one, neither Maggie nor Jimmy Santiago nor Teddy Mink, could reel him back in. He’d start a new life somewhere, down in Mexico or Guatemala or old San Juan. Change his identity. Fabricate a fictional past.

  You know my man Colt here, don’t you Nicky?

  Nicky had played it cool, her voice low and throaty. Sure, Teddy, I know Colt. Who doesn’t?

  Exactly! Teddy cried. Colt Taylor, man about town. Teddy turned to gaze for a few moments out at the distant, scalloped waves, and when he spoke again his voice was so soft Colt could barely hear him. Man about fuckin’ town.

  Nicky, Colt noted, was dressed in typical bimbo gear, cutoff jeans and a Florida State T-shirt stretched tight across her silicone twins. Designer shades, silver earrings, and plastic, for crying out loud, slippers. With an inauthentic smile she wiggled her cute little peach of an ass into one of the patio chairs.

  And from that point on, the rest of the day went to hell, as Colt’s mother used to say, in a handbasket. At Teddy’s gentle insistence Nicky recounted what had happened that night out at the Black Kat Club. How Colt and Jimmy had been drinking hard all evening. How they’d gotten into an argument over a bet. And finally how Colt, when Jimmy made some kind of disparaging remark about Maggie, had exploded.

  As Nicky wrapped up the story, Teddy placed a sympathetic hand on her shoulder and squeezed. Thank you, Nicky. I appreciate your honesty. And I’m really sorry you had to see all that. Then he turned back to Colt and his voice was stone sober now.

  I gotta tell you, man, when I went out to the club that night this young lady here—he reached over and patted Nicky’s shoulder again—was downright shaken. All the girls were. I mean bloodshed? Paramedics? Cops?

  You gotta understand somethin’, buddy. What I’m trying to do is run an honest business out there, a clean, safe, honest business. A place where a girl like Nicky can earn enough money she can afford to take those classes down at the community college on her days off.

  Teddy removed his sunglasses, as if Nicky’s continuing education demanded his, and Colt’s, undivided attention.

  Did you even know that, Colt? Did you even know that this young lady here is taking classes? Classes! So she can better herself one day.

  The boss was on a roll now and Colt knew better than to interrupt him even though he suspected the community college angle was a load of bull. He wished he could lie down on the deck in the sun and go to sleep. Maybe when he woke up this would all be over.

  ‘Course a concept like that, Nicky—trying to better yourself and all—might be a little, well, foreign to a guy like Colt. Teddy leveled his gaze but the mule refused to meet it. He was angry, agitated, on edge. This was an internal affair and should have been handled that way. Bringing the stripper into it was a breach of trust. Let me ask you something, Nicky. Did you know our boy Colt here was the best damn athlete in his high school class? No? Well he sure the hell was. Star halfback, star pitcher on the baseball team, fucker even knew how to golf! And scouts—I’m talking major league scouts now—came knocking on his door one day too, didn’t they Colt? Talkin’ about his slider.

  In utter misery Colt glanced across the table and saw the smirk on Nicky Meyers’s face. He visualized how easy it would be to reach over and wipe that grin off for good. One night at the club he had turned Nicky down, and now this, he supposed, was his payback. She had been drinking more than usual that evening and was primed for some action and Colt, it seems, had caught her roving eye. To soften the blow, Colt had assured her that she was the foxiest dancer in the club and that there was nothing more he’d rather do than take her into the back room and bang her silly. But he couldn’t do that, he explained, because he had Maggie to think about, and the kid.

  Turn ‘em down once, just once, and they never forgive you. Ever.

  He cradled the paddle in his lap and let the canoe drift aimlessly across the pond. The moon had slipped behind the treetops, darkening the lake, and as he tilted back his head and closed his eyes he saw Teddy take a sip of his gin and tonic.

  Yes ma’am, truth is there’s a lot more to Colt Taylor here than meets the eye.

  Nicky sensed that she had a role to play here, that she was more than just eye candy today, so she spoke up. That right, Teddy?

  That’s right, Nicky.

  Colt waited, in silence, for this to end, hoping that the worst of it was over. Waited until Teddy, without warning, suddenly flipped over his hole card to reveal, to the mule’s astonishment, his black ace.

  Take his dad, for instance.

  Colt’s eyes cut across the table and his heart began to pound. Don’t do it, he thought. Don’t you dare fucking do it.

  Colt’s dad . . . Well you just aren’t gonna believe this, honey, but Colt’s dad? Why he was a cop! That’s right, a fucking cop! Teddy lifted his hands, palms up, in dismay. And frankly, he continued, I can’t help but wonder what poor Mr. Taylor, being such an upstanding citizen and all, would make of this mess his son has gotten himself into, cutting up a friend like that.

  I don’t expect, Nicky replied on cue, he would be too pleased.

  And I don’t expect so either! Teddy pondered the distant waves, the night clouds rolling in from the west, the lone surfer. Then he paused for a few more excruciating seconds before launching his next volley, basking in the tension, the anticipation of what he was about to say.

  But then again, that’s one thing our boy Colt here doesn’t have to worry about.

  Nicky was confused. She was no longer sure where this was going. A sliver of doubt crept into her voice. Why’s that, Teddy?

  Because Colt’s dad, rest his soul, is no longer with us, honey. And now Teddy took off his sunglasses again and stared at Colt without any expression at all.

  How was it the old man died again, boy? I seem to have forgotten.

  Colt heard his own voice automatically answer the question but it sounded unfamiliar, like it belonged to someone else.

  He ate his gun.

&nb
sp; Nicky Meyers blanched, but Teddy sure didn’t. Teddy shook his head, mimicking sorrow, and repeated, slowly, Colt’s reply.

  He . . . ate . . . his . . . gun. Damn.

  Colt stared out at the distant water and it all came flooding back, that unimaginable day. Sixteen-year-old star pitcher dancing through the kitchen door after baseball practice suddenly stops in his tracks, his legs quaking, his mouth gone dry . . .

  How was it the old man died again, boy? It had been the last straw. Whatever Teddy said after that didn’t matter because Colt had already checked out. They were just words. They meant nothing. He steered the canoe back toward the dock, wincing at the memory of Teddy’s unforgivable betrayal and his own enormous shame.

  At the end of his little performance Teddy had dismissed the stripper, who was more than happy by that time to get away. Why don’t you go watch a little tube, sugar, Colt and I have something private to talk about now. And as soon as Nicky wiggled back into the house Teddy had softened his tone, informing Colt that he still wanted him to make the next run down to Islamorada even though, as punishment for cutting Jimmy Santiago, he wasn’t going to be paid. And Colt had nodded, accepting this, because at that point he didn’t really care.

  He dragged the canoe up the dewy lawn and lifted it onto the rack. Then he went into the kitchen for a beer and carried it out to one of the lounge chairs arranged in a semi-circle in the back yard. Sometimes the three of them came out here at the end of the day to watch the sun tumble behind the treetops while the water, in the falling light, changed hue. One evening they heard the cry of some animal deep in a stand of white cedars and Colt had to fight off an urge to reach out and place his hands over Hunter’s ears, to protect the boy from the knowledge of what that cry meant. Then he realized just how futile such a gesture would be. The strong killed the weak and then they ate them. It was the way of the world and it always had been, and the kid would discover this soon enough.

  He leaned back in the lounge chair, draining the rest of the beer and crumpling the can in his hand. And all of a sudden it occurred to him that there was only one possible response to Teddy’s treachery. You paid for your sins—just ask his father—which meant that absolution wasn’t possible. But at least he knew, now, what he was going to do.

  6

  Good day, sir! So how’s Mr. Dieter on this lovely morning?

  Just dandy, Mr. Gold. Good as, well, gold.

  Right as rain, ay? With a jaunty backward wave at the beaming manager, Dieter stepped out into the sunshine, startled by his buoyant mood. Days, weeks, months pass by in a fog of indecision, Dieter the sleepwalker going through the motions of his diminished life. And then one afternoon he climbs into his pickup and heads south over the mountains and winds up here. And now this!

  Before leaving his room that morning, he had gathered the flurry of notes he’d penned the night before, stacking the random pages on the desk and weighting down the pile with a conch shell. And now, as he skipped along the sidewalk on his way to breakfast at the Delta Café, he had to chuckle at the mental image of Consuela discovering that trove of yellow papers, page after page filled with Dieter’s cramped, untidy handwriting. A poor reader, she would certainly be unable to decipher what all those seemingly aimless, seemingly unconnected words and phrases—with a spontaneous poem or two thrown in for good measure—meant. Dieter wasn’t sure he could, and he was the one who had written them!

  He considered the poor housekeeper’s dilemma. In the two weeks Dieter had been staying at the Gibson, Consuela had uncovered a mere handful of frustratingly meager clues. So far, all she knew was that he read a lot of books and kept his room clean and organized, his socks and underwear arranged in separate drawers, his shirts and pants pressed and folded and hung—shirts on one side, pants on the other—in the closet, his valuables stored downstairs in the safe. Occasionally he drank but never, as far as she could determine, to excess, and not furtively either; unlike many of the Gibson’s other guests Dieter left his bottle of whiskey in full view. In a fit of pique, the housekeeper swept the floor and swabbed out the shower stall and replaced the sheets on Dieter’s bed. Where, she wanted to know, was the pornographic magazine, the bag of marijuana, the bench warrant for Dieter’s arrest? It was driving her crazy. The housekeeper’s theory, exacerbated no doubt by her own woeful experiences with men in general, and a trio of less than exemplary husbands in particular, was that every man had something despicable to hide. And then this guy shows up. Mr. Clean. Consuela’s beady Latin eyes scanned the room again. Where was the bloodstained handkerchief, the stolen jewelry, the loaded gun? And what about women? Where were the babes?

  On top of that, if this distressing lack of physical evidence wasn’t irritating enough, there was Dieter’s spotless behavior to consider also. He was invariably polite, almost courtly, to Consuela and Mr. Gold. Although he didn’t seem to have a job of any sort, he was far from lazy: every morning he went for long walks through the nearby residential neighborhoods and then down to the harbor to watch the boats sail out to sea, and in the afternoons he drove out to Christopher Key for a swim. He usually ate breakfast at the Delta Café and dinner at one of the seafood joints down along the water. According to Consuela’s best friend, a waitress at one of those cafes, Dieter always ate alone, displayed, for a relatively slight man, a robust appetite, and enjoyed a glass of red wine with his broiled flounder. He preferred a quiet corner table with a view of the water, was quick to compliment the staff on the quality of the food and service, and tipped well.

  And that, in a nutshell, was the problem. For all intents and purposes he was perfect. Good looking (that pageboy haircut and those dreamy blue eyes had already triggered in Consuela’s active libido a feverish sex dream or two), well mannered, and self-confident without appearing brash. Groomed, but not fastidious; pleasant, but not flip. Unlike Consuela’s three ex-husbands, he didn’t seem to think the rest of the world revolved around his ego. In fact he didn’t seem to have an ego. And that was the second problem: trying to pry information out of the man was like pulling stubborn teeth.

  Whenever Mr. Gold pressed the issue, Dieter let drop a few intriguing hints. He hailed from a small town in southern Indiana where his father owned a cabinet shop. He had spent some time in Mexico. He had earned a college degree. A tidbit here, a tidbit there, this paltry trickle of information not nearly enough to satisfy Mr. Gold and Consuela’s insatiable appetite for gossip, though at least it was a start. And then one recent morning Dieter had startled the hotel manager out of his usual complacency by abruptly announcing that he had stayed at the Gibson once before . . . in 1959. Twenty years ago on a vacation with his family, he said.

  So clearly, Mr. Gold informed Consuela later that day, what we have here is a man attempting to rediscover his past. You must understand, my dear, that each of us, every single last one of us, is on a kind of odyssey, a journey back to our roots. Mr. Dieter, I daresay, remembers a time when the world was less complicated, less fragile, less fraught with modern ills. And that time, it seems, is best represented in his mind by those halcyon days he spent here in our modest little establishment twenty years ago.

  To Consuela this all sounded a little highfalutin, but who knew? Mr. Gold was a keen observer of human frailty and his interpretations of the curious behavior of certain quirky guests of the Gibson were often spot on. So, when he proceeded to opine that Mr. Dieter was attempting to recreate a lost period of his youth as an antidote to the distinctive whiff of tragedy behind his gentlemanly airs, Consuela latched on to the idea. Because there was something charmingly sad about Dieter, an emotional reserve, an inner distance. Eventually her irritation gave way to pity. What in the world had happened to the poor man?

  In the housekeeper’s eyes, Dieter remained, in other words, an enigma. And the bizarre pile of paper she discovered on his desk that morning provided additional proof. Careful not to disrupt the sequence of the pages and thus risk exposing h
erself as a snoop, Conseula scanned Dieter’s chicken-scratch handwriting, unable to make out more than a handful of words. Finally, in exasperation, she gave up. It was another dead end. For all the good they did her, the notes may as well have been written in Sanskrit.

  After she finished cleaning Dieter’s room, she lingered for a few minutes at the second-story window looking down on the town. In the central plaza, Uncle Billy knelt in a bed of lantana, snipping off dead leaves. General Lee glared sternly over the rooftops of Crooked River. And on the sidewalk that looped past the plaza and down to the waterfront, Dieter, with an added bounce in his step today, nodded politely at every man, woman, and child who happened this fine morning to pass his way.

  7

  After a fearsomely hearty breakfast at the Delta Café (banana pancakes positively drenched in maple syrup) Dieter meandered over to the harbor to watch the shrimp boats chug out to sea. Then he walked, at a southern gentleman’s leisurely pace, back to the central square and out through the town’s handsome Victorian neighborhoods, occasionally removing from his back pocket the small notebook he now carried with him to record his observations. Like the way water from lawn sprinklers resembled, in the morning light, a spray of silver coins. Or how faces behind windows peeked out from the folds of baroque curtains to track the mysterious stranger tramping through their neighborhood again. Sometimes, spotting one of these peepers, he tipped the brim of an imaginary cap the way famous golfers did when they made a birdie three. Augusta in the spring, he scribbled in his notepad. At the Masters, the dogwoods are in bloom.

  Three days after helping Frank Paterson wrestle the chifforobe through his front doorway, Dieter returned to the store. Frank’s smile as he escorted his guest into the showroom was as wide and generous as the mouth of a river, and for a moment Dieter was afraid the older man might wrap him in a bear hug, crushing his fragile bones.

  Well c’mon in, boy. I was startin’ to think you forgot about me!