The Heat Islands: A Doc Ford Novel (13 page)

"She's got like a fifty-foot sailboat she keeps on Long Island. Runs it herself."

"Fifteen meters, which is a little smaller? Yes. A pretty ketch. I may have it transported home now that my people have taken our country back."

Dewey said, "Bets has got like five sisters—six? Yeah, six. A whole crew back there in Romania to take care of it. So if you know any eligible guys. Doc . .

Bets said. "No. no men until I get their teeth straightened." smiling and showing her own teeth, which were capped and hadn't yet lost the brace scars.

Ford was thinking: Walda something-tovski, one of the better known names in world tennis. Walda
Bzan
tovski, only the press had a different nickname for her; he couldn't remember what-not Bets. The only reason he knew was because when the Romanians overthrew dictator Nicolae Ceausescu. he had heard a report about this woman on National Public Radio. About her withdrawing from some major tennis tournament to rush home to join the liberation militia; the interviewer hammering delightedly at the irony of this tennis star who had defected to the United States years before, trading a skirt for the battle fatigues and the side arm she apparently wore during the interview.

He remembered one short portion of the interview, Bzantovski defending the Revolution's street executions of the Seeuritate. members of Ceausescu's seeret police; remembered it because of the weary cast to the woman's voice, as if she had seen some things, maybe done some things. Nothing at all like American celebrities who cloaked themselves in stylish causes with all the theatrical severity of children playing in the attic. Something in that voice had touched him; something in that voice knew how tiny a tennis court really was.

Ford said, "Then we'll all go to Cabbage Key. My friend Tomlinson usually goes, but I think he has a friend visiting."

Walda said, "At night, I would love that. There will be a moon?"

"A nearly full moon in June."

"Hot damn." Dewey turned. "I bet I could squeeze a gallon of sweat out of this T-shirt. You two have something to drink. I'll make it quick." Then she set off toward
the training complex without giving him the brief pat or hug that had become her standard greeting and farewell.

Walda called after her, "And make sure you drink some Gatorade while you are showering! You need to rehydrate."

Counting Candy, the minister, that pig Greta, and himself, only eleven people attended Marvin Rios's funeral, including four civic officials who were so used to brownnosing and ass kissing that the vacuum caused by the death of such a gigantic asshole probably sucked them right to the grave—or maybe so they could make sure the corpse was really Rios. Get it down on the books, make it official, so at the next council meeting they could say. "All those who think the little maggot is actually dead, say aye!"

The best news, though, was the head asshole was there. Senator Robert M. Griffin himself; two flunkies along looking just as bored as the big boss, all of them wearing vests beneath their suit coats, real hotshots in their shiny shoes, glancing at their watches like they resented wasting time on something so unimportant.

Which they probably did.

On the phone, Sutter had said. "Thing is. Senator, unless you make it down to Sanibel so we can have a little chat, I may have to what you call leak the contents of this contract I'm holding to the press. Maybe you can tell them why you and Rios agreed not to file it."

To which the senator had said, "Consult an attorney, Mr. Sutter, and he will explain that the law does not require contracts to be filed. That's a public misconception." Like he had ice in his mouth.

"You and Rios were just such good friends, huh?"

"We were distant business associates. Frankly, my firm handles most of my business dealings. I'm a little busy with my duties in Tallahassee—and I don't like your tone one bit."

"So forget it. Senator. You got nothing to hide from the press, more power to you. Hell, my dad was in politics; I know how things work. But I like a nice business deal, and I'm no Boy Scout, so if you want to discuss things, be at the funeral."

And goddamn if he wasn't there; obviously pissed, but standing right there in the morning heat of the Colonial Palm Cemetery, which was a hell of a shock to Sutter. Making that call to Griffin was like buying a lottery ticket—something that probably wouldn't pay off, but a chance to shit on a big shot just a little bit before the senator said fuck you, bozo, and slammed the phone down. But Christ, the guy was there; probably had to fly down in a private plane from the capitol at Tallahassee or wherever he lived.

A senator obeying my orders!

Sutter knew he was on to something; something really big. But he had to play it just right. Had to let on he knew more than he did. Had to get the senator talking; just sit back like he was in control, maybe let Griffin buy him off. Naw, the big money would be in the deal—whatever the hell the deal was. He had to play it cool, hope the senator would fill him in. And, if he didn't, then go for the buy-off.

Watching the minister drop dirt into the grave, Sutter thought.
Elevator shoes aren't
going to help you now, you midget.

Then he drifted toward the senator when the damn thing ended. Hugged Candy, who had been in a daze since their little party yesterday; was still in a daze, leaning on him for support. Which was good; show Griffin he was part of the family. Ignored Greta 'cause he didn't want to introduce a pig like that as his girlfriend, which she was— but not for long. Left Greta standing over there by herself wearing the dark chemise like a tent over the rolls of fat, that stewed-prune little mouth of hers all set to start yammering about half the tarpon prize money being hers because she'd gone along with the gag. Went right up to Griffin and said, "Maybe we can get together later, discuss some business."

The senator put on his politician's face, smiling, like he was talking to a voter. "We're staying on Captiva, South Seas Plantation. How about you come up for some supper." Giving it a southern twang; the good ol' boy not averse to wheeling and dealing, but keeping it low so not even his two stooges could hear.

"I was thinking more like Cabbage Key. That's a little island just north on the Intracoastal—"

"Buddy rough," the senator cut in, "I've shaken hands and fought and fucked in parts of this state tourists like you never even heard about yet. I'm fourth-generation Cracker; you don't need to give me directions any place, especially Cabbage Key." Twitching a little bit, angry, with a crazy look in his eyes, like he might lean over and take a bite out of him.

Sutter stepped back a little. "That's what we'll do then, tonight. Only don't bring your two friends. This has got to be what you call private."

Griffin said, "You're the one with all the mouth, Sutter.
You
keep that in mind." And walked off.

Sitting in the bar at Cabbage Key, Dewey had said, "Radical. I love this place. Like an old English movie, or a Bogart flick with all the ceiling fans."

Walda had stared at the wallpaper—thousands of one-dollar bills. She had said, "Except we're in America," as if nowhere else could you find wallpaper like this.

Ford was hoping the two of them wouldn't sit there talking, requiring his attention all through the game. He got the chance to watch baseball only once a week, and tonight was the night. Royals at Boston; an evening of classic left-handed hitters.

Dewey was saying, "Our own little island, and not a damn tennis court to be seen."

Meaning Cabbage Key, named for cabbage palms: a hundred acres of sand and mangrove upon which prehistoric Indians, the Calusa, built high shell mounds—the Florida equivalent of Central America's Mayan temples. Back in the 1930s, when the island was known as Palmetto Key, wealthy New Yorkers commissioned a large house to be constructed on the highest mound, among the poinciana trees and gumbo limbos. A winter estate, it was called in those days, built of hardwood and white clapboard, with guest rooms, a library, a dining room, and its own generator, because there was no electricity. Now the estate was a laid-back inn and restaurant where boaters and fishermen could sit on the shaded porch, or climb the wooden water tower and look out across the island to the other islands in Pine Island Sound. The place had an oasis feel to it, sitting out there all by itself, like it could have been Abaco or Tangiers or Caicos, soaking up the sun through the decades while travelers tromped up the shell path to the old house on the mound.

Now Dewey was up mingling, and Ford was sitting with Walda at a table in the little bar. He didn't think of her as "Bets." The nickname just didn't fit, looking at those dark eyes, set deep, like peering out from a cave, and the long jaw; a plain-looking woman of about thirty who fit nicely into the worn Levi's and the expensive Egyptian cotton safari shirt, as if she were still in uniform but for the rings and the heavy gold charm bracelet.

She said, "Then call me Walda," pronouncing it VAUL-dah, with a very soft
V.

Ford said, "Okay, Walda." trying it out.

"But not Wally or Waldo. Not Wallaby, either—some reporter used that in Sydney. The Australian Open."

"Right. Walda."

Beyond, through the porch screen, there was moonlight on the trees and Pine Island Sound showed through the leaves in smooth portions of glazed silver—wedges of water that seemed to rock randomly, gently, as the tree limbs stirred, so that being in the bar was a little bit like being on a ship.

It was darker in the bar. Ceiling fans and muted light. Noisier, though only a few people still sat over stone-crab claws and steaks out on the back porch; two more couples at tables, eating the house dessert, key lime pie with whipped cream. A couple more men on stools at the bar. Old paintings and fiberglass fish on the walls, the walls all papered with curling dollar bills—something visitors did here, signed dollars and taped them up. That had impressed Walda. Thousands of dollars on the walls, on the ceiling, peeling off like elm bark, giving the bar a tree-house feel.

"The wallpaper of capitalism," Walda said.

Ford smiled and nodded, trying to watch the game.

"And that fish. It must have weighed a hundred pounds!" Meaning the tarpon mounted on the wall. The tarpon was nearly seven feet long, and the taxidermist had reproduced the mirror silver scales nicely, had done a good job with the huge end-loader jaw and the horse-size eyes. But he had painted the fish's back an iridescent blue-black that didn't do justice to the parallel striations of blue seen on a living fish.

Ford said, "That one weighed nearly two hundred pounds, a tarpon. It's a big one, but they get bigger. Supposedly more than three hundred pounds."

"Is that one of the fish you study? Dewey said that's what you do."

"It's my main interest now. Tarpon, I mean."

"And you're not sure how big the fish gets? It seems you should know that." Smiling slightly, Walda was watching for his reaction.

For the first time. Ford's attention wandered from the baseball game. "I know almost nothing about the fish. No one does. The tarpon is one of the most important game fish in the world, but its life history is a mystery." He looked at Walda to see if she was interested, and she seemed to be. He continued, "Every spring, tarpon migrate from somewhere offshore into the estuaries—shallow water. They come here by the thousands; you can see them rolling on the surface. Everyone assumed it was a spawning migration, but no fertilized tarpon eggs have ever been found in shallow water. They've been found forty miles offshore and farther, but never in shallow water. So that's what I'm doing now. Seining shallow water for fertilized eggs and larvae. It's been done before, but never on an extended basis. The shallow-water-spawning theory hasn't been conclusively eliminated, and that's what I'm doing. Looking for larvae."

"Netting tarpon eggs, hoping not to find any that have been fertilized." She smiled, amused, but following right along.

"Why would I have any hopes one way or the other? It's research."

"But it's something you like."

"Sure. That one unknown presents a number of interesting problems. Why do tarpon make a yearly migration? Why do they gather in groups of mature fish and swim in slow circles if it's not a mating ritual? Fishermen call it 'daisy chaining.' If they do spawn offshore, why are immature fish sometimes found fifty miles up tidal creeks in fresh water? Where offshore do they come from? Do they cross oceans, do they travel coastlines, or do they just go out to deep water and stay there until the next spring? Opens all kinds of doors. Things no one knows."

"I meant you like the fish." She was looking at the tarpon on the wall again.

"Yeah. Tarpon're interesting. They're prehistoric. Their air bladder acts more like a lung so they can breathe surface air. They're pure muscle; one of the strongest animals on earth. And to humans, they're a mystery." Walda Bzantovski was leaning on the table, her tan, plain face not looking so plain anymore, gathering character and a certain sexuality from the way her brown eyes held him.

"Then I like the tarpon, too. I want you to take me to see one. This week, before I have to leave. If Dewey can't go, that's okay."

Ford was looking back at her, thinking:
Yeah. I'd like that.
Ford turned his eyes back to Boston and Kansas City playing baseball on television. He said, "We'll see."

Walda was saying look how Dewey found friends no matter where she went, causing Ford's eyes to leave the television once more and find Dewey. She was over by the fireplace playing darts with three men Ford didn't know, probably with the group of D.C. bankers who, according to Terry, the dockmaster, had come down to fish Boca Grande Pass.

Ford had heard one of the dart players on the bar telephone earlier, his voice harried, apparently still trying to arrange for charter boats and transportation to the island for late arrivals, finally yelling into the phone before slamming it down: "Look. Ms. Bittinger, I've got a lot of important men to please. We need boats, we need guides, we need entertainment—we're short everything down here! So if it floats, flics, or fucks—lease it!"