Night Vision (2 page)

“One by one,” Tomlinson replied, “whole villages migrate to the States. You know that. They watch television at some jungle
tienda
. They see the fancy cars, the nice clothes. Meantime, they don’t even have enough pesos to buy tortillas and beans. All the volcanic eruptions and mudslides the last few years in Guatemala, how do you deal with something like that? The coffee crop has gone to hell, too. Another revolution is brewing, and there’s no work. What would you do if you lived there, and had a family to feed? That’s what I meant when I said a person’s luck—good or bad—begins with where they’re born. Are you even listening to me?”

An instant later, the man’s attention wandered, and he said, “Holy cripes, another Walgreens. If they keep piling up the concrete, building more condos, this whole damn peninsula is gonna sink. Just like Atlantis. It could happen.”

I downshifted for a stoplight, and I turned and looked at Tomlinson, the odor of patchouli and his freshly opened beer not as penetrating as the magenta surfer’s shirt he wore. “Not listening, huh? The girl is thirteen-year-old Tula Choimha from a mountain village northeast of Guatemala City, not far from the Mayan pyramids of Tikal. Did I pronounce her last name right?”

“Choom-HA,” Tomlinson corrected, giving it an Asiatic inflection, which is not uncommon in the
Quiché
Mayan language. He spelled the name, then added, “Does it sound familiar? It should. Choimha is mentioned in
The Popol Vuh
. She’s the goddess of falling water.”

He was referring to a book of Mayan mythology, one of the few written records to survive the religious atrocities of the Conquistadors.

I thought,
Oh boy, here we go,
but I pressed ahead, saying, “Tula just turned thirteen, you told me. Her mother’s first name is something unpronounceable, so she goes by Mary. Or Maria. Tula arrived in Florida about eight days ago, and you met her—you
said
you met her—by coincidence at a trailer park the owners are trying to condemn so they can build condos. She lives with five other people in a single-wide.”

“Meeting her wasn’t coincidental. I would never say coincidental, because I don’t believe in—”

I interrupted again. “But you didn’t tell me the whole truth, did you? You didn’t say that, about once a month, you cruise the immigrant neighborhoods, buying grass or fresh peyote buttons. The illegals smuggle in peyote from Mexico because it’s safer than carrying cash they probably don’t have in the first place. You used to drive your VW, but lately you’ve been taking your electric bike.
What?
You think it makes what you’re doing less obvious? Just the opposite, pal.”

I waited, glancing at the rearview mirror until I saw the man’s smile of concession, before I added, “See? I
was
listening.”

Tomlinson disappeared into his own brain as I drove west, his right hand still surfing the wind, his left fist cupping a can of Modelo.
Disappeared
is a fitting description. Tomlinson has spent so many nights alone, at sea, he says, that he has constructed the equivalent of cerebral theme parks in his head for entertainment. Books, religion, music, whole communal villages populated, presumably, with Jimi Hendrix and Hunter S. Thompson types. All probably landscaped with cannabis sculptures trimmed to resemble objects and creatures that I preferred not to imagine.

Tomlinson is a strange one, but a good one. His perception of reality has, over the years, been so consistently tinted by chemicals that, my guess is, he has reshaped reality into his own likeness. And it is probably a kinder, brighter reality than the one in which most of us function.

Tomlinson is among the most decent men I know—if you don’t count sexual misconduct, which I am trying to learn not to do. He’s brilliant and original, something I can say only about a handful of people, and I count him among my most trusted friends—again, his behavior with women excluded. He had come into my little marine lab earlier that day asking for help. And when a friend asks for help, you say yes and save the questions for later.

It was later. Almost ten p.m., according to the Chronofighter dive watch on my left wrist. March is peak tourist season in Southwest Florida, so beach traffic was heavy, both lanes a bumper-car jumble of out-of-state license plates punctuated by roaring packs of Harleys.

After several minutes of silence, Tomlinson’s attention swooped back into the cab of my truck, and he said, “This place we’re going on San Carlos Island, the trailer park’s named Red Citrus. It’s not far from the shrimp docks. And, lately, it’s become a bitch of a dark space, man. I should have warned you before we started.”

I said, “The shrimp docks? That sounds close to your new restaurant.”

Tomlinson, the hippie entrepreneur, had opened a rum bar and grille on Sanibel, and another at Fisherman’s Wharf, near the shrimp yards, bayside, Fort Myers Beach. I was one of the investors, as was my cousin, Ransom, who also managed both places, along with her two boyfriends, Raynauld Bentley, a Cajun, and Big Dan Howes. So far, Tomlinson’s business acumen had showed no damage from his years of chemical abuse, so it had been a wise thing to do.

It was one of life’s amusing ironies. Tomlinson, who claims to have no interest in money or possessions, is gradually becoming wealthy, boosted along, perhaps, by his own fearless indifference to failure. I, on the other hand, remain steadfastly middle class
because
of my indifference—not counting a cache of small, valuable treasures I have acquired over the years.

Jade carvings and amulets. Spanish coins of gold and silver. All will remain faithfully hidden away, barring an emergency.

“The trailer park’s on the same side of the bay,” he replied, “but a couple miles farther east. That’s why I used to like cruising Red Citrus, it was close enough. I could moor my boat near the bar and use my electric bike. In the last year or so, though, the whole vibe of the place has changed. The aura, it’s smoky and gray now like a peat fire. It’s the sort of place that consumes people’s lives.”

I replied, “Isn’t that a tad dramatic?”

He asked, “You ever lived in a backwater trailer park? You’ve spent enough time in the banana republics to be
simpatico
with the immigrants who live there—that’s one of the reasons I asked you to come along. People in that park work their asses off, man, six or seven days a week, picking citrus or doing construction or busing tables at some restaurant. Then they wire half the money—more sometimes—back to their families in Nicaragua or El Salvador or the mountain regions of Mexico. Hell, you know the places I’m talking about, man. These people are always fighting just to survive. That’s why the girl deserves our help.”

It was true, I am
simpatico
. “These people” included illegals on the run, as well as the “shadow illegals,” men and women with green cards and work permits—sometimes forged, sometimes not. They live peacefully and work hard in this country, unlike the drugfueled minority that gives the rest of them a bad name.

I knew “these people” well because I spent years working in Central and South America before returning to Florida, where I opened a small research and marine specimen business, Sanibel Biological Supply.

The illegals of Central America and Mexico are, in my experience, a gifted people. Strong, tough, smart and family-oriented. All the components required of a successful primate society.

However,
simpatico
or not, I am also pragmatist enough to understand what too many Tomlinson types fail to perceive or admit. In a world made orderly by boundaries, an unregulated flow of aliens into any nation makes a mockery of immigration law. Why wait in line, why respect legal mandates, if cheaters are instantly rewarded with a lawful citizen’s benefits?

It is also true, however (as I have admitted to Tomlinson), there is a Darwinian component that must be considered. People who are sufficiently brave, shrewd and tough enough to survive a dangerous border crossing demonstrate qualities by virtue of their success that make them an asset at any country, not a liability.

Long ago, though, I learned I cannot discuss such matters with anyone who is absolutely certain of their political righteousness. So, instead, I listened.

“The undocumented workers have it tough, man,” Tomlinson said, as he stared out the window. “They’ve got to watch their asses from every direction. The only thing they’re more afraid of than the feds are their own landlords. Say the wrong word, don’t jump when the boss man says jump, all it takes is one vicious phone call. And the dude who runs the trailer park is about as vicious as they come. He’s a bodybuilder. A great big bundle of steroid rage, full of grits and ya’lls and redneck bullshit.”

I baited my pal, saying, “You’re the expert on better living through chemistry,” as I slowed and studied the road ahead. We had crossed the small bridge onto San Carlos Island. I could see the pterodactyl scaffolding of shrimp boats moored side by side, floating on a petroleum sheen of black water and Van Gogh lights.

On my right were fish markets and charter boats. To my left, a jumble of signage competing for low-budget attention.

As Tomlinson told me, “Just past the gravel drive, take the next left,” I spotted a faded wooden sign that read:

“A vacancy in March?” I said, slowing to turn. “That tells me something. It’s got to be the only place around with a vacancy this time of year.”

Sitting up, paying attention now, Tomlinson said, “Doc, I left out a couple of important details. One is that Tula—she’s a thought-shaper.”

I shot him a look.

“Of course, to a degree, we all have the ability to shape people’s thoughts. This girl, though, has powers beyond anything I’ve ever witnessed.”

Thought-shaper.
It was another of Tomlinson’s wistful, mystic fantasies, and I knew better than to pursue it.

“The second is: People at Red Citrus call her
Tulo
. So just sort of play along, okay?”

I said, “The masculine form?”

“You know how damn dangerous it is for a girl to cross Mexico into the States. Tula wants people to think she’s a boy. She’s a thought-shaper, remember? And the young ones, the adolescent kids from Central America, have more to fear than most.”

I turned, shifted into first and proceeded beneath coconut palms and pines, weaving our way through rows of aluminum cartons that constitute home for many of the one million illegals in the Sunshine State.

When my truck’s lights flushed a couple of peacocks, I wasn’t surprised. Exotic fowl are common in the low-rent enclaves where migrant workers have adapted to living under the radar. They depend on exotic birds, not dogs, to sound a private alarm when outsiders arrive.

The cry of a peacock is high-pitched. It is a siren whine that morphs into a series of honks and whistles. That’s what I thought I was hearing as I parked the truck and stepped out into the summer-cool night.

It was a cry so piercing that I paused, ears alert, before turning to Tomlinson, who was visible in the glow of a security light as he pushed the truck’s door closed. His hair was tied back with a red bandanna, which he was retying as we exchanged looks.

The scream warbled . . . paused for a breath . . . then ascended. As if reading my mind, Tomlinson said, “That’s not a bird! It’s a person—a man, I think!” and then he sprinted toward the source of the sound.

I hesitated, reached behind the seat, then went running after him, struggling to slide a palm-sized Kahr semiautomatic pistol into the pocket of my jeans.

A FEW MINUTES BEFORE THIRTEEN-YEAR-OLD TULA CHOIMHA
heard the screams for help, a huge man with muscles pushed through the trailer door, stepped into the bathroom, then stood for a moment, grinning at what he saw.

The man finally said, “Hah! I knew you was a girl! By God, I knew it the first time I saw your skinny little ass from behind! It was the way you walked.”

He paused to stare, then added, “Fresh little peaches up top. Nothin’ but peach fuzz down below.”

Tula, sitting naked in the bathtub, looked where the man was looking, hoping, as always, to find a miracle. But there was only her own flat body to see.

The girl recognized the man. He was the
propietario
of this trailer park, maybe the owner, too. The man scared her. But the man’s wife—or girlfriend, maybe—a woman with muscles and an evil face, scared her more.

Automatically, Tula used her hands to cover herself. But then she took her hands away.

The man had fog in his eyes—most people did—and Tula decided it was safer to be still, like a mirror, rather than behave like a frightened vessel that could be taken by force, then filled.

The man, whose name was Harris Squires, looked at her strangely for a moment. It was almost as if he recognized her face and was thinking back, trying to remember. Then he tilted his head and sniffed twice, nostrils searching. He was a man so large that he filled the bathroom space, his nose almost touching the low ceiling. Squires’s nose was flat and wide, like a gorilla’s, but he was the palest man Tula had ever seen. A man so white that his skin looked translucent, blue veins snaking out from beneath his muscle T-shirt and tight jeans.

“Know how else I knew you was a girl?” he asked. “I could
smell
you, darlin’. Man-oh-man”—his grin broadened, showing teeth so even that it was as if they had been filed—“I can wind-scent a virgin from seven counties away. What’s the word for virgin in Spanish?”

Harris Squires didn’t speak Spanish, although he’d learned a few phrases. But his girlfriend, Francisca Manchon—Frankie—spoke bits and pieces of it. She had taught him some things to say. Frankie called male Mexicans
chilies
, or greasers. Women were
chulas
. Harris didn’t understand what the last term actually meant, but he guessed it wasn’t very nice, knowing Frankie.