Fever Tree

by Tim Applegate

  At the bar in the Holiday Inn, Jackie had broken the ice by asking Dieter his opinion of certain books by authors they happened to share a passion for. Paul Bowles, Frederick Exley, Philip Roth. As the day’s last light waned in the picture-glass windows and the sunbathers around the pool retired to their rooms, the three of them settled in, discussing literature, something Dieter hadn’t had the opportunity to do since the day he arrived in town. Eventually the conversation circled back to Dieter’s own book, which caused some discomfort, for Dieter was one of those writers who didn’t know how to react when fans praised his work. This time, however, he needn’t have worried, because Jackie refused to fawn, asking precise, pointed questions instead, about the village in Quintana Roo, whether Parrish was based on an actual person (no, Dieter said, he was a composite), and if Erik Fuller’s disastrous acid trip was fashioned after one of his own (yes). For all his flirtatious banter, the man was a serious and knowledgeable reader, which made his appreciation of Jaguar Moon genuinely flattering.

  Ice broken, the rest of the evening passed amicably by in an alcoholic haze, the drinks flowing like water while Maggie leaned back in her chair content to listen to the two men talk, immensely pleased that her new beau had been charmed, just as she had hoped he would be, by her flamboyant friend. Colt the homophobe had always scoffed whenever Maggie suggested inviting Jackie out for dinner. What would we talk about for Christ’s sake, he’s a fucking twink! Conversely, Dieter had welcomed him with open arms, literally. As they were leaving the bar he had given a startled Jackie an affectionate hug before declining his offer of a ride back to the Gibson. He was pleasantly soused, he said, and it had been a wonderful evening, but he wanted to walk back to the hotel by himself, to stroll along the harbor, to enjoy the evening air.

  Now as he drove across the causeway to Christopher Key, Dieter tracked a schooner chugging out past the channel markers into the open sea for its day of fishing. The sky was clear this morning and the first rays of light showered the harbor, sparkling on the hulls of the boats. He rolled down his window, smelling the salt in the air and remembering how Maggie tried to mask her disappointment when he declined Jackie’s offer of a ride back to the Gibson the other night. He’d walked her out to Jackie’s car and given her a long, affectionate kiss. I’ll see you in the morning, okay? And I’ll be thinking about you too.

  You will?

  All night long.

  You promise?

  He hung a left at the end of the causeway, the jarring display of indiscriminate wealth that desecrated the southern half of Christopher Key immediately plunging him into a cynical mood. While the northern end of the island remained more or less in its natural state, the southern half represented, to a man like Dieter, everything that was wrong with indiscriminate growth. Daunting white McMansions towering over thin strips of sand riprapped and sandbagged to prevent the erosion the developer’s bulldozers had set into motion in the first place; stumps of native palms mercilessly toppled to make way for a three-car garage; privacy fences blocking views of the sea. At least the marsh had been protected. He consulted his trail guide. According to the map, the trailhead was on the left, just past the severe curve in the road he was now negotiating. Slowing down, he peered out the dusty windshield but couldn’t spot it. Then he noticed a pullout of sorts, a rutted lane overhung with spindly branches. Maybe the trailhead sign was missing. Maybe this was it.

  He eased the truck into the lane, parting the branches with the hood. A few feet on, the overhanging boughs began to thin out and then the trees ended, exposing a weedy clearing wide enough for him to turn back around and park, facing forward, on the shoulder of the road.

  After maneuvering the truck into position, he grabbed his backpack and set out toward the marsh. The sun had yet to top the trees that defined the edge of the hammock he was about to cross, and even out here, under the wide blue sky, the air remained cool. He established a steady, methodical pace, one step at a time, on the trail that divided the grassland. Then he entered the next canopy and emerged a few minutes later to his first view of the wetland. As if in greeting, a cloud of white egrets rose from the reflective shallows, wheeling across the sky. Remembering how Jennifer used to react to such a sight, glassing the horizon with a look of joyful expectation on her face, he fished through his backpack for the binoculars, only to discover that he had left them in the truck.

  27

  When D.B. Harmon was on a roll like this, all you could do was wait him out, wait until he grew tired of his own tedious voice, wait until he returned, roundabout, back to the reason he’d phoned in the first place.

  Way I see it, Ted, that boy’s okay. Maybe not as ambitious as you and me but hey, that’s a good thing, right? I mean how many are?

  Teddy Mink winced, squeezing the phone in irritation. He didn’t like it when anyone, even a client as wealthy as Dub Harmon, called him Ted. The name was Teddy.

  No sirree, not like you and me, pal. Guys like us pulled ourselves up by the bootstraps, right? Same way our parents did. Down there in old Miami B.

  Teddy skipped a reply even though he didn’t exactly disagree. Not that a little silence, he supposed, would deter a guy like Harmon. Now that he’d mentioned his parents and South Beach in the same exorbitant breath, the realtor wouldn’t be satisfied until he connected all the dots, and sure enough, that’s exactly what he proceeded to do, going all the way back to that bumfuck hometown of his up there in Wisconsin (or was it Illinois?), his lack of college because his parents couldn’t afford to send him to one, and finally that first fateful trip down to old Miami B, where money seemed to hang off the boughs of all those sparkling citrus trees.

  That first magical million, Dub crowed, the year we met, remember? Height of the boom?

  Like Dub, Teddy had made his first fortune in shady south Florida land grabs before moving on to even shadier, and more lucrative, ventures. Holding the phone a few inches away from his ear he peered out the window of his office at a pretty young thing strolling down the beach in a red bikini, impatiently waiting for Harmon to run out of breath or become bored with his own self inflation.

  Anyhoo, like I said, Ted, that boy’s okay, dependable. Did I tell you what he told me when he came down?

  Teddy, who had nearly dozed off during Dub’s mind-numbing personal saga, perked back up.

  The boy?

  Right, the boy.

  Okay then, they were back on familiar ground now, back on code, the way the drug lord preferred it. Because you couldn’t be too careful these days; after Watergate, you never knew when someone might run a tap on your lines.

  No, Dub, I don’t believe you did.

  Well what he said was that he might be interested in buying a place down here.

  Silently, Teddy forgave the realtor for wasting the last ten minutes of his life. No kiddin’. He say where?

  Big Pine. Said he likes the area around that old boatyard, the one I’m thinking about dividing into lots.

  Lots?

  You remember; two lots steada one?

  Oh yeah, right, two lots.

  Teddy smiled, satisfied now. The deal was set and it was better than he had expected; double the weight, double the cash. Listen, Dub, I appreciate you calling, hear?

  No problem, Ted.

  The drug lord hung up, cringing again. Ted? The name’s Teddy you fuckin’ dork. Or better yet, Mr. Mink. On the other hand, the big man was doubling up this time. How sweet was that?

  Teddy unlocked his desk drawer, withdrew an address book, and confirmed the number for Bogota. After haggling for a few minutes with the international operator, he waited for the prerecorded message to come on, which allowed him time to tap in his figures. A contented sigh as he hung up the phone. It was like placing an order for groceries down at the corner market, almost too damn easy.

  Gazing out the office window (where had that blonde in the red bikini run
off to, anyway?) Teddy reflected on just how bizarre this business of his was. In a matter of hours, down there in some dense Columbian jungle, men in fatigues would begin to position the product. In the dark, a panel truck would wind along a dusty track to the airstrip, where the pilot would be waiting. Then the powder would move north, south, then north again, eventually spreading out to a network of cities in little plastic baggies stepped on again and again until some poor schmuck in a coldwater flat paid through the nose to put up his nose what five steps back had been pure coca. What a lark this would be if it weren’t illegal, if he didn’t have to worry that one day he’d wake up with half a dozen pistols in his face.

  He dialed Pam Morgan. Hey there, Pamela, how ya doin’?

  Well if it isn’t Mister Teddy fuckin’ Mink.

  The drug lord grinned. Sounded like Pam the souse was hitting the bottle a little early today, which for some perverse reason pleased him. What, after all, did the poor woman have to stay sober for? A deckhand from Everglades City who had been drinking just as much as she had to stumble down her driveway tonight hoping to get a little on the side? If she’d chugged enough hooch, she was likely to oblige. All that coke might have ruined Pam’s sinuses and emptied her bank account, but it hadn’t dampened her sexuality one damn bit. On the downside of forty she still enjoyed, make that craved, an occasional roll in the hay. Trouble was she pined for Teddy, always had, no matter how many times he rejected her.

  He recalled the last time he’d gone down; the dead water in the salt flats, mosquitoes the size of palmetto bugs, and that heat! Hell, if I was her I’d slug back a few too. The truck runnin’ okay?

  The truck?

  Yes, Pam, he repeated patiently, the truck. Christ, had she already forgotten that truck was the trigger, the key that unlocked the code? Otherwise you were still outside the circle, merely chatting.

  Oh right, right, the truck.

  Down in Miami, back in the glory days, Pam’s idea of the good life was a few bumps in a bathroom stall at the Kennel Club followed by dinner with Teddy at Joe’s Stone Crab: hush puppies, a bottle or two of Mums, and a veritable mountain of those delectable crustaceans—the finest on the planet—swimming in their buttery broth. So what if her appetite was shot? The champagne was superb, the conversation appropriately flamboyant, wild and crazy sex later that evening, if she didn’t pass out first, a distinct possibility.

  Reason I ask? Last time I drove it it sounded kind of ragged, like it might need a tune-up or something.

  Sure, Teddy, I’ll take it in.

  How about I give Jake a call, down the garage, make the appointment for you.

  Works for me.

  Next Tuesday?

  Say what?

  Teddy glanced at his wristwatch. Ten o’clock in the morning and she was already plastered, too slow on the uptake to catch these basic prompts. Still, he loved this part, even the missed signals. It reminded him of a James Bond movie, Blofeld petting the big tomcat, talking trash to his thugs.

  Tuesday the eleventh, okay? It was like trying to have a discussion with a child distracted by a cartoon on TV. Got it?

  Got it. The eleventh.

  Maybe you should write it down.

  I’m writing!

  Great. Now listen, honey, you be good.

  Teddy?

  He hung up before she had a chance to ask him when he was going to come down again—yeah, like that was gonna happen any time soon—before she started whining. Sometimes, out of nowhere, she burst into tears. Poor woman just couldn’t handle her liquor anymore.

  In the laundry room he scooped a generous helping of dry chow into Pepsi’s bowl and carried it out to the dog run. Hearing his footsteps, the Rottweiler stretched awake, blinking at her master with big red watery eyes.

  He knelt down and rubbed the dog’s ears. You ready for your walk, girl, ready to go scare up some squirrels? Now that he had taken care of business, Teddy felt a rising optimism brighten his day. He attached a leash to Pepsi’s collar, unlocked the gate, and started down the path that bordered the coastal road and led to the trail that looped back to the beach, their usual morning romp.

  Holding on for dear life to Pepsi’s leash, Teddy thought about last night, remembering why in addition to the upturn in business there was another reason for his upbeat mood today. After going over some figures with Howard Simmons in his office overlooking the bay, he had stopped at The Tides for a nightcap. Where, while sitting alone at the bar, he’d overheard a table of deckhands talking about Dieter.

  The one wearing a Red Sox baseball cap demanded center stage.

  I told you he was some kinda writer.

  Nah, man, I was the one told you that.

  Whatever, dude.

  Not letting on that he was eavesdropping, Teddy sipped his drink, intrigued. A writer?

  What kinda writer, a third deckhand asked.

  Stories. Writes stories. Writes books.

  No shit. Who knew?

  Well for one, the guy in the ball cap cried, I did!

  Teddy yanked on the leash, trying to stifle the dog’s headlong momentum. Up ahead, on the opposite side of the road, a blue pickup was parked underneath the overhanging foliage but Teddy was too lost in his thoughts to register this. A writer? Could it be that simple? Could Dieter have come down to Crooked River to gather material for his next book? That’s what the deckhand in the ball cap claimed, and as far as Teddy knew he may have been right.

  When he got back home from The Tides he called a reporter he used to hang out with in South Beach. Had he ever heard of a writer named William Dieter?

  Sure, the reporter replied, he wrote Jaguar Moon.

  What’s Jaguar Moon?

  A novel.

  Oh yeah? You’ve read it?

  I have.

  And?

  Killer stuff, man. The real deal.

  So Dieter was a writer after all. Which might just explain everything. Why he’d come down to Crooked River in the first place, and why he’d hooked up with Maggie Paterson. For one thing, Maggie was a reader, so naturally she’d be attracted by a writer with the credentials Dieter apparently possessed. He was good looking, too, maybe not as dashing as Colt Taylor but so what? Besides the physical attraction there was intellectual stimulation to consider also, something Maggie’s life had surely lacked since the day she shacked up with Colt. His idea of a good read was the back of a box of Wheaties.

  And yet . . . keeping a firm hold on the leash to prevent Pepsi from bolting, Teddy considered the other side of the coin. Being a writer might explain what Dieter was doing there. It might even explain his affair with Maggie Paterson. But what about his asking Gene where he could score? Obviously writers were just as susceptible to a drug habit as anyone else, maybe more so, but the incident still bothered him, just as it had apparently bothered Gene. Mexico, the bartender had groaned. Maybe what, he got busted down there? Those federales, man. Way I hear it those fuckers can put the screws in good.

  What are you saying? Teddy had asked.

  I’m not saying anything.

  You’re saying he cut a deal.

  I’m not saying anything!

  Hey!

  Without warning, Pepsi yanked on the leash with all her strength, nearly ripping it out of Teddy’s hand. She was straining to cross the road, having likely caught the scent of an animal in the woods over there, a raccoon or a possum or one of the feral cats that hung out in the brush.

  Stop! In response to Pepsi’s sudden enthusiasm, Teddy yanked just as hard on the other end of the leash, choking the Rottweiler into submission. At the same time, the blue pickup camouflaged by all those overhanging branches finally caught his attention. Now what the fuck, he thought, is this? The truck was parked in a shadowy pullout no one, in Teddy’s memory, had ever used.

  He eyed the pickup with mounting suspicion. It c
ould, he supposed, belong to a hiker on his way to the marsh, or maybe some kids heading back to the boardwalk to get high. But why would anyone park here when the trailhead, and its gravel lot, was no more than a hundred yards farther down the road?

  After tying Pepsi’s leash to the spindly trunk of a slash pine, he peered through the windshield. There was nothing lying on the seat, no gun rack in the back window, nothing to identify who the owner of the vehicle might be. He tried the passenger door and discovered, to his surprise, that it was unlocked. Glancing around the woods to make sure the hiker, or whoever it was, wasn’t lurking, he unlatched the glove compartment and peeked inside. And when he saw what the glove compartment contained—a pocket notebook, a ball point pen, and a pair of binoculars—his pulse began to race and his mouth went dry.

  He scanned the notebook, frowning at the cramped handwriting, the flurry of indecipherable words. Then he rifled through the glove compartment again, looking for the truck’s registration, which, to his dismay, wasn’t there. Didn’t everyone leave their registration in the glove compartment? Something was wrong, something was definitely wrong. He tried, once more, to imagine why anyone would park here and came up blank. It made no sense, unless that is, unless . . . To confirm his darkest suspicion he circled back around to the driver’s side of the truck to determine what someone with binoculars would see from there, and sure enough, what he would see, through an opening in the overhanging boughs, was Teddy’s mansion.

  A few minutes later he stood at the window of his second-story bedroom gazing down at the pickup. He liked to consider himself relatively fearless but this was cold sweat time. Someone was watching him. Someone who wanted to do him harm. And sooner or later that someone would step out of those woods, climb back into that pickup, and reveal who he was.

  28

  Now that Teddy Mink had grown one of those preposterous soul patches underneath his lower lip, Colt finally figured out who he was trying to look like: not a California surfer but Gregg Allman, the southern blues singer with the golden pipes. Not that Teddy, at his age, could pull it off; there were too many miles on that particular tread. Still, leave it to the only guy Colt knew who was vainer than him to try.