Shark River (21 page)

She was very interested, I could tell by her expression. “This man you talking about. This Mack? A man with brains like that, I bet he’s married.”

“No, but he’s got a very complicated love life. If you’re suggesting . . . if you’re even considering the idea, what I should tell you is, if you want to marry a man with money, choose someone else. Marina people don’t date each other. Not at this marina, anyway. Because of me, or because you’re close to Tomlinson—either one of us—it’s like you’re living here. So drop the idea.”

Staring at me, her nose flared. “Hey, man! Let’s have us a little understanding here, okay? I won’t give you no orders if you don’t try to order me around. How’s that sound? Besides, I ain’t gonna marry no man anyway. If I do, it going to be for the size of his heart, not the size of his wallet.”

She had Tuck’s quick temper, too.

“Sorry,” I said. “That was unfair. I could tell you’re interested in Mack, though. I’m not wrong about that.”

“I’m interested ’cause you think you’re the only one who’d like to be rich? If I give this man a big chunk a’ money, maybe he can make me rich, too.”

Listening to the answering machine, I noted that a Dr. Picking had called from Waldron College in Michigan and wanted to place an order for a hundred medium sea anemones, fifty preserved octopi, and up to two hundred live goose barnacles if I could find them. A pretty good order, because all those things are easy to get in February.

As I wrote the order on a pad, I said to Ransom, “You can ask Mack at the party tonight. What you need to keep in mind, though, it’s like I already told you: Six thousand dollars isn’t a lot of money even if it does exist. Which I doubt. Invest a small amount like that and it’s going to be a long wait until you can consider yourself wealthy.”

“There you go doin’ it again. Speaking mean about Daddy Gatrell. Besides, who knows? Maybe I be able to let this man invest more than just six thousand dollars. Maybe I saved up some big money from my waitressing. I’m a hard worker, man, make no mistake about that. A very hard worker. So, yes, maybe I have more money to invest than you thinkin’, my brother. How about I had... and I’m just throwin’ out a figure here . . . but what if I had, say, seventeen thousand dollars to invest. Or say that seventeen thousand dollars plus another three thousand? Your friend Mack, if he put that money in stocks, how long it take me to have enough money to buy me a nice house on Sanibel plus a pool, maybe? And a car? I want me a nice red car, one that’s got power windows.”

There was something in her tone—a duplicity of meaning—that made me uneasy. A specific figure spoken offhandedly, as if it were invented. The addition of $3,000—half the money she hoped we would find. There was something she wasn’t telling me. The tone was too familiar, and so was the impression of divisiveness.

Where had I heard that tone before?

Why’d I even have to think about it? Tucker Gatrell, that’s where I’d heard it before. Many times before. The same manipulative chord that signaled an unwillingness to trust a lesser human being with his actual plan. She was parroting Tucker’s old trick. Holding back information because knowledge truly is power. Intentionally keeping her own agenda secret, which I found offensive as hell.

I was about to tell her exactly that. But then the final message on my machine caught my interest . . . then it captured my attention. I was surprised to hear the formal, diplomatic voice of Hal Harrington say, “Doctor Ford, I’m afraid I have some distressing news. The Latin gentleman injured on the dock yesterday? I’ve just received a report from a reliable source who’s informed me that a man by the name of Amador Cordero was admitted to All Saints Hospital in Cartagena late yesterday evening. He was brought into the county via private plane, and rushed to the hospital. He was unconscious by the time they got him to the emergency room where it was determined that he had a severe spinal cord injury.

“Cordero is currently on a life-support system. The prognosis is not good. At best, he’ll be a functioning paraplegic. Amador Cordero is the oldest son of Edgar Cordero. I’ve already told you about Edgar, and I can assure you that he is extremely interested in any information relating to you. I suggest you be alert, and be aware. Very alert. Very aware. If I learn anything else, I’ll contact you immediately.” He added, “My best to Mister Tomlinson,” and hung up.

I deleted the message and took the notepad across the room and out the door, Ransom following along, talking behind me. “He referrin’ to the person in the mask you hurt yesterday, that’s what that all about, ain’t it? He telling you it worse than you think, he warning you. Something scary ’bout his voice, too, it so deep. Who
was
that? Maybe you better call the po-lice, my brother. Let them handle it.”

It was an unsettling thing to contemplate a person connected to tubes, being inhalated by a machine, frozen in his own immobile body because of something I’d done. I had to stand there and think about it for a moment. Had to remind myself of Amador Cordero’s behavior, his assault on two innocent women, before I answered, “I’m not calling anybody. Neither are you.”

 

 

By now, she’d followed me through the door into my lab, with its odor of chemicals and alcohol, old wood and ozone from aerators oxygenating the aquariums along the south wall. The aerators made comforting, burbling, Flubber-like sounds. She continued to press me to seek help from the police until I told her knock it off; I wasn’t discussing it anymore. That what I wanted to discuss was her cryptic interest in investing a large sum of money in the stock market.

“You think I’m going to introduce you to Mack? No way. You’re not talking to Mack until you give me the whole story. That figure you mentioned—seventeen thousand dollars? Where’d that come from? You pull a figure like that out of the blue?”

“It just a number that come into my head.”

“Don’t do that to me, Ransom. I’m telling you right now. Tell me everything or I’m not going to waste my time talking with you.”

“Just because I lied for you don’t give you the right to call me a liar.”

“See? That’s exactly the sort of thing you do that really pisses me off. It’s another one of your devices. I know you lied for me, but please don’t try and use it to manufacture guilt. I asked you a simple question.”

“You don’t believe I could make that much money waitressing?”

“On Cat Island? Absolutely not. I’m not stupid. So tell me—if you really do have that much money, where’d you get it?”

Ransom was looking out the window, suddenly not so interested in what I was saying. Heard her say, “Uh-oh!” but very soft, like she didn’t want me to hear.

I looked out the same window to see two large black men, one of them wearing a red, black, and green Rastafarian headnet, the other with dreadlocks matted long and hanging down like a mane. The two of them were walking along the boardwalk toward my house. On their faces were forced expressions of neighborly confidence and familiarity—contrived since they certainly were not my neighbors. One of them used an ebony-handled walking stick. He wasn’t limping. A walking stick in the hands of a healthy man is a weapon, not a cane.

“Do you know those men?”

“What men you talking about?”

I put my hand on the back of her head and forced her to look through the window that her eyes were suddenly now trying to avoid. “
Those
men. Tell me the truth. There’s a reason I’m in a hurry, so don’t screw around.”

The reason was that if the two men had been sent so soon by Edgar Cordero, I needed to open the old locker from beneath my bed and dig out a firearm. I’ve dealt with enough drug people, and more than enough Colombians, to know that if men came all that way to take revenge, they’d fire without hesitating and shoot to kill.

Ransom was frightened. There was no mistaking the involuntary muscular tremor. She said, “Goddamn, man! What them two no-account Jamaican boys doin’ here on this fancy island?”

Yeah, she knew them alright. I said, “Then tell me. Who are they? Why’re they here?”

“That mean man I tell you about, the witch man. Sinclair Benton? He like the Jamaicans ’cause they so smart and they work so hard. Those two, one named Izzy, the bigger man, he named Clare. They worked for Mr. Benton. They at the restaurant that day he call me a cow, the day they all laughed.”

The men were looking at the house now as they walked. Heard one of them call, “Yoohoo, Ransom girl? You got ol’ friends come here to lay the visit on you. You in there, Ransom girl?”

I had her elbow now and gave it a squeeze. “But
why
are they here? Tell me.”

She really was scared now. It was in her voice. “I’m sorry, my brother. If I’d known they’d come this far looking for me, I wouldn’t a done what I did. Them Rastamans, they ain’t supposed to like to
leave
the islands, man. They call a plane an iron bird, like it something bad.”

Before I could ask again, she turned her face to me and said, “Could be, they think I stole something from Sinclair Benton. From his house after the man died. Could be that the reason they come to Florida looking for me.”

I said, “Seventeen thousand dollars? Is that what they think you stole?”

She smiled, her blue eyes looking into mine. “Man, Daddy Gatrell, he were sure right about how smart he say you are. How you know that?”

Outside, the two men were coming up the steps to the top deck. I heard the same voice call, “Come out and see your friends, Ransom girl. Or we come in and see
you
.”

As I went toward the door, she said behind me, nearly whispering now. “And a ring. They maybe think I stole a ring from that bad man, too.”

I looked at the gold ring on her right hand. I’d noticed the ring because of its unusual size but hadn’t taken a close look. “That one?”

She was twisting it off, in a hurry now to slide the ring into her pocket. “Could be,” she said.

 

 

Izzy was the talker, standing there with his big smile, golden stars on front incisors, his dreadlocks matted and waxed like combed wool hanging to the small of his back. Loose blue drawstring pants, white tank top that showed muscles and cordage and veins when he moved his arms, his skin very black except for his palms, which he showed often because he was a showman. He used big hand gestures. The palms of his hands, they were salmon-colored, nearly pink.

Clare stood beside Izzy, a step behind, his silence making him seem bigger, a man who filled his own space and spilled out into the space of everyone else. It was impossible not to be aware of him. He stood there listening in his knit Rasta cap, red, green and black, which was huge on his head, holding all the hair we could not see, Clare with his tiny black eyes set deep beneath his forehead, the frontal plate of his skull wide and very flat, leaning his weight on the ebony-handled walking stick. I noted that the handle was a death’s head, another skull, this one polished bright, jaws thrown open, laughing. Or screaming.

What was Sinclair Benton’s Obeah nickname? Ransom had told me. Mr. Bones.

Izzy said, “So that how we find you, my sister! It not so hard. We know you fly Air Bahamas to Lauderdale, and the Greyhound bus people, they very helpful. And you a girl who like to talk! You talk to the ticket lady, you talk to the bus driver, tellin’ ev’body your plans. What Clare and me, what we don’t understand is, we come all this way to see you, why you not happy to see some your old island friends?”

His speech pattern and delivery were much faster than Ransom’s, his accent a rounder, Jamaican lilt. I heard,
Wha-we dawn unerstan-eeze, we cawm all dese way
. . . as I sat, leaning my hip against the railing, close to the front door of my house. Ransom was standing in front of them, face to face. She’d stepped out to meet them as if dealing with guests from the instant I said, “You fellas have a reason to be here?” preparing to tell them to leave. But Ransom had told me, “I’ll handle this mess,” and left me there to watch and listen.

Now she said, “First thing you should know, Izzy? I ain’t your friend. Man, I careful about who I be calling my friends. And you two ain’t among them.”

It was the second or third time she’d skewered them with a barb. Now, as before, Izzy just laughed, turning to share the fun with an unsmiling Clare. He flicked his hands at Ransom as if to flick the insult away. “Girl, you spirited! That much I always know. Maybe you unhappy because we two island men, we remind you of the old times back at New Bight.” For the first time, he directed his attention to me. “Mister? You maybe not believe it, but this fine-looking woman, she not always so fine-looking! No sir! Back on the island, she used to be what we call a cushion girl. A cushion girl, she someone who easy to lay on the floor and make for very easy pushin’. This girl, my sister Ransom, she had lots and lots of cushion and always ready to get down on the floor with ’bout any ol’ bush boy that come along. Yes, she was!”

I didn’t like the shrill laughter he used as a rim shot to his poor jokes. Didn’t like the condescending way he called me sir, not meaning it, letting me know with his inflection that it was a veil for contempt. To Ransom, I said, “How well you know these two guys?”

She said, “It took me a day to know they both idiots, and took fifteen years to try and find a way to ignore ’em.” I was heartened by her tone, her combativeness. She was right there with me.

I said, “Then I think I’m going to ask your island visitors to leave. This guy—” I swung my chin toward Izzy. “He’s either very stupid, or he’s very rude.”

Clare spoke for the first time, opening his eyes slightly, as if I’d just awakened him. “What you just say, my man? You call my brotheren stupid? Man, that a very stupid thing for
you
to do. You insult my brother, you insult the Lion of Judah, you insult the Holy Piby. Man, you insult
me
.”

Rasta talk? Apparently.