"I don't suppose you know which house was Darroux s?"
Tomlinson was standing beside me at the console, staring. Probably tuning in the vibrations, expecting karma to point to the place. "Don't know," he said. "One of them." He shrugged. "There aren't many."
"Then we'll have to use the commercial docks. I don't want to beach it. The tide's going, we're losing our water."
"Those hills, the shell mounds. Reminds me of Mango." He was talking about a place where an uncle of mine, Tucker Gatrell, lived. "Old Florida, man, with those Indian mounds. They still do farming—smell the cow manure?"
"I smell it. Open that bow hatch and get the lines ready."
The channel into Gumbo Limbo was lined by a bank of limestone— that much I remembered. Miss the cut and you could kill your boat—
maybe even kill yourself—on the rocks. So I used the good water to run in close to shore, then dropped down off plain when I picked up the first wooden stakes that served as markers. The markers led us into a dredged canal, at the mouth of which was a warehouse on pilings. The docks were lined with simple plywood boats that were brush-painted blue or white. Men in jeans and white rubber boots moved around beneath the lights. Someone's radio was blaring. The whine of twangy, achy-breaky music was louder than my outboard. There were commercial scales and a cable hoist mounted on the loading platform. A sign above the warehouse read: Sulphur Wells Fish Company.
As we idled down the channel, men on the dock stopped what they were doing. Put down the crates they were carrying and watched us. Tomlinson smiled, waved—got blank stares in return. Still looking at the workers, he spoke to me out of the corner of his mouth: "These fellas don't seem too friendly. Kind of standoffish."
"That's one way to put it. Standoffish."
"The way they're staring at me."
"I noticed."
"Hey . . . I'm not still wearing that damn sarong, am I?" He had his chin on his chest, inspecting himself.
"Nope."
"That woulda explained it. A sarong would get some funny looks around here. Not as sophisticated like Sanibel."
"What you look like is a soap opera doctor in those scrubs."
"There's a possibility. Maybe they think I'm on TV."
Was he serious? "No, what they're thinking is, we're crazy. Come here in a flats boat at night, enemy territory. And they're right. The smart thing to do would be turn around and head back to Dinkin's Bay. You want to talk to Hannah? Track her down over the phone."
"Let's at least ask somebody first, okay? They probably don't get many visitors. Like country people, not used to dealing with strangers."
We had come to the end of the canal, and I swung into an open area of the dock. "Yeah," I said, "probably just shy," as a couple of men who had been trailing us along the dock caught up.
As the men approached, I called, "You mind if we tie up here for a while?"
They waited until they were above us: both of them tall, one maybe six three, bony-looking. Probably in their mid-twenties, jeans and T-shirts with long arms hanging out, showing their biceps. The taller one was the talker. Had a couple of generations of Georgia piney woods in his voice, and proud of it. He answered, "Tie up? Sure, you boys can tie up. Tie up just long as you like." Which came out: "Show-er, yew boys kin tah up,"; the dialect exaggerated, and with a mock friendliness that Tomlinson took at face value.
"Thanks, man." Tomlinson had the bow line in his hand, already reaching for the galvanized cleat. Then, as he reached up over the dock and took a wrap, the talker—he was wearing a bandanna on his head knotted pirate style—moved with an amused, catlike laziness and used his rubber boot to pin Tomlinson's wrist between the deck and the cleat.
"Uh-h-h—whoops-a-daisy—you're stepping on my hand, man."
"Huh?"
"My hand. You've got your foot on my hand."
The talker turned and looked at his partner blankly. "What the hell this boy talkin' about? He got an imagination in his brain, don't he?"
The partner was laughing—big joke. "That's what he got. 'Bout the only thing, Julie."
I thought: Julie?
Tomlinson gave a yank, trying to get free. "Seriously, man . . . really! You're like cutting off the circulation."
"Naw-w-w. Me?"
"See—there's your boot. That thing under it? My hand. Look for yourself."
Julie lifted his right boot, putting the full weight of his left on Tomlinson's wrist. He peered at the space beneath his right boot, said, "You must be invisible 'cause I don't see a damn thing."
If Tomlinson hadn't already taken a solid wrap around the cleat, I would have backed away. Let Julie decide if he wanted to be pulled into the canal, then pop my skiff up on plane and wash all those net boats into the pilings to thank Sulphur Wells Fish Company for its hospitality. But I couldn't go anywhere because we were already secured to the dock.
When I switched the engine off, the blaring radio became the dominant noise: Redfish ain't ro-o-o-ses to my baby—lyrics that were strangely familiar, but I didn't take the time to try and remember why. I stood there a moment, not saying anything, letting my inactivity draw their attention. When they were both looking at me, I said, "The smart thing to do would be get your foot off him."
"Hoo-wee, a tough boy! You don't mind, I'll stand where I damn well please."
"Just a suggestion."
"You take your suggestions and leave. That's my advice."
"Move your foot, we will."
"You have a mind to do somethin' about it?"
I was shaking my head. "Walk clear up his arm for all I care, I'm not going to help him. Take a look at those clothes he's wearing. Those are hospital clothes. You know why? Because he's sick. The guy's a leper."
Julie made a face, saying, "Huh?" then lifted his foot just as Tomlinson gave a tremendous pull. . . and backpedaled across the bow . . . teetered for a moment, almost caught himself, then sprawled into the water.
I leaned away from the splash, aware that other men were now coming along the dock toward us, hurrying.
"He ain't sick. You serious?" Julie was thinking maybe he'd been duped, but didn't want to show it. I ignored him, waiting for Tomlinson to scull to the surface. Held out a hand to help him vault back aboard as the partner said, "He ain't no leopard, what a bunch'a shit. It ain't a disease anyway. I seen pictures'a leopards."
Heard Julie say, "Mr. smartmouth fuckin' with us. Got his girlfriend all wet!" Laughing, as if that had been his plan all along.
To Tomlinson, I said, "You okay?"
He was wringing out his hair. "Water's kind of refreshing. Cold but nice."
"One of these days, you'll learn to listen to me. See that mob coming?"
He didn't; he was looking at Julie. Wiped water from his eyes and yelled, "Violence covereth the mouth of the wicked, and the name of the wicked shall rot! You hurt my hand on purpose!" As an aside to me, Tomlinson said, "That's from Proverbs, man. When you're pissed off, the Pali just doesn't have the juice."