Tomlinson said, "Then what? You want to be a hermit, just take the phone out. I can relate to it, man. Solitude. Nothing like it. Be a perfect way to go-if you knew how to brew beer and had a female hermit living down the road. Nice young one with blond hair, maybe. That would be a good spiritual way to live. Seriously."
Ford was kneeling before the radio, touching the fine-tune dial as carefully as the tumbler of a safe, trying to lock in Radio Romania. He had a brief mental flash of the red-haired woman out on her sailboat. Beyond the window was the orange windscape of clouds at sunset. It was swim time, and the woman would be out there on the stern of her boat. Probably taking her clothes off right now, standing with the moist air of the bay on her.
Ford made a point of ignoring the telescope as his head swung toward Tomlinson. He said, "I've got the phone off because this old guy I know, lives down the coast, he's been calling me a lot, and I got tired of it."
"Oh. So it's not Jeth."
"No, it's not Jeth. It's this old guy."
"Why don't you want to talk to him?"
"The old guy? Because he's crazy, that's why. Or probably just senile." Correcting himself because he preferred precise language. "He's about seventy-one, seventy-two. Senile dementia. Or alcohol poisoning. Both, maybe, the way he drinks."
"So why's he bothering you?"
Thinking, When Tomlinson hasn't had food, the beer affects him and he asks too many questions. Ford said, "Because I used to know him. I mean, I do know him." Which wasn't enough for Tomlinson; Ford could read it in his expression, so he added, "He's my uncle." And knew instantly that was a mistake.
Tomlinson said, "You mean you're not taking calls from your own uncle?" Packing a lot of disapproval into his tone.
Pious old hipster… As if he didn't have the ethics of a goat. Standing, suddenly eager to get supper going, Ford said, "That's right, I'm not taking his calls," already surveying things in the little kitchen: propane stove, countertop, sink with spigot that piped in rainwater from the wooden cistern outside, braced at roof level. Nice grouper fillet soaking in lime juice for him; green tomato slices with sweet Florida onion he'd fry for Tomlinson if Tomlinson would just let the damn issue drop.
But Tomlinson wouldn't. "That's not the uncle who raised you, is it? The old guy who played Triple-A baseball with Preacher Roe? Way back?"
"He didn't raise me. I lived with him for three years. Well, two-it just seemed like three."
"Then it is him. On that little ranch. You told me about it. Mango? The name of the town where you lived."
"Mango isn't a town,- it's not even much of a… well, it's an old fish camp about thirty miles south, where the coast turns in, just above the Ten Thousand Islands. It used to be a little cattle port, too, back when they shipped cattle to Cuba. And I think I've talked about this all I want."
"This old guy raises you, your uncle, and this is the way you repay the kindness." Tomlinson was shaking his head, genuinely disappointed. "I don't want to get heavy about this, Doc, but, kar-mically speaking, you're pissing all over your own aura. Black mood ring stuff, man. The vibes"-Tomlinson put his nose in the air, as if sniffing for rain-"the vibes here are definitely out of whack."
Ford was cracking eggs into a bowl, then he poured in Italian dressing and added six dashes of Louisiana Bull hot sauce. "Look, Tomlinson, I don't pry into your private affairs, and I'd appreciate the same consideration." Talking as he used the whisk, blending the batter as carefully as he would his lab chemicals.
"Hey, don't get chilly on me, man. Don't put the shields up. You're not under attack here." His mind drifting back into 'Star Trek' mode, but looking at Ford earnestly, his palms held out in supplication. "Who's your buddy? Come on, give us a smile."
Ford said, "Geeze!" but smiled a little, anyway.
"So you don't mind if I put the phone back on, just in case? For Jeth, I mean."
"No, go ahead. I don't care what you do."
Tomlinson stood, replaced the phone, and, while he was at it, crouched in front of the little ship's refrigerator and reappeared with another bottle of beer. "I shouldn't be telling Jeth's story, but Mack says he's become some kind of hero down there in Central America."
Ford looked up from the bowl. "Jeth's in South America. Brazil. I've been getting cards from him."
"Yeah, but a month ago he started working his way back to Florida, and he got to this little island republic off Honduras a couple days before they had a hell of an earthquake. Somehow, Jeth saved the life of the president's mother. Or his aunt, maybe. Now the president wants to reward him by making him a citizen and ambassador to someplace. France, I think."
"He's joking. Or Mack's joking. That can't be-"
"Mack was dead serious. Said Jeth was, too. Jeth wants your advice. Mack was pretty sure it was an ambassadorship."
Ford said, "With his stutter, Jeth probably said they were giving him an Ambassador fishing reel and… France? He probably said a new pair of pants. That's just crazy."
"This guy, the president, his mother was having tea on the presidential yacht when the earthquake hit. Or maybe his aunt. Some important woman, and the tidal surge swept her overboard. Everybody in the whole town is panicking, and Jeth looks out and thinks he sees a dog drowning. You know Jeth and animals. He swims out, but instead of a dog, he finds a drowning woman. He told Mack she looked like a Pomeranian. Now he's a hero."
Ford was laughing; couldn't help himself. Picturing Jeth down there in Central America, the hero of some island republic where he probably couldn't even speak the language. Being hosted at dinners, getting his name in the papers and considering an ambassador's post-though that couldn't be true. Not that Jeth wasn't smart, he was. But ambassador to France? Tomlinson and Ford played with the idea while dinner sputtered in the cast-iron skillet; exchanged different scenarios as gray dusk absorbed orange sunset, then faded to darkness, with stars sparkling beyond the stilt house's windows. They were still talking about it, just finishing dinner, when the telephone rang.
Ford said, "Boy oh boy oh boy."
Tomlinson was already up, headed for the phone. "Probably Jeth's social secretary. Doing phone gigs while someone feeds Jeth grapes." But when Tomlinson picked up the phone, he said, "Nope, this isn't Duke. There's no Duke- Oh! Hey, wait a minute-" Tomlinson put his hand over the mouthpiece, looking at Ford. "Does your uncle call you Duke? It's an old guy-"
Ford said, "I knew it."
Into the phone, Tomlinson said, "You want Doc Ford? Hah! You call 'em Duke?" To Ford, Tomlinson said, "Tucker Gatrell. It's your uncle, right? Why's he call you that?"
Ford thought, Because he's crazy as a loon, that's why. He was standing, taking his time while Tomlinson said, "Sir, you don't mind me asking, why do you call him Duke?"
As Ford took the phone, Tomlinson was laughing, repeating what he'd heard: "Said because you sit on your butt all the time, read books, and act like an asshole!"
Ford said, "Good to talk to you, too, Tuck. But don't call me Duke," talking into the phone but giving Tomlinson an evil look.
Ford listened, then he said, "Some drugged-out old hippie who hits me up for free meals. Uh-huh, probably a draft dodger. Commie drug fiend, yep, no doubt. Yeah, that's him laughing. Kind of a hyena sound. Uh-huh. Firing squad, you bet, they probably shoulda. Machine-gunned the whole bunch."
Ford was listening, still looking at Tomlinson. Then he said, "I know, I know, you already said… great discovery, amazing stuff. Why wouldn't I believe something like that?" He was silent for a time, then said, "Your horse, Roscoe, right. Sounds like quite an animal. But I'm a biologist, not a vet. Besides, I don't have the facilities to test water. Not the kind of tests you're talking about."
Ford listened a while longer, and Tomlinson's eyebrows raised a little when Ford said, "But I'm not the guy for the job. You need a real scientist for that. Cellular regeneration, fascinating stuff, but way out of my league. I just don't carry that kind of weight-"
Tomlinson waited patiently, mov
ing dishes to the sink, listening, until Ford hung up the phone. Then Tomlinson said, "That's the crazy old man? He sounded full of vinegar to me. What's he want?"
Ford swung down into his chair, turning his attention to the shortwave radio. "I don't know what he wants. Tuck never comes out and says what he wants." Being uncommunicative again.
"Ah, come on, he was telling you stuff-"
"He didn't tell me anything."
"Sound carries in a room this size. Cellular regeneration. I heard that."
Ford said, "He likes to steer people. Like his cows. Turn them this way and that. A Florida cowboy, that's what he was. A fisherman and a cow hunter. Tuck never comes right out and says what's really on his mind. He wants to use me somehow. It was bad enough when he wasn't crazy. I mean, senile."
Tomlinson said, "I like the guy and I never even met him."
From the old radio's speaker, a voice said through the static: "You are listening to the Voice of Romania." Still looking at the radio, Ford said, "Here's an example. What Tuck told me was…"
"What? Come on."
Ford said, "He says his horse found an artesian well way back in the mangroves, and his testicles grew back. The horse, because he was drinking the water. He'd been gelded."
"Yeah?" Tomlinson sat beside Ford, noticing the radio for the first time, thinking, Romania? That's some powerful rock station. To Ford, he said, "Uh-huh? The water healed the horse. So what's the weird part?"
TWO
When Tucker Gatrell hung up the telephone, he thought, That nephew of mine. I shoulda whacked his pants back when I had the chance.
He needed to get Marion Ford involved in things; needed an outside helping hand with a little respectability up there in the county seat. Not that Marion hung out with those shitheel politicians, but at least he was a scientist-or so Tucker had heard-and them dim bulbs who always got themselves elected might pay attention to a scientist. Give him a little time, at least. Which was something they wouldn't do for an old person who had no money to speak of. When politicians looked at old people, all they saw was saggy skin wrapped around a voting finger.
Tucker stood tapping his big worn fists together, then he pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. Little after seven, so what the hell? Why not just go ahead and keep things moving? Lord knows, he'd spent enough time talking to his attorney, old Lemar Flowers. And reading all that little bitty print in all them books and papers. Then flying all over creation with his buddy Ervin T. Rouse; 'bout froze his butt off in that ratty little plane. Now he had to start putting the rest of his ducks in a row, so to speak, find himself a helper, and he knew just the man-well, knew just the Indian, anyway. Joseph Egret, if he hadn't gone wacky up there in that rest home. Get Joseph and a few others,-hell, start having some fun for a change. He still had-what?- nearly four weeks before that meeting old Lemar had finagled for him.
Yeah, about that. Three weeks and a few days till the state park people came down and tried to take his land.
So there was plenty of other stuff to keep him busy while Marion came around. Marion would, too. Say what you want about that nerdy kid, he was dependable. Good man in a fight; always was-at least until the navy people sent him off to college and made an egghead out of him. Goddamn navy. Marines, now there was an outfit. Not that the marines weren't shortsighted at times-like not drafting him during the big war because of his age. But he'd joined up anyway just to have the chance to meet those hula girls down there in the South Pacific.
Tucker rambled across the plank floor of his little ranch house, into the room that had once been Marion's, back when Marion was in high school. Cramped room with a window. Tuck kept his own clothes there now. In a pile on the cedar chest or on the floor, where they were easy to get to. There was still plenty of time to make the thirty-mile trip into town, but he wanted to look presentable. Find some clothes that weren't wrinkled or didn't smell like his horse, Roscoe.
Sorting through the clothes, Tucker was thinking, It's about nigh damn time I start looking respectable and make something of myself.
He'd been moping around that damn ranch, dirt-poor and lonely long enough. Yep, get off his ass and make a last-ditch effort to get the upper hand on those wormy bastards trying to run him off his own land. And that's just about exactly what he was going to do.
He stopped for a moment and looked beyond the window glare outside. He could see the silhouette of his bam-that needed fixing!-and the silhouette of Roscoe standing beneath a gumbo-limbo tree, probably asleep. A little ways farther was the jumbled form of his junk pile: boxes, car parts, a busted refrigerator, trash… and the rotting fly bridge of an old boat.
I hate seeing that damned old boat, so why the hell have I kept it around so long?
Talking to himself, Tucker answered his own question. "Because I'm a screwup, that's why."
It was true enough. He'd been screwing up his whole life,- that's the way he felt. No wife, no children, no accomplishments, unless he wanted to count a bunch of inventions and other schemes that never worked out. Which he didn't. Didn't count any of them. They didn't deserve credence, he'd messed them up so bad.
Nope. Not a single accomplishment. He'd spent his entire life casting around like a pointer dog in search of anything that smelled even faintly of adventure. And what had it gotten him? Broad shoulders and bowed legs. Scars. Open real estate where his front teeth should have been. The stub of a right ear-the rest of which had been bitten off by a Nicaraguan lady in a moment of high spirit. A case of jungle epidermosis that lighted gasoline might cure, but nothing else would.
He had spent his life as a fisherman and a Florida cowboy, which was the same as saying he had pissed it away. He'd done everything there was to do on the water-and had invented some stuff no one had ever done before. He'd worked cattle in Cuba and Central America, spending his nights getting drunk by a camp fire or in some rat-hole bar, and his mornings fighting low blood pressure depression and hoping he hadn't promised to marry the stranger who slept beside him.
Tucker picked up a shirt, held it to his nose, and said aloud, "Whew-whee!" and tossed it aside. Well, one of his dreams had always been to be rich enough to have somebody to do his laundry. A big ranch house, too, with flush toilets. Yeah, and a cook who didn't give him any lip. Somebody who could cook Chinese and make tomato gravy. Maybe a couple thousand acres of land, too, with no fences and a string of good horses and, perhaps, one of those new pickup trucks with the great big tires. He could buy some bumper stickers for it.
Yeah, and a couple kids would have been nice, too, though Marion had come pretty close to being like that; a son, for a couple years at least. Only he never could quite figure out Marion. What the hell kinda boy was it that would hate the nickname "Duke"? Or spend his spare time catching bugs and fish and looking at them under a microscope?
Tuck had sniffed his way through the whole pile of clothes, then was about to go through them a second time when he figured, What the hell, he didn't mind smelling like a horse. Not Roscoe, anyway. Big rangy Appaloosa, white with charcoal spots on his rump, and he didn't smell half bad. Kinda sweet, really. Not like that fifteen head of cattle out there in the pasture beneath the coconut palms. Snot hanging from their muzzles, dropping pies all over the place. Made him not want to eat meat, and he wouldn't if he didn't like steak so much. Dumb cows.
But Roscoe wasn't cow-dumb; he was smart. Roscoe was so smart, he was kinda like a buddy. Hell, back in the old days, he'da ridden Roscoe into town. Did that plenty of times. But now there Was too much car traffic, which Tuck didn't mind, but Roscoe didn't like it. Not. that Roscoe was skittish, he just couldn't stand being passed. Made the horse real sour dealing with things faster than himself.
Tucker Gatrell dressed himself in jeans, boots, a blue guayabera shirt to match his eyes, then set his best triple-X cowboy hat on his head, a stained white Justin. From the icebox-he stilled used an icebox-he took out a bottle filled with silty black water, swampy-looking water he'd gotten th
at afternoon. He took a little drink, smacking his lips at the muddy, sulphur taste of it, and spit it out. "Man, that's rank!" Then he sealed the bottle and put it into a paper sack.
Goin' into town. Tucker thought, hit diggity damn. Getting that old Saturday-night feeling even though it was only Thursday. Carrying my ticket to fortune, fame, and maybe my own cook.
Then he pushed open the screen door, patted his old pit bull, Gator, on the head, and climbed into his Chevy pickup truck, roaring off into the October night, about to pay his first visit to Everglades Township Rest Home,- find his old partner Joseph Egret.
No one lived at Everglades Township Rest Home by choice. Joseph Egret, age mid-seventies, certainly didn't. Elderly residents lived there because they were homeless or because the local courts had deemed them dangerous-an unattractive situation that the local media condemned at least once a year, then promptly forgot.
Joseph had not spent the last eleven months of his life at Everglades Township because he was homeless.
Tucker Gatrell knew nothing about any of this because he didn't read newspapers or watch television and, furthermore, he hated old people. More specifically, he hated old age. The fact that he was no spring chicken had no mollifying effect on his prejudice; if anything, it was sharpened. As a boy, his hatred of aging had been seeded by his own grandfather, who took strange joy in stealing sips from Tucker's drinks, then washing back nasty specks of cracker or tobacco. It would have made most boys queasy, but not Tuck. It just pissed him off. And Tucker Gatrell was never the sort to forgive and forget.
The lobby of Everglades Township Rest Home was empty when Tucker walked in-empty except for a woman in a nurse's uniform sitting in front of the television. Fat woman on a folding chair. Huge breasts and wide hips draped in surgical white, spreading over the seat like rising bread dough. Tucker stopped behind her and cleared his throat loudly. The nurse seemed not to notice. So he went to the desk and signed his name into the visitor's book, thinking that's what she was waiting for. But nope, she was still hypnotized by the television. On the screen were two actors in fancy clothes, their hair fluffed as if they'd stepped into a wind tunnel, then plunged their heads into hair spray. "Dear God," the woman actor was saying, "it's true-you are prejudiced! You beast!"
The Man Who Ivented Florida df-3 Page 2