"It sounded fun."
"I met a lady urologist. Good dancer, as I remember."
"Hmm ..."
"Two of the women turned out to be speech specialists. About midnight, they got into an argument about the best way to treat Jeth's stutter. Somehow the three of them ended up in Jeth's skiff, out there in the bay all alone. He made it back just in time to take his morning tarpon charter." "Was he still stuttering?"
"Between yawns. The lady doctors were happy. Getting on quite well together. Jeth looked a bit drawn, though. Rather pale, I should say, like he'd had a tough football match. " "Maybe Jeth should send them a bill." "Exactly what I told him."
Ford had found the Fort Myers newspaper and began to leaf through it.
MacKinley asked, "Did your telephone man show up?" "Yeah. He's out there working on the cable right now." "For the first two months you said you didn't want a phone. Said you didn't need it. Now you can't wait to get it in."
"Sometimes I'm just plain fickle," said Ford. "Other times I'm just plain wrong. " He turned to the inside page, local section and saw that Rafe Hollins had made the late regional edition:
The body of a Sandy Key man was found yesterday evening on a deserted island by Everglades County Sheriff's deputies. The body of Rafferty Hollins, 36, was discovered on Tequesta Bank, a remote island in Curlew Bay three miles from Sandy Key, after an anonymous caller contacted police. According to a department spokeswoman, Hollins was found with a rope around his neck, hanging from a tree. The death is being treated as a probable suicide pending an autopsy.
Everglades District Court issued a warrant for Hollins's arrest recently on kidnapping charges following the disappearance of his 8-year-old son who was in the custody of Hollins's estranged wife, Helen Burke Hollins. According to the Atlanta office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the case was under investigation by a federal magistrate, but no warrant had been issued. There is no information yet available on the whereabouts of the child.
A former Sanibel Island resident, Hollins was a star high school athlete. According to newspaper files, he was drafted by the Kansas City Royals in the 16th round following graduation. Hollins played one year at the Royals' Sarasota baseball school before enlisting in the Marines. He was award the Silver Star for valor.
"What?" Ford realized that MacKinley was talking to him. MacKinley was standing at the counter, looking at the paper. "I asked if you knew that man. The one who did himself in on Tequesta Bank. You were just asking Jeth about Tequesta Bank yesterday, weren't you?"
"I knew him. I knew Rafe pretty well." Ford was thinking Suicide? How in the hell did they come up with that?
MacKinley said, "Seems a damn shame. Child involved and all. Did he seem the type?"
"To kill himself, you mean? No. Absolutely not. Rafe wasn't the type."
"You seem very sure." "I am sure."
"Then maybe the newspaper has it wrong. It happens, you know."
"They were quoting the Everglades County Sheriff's Department. An indirect quote."
MacKinley shrugged and went back to his chair. "Can't pay much attention to those Sandy Key officials now, can we?" "Oh?"
"Well, that's what people around here say. Sandy Key is one of those Florida phenomenons, you know. Instant city. About fifteen years ago, just before I arrived, a financial group bought the whole island. And it's a very large island. First thing they did was get rid of the* old fishing shacks. Second thing they did was start spraying for mosquitoes. The damn bugs are the only thing that kept that area from building up a long time ago. The environmentalists were all in an uproar, said they were spraying way too much. But the developers barged on, kept spraying, and platted their own city: churches here, shops there, apartment complexes in one section, residential houses in another. All concrete block, thank you very much, no wooden structures allowed. Within six years, it was the largest city in Everglades County. They petitioned to become the county seat, pulled a few financial strings, and got it. Now all the public services there are a closed shop. Law enforcement, medical examiner, all appointed offices—the development group controls them all. Sea-life Development, that's the name of the group. When elections come around, they let their citizenry know the proper way to vote. They don't always have good people in important positions, but they always have their people."
"Voters stand for that?"
"Places like Sandy Key attract a certain kind of buyer. They like rules. Everything nice and neat and sterile." MacKinley pronounced it stair-ile. "And they are very loyal in return. Their bumper stickers say 'We Live On Sandy Key and Love It.' That type. Maybe your friend didn't fit in. Maybe they don't care enough to check everything out properly. But if they made a mistake, you'll never hear about it."
"The sheriff of Everglades County doesn't admit his department makes mistakes?"
"The sheriff is Mario DeArmand, a New Jersey builder who's a big stockholder in Sealife Development Corporation. He was appointed by the board. The city manager is ... I forget his name. But he's from New York, one of Sealife's major investors, and he was appointed, too. The district attorney is from Long Island, and he's also chairman of the board. The whole city is run like that. Like a bunch of big kids acting out their childhood fantasies, wearing uniforms and playing with sirens. Everyone stays in line, or the corporation gets rid of them. Sandy Key is a bright, sunny, cheerful place with almost no crime. If you don't believe me, just read the Sandy Key Sentinel, the corporate-owned newspaper. Suicide is a nasty business, but murder is so much nastier. The corporation might lose a condo sale or two if word got out there was a murderer on the loose."
Ford said, "Maybe someone needs to do some poking around down there if the medical examiner agrees with the sheriff's department. Stir things up a little," but he was thinking about that name: Mario DeArmand. It was one of the names Ford had found in Rafe's address book.
"You, for instance?" MacKinley was smiling. "Forgive me, Doc, but you really aren't the type. I'm sure you're very good in your field, bookish and studious and exacting and all, but weaving one's way into the heart of a corrupt government is an entirely different job of work. People like DeArmand are little tyrants, and tyrants have the unhappy habit of turning nasty when their competence is questioned. That sort of thing calls for someone shifty and devious; bit of a liar, too, I'm afraid. I really can't see you in that role, Doc. As Jeth says, you're a nice, quiet man; a person who can be trusted. I think you should leave the muckraking to those more suited for it."
Ford was smiling, too. "Maybe I'll just write a letter to the newspaper, tell them what I think."
"There you are. That's an idea. But there's a possibility in all this I think you should consider first."
"What's that?"
"That your friend really did commit suicide. "
Jeth was just docking with his morning charter as Ford stepped outside, still listening for the pay phone. Nicholes looked grim as he tied the lines; the four big men sitting in his skiff looked grimmer. MacKinley poked his head out, saying "Those guys are pissed off about something. Look at them. I knew they'd be trouble before they even got in the boat. I told Jeth that."
Ford walked out onto the dock, hands in the pockets of his khaki fishing shorts, interested. Jeth was saying "You can ga-ga-ga-get out now," stuttering worse than usual, upset.
"Hear that boys? The ca-captain says we're allowed to leave. Always have to do what the ca-captain tells you, even if he's the screw-up that let our tarpon get away." Talking as if he were joking around, this wide-bodied man with a sunburned face twice the size of his hands jumped out, dark hair gray at the temples, early forties, pack of cigarettes in the pocket of the bathrobe he wore over a bikini bathing suit and a huge belly. Probably a little drunk, too, from the way he teetered. "Ca-ca-captain? I owe these men of mine an apology. See, they're the top salesmen in my company, and they worked their asses off to win this Florida trip. I wanted to give them a taste of big-game fishing, but it seems I chose the wrong man
for the job. Fellas, I'm sorry. But it's a good lesson. I didn't do enough checking around, and I admit it. Proves even the boss makes an occasional mistake. Did the same thing off the Yucatan, hired this rookie to take me after blue marlin, and I swore I'd never let it happen again. I've fished enough around the world to know within a minute whether a guide knows his ass from a bunker, but I was wrong this time, and I'm sorry. You deserved better. " Making a speech right there on the dock, people in boats listening, Jeth Nicholes turning red as he cleaned up, pretending not to hear.
"It's okay, Mr. Willis. We had a good time anyway." The three subordinates were sticking by the bossman, jockeying for position in the executive pecking order, backing him all the way.
The big man, Willis, said, "Just one of those ba-ba-bum decisions," laughing because he was mature enough to take the good with the bad.
"That's enough! God da-da-damn it." Nicholes slammed down the line he had been coiling and jumped out of the boat, facing the four men. "I ma-ma-missed the ga-ga-gaff on one tarpon. I a-a-a . . . 'mit it. Said I'm sorry, and I ca-ca-can't do no more than that," his stutter so bad he could hardly talk.
Willis took a step toward him, now the cool-headed negotiator. "But you can do more than that, Captain. In my business, we give the client what he wants. We work our butts off to make sure our clients are happy. That's how we built our reputation; ask anyone in Ohio. When a client isn't happy, we give him his money back. That's exactly what you're going to do for us. Give us our money back."
Nicholes's jaw was working, but no words were coming out. He finally croaked, "Okay . . . just ga-get . . . leave."
"You sure you want to do that, Jeth?" Ford had moved up the dock, hands still in pockets, smiling good-naturedly. "These guys paid you to take them tarpon fishing, right? Well, you took them. You don't owe them a thing."
Willis turned a cold eye on Ford. "I don't see how this is any of your concern, friend."
Looking past the big man, Ford asked Nicholes, "How many tarpon did they have on?"
Nicholes started to say something, then held up five fingers.
Willis said, "Friend, I personally think you ought to get the hell out of here before you get yourself into trouble." He reached into his robe, took a cigarette in his lips, and lit it.
Ford said, "You had five tarpon on, which means you and your party lost four. Right? And I think I overheard someone say Jeth missed a gaff? Well, everyone makes mistakes. You guys made four of them. Jeth made one. But it sounds to me like you had a pretty good day anyway. I don't know any fishing guide anywhere who tries harder than Jeth to keep his people happy, and that's the truth. So why don't you just drop it?"
Willis looked at his three salesmen, made an open-handed gesture; lecture time again. "This is why it's good to get away from the office occasionally, gentlemen. Reminds us what happens when a man drops out. Loses that competitive drive. You end up a boat bum like the ca-ca-captain. Or one of the beach bums like my friend here who has nothing better to do than hang around a marina, poking his nose into places where it doesn't belong." He looked at Ford. "See, I know your type, friend. Can't make it in the real world, the business world, so you come down here and mix with people who have made something of themselves, act like a real person. Frankly, I don't have time for people like you. So now you can get the hell out of my way, buster."
Ford was still smiling, blocking the dock, but beginning to sweat a little, hoping he could find some way around having to actually fight the guy, thinking I haven't punched anyone since Coronado, but also thinking this pompous bastard had it coming. He said, "You're trying too hard, Willis."
The man looked at him. "I'm what?"
"I said you're trying way too hard. See, you've got those three junior executive types at your heels, judging you every step of the way, and you can't let them see you back down now, can you? They'll smell blood, maybe get ideas about taking your job. What are you, the president of some small company? No, you flinched. A vice president then—"
"More than you'll ever be, friend."
"But you'll probably never get to be president. Only the really good ones make it in the executive world, and the good ones would never mock a guy who stutters. They have too much style—something you don't have, Willis. You know it, so you try too hard. You talk too loud, and you bully people when you can—like Jeth there. Jeth takes a swing at a customer, and he's liable to lose his license. You're not smart, but you're shrewd enough to know when you're on safe ground. "
"I don't have to stand here and listen to this garbage—"
Ford moved to block his path once more. "But I'm not done, Willis. And you're going to stand right there and find out what it's like to have some stranger browbeat you in public. I tried to be nice; you had your chance. Now you're going to listen. Let's see . . . you drink too much and you smoke your two packs a day, and the blood pressure is way too high, but you've got to keep pressing, have to run hard to stay ahead of the parade, because these guys and probably a bunch of others are just waiting for you to drop. Now you're not sure what to do because I'm standing smack in your way. Some stranger who doesn't fit into your pecking order. And you may have to actually fight it out, and right now you're thinking you have twenty pounds on me, but you'll have to make that first punch count because you're lugging a lot of fat and you don't have much wind, and you could end up looking very, very foolish. So I'll give you an honorable way out, Willis." Ford stepped back, creating enough room on the dock for him to pass. "I admit it. I'm afraid you might connect with that first, punch. So go climb into your rental car, drive to your nice motel, sit around the pool with a fresh drink, and joke about what you would have done to me if I'd said one more word." Ford looked at Nicholes. "You're not going to give them their money back, are you Jeth?"
"Na-na-no way, Doc. He just had me so mad I ca-couldn't think right."
Willis was saying "He's a coward. There, that's putting it pretty plainly. Said so himself." His face was grayish, and the three junior executives were looking here and there, avoiding his eyes. "Nothing but a fucking nobody coward. I wouldn't waste my energy on a nobody like him."
Hearing something, Ford cocked his head: The pay phone was ringing. Maybe it was Bernstein; Bernstein finally calling from Central America. Miss this call and he'd have to go through the whole process again, maybe have to wait another day. He turned to trot toward the phone and, as he did, the creaking of the dock and a guttural grunt gave him just enough warning. He pivoted sharply, feeling the wind-wake of Willis's right fist sail past his face. Willis's follow-through left him teetering sideways on the dock, and Ford hit him in the stomach, hard, kicked him behind the right knee, and caught the big man as he fell, wrapping his left arm under Willis's right elbow and arm, clamping his hand around Willis's throat, putting just enough pressure on the carotid artery and the elbow to pin him immobile on the dock.
The phone was still ringing.
Ford glanced at the junior executives, all three of them shifting nervously, not quite sure what to do; Jeth Nicholes standing behind them, ready. Ford said, "Willis, you just had a spell of very bad judgment, " talking as he put enough pressure on the man's elbow to make the joint creak; watching Willis's eyes pinch, the flesh on his cheeks flush then mottle. "If you're smart, you won't try it again . . . friend." He released him abruptly, turned to run, but Willis got his foot out, tripped him, and Ford dove headlong onto the dock, almost into the water. Looking up, he could see MacKinley running toward them, a baseball bat in his hand.
"Mack! Get the phone!"
"What?"
"The phone!"
"I already called the police."
"Not that phone!"
A crushing weight hit him from behind, and Willis was on him, punching wildly. Ford rolled away, heard the big man's shoe smash into the planking by his face, wrestled his way to his feet suddenly not able to see so well. Where in the hell were his glasses?
Willis was coming at him, a big blurry shape pawing like some
kind of boxer. Behind him, Nicholes was systematically wrestling the junior executives into the bay.
"Not now, Willis. I don't have time right now."
"Ha! That's what I thought . . . coward, trying to talk his way out."
Ford saw a big shadow coming at him, Willis's right fist. He batted the fist into a harmless trajectory and kicked him in the side of the leg, missing the knee. Willis stumbled forward, grabbed Ford by the shoulders, scratching at his face and eyes with his fingernails. Ford smacked him in the throat with his open palm, then whirled 360 degrees, his elbow out like an ax. Willis walked right into it, taking the elbow flush on the nose, blood spurting as he backpedaled into a piling and tumbled into the water.
"Jeth, make sure that asshole doesn't drown!" Ford was already running.
"Hell, Da-Da-Doc, looks like he's dead already. ..."
Ford sprinted past MacKinley toward the pay phone, forced his way through the crowd that had gathered, skidded around the corner of the office, and lifted the receiver just as the caller hung up. He rummaged through his pockets to find a quarter, remembered he didn't need one, and dialed zero.
A woman's voice said, "Good afternoon, operator."
"Operator, I'm at a pay phone. Someone just tried to call here from Central America, probably Masagua. I need the number they called from. It's important."
"I'm sorry, sir, but I have no way of getting that information."
"Yes you do. You're in an office, right? One of the operators there had to work the call. Ask around. She can call the operator in Central America; the number had to come up on her equipment—"
"I'm very sorry, sir, we don't provide that service."
"You can try, though—"
"I'm sorry, sir."
Ford slammed the phone down, patting the pockets of his shirt absently, looking for his glasses. Then remembered he'd lost them back on the dock. The adrenaline was still pumping through him; his ribs hurt, and he could feel the raw burn of the scratches on his face. His stomach was grumbling; maybe he was going to throw up. He walked back to the basin where the junior executives, all soaking, had just fished Willis out of the water. His bathrobe was open, showing the big hairy belly, and his face was bleeding, split from nose to left eye. MacKinley moved to Ford's side and said quietly, "He's already talking lawsuit. I think he means it, too.
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