I keep a P.O. address at the Sanibel Post Office, Box 486. But I also occasionally get mail at the marina, and that’s where Amanda had the overnight package delivered: an envelope containing two photographs plus Xeroxes of several bank statements detailing activity on her mother’s personal account. Amanda called me Tuesday just before noon to tell me to go look, maybe the priority package had already arrived.
“You are one very efficient lady,” I told her.
There was a little frown in her voice this morning. Seemed distraught and a little impatient. “Damn right I’m efficient. What I sent you is a framed picture of Merlot I took from our house. Christ, Mom had it up on the mantelpiece over the fireplace. That face of his looking out like he owned everything around him. I’m sending it mostly to get rid of it. She doesn’t like it, tough. And a picture of my mom and Frank together. When you see Frank, you can give it to him. If he wants it.”
I said, “I think I’ll leave the distribution of family photos to you.”
“Okay, whatever. The bank statements, though. That’s the big news. Pretty shitty news, as you’ll see.”
I said, “Oh?”
“Yeah. You know how glad I am you had me check the mail? Mrs. Patterson, our poor neighbor lady, she couldn’t wait to get rid of it. So I’m sitting home going through this stack of stuff and it starts dawning on me what I’m seeing. I mean, holy shit! I couldn’t believe it. It almost made me sick.”
What was she talking about?
“The bank statements,” she said. “I didn’t make myself clear? Take a look when they get there. They’re self-explanatory. My mom, she’s on this deposit, withdrawal deal where all her bills go directly to the bank and the bank makes direct transfers. Electric bills, charge card, taxes, the whole works all done through proxy. Frank probably set it up that way. Take care of the little ex-wife, make sure he’s still in control of how things get done.”
That bitterness again.
She said, “But the reason I’m sending the bank statements is you’ll see she’s transferred a bunch of money in the last few months in four big lumps. I have no idea why. Three withdrawals of forty thousand, then one for seventy-five thousand. Something else, back in December, almost every day for a month, she made the maximum daily withdrawal on her ATM card. That’s like six hundred dollars times twenty-one, twenty-two withdrawals. Something like that. So the total’s another thirteen thousand dollars plus the hundred and ninety-five thousand from the bank. Major bucks.”
I said, “You need to call Frank right away and tell him.”
“I already tried.”
“You need to keep trying till you get him.”
“Why?”
“He’s the money guy in the family, right? The ex-family, anyway. I just talked to him, and he would have said something if he knew. All that money missing, yeah, he would have said something.”
“I guess.”
“He’d even hint about it to you: ‘Your mom’s been moving a lot of money?’ Or: ‘Your mom’s acting a lot differently since her new boyfriend?’ That’s the sort of thing he might have said.”
“No. Not a word.”
“Then he doesn’t know. Activity that heavy, you’d think the bank’s computers would have flagged it and contacted your mom.”
“They did. I found a letter from the bank saying that if they didn’t hear personally from my mom, they would freeze her ATM card. Some of the earlier statements, they’d been opened before she left for Colombia. I found them in her office file. This letter, though, was among the unopened mail the neighbor’d collected. It was dated January seventh. After that, there were no more withdrawals from her ATM, so maybe they did freeze it.”
“Were any of the withdrawals made before you last saw and spoke with your mother?”
“Yeah, almost all of them.”
“So you have to assume that she knew. She was aware.”
“I guess so.”
“And the bank had no reason to contact Frank.”
“Right. Because the money was drawn on my mom’s personal accounts.”
“Is there any money left?”
“Not much. The CD and money market accounts are all wiped out. In the savings, the balance is like thirteen-five, so she’s got a little left. Look at the statements, see for yourself. I’m so pissed off, I can hardly even talk about it. When I was going through those bank statements, my hands were shaking like crazy. That asshole is robbing my mom blind.”
“We don’t know that yet.”
“You have another explanation?”
“There are a couple of possibilities.”
Several, really.
I thought of something. “Do you know if Frank is having any financial difficulties? Maybe he worked it so he still had access to your mom’s accounts. Maybe that’s why he never mentioned that he knew about all the activity.”
“Geez, you really do have a suspicious mind.”
“That’s right. The question is, Do you think Frank is capable of doing something like that?”
“No way. Even if he wanted to, her money was completely separate. I remember Mom talking about how, for once, she was finally on her own. That was right after the courts and the lawyers got done. Plus, the last time I spoke to Frank, he told me that this was the worst April ever, because he’d made more money than he’d ever made in his life. Taxes, he was talking about He had to pay out so much in taxes.”
“Okay, so we eliminate Frank. That leaves Merlot. Wait till I get the papers, let’s see what I can come up with.” I thought of something else. “Did she get any cash advances on her credit card?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Did she sell or cash in any stocks and bonds?”
“There was nothing in the mail about it. Jesus, I’m shaking again. More than two hundred thousand dollars, most of my mom’s cash savings gone in less than four months.” Her voice broke slightly, the transition from fear to anger. “The son-of-a-bitch. You don’t think he took her off someplace to hurt her? Like get rid of her, I mean. The woman he stole all the money from and who witnessed what an asshole he is?”
I said, “Amanda, calm down. There’s absolutely no reason to suspect something like that. Maybe she moved the money to another account she’s set up. Maybe she was investing in stocks or more CDs.”
“With cash from the ATM?”
“Yeah, I see your point. But there’s no reason to get upset until we find out for sure what’s going on. When you were going through your mother’s stuff, did you find any letters, any notes from Merlot?”
“A card, that’s all. It must have come with some flowers or something. It said, ‘Not even these are as beautiful as you.’ Can you think of a slimier line than that?”
I was puzzled. “Your mom has an eight- or nine-month relationship with this guy, but he didn’t send her a single note? Nothing in writing?”
“Nothing that I found. Just the flower note.”
“That doesn’t make any sense at all.”
“They were E-mail friends, I already told you. She’d be on the computer half the night with him. Where’ve you been? People don’t write on paper anymore.”
“Is the computer still at her house?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t think to check it.”
“You mean you could go back and check her old letters if you wanted to?”
“Maybe. Depends on if she saved them or not.”
“But you’d have to know her password, right? Or some kind of entrance code?” Tomlinson had become obsessed with his little briefcase-sized portable. I’d picked up a little bit of information just hearing him talk about it.
“I already know her password. Mom, her memory’s so bad, she uses the same PIN number for all her cards, her message service, the electronic security system at home, everything. She uses the same three numbers as her password to get on-line. It’s simple: two-seven-two. A-R-C on the phone dial, which stands for Amanda Richardson Calloway. My name. One day she’d forgotten something-to pick up her laundry, I think-and she was laughing about how absentminded she was, and that’s when she told me. She said it was her way of honoring me.”
Amanda’s voice cracked again just a little when she added the last sentence. A daughter worried about her mother; trying to keep the emotions in check.
“Then check her computer, see what you can find. Is the phone still on at her house? The phone needs to be on, right?”
“It’s on temporary disconnect. I’ll have the phone company switch it on as soon as I can. Probably late this afternoon, if I get pushy about it. You want me to try to find letters that Merlot sent to her.”
“Anything that has to do with him and your mom. Maybe there’ll be some hint about where they are.”
“Then I should forward what I find to your computer. So I’ll need to know your E-mail address.”
I reminded her that I didn’t have a computer but I did have a telephone. If she found something, she could call me and read it to me.
“I keep forgetting, you’re maybe one of the three or four people I know who doesn’t have a computer.”
I said, “A regular dinosaur, that’s me. And, Amanda? Something else you need to do is call whoever you talked to at the Broward County Sheriff’s Department. The FBI, too. Tell them you want to send them copies of the bank statements, it might get them interested. Tell them what you think: that your mother is being robbed. They’re a lot better-equipped to handle stuff like this than we are. And don’t forget to call Frank, tell him about the money.”
“You think it’ll make a difference?”
“With the cops? No. Not right away. But at least it will keep your mom’s file open in case there really is something wrong.”
Talking about Merlot, all that missing money, had upset her, so I tried to swing the conversation around before I said good-bye; give her a chance to calm down. Sat there with the phone wedged against my ear, looking out at the water, at small boats fishing the mangrove hedge, while I listened to her ask more questions about her father.
There was something oddly forlorn and touching in her tone. She was frightened for her mother’s safety and deeply missed the father she had never met. She had no conscious recollection of ever seeing the man, of being held by him, but she was inexorably connected; seemed to know and understand him on a bone-marrow level. One thing I did not doubt: Amanda was the daughter of my old friend Bobby Richardson.
I answered her questions as best I could. Then she changed the subject on her own: told me she’d spoken with Tucker Gatrell a couple of times since she’d gotten home.
I said, “You mean he’s been calling you?”
“No, I called him. I like him. He makes me laugh. And I think he’s honestly worried about what’s happened to my mom. So I told him I’d keep him updated on how it was going, what we were doing. He seems to know a lot about Central America. He was asking me all kinds of questions.”
I said, “Central America. Yeah, he used to be in the import-export business down there. Just ask him, he’s a real expert.”
I’d never risked inquiring, but there wasn’t much doubt that, along with dealing cattle from Managua to Colon, Tucker had dabbled in drug running during the wide-open, early years of dope smuggling. A Florida cowboy who’d somehow found his way to the jungle. He liked the women, the lawlessness of the place. Probably liked the way that a man with money could live like royalty. Something else I never asked was how he’d managed to piss all that easy money away.
Amanda said, “He wants to help. I told him that’d be fine with me.”
I said, “Oh?”
“Why not? What could it hurt?”
All my life I’ve been baffled at how someone as transparently self-serving as my uncle can so quickly and completely earn the confidence and loyalty of otherwise-intelligent strangers. Tucker was a rare, rare being in that you had to know him well before you could distrust and dislike him.
I said, “Just don’t loan him any money. And don’t let him get you alone in a room.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. An old man like that?”
“Look, I know what I’m talking about. You don’t… okay, let me tell you a story. I listened to a TV reporter interview him; this attractive woman not much older than you. This was a couple of years ago. Tuck was trying to get rich selling swamp water, saying it was from the Fountain of Youth. The way you just laughed, you don’t think I’m serious, but I am. That’s exactly the con he was trying to pull.
“So this woman’s interviewing him, talking to him like he’s the Old Man of the Everglades, which is a role he loves to play. And she asks him, ‘Mr. Gatrell, at what age does a man stop thinking about his own needs and start thinking about more spiritual things?’ Tuck didn’t miss a beat. He said, ‘Sweetheart, if you’re talking about sex, you’re gonna have to ask someone a hell of a lot older than me. You want, I’ll prove my point.’”
Amanda was laughing. “But he was joking.”
“No. No, he wasn’t joking. It was one of the few honest things I’ve ever heard him say.”
“Hey, come on, Doc, it isn’t my place to tell you, but… okay, you seem like the nicest guy, a very reasonable man until you start talking about your uncle. Why? It doesn’t make any sense.”
I told Amanda, “Believe me, it makes sense. I know him. You don’t.”
“Is it the way he acts? He likes to be the center of attention, there’s no doubt about that. Or was it something he did?”
I said, “It’s both. But mostly it was something he did.”
We talked for a while longer after I’d said, yeah, maybe someday I’d tell her about it.
So, slightly after noon, when I was finished with my morning’s work in the lab, I wandered over to the marina to see if Amanda’s package had arrived. Stopped on the dock and talked to Mack for a little bit. Mack is stocky and rumpled, smokes expensive cigars and wears cheap flipflops. Mack’s a displaced Kiwi who came to the U.S. where, as he is fond of saying, “Free enterprise is just a little free-er.” He owns Dinkin’s Bay Marina. Most of it, at least. And he is the marina’s devoted advocate, peacemaker, judge, host of Friday-night beer bashes, boat trader, wheeler-dealer, fish cleaner and collector of clowns, both real and clowns painted on canvas. Mack normally maintains an attitude of predatory amusement that he shields with a professional coolness not uncommon among those who must deal day-in, day-out with the marina-going public. But on this hot April afternoon, Mack was anything but cool. He was, in fact, in a fiery mood.
“The goddamn bureaucrats,” he told me. “The goddamn bureau RATS… there, that’s more like it. They were snooping around the marina this morning, acting like they owned the place, telling me how to run things. They were telling me I had to do this, I had to fix that or they’d shut me down, and you know what? Those tight-assed little bastards don’t have a clue what it’s like to run a business. They’ve never made a payroll in their life. They’ve never gambled their own savings on a business of any kind, let alone a ballbuster like a marina. And they’ve never lain awake all night worrying that they wouldn’t take in enough cash the next day to make a mortgage payment that’s due by four P.M. And they’re judging me? They’re telling me how to run MY business?”
I said, “One of the inspectors find a snake in the restaurant again?”
A year or so before, that’s exactly what had happened. While looking behind one of the refrigerators, a woman from some esoteric state agency had come eyeball to eyeball with a very large and very territorial rat snake. How long the snake had lived there, Joyce, the fry cook, could not guess, but the woman’s reaction had coupled hysteria with a mobile incontinence that darkened a fast trail between the restaurant and the parking lot.
After that incident, Mack had had to shut down the takeout’s fry vats and the grill for more than a week. It cost him several hundred dollars, plus the snake disappeared and no one got a chance to admire the thing or even reward it.
Now he said, “I wish to hell it’d been a bloody rattlesnake. Or… one of those tiger snakes from Oz. One of the deadliest snakes in the Outback. See how they deal with somethin’ that’s real instead of their tight-assed little rules and regulations. Those people live in a bloody fantasy land. The way they act is, we work for them. Like they’re doing us a favor just to let us stay in business. Mark my word, when bureaucrats refuse to respect private enterprise, this country’s in big trouble! And ninety percent of the inspectors they send ‘round, I wouldn’t hire as dock help. They got attitude without brains. Cadillac dingoes. They remind me of bloody Cadillac dingoes!”
When Mack said Cadillac dingoes, he meant poodles. When he said Oz, he meant Australia.
Yes, he was definitely in a mood. And since I count among my good and trusted friends several of the “goddamn bureau-rats” to whom he referred, I decided to leave him to his anger. For many years, it was car salesmen and insurance salesmen who drew the generalized contempt of a judgmental public. Then it was attorneys. These days, it’s government employees. I have known too many first-rate men and women who happened to be car salesmen or attorneys, or worked for county or state governments, to fall into that easy and unfair trap. Want a tough job? Try selling Oldsmobiles, whole-life or anything else for a living. Try dealing with red tape and outraged citizens all day long. But I have noticed that the contempt reserved for bureaucrats seems more fervent than that aimed at other groups. Why? Mack is a good and fair businessman, and I trust his judgment and his intellect. And he is quite right: There is something desperately amiss when government and private enterprise are at philosophical odds.
The whole gradual shift in attitude suggests an unhealthy antagonism: the government cadre (count teachers and union workers among them) versus businesses large and small, as well as any self-reliant individual who chooses to live independently by his or her own wits. There is no doubt that the cadre’s membership is dominated by talented, reasonable professionals. Unfortunately, it is the cadre’s least-gifited members who tend to be the nosiest. It is this group that the Macks of the world find infuriating because these members project an attitude of intellectual elitism that is, in truth, the kind of adolescent stupidity that nearly destroyed China. It now threatens Westernized powers, Mack’s New Zealand among them.
These dopes loathe the public and anything that the public embraces. It is this stunted, snobby minority that generates genuine hatred from the “bourgeois.” That a few of them have their hands near the reins of power is a frightening thing indeed.
Mack’s anger was real. One or more of the stunted ones had, apparently, visited the marina and my friend’s reaction was both protective and illustrative.
As I walked away, Mack called to me, “The guy who was the worst of them, I told him I’d run his ass off if he ever came back to the marina again. Took up two solid hours of my time with absolute bullshit. You know-just to prove he was in control; making sure I understood that I might pay all the bills and taxes, but he was the one in charge. Know what he said when I threatened to run him off? He said ‘Try it.’ My property, all the work I’ve put into this place, and his exact words were: ‘ Try it. ’”
From my lab, I’d telephoned in an order for a fried conch sandwich, coleslaw and iced tea, which Joyce served to me in a brown-paper sack with a stack of napkins. As I left, she said, “In case you haven’t heard, stay out of Mack’s way. He’s on the warpath.”
I said, “Too bad the snake didn’t make an appearance. That would have made him happy.”
“Oh yeah, the snake. What I’m still worried about is that drunk we had as a part-time cook-Laurie? — that Laurie cooked the thing and served it. The snake I’m talking about. When I was away on vacation, she have any specials with Italian sausage? Bratwurst, anything like that?”
I was smiling. “I usually stick to the conch or the grouper.”
“Playing it safe, I don’t blame you. Just the same, it worries me. And I meant it about Mack.”
I said, “I know, I know,” and carried my lunch, along with Amanda’s envelope, out onto the docks.
The fishing guides were just returning from the morning charters, and I watched them tie up their skiffs as I took a seat at the picnic table which was beside the big bait tank between the Red Pelican gift shop and the water. Jeth Nicholes was now running an eighteen-foot Hewes, BUSHMASTER painted in red script on port and starboard sides. Big Felix Blane-all six feet, five inches and 250 pounds of him-was backing his twenty-four-foot Parker, Osprey, into its slip, and Nelson Esterline was hunkered down in the live well of his Lake amp; Bay, transferring fish into a bucket, getting ready to head to the cleaning table.
The guides always drew an audience, which they not only knew, but enjoyed, each of them handling the attention with a kind of jaunty, wind-weary cheerfulness that put their audience at ease and, more importantly, attracted new clients.
If you meet an aloof, self-important fishing guide, he probably isn’t a very experienced guide.
I watched a crowd of tourists collect around Nels as he carried the bucket toward the filet table-a couple of big redfish judging from the tails protruding, and several trout. A half dozen pelicans waddled along in pursuit, while an umbrella of gulls and terns circled above. There was lots of noisy squawking and screaming; tourists moving in a hurry now, trying to get a good spot to watch. Then Jeth came behind with three large tripletail-a strange fish that resembles a massive leaf because the dorsal and anal fins are situated far to the rear: effective mimicry, which allows the animal to float suspended on its side and ambush smaller fish that come to it seeking shade or protection. These fish looted as if they ranged between ten and fifteen pounds. Nice tripletail.
The docks were a good place to have lunch at the marina. There was always something interesting to watch while you ate.
As I munched my sandwich, I called to Felix, “You tarpon-fishing today?” speaking loudly above the noise of the birds.
He flashed me an appreciative look: Good, let the tourists know why he wasn’t standing at the cleaning table with the other guides. “My angler, Mr. Palmona, he wanted to see what it was like to fish Boca Grande. Left before sunrise, we just got back. You ever see so many boats in your life, Mr. Palmona?”
Felix’s client was a lean, dark-haired man who had the articulate, easygoing look of old money. He stood on the dock packing his gear into a little duffel, getting ready to leave while Felix cleaned his boat. “I thought Felix was exaggerating. A show like that, I wouldn’t have missed for the world. All of those attractive women in the bikinis, he told me what it would be like, but…” The man gave a bemused shrug.
In crowded Boca Grande Pass, the largest and most expensive of the fishing yachts were invariably bedecked with lounging, sun-lazy, beach-browned women who were proud of their improbable bodies-living, breathing symbols of wealth whom the guides appreciated as interesting adjuncts to the great tarpon-fishing. Emboldened by the built-in anonymity that boats provide, it was not unusual for some of these women to sunbathe topless. The guides always made running commentary on the VHF of what they saw, and since I hadn’t spoken to Felix by radio that day, he updated me while I ate.
“One of the Futch boys was running some big corporate boat, had five or six girls topside, out there on the bow all oiled up and baking. Frank Davis had him an even bigger boat and more women above deck. The swimsuits now, they come in these bright colors like pieces of Easter candy. That’s the way the girls looked. Sweet as candy out there. Two of them had just their bottoms on and both seemed to like Mr. Palmona. They waved a lot.”
Felix’s client had a dreamy, reflective expression on his face.
Yeah, he’d enjoyed his morning fishing in Boca.
I glanced around to see if any of the manna’s female liveaboards were nearby. I don’t have much patience for the hardcore politically correct It’s the newest form of Fascism. But living on a boat requires a certain drive and independent spirit that, for good reason, would not allow our marina women to tolerate their kindred being discussed as mindless confections. JoAnn Smallwood, pretty Donna Legges of the sailboat Bowhard, and Janet Mueller were aboard Tiger Lily, sitting in deck chairs and locked in animated conversation. But they were close, well within listening distance, so I decided to change the subject. “You catch any fish?”
“We jumped four tarpon, landed one. About a hundred-pounder, wasn’t he, Mr. Palmona? One of those juiced-up males, Doc, that’s harder than hell to get to the boat.”
Felix’s client was still wearing the bemused expression. He wasn’t following the conversation. “The girl in the apple-green bikini,” he said, “she really did seem to be waving at me. There was eye contact, I’m absolutely certain. Looked right at me and kept looking at me. I’d swear to it, I really would.” He seemed to be talking to himself.
Felix said, “Or the fish could’ve gone maybe one-ten. Pretty good-sized tarpon, Doc, but one of the kind that doesn’t want to jump. We had to chase him through the whole fleet, then follow him halfway to Siesta Key. He was a beauty, huh, Mr. Palmona?”
I smiled at Felix when the man said, “Beauty? Oh, she was absolutely gorgeous. Her hair, that kind of cinnamon-colored hair, it’s my favorite. The green suit, the red hair. And the way she singled me out and waved at me. I found that very flattering. It was a wonderful day on the water. An absolutely wonderful day. Wish I didn’t have to fly home to Chicago, Felix, or I’d book another trip. Maybe two or three trips. But if I work things right, get one of our younger partners to cover for me, it’s possible, just possible, I can be back in a couple of weeks. Will the big boats still be fishing Boca Grande Pass?”
Felix was smiling back at me. Guides made their living on repeat business, and Mr. Palmona clearly planned to be a regular. “You bet, Mr. Palmona. Fishing will actually get better, plus there’ll probably be lots more big boats carrying pretty girls.” Then, as he finished swabbing out his boat, Felix said to me, “Hey, I forgot to ask. How’d you and Tomlinson do in your baseball game Sunday?”
I had opened Amanda’s manila envelope and was shuffling through the contents. There were several bank statements, to which I gave a quick look and then set aside, as I answered Felix: “We lost, six to four. Pretty good team from Minnesota. Their pitcher had a nasty slider.”
“You catch?”
More bank statements that verified many withdrawals and, surprisingly, several computer-printed deposit slips. I placed those in the stack. “Yeah. Went oh-for-three but hit the ball hard twice. Their centerfielder made a heck of a play.”
“What about Tomlinson?”
There were two glossy photographs. The first was of Gail Richardson Calloway and ex-husband, Frank. She hadn’t changed that much since the photos I had seen years ago in Cambodia. Dark hair that swept across her forehead and curved to her shoulders. Cheeks and chin and eyes, those eyes. I could picture her in an aerobics class, dark leotard, a mature woman working hard to stay fit… or in a 1940s movie, black and white, with a lot of night scenes, streetlights and bus stops, the kind of film where women with faces as haunting as hers paused on street corners to light cigarettes. Frank looked articulate, moneyed, smart. I said, “Tomlinson has had better games.”
“Yeah? What, he make a few errors?”
I put the photo of Gail aside. “It wasn’t so much that as he just kind of… well, he wasn’t there.”
“You mean he didn’t show up?”
“No, we rode in together, like always. But bottom of the first inning, he hit this shot into the gap, and he just kept running: From second base, he veered off into the bullpen, then ran out of the stadium. Never changed stride. We didn’t see him again until just after the game.”
The other photo was on the table now, and I glanced at it-my first look at Jackie Merlot.
Felix said, “That Tomlinson, he’s a weird one. But a good guy.”
“Yeah.”
“Sometimes he says stuff, I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about. The other guides, it’s the same with them, too. Was he drunk?”
I said, “Huh?” I was looking at this hugely overweight man, spray-hardened hair on a head the size of a pumpkin, his haunch of an arm wrapped around Gail Calloway’s waist.
Felix said, “Tomlinson. Why would he do something like that? Get to second, then run off the field. Was he drunk?”
I looked up from the photo, but my eyes drifted back. There was something compelling about a combination so… grotesque? Yes, grotesque. No other word fit. Bobby Richardson’s widow, healthy, fit and breasty in designer jeans and dark sweater, dwarfed by a man who had to weigh three-eighty, close to four hundred pounds. He might have been a sumo wrestler or an NFL offensive lineman but for his face. Amanda had described it accurately. It was the face of a prepubescent boy; a strangely feminine face, hairless, very pale, with tiny, tiny dark eyes.
Something about his expression made me uneasy, set me on edge. It was the expression of a man who was working hard to project personality. Big smile, lots of teeth, big dimples above the folds of double chin. Hair combed perfectly and gelled in place… or maybe a toupee. Yeah, probably a wig.
But that’s not what troubled me. It took a moment; I couldn’t figure it out, but then I knew. Part of it, anyway. There is the certain rare child, because of chemical imbalance or neurosis or freak genetics, who is so genuinely manipulative and evil that he or she must necessarily learn to communicate an air of perfect innocence. It’s more than an expression, it’s an attitude, it’s body language… and it is a totally contrived act. They perfect that act quickly because their survival depends on it… and they feel nothing but contempt for those gullible enough to mistake the act for honesty.
Merlot’s expression reminded me of that… but there was more, too. There was something in his eyes, those tiny dark eyes. They were not much bigger than black pinholes in the folds of white flesh, but there was an intensity in them that misrepresented their size and that seemed vaguely reptilian.
I had to think hard to remember, and then it came to me: A monitor lizard, that’s what I thought about when I looked at his eyes. Komodo dragon: another name.
I’d seen monitors on the islands off Sumatra that were the size of rottweilers; animals that wind-scented carrion with their viper tongues.
Their eyes had that same black, bottomless glare. With the huge face, the massive folds of fat and those obsidian eyes, Jackie Merlot was a strange-looking man indeed.
“Doc? Hey, Doc! You okay?”
Realizing that Felix was all but yelling at me, I jumped slightly. I said, “Huh?”
“I asked if you’re all right. You look like somebody just walked over your grave, man.”
I said, “Sorry… wasn’t paying attention. You were asking me something…?”
Felix was giving me a very odd look. “About Tomlinson. Why he ran off like that, left the game.”
I forced myself to look away from the photograph of Jackie Merlot, his massive arm locked around the waist of my dead friend’s wife. “Why Tomlinson did what? Oh! The baseball game. Yeah, he said the feeling was so good, hitting a ball into the gap like that and running, he just didn’t want the feeling to end right away.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. So he kept running. He said he ran clear to the Cape Coral bridge and back. Stretched a double into a ten-K jog.”
“Good Lord.”
“Because in baseball, he said, the good feelings don’t last long enough and the bad feelings, when you screw up, they last way too long. He told me the same with life. So why stop running?”
Felix was quiet for a moment, then he said, “Know what? I used to play baseball back in high school and the man is absolutely right. It’s pretty weird what he did, but, when you think about it, yeah, hit one in the gap and just don’t stop. You think he’s a dope, a real goofball, until you think a little more and then he seems like the smartest guy around. Not normal. No one would say that. But smart.”
I said, “Yeah. I know what you mean.” I was putting the photos, the bank statements back into the envelope. I looked beyond the docks to where No Mas, Tomlinson’s old Morgan sailboat-white hull, green canvas-sat bow-tethered on a strand of anchor line two hundred yards off the channel that led to Woodring’s Point and the mouth of the bay.
Sailboat out there all by itself, fusiform shape on a blue-green plain, mangroves in the background… the water-space where the man had lived for the last nine years.
His new Avon dingy, a bright orange husk, was tied off the stern.
The man was home.
I told Felix I had to go.
I needed to speak with Tomlinson.