Bayliss obviously viewed the world in black-and-white terms. But then, Clark Williams had accused me of exactly the same thing. It might prove interesting to snoop around and see what other business dealings he and Drapkin were involved in. However, right now I was eager to learn more about the woman sitting beside me wearing the Harpo Marx wig. I turned to find Venus downing her third bowl of stew with gusto.
“You mentioned having started some kind of school. What is it that you teach?”
Venus sucked the meat from a shrimp tail before turning to me with a crafty smile. “I help women feel good about themselves. I show them how to be more like J-Lo, and go out there and shake their booties. But even more important, I teach them how to gain power over their men.”
Hmm. I wouldn’t mind picking up a few pointers when it came to that myself.
“Fact is, Mrs. Drapkin was my first student. Mrs. D spread the word since then, and damn if my school hasn’t caught on like wildfire. Now there’s a wait list of wealthy women dying to plant their fannies in my living room twice a week.”
“Does your school have a name?” I inquired, becoming increasingly curious.
“Sure does. The Venus School of Woman Power.”
Catchy title.
“What sort of courses do you teach?”
“Well, there’s Learning to Make Your Man a Good Lover, Woman Thang Power, and How to Become a Goddess.”
So far, so good.
“And also, The Art of Root.”
“What’s that?” I asked, hoping it had nothing to do with cooking.
“Why it’s using herbs and roots to cast spells, in order to get what you want. I make up individual potions for my students, depending on what kinda trouble they got. But it always boils down to the same damn thing. No good, cheating husbands who are keeping firm young things on the side.
“Is that Mrs. Drapkin’s problem?” I brazenly questioned.
“If it walks like a duck, talks like a duck, and has tailfeathers, then it’s probably not a mink,” Venus sagely replied.
What the hell did that mean?
“Of course he’s cheatin’ on her! Trouble is she’s so much in love with that man, she can’t see straight. Though for the life of me, I don’t know why. You ever seen that skinny ass of his?”
“I can’t say that I have.”
Venus rolled her eyes. “Well, he’s playin’ around with some crazy white bitch who’s got him wrapped tight as a virgin’s legs around her little finger. Meanwhile, that girl’s got a thing for big ol’ ugly manatees. I hear she runs around calling herself some kinda scientist, when she’s nothin’ but a cheap piece of white trash. So, I’m helping Mrs. D get back her man. After that, I’ll give her some root to make his life a holy living hell. That’ll be my ultimate revenge, along with the fact that I’m getting paid for the pleasure of doing it.”
My brain spun into overdrive at this new piece of information. Apparently, Candi had dumped a dud Spud for her very own sugar daddy—one who didn’t need to strip the siding off her mobile home in order to make a few extra bucks. Hmm. I wondered if Drapkin’s friend Clark Williams had gotten her the job at Manatee Mania Water Park. It seemed one hand was washing the other in the most interesting ways.
Venus now fingered a polished bone, which hung from a red string around her neck. Long and curved, it had a knob on one end.
“What kind of bone is that?” I inquired, having noticed it earlier.
“Why, it’s a coon dong,” the Reverend answered.
“Come again?” I asked, not certain I’d heard him correctly.
“A raccoon penis bone,” Venus explained.
“Now you know what happens to roadkill around here,” Bayliss added with a chuckle.
“You stop that,” Venus responded, giving him a playful pat.
“Why in the world would you wear something like that?”
“Cause it’s a love charm, of course. All the women attending my school buy them from me. Slip it under your mattress, and that man of yours will perform better, harder, stronger, and longer.”
I had to hand it to Venus. She was turning out to be a hell of a shrewd businesswoman.
“Herbs and charms? Doesn’t superstition go against what you preach?” I asked, turning to Bayliss.
“Why should it? Root is part of our West African culture dating back thousands of years. Truth is, root only has power over you if you believe in it. For instance, you take Venus’s front door. It’s painted haint blue. Lotsa folks believe that’ll keep bad spirits away, and it makes them feel better. Same reason why houses around here are painted bright colors—for luck. Ain’t nothing wrong with that. Besides, sister Venus ain’t hurtin’ nobody with what she’s doing.”
“Listen darlin’, the truth is I help women get back their power; power that they should never have given away to those husbands of theirs in the first place.”
She’d innately hit upon one of my own fears—lowering my defenses, only to end up being hurt. My mother had done so, and I’d sworn I’d never let it happen to me. The problem was, Santou and I had arrived at an emotional crossroad. I needed to know how to move forward without giving any of my power away.
“Women gotta reclaim their sassiness by doing what makes them look and feel good. See now, I think you should dress a little more like Mariah Carey, myself. You’ve got a nice body. So, what are you hiding it for? You’d be amazed how good it makes you feel to reclaim your power as a woman. Not only that, but I guarantee your man will enjoy it, as well.”
“Amen to that,” the Reverend chortled, and gave Venus what looked to be a love pat. She reciprocated with a throaty purr.
It was time to call it a night, and Eight-Ball walked me outside. I said my good-byes and was heading for my Ford, only to stop and look back at the haint-blue door.
“Do you really believe in spirits, Eight-Ball?” I softly inquired, not wanting to disturb the night.
“Course I do. They’re everywhere around us. Fact is, they’re whispering to me right now.”
I stared hard into the darkness, trying to put a face on whatever it was that he heard.
“Spirits are real as any flesh-and-blood person. That’s what makes them so powerful. It’s just a natural fact. Same as a rooster crowing on your doorstep is a sign of death; or knowing that the rain washes away a person’s last footsteps before they’re buried, removing all traces they ever walked the face of this earth.”
Though I still couldn’t hear anything, a cold breeze began to caress my neck, moving slowly down my arms, legs, and back. I jumped in my vehicle and took off as a light rain began to fall. It pitter-pattered on the landscape of rooftops as I turned off Mamalou Lane and onto South Harrington Road, aware that this place was a tinderbox just waiting to explode.
The rain came down harder now, its pellets erupting with the power of live bullets as they hit each metal roof. DON’T ASK/WON’T SELL, the signs roared, their echoes chasing my Ford, as they followed me all the way home.
The rain had stopped by the time I reached Tybee. Having part of a six-pack left, I made my way to the east end of the island to hang out on the beach. Jake was still away. I’d turned into an FBI widow without the benefit of being married. But then I suppose Santou had the same complaint about me.
I drove down Butler Avenue, through the small commercial district that was fast asleep. For once, there were no lines in front of The Breakfast Club, hungry for their pecan waffles and chorizo con huevos. I passed IGA, the only grocery store in town, and headed for Doc’s Bar on Tybresa. A buck will buy you a beer, making its location very convenient. Nearby was T. S. Chu’s, which calls itself a department store, though it’s clearly unlike any other. Dimly lit, the place sells tourist schlock in the front, with hammers, lightbulbs, and dishpans for sale in the rear.
There was no question that Tybee was a poor man’s land when compared to its ritzier brethren, Sea Island and St. Simons. But I also knew of no other place that celebrates with both a
Mutt Strut and a Beach Bum Parade each year. That alone wouldn’t have made me trade my new home for anywhere else in the world.
I passed the Mity Tidy Laundromat and turned toward the beach, where I parked in an empty lot. Then kicking off my shoes, I grabbed the beer and slipped past dunes, their mounds interwoven with lengths of railroad vine. The sinewy strands snaked through the sand like twisting channels of veins. Feathery sea oats grew wild among them, flaunting golden seeds atop chest-high, elegant stalks. They swayed in the ocean breeze like willowy showgirls, holding fans to keep their essentials modestly covered.
The wet sand squished between my toes, leaving a series of footprints upon the beach. But they were far from being the only ones there. They mingled with an eclectic traffic pattern formed by crabs, raccoons, and birds in an inter-species mosaic. Their tracks ran up and down the shoreline, gradually disappearing off into the distance. Large pieces of gnarled driftwood added to the mood, creating a boneyard of the dead.
A moon so full that it was ready to burst threw light across the shore, its beams dancing upon the waves in a dainty minuet. Saucer-shaped moon jellies rhythmically joined in the waltz, while moon snails watched from where they were safely tucked away in their shells. Long-legged ghost crabs became part of the dance as they sped along the beach. I glanced away for a second, and when I looked back, they’d already morphed into phantoms of the night.
I laid down on the beach and the wet sand accepted me as one of its own, the grains conforming to my extremities so that I was slowly turned into a dune. The transformation was complete as the particles found their way into my scalp, my nose, and my mouth. I remained still as a mouse, not daring to move, an invisible wave having entered my body.
Ba bump, ba bump, ba bump.
It was the ocean relentlessly pounding the sand like a tell-tale, beating heart. I wanted the tide to wash everything away—the all-too-tempting offer Clark Williams had made to help me with my climb up the career ladder, along with the insidious doubts about my boss that were eating their way through my brain. I yearned to live in a black-and-white world like the Reverend Bayliss, so that I could easily distinguish the good guys from the bad.
My hand wrapped around something solid by my side. I brought it close to my eyes to find it was a living, breathing sand dollar. Its message couldn’t have been any more clear.
Wake up and smell the salt water, Porter. The world revolves around money.
It was then that I began to hear the whispers, though I couldn’t decipher what the spirits were trying to tell me. I finally gave up and heeded my own inner voice by polishing off the last of the six-pack.
Twelve
My car phone began to ring early the next morning as I was on my way to the office. At least that’s what I assumed it was through the lingering remnants of my beer haze. This was one of those days when even the smell of coffee made me feel nauseous. Or, maybe it was just the aftereffect of my own homemade brew. That along with the fact that I had yet to clean out the coffeepot, my reasoning being that adding fresh java to yesterday’s dregs would give it a more robust flavor. Naturally, Santou had a different way of looking at it. He simply called me lazy.
The irritating ring of the phone continued to boomerang inside my vehicle. There are times when you just don’t want to pick up the damn thing. This happened to be one of them. But there was only one way to end the insistent jingling that worked on my nerves like a jackhammer. My finger hit the talk button.
“Good morning there, Pepper. Who woulda thunk that I’d be hanging out with a celebrity?”
“What are you talking about?” I groused, not in the mood for games.
“Just the fact that you made the front-page news of our local paper.”
Oh shit! That was right. I now remembered Lowell had warned me about this yesterday, though he’d refused to reveal the contents.
“Would you like me to read the beginning to you?”
“Oh God, no.” How was I supposed to handle this, when I couldn’t even deal with my morning coffee?
Gary read it aloud anyway. “The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service places manatees above jobs and the economic needs of our community.”
Just great.
“It goes on to say what a monumental bitch you are for trying to shut down Manatee Mania Water Park. I’m paraphrasing, of course. Oh yeah. And that Manatee Mania, along with Golden Dreams Development, is generously donating ten acres of wetlands to the Georgia Department of Natural Resources to show their goodwill.”
How clever of them.
“Well, it’s not something the community has to worry about anymore, since I no longer have a case,” I informed him.
There was a moment of stunned silence before Gary responded.
“What in the hell happened?”
“Some good old boy networking was undertaken by the indomitable Clark Williams. As a result, Manatee Mania has been granted an emergency permit to operate. It also so happens that both Williams and Wendell knew about it in advance, while my boss, Lowell, never bothered to mention it to me.”
“Ooh, now that’s nasty.”
“No kidding. I’ve reached a whole new level of frustration, what with this and that DeLorean defense stunt. What’s the sense of trying to make cases if Fish and Wildlife keeps cutting my legs out from under me?”
“Hey, none of that, Pepper. Buck up, ’cause I have just the thing for you. This could be your ticket to spelling R-E-L-IE-F.”
“You mean someone has finally performed surgery and given the paper pushers at Fish and Wildlife an actual backbone?” I sniped.
“Don’t expect miracles,” Gary laughed. “But this is damn near close to being as good. You know the sampling we did in the marsh yesterday? Well, it paid off. What I’ve discovered is pure dynamite.”
My beer haze vanished in a flash, replaced by a surge of adrenaline that shot through me. “Why? What did you find?”
“It’s no wonder things are dying out in that creek. The grass, the water, fish, birds, animals, even the mud, are loaded with high levels of mercury, along with some PCBs. An industrial plant in the area must be illegally discharging one hell of a lot of heavy metals into the water. For chrissakes, just thinking about it gives me the heebie-jeebies. The ramifications of it are almost too mind-boggling to be believed.”
I hated when Gary clicked into his scientific mode, and automatically assumed that I knew what he was talking about.
“Would you mind explaining this to me?”
“It would be my pleasure. With PCBs, you’ve got a toxic pollutant that never breaks down. Instead it remains part of the food chain, eventually harming your stomach, liver, kidneys, and thyroid. Kids are particularly susceptible to the stuff. They stand a good chance of developing ‘thinking’ problems, stemming from a diminished IQ. PCBs can also lead to cancer, which is the main reason the EPA banned their use altogether a few years ago. Not for nothing, but this area has a pretty high cancer rate.”
This wasn’t something that I really wanted to know. Every part of me started to feel a little bit weird, as though cancer cells were already eating away at my body.
“As for mercury, it’s so highly toxic that it plays havoc with your nervous, renal, and reproductive systems. Not to mention the permanent damage it can do to the brain, lungs, colon, and heart. And remember, when brain cells die, that’s it—they don’t regenerate.”
Gary was one hundred percent correct. This information had the potential of being an enormous bombshell.
“Are there any obvious symptoms that someone might have?” I asked, secretly wanting to see if any of them applied to me.
“You mean as a result of accumulating too much mercury in your system?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Sure. You ever hear the phrase, mad as a hatter?”
“Of course. It’s from the Lewis Carroll book, Alice in Wonderland,” I responded, making an immediate connection. Thank God, at least my memory still worked.
“Well, it refers to the effect mercury had on laborers in the hatmaking industry during the nineteenth century.”
“You’re joking. I never would have dreamt of putting the two together.”
“Well, it’s true. A mercury compound was used to remove the fur from beaver and rabbit pelts, and turn them into felt. The hatters spent their days breathing in the fumes. Eventually, they wound up with the shakes, loss of coordination, memory loss, even slurred speech and loose teeth. Oh yeah, and also irritability and depression.”
That last part was a no-brainer. If I lost my teeth and memory, I’d be irritable and depressed, too.
“Mercury is potent as hell. Doctors even found holes the size of quarters inside hatter’s brains during postmortem autopsies.”
I must have begun to daydream, allowing my vehicle to drift into the next lane. A passing car angrily blew its horn, and I hastily jerked the Explorer back into place, causing my heart to race. Taking a deep breath, I glanced down at where my hands now shook on the steering wheel as though an electrical current were running through them. It was then I remembered the tremors that had gripped Eight-Ball’s hands as he’d lifted the beer can. Could it be that what I’d thought was Parkinson’s might actually be something else?
“Would a chlor-alkali plant use mercury?” I asked, on a hunch.
Gary thought for a moment. “Let’s see. A chlor-alkali plant produces caustic soda, hydrochloric acid, and sodium chloride, used by paper mills for bleaching. That’s manufactured through the Solvay process, which requires liquid mercury for its electrolytic cells. So, the answer to your question would be yes.”
We were both quiet for a moment.
“Okay Pepper, spill the beans. What do you know?”
“I’m not sure yet. But the old man who was running Clark Williams’s boat? Well, he works over at DRG, the chlor-alkali plant in Brunswick. Anyway, I spent some time with him yesterday, and noticed that his hands shook. I figured it was either the beginnings of Parkinson’s, or that maybe he had the DTs from drinking too much. Now I’m beginning to wonder if there could be a deeper connection.”
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