Tropical Depression (12 page)

By the time he appeared topsides, a small delegation of the media was assembling. A truck topped with a satellite dish had parked at the foot of the Toxic Triangle pier. Vans painted with radio call letters were scattered here and there. Young men with bandannas tied around their heads were hefting cameras, TV correspondents were having their noses powdered against the morning glare. A reporter from the
Herald
read the paper and ate a bagel. A representative of Key West's own daily, the
Sentinel
, came clattering up on a rusted blue bike.

Tommy looked at the gathering press and got the beginnings of a stomachache. He walked discreetly to the far end of the dock and peed in the ocean.

Producers milled, framed angles with their hands. Microphone booms swung overhead like cranes. Finally a woman with a pencil behind her ear positioned Tommy and the senator in front of the half-sunk houseboat.

As cameras rolled and pencils scratched at notebooks, Barney LaRue announced the recognition of the Matalatchee nation, then delivered a brief homily on the American traditions of fair play, of honoring agreements, of seeing justice done. He introduced Tommy Tarpon, "the last survivor, a tribe of one, a man who had nothing but his pride, his dignity, and his unshakable faith that America would in fact do right by him."

It is a rare thing to see an Indian blush, but Tommy's face was now as red and blank as a slab of fresh-caught tuna. His hands clenched and unclenched, he was sweating inside his chamois vest. Dead airtime accumulated and he uttered not a word.

"I guess we're ready for questions," said LaRue.

"Senator," said a correspondent for a local cable station, "if I understand correctly, tribal recognition is a federal matter. How can you be sure the state won't challenge the decision, as it has in other instances?"

The politician smiled benignly, stroked his red silk tie. "This is where high ideals and practical politics meet. Later this morning, a bill will reach the governor's desk. It deals with water rights for citrus growers, and the governor will certainly sign it. As a rider on that bill, there's a provision saying that the state will not contest any federal grants dealing with ten acres or less of offshore land."

"Of course," LaRue said gravely. "There'll be a signing at the courthouse, Thursday afternoon." Less gravely, he said, "Cocktails after."

"Question for Mr. Tarpon," said the woman from the
Herald
. "Will you live on the island? Lease it out? Are you planning, perhaps, to bring gambling to the Keys?"

Tommy shifted from foot to foot, sweat squished in his sandals. "I live here," he said. He pointed to the half-sunk boat and there was defiance in the gesture. "As far as gambling goes—"

"No plans have been made in that direction," LaRue interrupted. "Any other questions?"

The reporter from the
Sentinel
sidled a foot or two away from the group. He was a gangly fellow with frizzy brown hair, resolutely casual in khaki shorts. He held a ninety-nine-cent spiral notebook and a chewed-on plastic pen. "Senator," he said, "your positions on minority issues are well-known. In 1990, you voted against more funding for inner-city schools and day care. In 1992, you introduced a bill seeking to curtail Seminole rights to sell tax-free cigarettes. Why are you suddenly this man's champion?"

LaRue shot his questioner a look like a gob of spit, but by the time he spoke the wallpaper smile had returned. "This is hardly the place to discuss my past voting record, though I assure you I had solid reasons for every position I took. Suffice it to say this man's case is different."

"That's what I'm asking," pressed the
Sentinel
reporter. "What's different about it?"

The senator squinted at the journalist, but the journalist's gaze had now been captured by the eyes of Tommy Tarpon. The two skeptical men shared a glance, traded something wordless, like ants do when they touch antennas. Overhead, gulls wheeled and cackled, from the weeds came the idiot complaining of a chicken.

Barney LaRue cleared his throat, cranked his smile one notch wider. "Thank you all for being here," he said.

The reporters dispersed, LaRue slipped away.

Tommy jumped onto his bicycle, unburdened lately with its cart of shells, and rode as fast as he could ride. Trees blurred, cats dodged from his path as he headed through Old Town and around the cemetery toward the Paradiso condo.

It happened that Murray was having a crisis of his own that morning. He'd turned his Prozac bottle over, and the last two capsules landed in his palm. This should not have surprised him, but it did; like a drunk who can't believe his glass is so soon empty, he suspected some subterfuge or a glitch in the laws of nature. He put the vial to his eye, shook the air inside it. He ate the green and cream-colored capsules and started pacing.

Now he dove onto the sofa with the nautical stripe and called Max Lowenstein.

"Murray," the shrink scolded, "you don't think I keep records? You shouldn't be out for another month. You been upping the dosage, Murray?"

"Well, I, uh, sometimes—"

"Murray, let me ask you something. If a cardiologist prescribed a pill for your heart—"

"I see what you're saying. But come on, I know how I feel."

"That," said the psychiatrist, "Is open to debate. But okay, how do you feel?"

"Great, Max, I feel terrific."

"Then why more pills?"

"I dunno. Security blanket. I'm a nut, Max. Who knows that better than you?"

The intercom buzzed, Murray jumped at the unaccustomed sound. He excused himself to answer it, pushed the button, asked who was there. When he heard it was Tommy, he rang him in, left the apartment door open, went back to the phone.

In his absence, Lowenstein's qualms had deepened. "I'm really not so comfortable," he said, "prescribing for a patient I've had so little recent contact with."

"I understand, Max," said Murray, his cajoling tone edging over into pleading. "But really—"

"What have you been doing with yourself?"

"Fishing. I went fishing like we talked about."

"Good."

"It was good, Max. The electric thing, it was a really good idea."

"Don't flatter me to get your pills. Go on."

"Well, I went fishing and I met an Indian and we're friends and we're going into the casino business."

"
Oy
."

"What's with this
oy
bullshit again? I tell you all good things, you tell me
oy
."

Just then Tommy knocked softly on the open door, stepped into the apartment Murray didn't really see his friend's flushed skin and clenched expression; he just pointed to the phone in case the Indian didn't notice it was glued against his ear.

"The casino business with a bunch of Indians," Max Lowenstein was saying. "I'm sorry, but to me, this sounds bizarre, grandiose, maybe clinically manic."

"It's a new challenge," said the Bra King, his pleading now thinning out to desperation. "Besides, it isn't a bunch of Indians, it's one Indian. He's a tribe. The last of a tribe. Here, he just came in. Say hello."

"I don't want to say hello."

But Murray had decided this would be a good idea; if Max heard what a sane calm person Tommy was, he'd come across with the prescription. "Wait, I'm putting him on."

"Murray," said the shrink, "this is totally inappropri—"

The Bra King didn't hear him, he was thrusting the receiver in Tommy's face. "This is my shrink. Tell him everything's okay."

Lowenstein's voice squawked faintly, told Murray to get back on the line. A telephone voice a foot away always sounds like it belongs to a midget.

The baffled Indian took the instrument, said softly, "This is Tommy."

"Tommy, hello. Please put Murray—"

"I just want you to know that Murray and I are partners and everything's fine. He calls me
bubbala
."

Murray was pacing. Tommy handed him the phone, he took it on the fly, like a runner in a relay race. "There Max, ya see?"

Max didn't see. "Murray, allow me to lapse into the vernacular. This whole thing sounds crazy."

Murray stopped short on the carpet, yearning for his pills. He thought of a new approach. This was not conniving. But people learn what works, which words and actions will be approved by whom; and sometimes, in people of goodwill, this learning deepens, becomes not just a stance but a new conviction, and through it, a person has been changed. Murray remembered what had worked with Franny.

"Max," he said, in a voice full of affronted virtue. "I wanna help this guy. This makes me crazy? He's got one chance to really beat the odds. I've gotta keep my pecker up to help him."

Lowenstein was quiet for another moment, then he muttered, "Altruism as a side effect. Live and learn."

"Did I say altruism? I said this guy's my friend."

"Okay, Murray, okay," said the psychiatrist. "I'm not sure I should be doing this, but I'll FedEx down a new prescription. Don't take more than I tell you to take."

Murray punched the air triumphantly, winked at Tommy. He gave Max the address. And he didn't promise about the dosage.

*****

Serene now, imagining the reassuring slide of capsules down his gullet, the Bra King sat down on the sofa, said to Tommy, "And how are you?"

The Indian took his turn at pacing. "Fucking pissed," he said. "Fucking humiliated."

The Bra King was surprised, focused finally on Tommy's tortured countenance. "And you waited all this time to tell me?"

"Fucking hypocrite comes to my boat—"

"What hypocrite?"

"LaRue," said Tommy, like it was perfectly obvious. "Scumbag wakes me up, says dress up like an Indian. Me, I'm too confused, groggy, I don't have the balls to tell 'im stick it up your ass, like a fucking circus dog I do it."

"I don't get it," Murray said.

Tommy trenched the carpet, veins stood out in his neck and a steely gleam came through the russet of his forehead. "Tells me there's a press conference. Stands me up in front of cameras, a buncha jerkoff journalists—"

"Why?"

Like a linebacker, Murray put himself in Tommy's path, grabbed him by his taut broad shoulders. "Recognized!" he said again. "Tommy, that's great. You won, man. You're a tribe, you got your island."

"I shoulda told him—"

The Bra King shook him. "Forget that bullshit, Tommy. You won. You're sovereign. That's the last time they can fuck with you."

It finally seemed to get through to Tommy. The tension went out of his arms, Murray felt his shoulders drop. He took a deep breath, looked down at his feet. He traced a dreamy little circle around the living room, through stripes of sunshine and stripes of shade, then he sat crosslegged on the carpet. His face was tilted downward, he lifted nothing but his eyes to glance briefly through a thicket of brows at Murray. He looked away, bit his lower lip, began to cry. Big tears collected at the corners of his downturned eyes, they swelled and then burst suddenly, staining his cheeks like the beginnings of rain on brick. For a moment there was no sound, just this tearing that was silent as a seeping sponge, then he gave a short whimper followed by an extravagant, razzing sniffle, which was followed in turn by a choked and giddy laugh whose catharsis started with the sinuses.

"Fuckin' A right," he said when he could talk. "We won, Murray! I never in a million years thought those fuckers would give it to me, I never believed it for a second ... And LaRue, this horse's ass, he's up there talking about my unshakable faith. Douchebag!... Jesus, I'm exhausted, Murray. I am just wrung out."

He blew his nose then sat there limp, his wet eyes puffy and ecstatic.

Murray said, "What say we have a bottle of champagne?"

*****

They went downtown, drank bubbly in the hot sun on empty stomachs. When the first bottle was gone it was getting on toward other people's lunchtimes. Trays of food went by and made them hungry. They ordered some, with another bottle to wash it down. By this time the day was seeming improbably long, and Murray, wobbly on his shiny bicycle, went back to the penthouse for a nap.

He fumbled around the empty apartment, wandered aimlessly from room to room as he shed his clothes. Finally he drew the bedroom curtains against the bright and blaming daylight, and he tumbled into bed.

"It's two o'clock, Murray. You becoming a lush down there or what?"

"Little celebration," the Bra King slurred. "Tommy got recognized. The Matalatchee are a tribe."

"That's nice, Murray. Murray, listen, I have the women from the book club here. It's not a good—"

"I thought you'd be more interested," Murray whined. "Activist and all that."

"I am interested," she said, but from the way she said it, Murray could picture her leaning away, ill at ease, looking through a doorway to make sure her guests were comfortable without her.

"The book club ladies—they there right now?"

Franny sounded exasperated. "They're in the garden."

"Good. I wanna proposition you."

"For God's sake, Murray."