I'd lost the skill, but I still recognized some common shortwave abbreviations. C: – – . – – . (Yes, you are correct.) R: . – – . (Received as transmitted.) TMW: – – – – – – . – – – – . (Contact you tomorrow.)
Transmission concluded.
The president removed the headphones and slid the circuit board toward me. "Something else I learned in Boy Scouts. Made it myself." He sounded proud. "It's a simple continuous-wave transmitter with a crystal oscillator, runs on twelve volts. With this antenna"—he'd strung a copper wire to the forward bulkhead—"I can skip signals a thousand miles or more."
"You don't think the NSA can track that?"
"Sure they can. But they won't. I'm using a straight key on a thirty-meter band—primitive compared to the kind of communications they're set up to monitor. Even if someone stumbled onto it, they'd think I'm some kid. Drumbeats." He touched the telegraph key. "That's what this would sound like."
No Más lifted and rocked in the Gulf night as I took a closer look—an old telegraph key with copper contacts, springs, and a steel shorting bar.
I knew better than to ask who he'd contacted, so I asked, "Everything okay back home?"
"So far, so good. My Secret Service guys are getting antsy, but they still believe I'm locked away in my cabin, meditating." He sounded relieved.
***
When I returned to the fuel docks, I was carrying two styrofoam cups filled with ice and Tuborg beer. I knew the president wanted to be back aboard by midnight so he could make his nightly shortwave contact.
We found a bench facing the harbor. No Más's anchor light was a white star among many clustered off Christmas Island.
"That smell . . . heat and rain"—Wilson sniffed as if tasting—"it hasn't changed."
At night, a bubble of Caribbean darkness envelopes Key West insulating the island from the mainland. Air molecules are dense, weighted with jasmine, asphalt, the musk of shaded houses. Rain on coral; heat, too.
"When I was in the Navy, we were stationed here for six weeks. The air base off Garrison Bight—I'd just completed amphibian training in San Diego, and we were still flying the Grummans. I didn't want to leave. When I finished my hitch, I wanted to come back and run a charter boat. Maybe buy a sea-plane and fly tourists to the Tortugas and Bahamas."
"Why didn't you?"
"It was Wray. She had a higher calling. The woman was born with a need to serve. We couldn't have children, and I'm not the religious type. So we went into politics."
"Not religious?" His month in a monastery, the interest in Zen—then both were precedents for severing contact with security people.
"Unofficially? No. My wife, though, was religious in the best sense of the word."
He took a drink, shaking his head. "I hope I don't sound like some maudlin old geezer when I talk about her. One of the perks of being president is that when I bore people, they think it's their fault."
No, it wasn't tiresome. He'd mentioned his wife a few times while sailing. Stories that provided fresh insight. Wray Wilson's public persona was that of the solid, supportive First Lady who had overcome handicaps. According to Wilson, though, "She was the brains, I was the mouthpiece, and we shared the balls."
A tough, driven soul, was the impression. He loved her. He was also in awe. She compensated for her deafness, and slight speech impediment, by working harder, studying harder, than her contemporaries. The woman had a sophisticated understanding of the world, he said, that could only have been assembled in silence.
"I didn't go into politics because I wanted to be president," Wilson told us. "Hell, I didn't even want to be a congressman. Live in D.C. after some of the places I'd been stationed? I went into politics because I wanted to live up to Wray's expectations. At first, that was the only reason. Then it kinda swallowed me up."
He focus was inward. The Navy pilot chuckled. "I was more comfortable as a hero than a president. I'm right at home leading a charge. But I have no interest in assigning tents afterward. If it wasn't for Wray, I never could've pulled it off."
It was touching. I told him that as we sat looking at the harbor, sipping our beers, adding, "I prefer boredom to surprises. That's why I'm offering to help. I'm not an adrenaline junkie, Sam. Thrills are for amateurs."
The problem, I explained, was time. We didn't have enough.
"We have to be in Central America in three days? If the weather holds, it'll take us three days to sail to Mexico. After that, what? Nicaragua, where Mrs. Wilson was killed? That's two or three hundred miles overland. Panama is a couple hundred more."
I leaned forward for emphasis, because I was now whispering.
"For me to eyeball an individual, to chart his habits, his schedule, it takes a week. And I have to know the area well enough to select a . . . a spot."
As I continued talking, listing the difficulties, Wilson sat looking at the harbor as if I wasn't there. When I'd finished, he nodded. "Useful information. But I told you from the beginning—don't worry about details."
"But we don't have time—"
He turned to face me. "When people say they don't have time, it really means they're not sufficiently motivated. That's why I'm going to give you another piece of information. I didn't plan on sharing it until later. You know more about aviation than most."
"Flying basics, sure."
"You can land and take off?"
"I can take off, sure. Landing? It depends."
"Then think about this: Wray's plane caught fire after it landed. A grass runway in the rain forests of Nicaragua. Do you perceive some significance?"
I said, "You've mentioned it twice, both times like it should mean something. It doesn't. Sorry. Something to do with the rainy season?"
"No."
"Was the plane low on fuel?" Fire was less likely if a plane was in a rain-sodden forest and low on fuel. Wilson said, "You're getting closer, but that's not it." He thought for a moment, then stood and began walking.
I caught up with him at Flagler Station, where he turned left.
The doors of Caroline Music were still open, ceiling fans fluttering. Music came from inside, the elegant refrain of one of the classics we all know but I couldn't immediately name.
I looked inside, still walking, then did a double take: a familiar scarecrow figure sat at the grand piano. The president was about to say something when I interrupted. "There he is. Tomlinson."
He followed my gaze. "Liberace lives."
"I should've stopped here first." The guy who owned the place was one of Tomlinson's buddies, but a music shop? An hour before midnight?
Wilson said, "That was one of our favorite pieces. He plays . . .beautifully. I didn't know he was a musician."
My brain had matched melody with a name—"Moonlight Sonata"—as I told him, "I didn't, either."
13
When Tomlinson disappeared, he was wearing British walking shorts, tank top, hair braided. Now, though, he was dressed formally: black slacks, white dinner jacket, hair brushed smooth to his shoulders, sun-bleached, with streaks of gray. He was hunched over the piano, fingers spread, face close to the keys, like a near-sighted novelist at a typewriter.
Wilson and I entered the shop unnoticed to listen. It was like stepping into a musician's attic: a cramped space, no air-conditioning but cool, instruments overhead, violins, guitars, swaying with ceiling fans like the pendulum of an antique clock. There were reading chairs, a chess set, a workbench of disassembled artistry. Red-shaded lamps melded shadows with the reticent lighting of a Chinatown whorehouse. If Sherlock Holmes lived in Key West, it would've been here.
When Tomlinson finished, Wilson and I waited for the last note to end before I said, "Ten years I've
known you and I've never heard you play."
Tomlinson looked, threw his hair back, and focused. Said,
"Marion?," as if coming out of a trance while his brain relocated. "You've never heard me because I don't play anymore. Pianos disowned me when I moved to a sail
boat. Can you blame them?"
"Because . . . ?"
"No room, man. It was a form of infidelity. Pianos demand space and I chose not to provide it. Occasionally, I'll find a very forgiving instrument"—he touched the ebony wood with affection—"that'll play me. This is one of the few who accepts my fingers. This piano is saturated with sea air, I think. We're both sailors." Tomlinson's eyes drifted until they found the president, then brightened. "Sam! I've been trying to contact you! That's why the piano." His fingers moved over the keys. "Like the Pied Piper. I knew you'd show up if I played."
"I don't get it."
"For the music, of course." Once again, Tomlinson began
"Moonlight Sonata"—left hand rolling the repetitive bass notes, right hand coaxing a reluctant melody.
Instead of being confused, Wilson grew serious. "Why that passage?"
"Because I watched you on the beach yesterday and the sonata's first movement was all over you. Like an aura." Tomlinson continued playing; notes reluctant, understated.
"Knock off the baloney."
"For real, man. It's what I heard. I was getting No Más ready. You walked to the point."
"That's true. But why 'Moonlight Sonata'? Out of all the songs in the world?"
" 'Cause I felt it, man. This sort of thing happens to me all the time, Sam. I'm like a wind tunnel. Energy blows right through me."
Tomlinson's eyes were cheerfully numb. From Wilson, I expected cheerful forbearance. Instead, he became more serious.
"Prove it's true."
By the way he tugged at his hair, I could tell Tomlinson wanted to be done with the subject. "I can't prove it, but I'm right. I knew if I played the sonata, you'd show up. Same with 'Clair de Lune.' It was there, too, with you and your wife on the beach. Debussy."
Chords changed; Tomlinson's fingers slowed. Another familiar classic—fragile, inquisitive.
I was reminding myself that Wray Wilson had been deaf from birth as the president said, "Cayo Costa. That's where I proposed to Wray, forty-one years ago. Both songs had special meaning. But no one is aware of the significance. How do you know? "
Tomlinson was into the music. Maybe he didn't hear. Wilson looked at me as if to ask something. I shrugged, palms up. Started to say, Tomlinson does what he does, no one understands. But then stopped as another man entered the room. A huge man, leprechaun-shaped, with a red beard, glasses, and an Irish cap. Shy expression; a gentle-giant smile as he greeted Tomlinson, "Ready to go, Siggy?"
Siggy, as in Sighurdhr M. Tomlinson.
It was Tim something, who owned the music shop. He was wearing a white dinner jacket, too. Tomlinson stood, wobbly but grinning. He located the president, who was still in the shadows. "Sam? It's okay. The Gnome's cool—I told him I have two amigos who are on the run from the feds. As if dealing with outlaws is something new, huh, Gnome?"
Gnome and Siggy. In pirate towns, nicknames are preferred.
***
Tomlinson and Tim had borrowed jackets from some waiter pals so they could crash a party.
Not just any party.
"There's a convention in town," Tomlinson said. "Broadcast journalists from all over the country!"
Wilson appeared interested but uneasy.
"And guess who the keynote speaker is?" Tomlinson used his index finger. Shushhhh. "It's the guy you talked about on the boat. Like God dropped everything else just to bring you two together. Walt Danson. He's in Key West!"
"You're kidding."
"No, man. I never joke about karma."
Danson was a network anchor. Years ago, Wilson had told us, at a Georgetown party, that the anchorman had made a crack about Wray Wilson's speech impediment. The president had never responded publicly, but he still seethed privately.
"Where?"
"At the Flagler Hotel. He was in the private bar when I left."
Tomlinson's eyes floated a question to the Gnome.
"They moved the party down the street to Louie's. Danson and a couple of network big shots."
"Can you get us in?"
"If your buddies don't mind serving drinks. I've got extra jackets in the car."
Wilson was saying "Don't be absurd . . ." but the big man interrupted, concerned. "I can't loan tuxes to just anyone, Siggy.
Are your friends dependable?"
Tomlinson made a blowing noise as he searched his pockets.
"Are you kidding? Compared to these two golden boys, gravity's a party drug. Speaking of shich"—he'd found something and held it for inspection, a joint—"I think it would do us all some good to, you know, shallow up a little. What'a you say, Sammy?"
Wilson ignored him. His tinted glasses sparked like a welder's mask as he turned to me. "Walt Danson. I can't believe that vindictive old lush is in town. It's so damn tempting, but I can't take the chance. He's seen me too many times."
I told him, "Out of the question."
But Tomlinson was shaking his head, waving us to follow.
"Guys! Unbuckle your belts a notch, let your snorkels breathe. The way Danson's pouring down scotch, he wouldn't recognize his own mother if she was wearing a photo ID. Isn't that right, Gnome?"
"He's stinko, Siggy. Starting to turn mean when I left."
"Sam— seriously." Tomlinson was following the Gnome out the door. "Think about it. When'll you get another chance like this? Next lifetime, maybe?"
***
. . .The flagler hotel was on reynolds, blocks from Dog Beach and Louie's Backyard, the place where the broadcasters were now partying. It's the only reason Wilson allowed Tomlinson to stop.
The hotel was a 1920s mastodon, refurbished, but it still had the look of Prohibition cash and Havana politics.
The Gnome's car blended: a 1972 Eldorado convertible.
Maybe green, maybe gray. Hard to tell under the streetlights, despite a Caribbean moon. The president and I sat in back but refused to try on waiters' jackets. It was pleasant riding in a convertible, but he wasn't going anywhere near a room full of reporters.
Tomlinson kept trying. "You got to let go of the whole negative vibe thing, man." He sounded very sure of himself, the top down, his hair like a flag, gifting cops and street people with a regal wave of the hand as he and Tim, the Gnome, passed the joint back and forth.
Each time, I responded, "We are not going to Louie's."
Finally, Tomlinson gave up. I told him we should call it a night and go back to the boat. He agreed—but didn't sound happy.
"Then we might as well drop off the jackets while we're here."
Wilson told him fine, make it quick.
Gnome used staff parking at the Flagler's side entrance, pulling up outside the service elevator. Beyond a set of Dumpsters, I could see palms, then a vast darkness where the lights of freighters were held motionless by the Gulf Stream. They were as solitary as campfires.
Tomlinson said, "This won't take long. Go for a stroll on the beach, if you want."
Wilson said, "No, thanks. I'm afraid you'll pull your vanishing act again."
The Gnome was walking around the front of the car, but we could hear him say, "Are you afraid the feds might recognize you, Sammy? Screw 'em. This is hotel property. Fuckers can't touch you in the Conch Republic, man."
Wilson shook his head irritably. I empathized. It was tempting—crash a party and serve drinks to a bunch of broadcasters, including Walt Danson. Wilson had enjoyed telling the story about Andrew Jackson killing the man who had insulted his wife.
The circumstances were so unlikely, it was unlikely anyone would have recognized him. The former president looked so different now. With his head shaved, the burn scar, and beatnik beard, Wilson looked like just another casualty of the service industry.
It would've been interesting to find out.
The night became interesting.
Still wearing their white jackets, and each with a jacket draped over an arm, Tomlinson and the Gnome were waiting for the elevator doors to open when the Gnome turned toward the car.
I leaned over the seat to pop the trunk as Wilson got out. The trunk was a Curiosity Shoppe of broken violins and guitars, but he found the box of pants, which he gave to me, plus two jackets. We were handing the uniforms to Tomlinson when the doors of the service elevator flashed open.
The interior was illuminated with a bright, industrial light.
Inside were two men and a woman, well-dressed, obviously not hotel employees, judging from their confused expressions.
"Sorry," the woman said. "I'm very sorry. I must've hit the wrong button." She hesitated. "Do you men work here?"
Trying to sounded sober, the Gnome said, "Oh, yes. This is our workplace."
"Good. We could use some help."
That was obvious.
All three looked like they'd had a lot to drink, but one of the men was drunk. He sat on the elevator floor, legs crossed, his expression blurred and surly. The woman and her companion had been struggling to lift him to his feet when the doors opened.
I recognized the woman as a broadcaster with a cable news network. Suzie . . . Cindi . . . Shana. A name that was similar. She had a cheerleader face, the body of a trophy bride, and the arrogance of a man who would marry one.
I recognized the drunk, too.
It was television icon Walt Danson.
***
"Mr. Danson is ill," the second man told us. he was tall, with bland features and feral eyes. "Food poisoning, we think—the kind of publicity your hotel doesn't need. Can you help us get him to his room?"
Danson opened his eyes for a moment, took a moment to find the man; glared. "Fuck you, Harry. You wish I was poisoned. That'd make dumping me a lot easier, wouldn't it?"
"Now, Walt," the tall man said for our benefit, "is it smart to use that kind of language, old friend?"
Danson waved his hand, dismissing him. "You don't have any old friends— Mister Program Director." The anchorman leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes.
Harry turned to us with a stage gesture. "See what I mean?
He's feverish. We're counting on your professionalism."
The Gnome straightened vaguely, as if at attention, as Tomlinson said, "We are professionals, sir."
Hunter's Moon - Randy Wayne White Page 13