But these animals had failed the genetic mandate. They had not survived. I went from one to another, touching, lifting, inspecting. They had been dead for more than a day and not kept on ice. The scales were loose. The eyes milky. Their skin had the withered look of roadkill. On several, I found telltale geometries as if etched in blue, then baked hard: net scars.
I retrieved one of the smaller fish and carried it back to where Garrett waited.
"The marine patrol stops you, Doc, they'll take your boat. Snook are out of season."
"I've got a collector's permit. I'm taking it back to the lab to see if I can find out how it died."
Garrett made a grunt of contempt. "How? Shit, that's not obvious? The two guys in the mullet boat strung their catch wire, then carried up a couple of boxes of illegal fish and dumped them. Let people know who did it; show just how pissed off they are. A lot of sportfishermen live on Useppa. The mullet guys were just saying thanks for the net ban."
I panned the spotlight once more over the rows of carcasses, switched it off, and backed out. Most of the way back to Cabbage Key, we both kept a glum, funereal silence. Then Garrett cleared his throat, said in a soft, musing way, "You know, I voted against the net ban. You believe that?"
I knew a little bit about his background. "You come from a family of commercial fishermen, so it's understandable—"
"Yeah . . . but that's not why. You know what it was? It was those fishing magazines, the way they preached for the ban, but still ran their ads for big engines and lorans and sonar. You know as well as I do, that's what destroyed the offshore fishery. Damn hypocrites. Least they coulda had the balls to admit it. Hell, I do. Anyone who runs a boat is a hypocrite, right?"
He said, "You know what else? Those stupid commercials about the mullet fishermen netting dolphins and turtles and manatees—what bullshit. Nothing but lies. Hell, it was almost funny to people who really knew something about it. But you know what really did the trick?" Garrett paused, thinking about it. I got the impression he was trying to explain it to himself. "What really did it was this guy named Tullock, used to come down to the docks, this state guy, a marine extension agent. He's the one—"
I interrupted. "Raymond Tullock?" It had to be—there weren't that many marine extension agents named Tullock around.
"Yeah. Why, you know him?"
It wasn't so unusual to hear Tullock's name mentioned twice in the same day. Florida's fishing community is large, but intricately connected. Still, I found the coincidence striking. I asked, "Tullock's the one who talked you out of voting for the ban?"
"That officious little prick couldn't talk me into anything. He's the guy that lifted my commercial sticker because I told him I didn't have time to fill out his damn forms. What fish we caught, where we caught them, how much they weighed. He'd come around the end of the month if you didn't mail them. Hell, I about had my boat repossessed because of him. No, Tullock wasn't against the ban. He was for the net ban. He'd say, 'I shouldn't be tellin' you this, but—' Or, 'Don't tell anyone you heard this from me.' I figured whatever Tullock was for, I was against. But now. . . after seeing what we just saw. . . well, sometimes you have to throw out the good to get rid of the bad. Know what I mean? I kind'a regret not voting for the damn thing."
I was beginning to feel the same way.
When we got to Cabbage Key, I asked Garrett to write his name and number in my notebook. I wanted to talk to him when we weren't beer-bleary and sullen, and when it wasn't one o'clock in the morning. I watched him swing cat-footed aboard the Hatteras and disappear into the cabin.
Then, just as I was pulling away, I heard a whoop and a holler, and turned to see chunky, blond Farrah waving at me. She was calling, "Is that your boat? I love that boat," as she hurried along the dock in her tight black dress, moving with the exaggerated self-control of someone who is very drunk. When she was close enough, she slowed to a dignified pace, flashed me a sloppy grin, and reached to steady herself on a piling . . . but missed. Then I watched her grin broaden into a wild leer of surprise as she cartwheeled off the dock into the water.
The gallant thing to do would have been to leap into the water, scoop her up, and carry her to safety. But I am not gallant. I swung the boat to her, and as she came clawing her way up on the casting deck, I held her
motionless until she answered some questions. Did her neck hurt? Any tingling sensation in hands or feet? Drunks have been known to hobble around sprightly while internal bleeding or the leakage of spinal fluid drains the life out of them.
"Damn right I'm tingling, ya big horse. 'Cause I'm freezing. Lemme up!"
She sat groggily. Used her fingers to strip the water from her hair as I tied the boat. I took my bomber jacket off, wrapped it around her, and helped her to her feet. She was weaving badly. I wondered how many more margaritas she'd had after I left.
"You bazzard, you went off and lef' me. Tol' you not to go, but did you listen? Nope, nope, nope, nope." She was wagging her finger under my nose. "Don' lie to me. Do-o-o-on' you lie to Farrah."
I looked around, hoping to see her girlfriends, hoping to see Charlie. But the big Trumpy was quiet at its mooring. I looked up the mound toward the bar: no movement, no music, no noise. The party was over.
"Hey! You know what I wanna do? Less go for a ride in your boat. How 'bout it." She banged her hips against mine. "Scooch over. I'll drive. Don' you worry. You ever hear of the Miss-pippi River? I drove boats all over the Miss-pippi."
It took maybe ten minutes to talk her out of the boat ride. You can't reason with a drunk, you have to barter with them. Yes, I would take her for a boat ride. Yes, I had heard of the Miss-pippi, and yes, she could drive. But first she would have to go back to her cabin and get into some dry clothes.
"We ga' lots of boats in Illinois," she said solemnly, just before I hefted her up onto the dock.
The Trumpy was about a sixty-footer. We entered through the main salon. It smelled of marine varnish and synthetic fiber. There were courtesy lights glowing from behind the mahogany bar. I tried to turn Farrah loose, but she stumbled as she was going down the companionway steps, and insisted that I help her.
Her stateroom was forward, just behind the master stateroom. I looked at the door of the master stateroom, all the brass fittings, and wondered if Charlie was in there with the aloof brunette. If so, I wondered if the aloof brunette had bothered to take off her wedding ring.
"See! Just me, all by myself." Farrah had the door open, a light on. It was a tiny cabin with bunks. There was a collapsible table, a stainless steel washbasin, and a combination shower and head. The layout reminded me of an Amtrak sleeper. I guessed it was designed to be the children's quarters, handy to the master stateroom.
"No, don't you leave! I'm keeping you with me till I get that boat ride." She had me by the hand, trying to pull me into the cabin. Then she stopped suddenly, touched fingers to her forehead, and said in a softer, more articulate voice, "Whew, I feel a little dizzy. Don't go. Please? Not till I feel better."
I sighed, shrugged; stepped into the room. Turned around to pull the door closed, and when I turned back, Farrah was stripping the wet dress over her head . . . found a hanger . . . had to arch her back to reach the simple white pearl necklace she wore . . . placed it on the vanity.
"You mind waiting while I jump in the shower? I'm freezing," she said.
"So I see."
"You do?"
I did. Very clearly. Farrah wore only a transparent nylon bra and blue bikini panties. The wet material clung to her, showing the mounds and pink circles and curling pubic folds of her body. She was not nearly so bulky as the tight dress had made her appear. She held the pose for a moment, grinned, then hip-wagged her way into the tiny head, and closed the door. I took a seat on her bunk; sat there breathing in steamy, fragrant odors, telling myself I should leave . . . wondering why I didn't.