“We can have separate lives, Ford. We’ll be like secret partners.”
The voice of a woman I’d liked and admired, Hannah Smith. Maybe even loved, though I’ve never settled on a comfortable definition for that overused word. I stood at the wheel, imagining the sound and shape of her, feeling nostalgic…
Irritated, I caught myself. There’s a long list of self-indulgent emotions, and nostalgia is as pointless as—
“Doc! Get over here.”
Jeth’s voice.
Startled, I refocused.
Now what?
Tomlinson’s confrontation was no longer amusing. There was Jeth, striding up behind the hard hats, giving the situation some gravity because of his size. Arriving at the same time was Augie Heller’s group, the oversized boss man already elbowing his way in. Nearby was the security truck, doors open, two men keeping an eye on things from striking distance. The tallest of them wore a cowboy hat. White straw.
“Doc?”
Jeth called again as I watched Tomlinson step toward the marina manager. He was overexcited, and moved too far into the big man’s space, bumping him accidentally. Immediately, though, he declared a truce with his hands, eager to talk.
That’s not the way the owner read it. He stepped aside as if dodging a bull, dwarfing Tomlinson. Then he reached and caught Tomlinson’s hair in his fist. He did a competent trip-step, and jerked my friend’s head backward as his knees hit the ground. The man yanked hard a couple more times to demonstrate his control, Tomlinson’s neck snapping puppetlike.
“Doc!”
I leaned on the throttle, throwing a geyser of muddy water astern, hull shuddering as my boat plowed shoreward. Before the Maverick grounded itself, I bailed into water calf-deep, and ran…
6
The hard hats had formed a screen to keep Jeth back. Nearby, men from the security truck were stirring. Jeth was their main concern…until they spotted me coming.
I ran into the clearing where there were mounds of gravel and survey stakes all around, slipping my glasses into my shorts, my eyes adjusting to a world that blurred, the security guys watching.
I was near enough to hear: “All I wanted to do was talk, man! My buddy owns the damn boat, so what’s the big deal?”
Tomlinson was yelling, not pleading, but pain inserted exclamation points. The manager was hurting him.
“Let go…you are really blowing your cool, man. That’s not hair. You’re pulling my flag, man!”
The manager telling him, “You come charging at me, what do you expect?” Smiling as he talked. The accent was Minnesota or Wisconsin, only a generation or two removed from migration.
As I sprinted, the hard hats turned from Jeth to me, realizing that they’d have to intercept. Nervous men sometimes use body language to anchor an alibi. These guys were already telegraphing excuses: This wasn’t their fight. For the money they were making?
It gave them a reason to get out of my way.
I slowed to a walk. “Let him up,” I told the big man. “Get your hands off him.”
Augie pointed. “He’s the one I told you about, Uncle Bern. With the big mouth. I’d be happy to shut it, if you want.”
Showing off his tough-guy attitude for the uncle who was also his boss.
Augie and Uncle Bern, a pair.
Near us, an engine started, and the security truck spun away toward the marina entrance, Oswald now inside beside the driver. An emergency of some sort, judging from the warble of sirens in the distance. And getting louder.
The man with the white cowboy hat had stayed behind. He was putting the hat on now, ducking his head into it like he’d maybe seen rodeo riders do. Showing forearms that were colored with script and decorations, a guy who was no stranger to passing out in tattoo parlors.
“Mr. Heller? This is important.” His tone was urgent.
The owner still had his fingers knotted in Tomlinson’s hair, but he shifted his attention to cowboy.
“The fella who said he’d be back with a gun? The front gate just radioed—they spotted his truck parked down the road. The cops are on their way.”
That got the big man’s attention. He straightened, holding Tomlinson’s head off the ground like a trophy. “Just the truck or did they see him?”
Behind me, one of the hard hats said, “If you’re talking about Javier Castillo, he was just here. We caught him and the hippie moving the boat.”
“Javier’s got a gun?” Jeth looked unconvinced but concerned.
The owner spoke to Tomlinson, but he was studying me. “What were you doing, helping him steal our boat? You fellas don’t care what you steal, huh?”
Meaning the contents of the bucket.
Uncle Bern was evaluating. Apparently, he decided that I was the threat so he shook his hand free of Tomlinson’s hair and stepped in my direction. He glanced at his nephew, who was approaching from the right. “I’ll take care of this, Augie. But stick close. Moe?”
Cowboy hat, who was edging closer, stopped.
“The same goes for you. We don’t want the Cuban’s friends getting in the way.”
What the hell did that mean?
Moe understood, though. He touched a finger to the brim of his hat.
I stopped an arm’s length away, looking up at the man’s box-shaped face, his fake smile, the jaw muscles flexing as he said, “I hope you’re not thinking of doing something stupid, Mr….?”
“His name’s Ford. Doctor Ford, according to Stuttering Jeth.”
Jeth said to Augie, “Hey, you can kuh-kuh-kiss my butt,” as Heller said, “Doctor! Well, we should be able to talk this out.”
The smile broadened, telling me he was a reasonable guy, but I could see the menace. He wasn’t nervous. Seemed right at home in nose-to-nose confrontations, this one just beginning, both of us aware. Wondering how far the other would take it.
He took a moment to check over his shoulder as two sheriff’s cruisers lurched to a stop, light bars strobing. The cars scattered people who’d been massed at the gate. He waited for a third cruiser to appear before saying, “Augie claims you’ve got something that belongs to us.” The man let that hang for a moment before asking, “What’s in the bucket, Dr. Ford?”
“It’s none of Augie’s business. Or yours.”
“They were using my boat and my gear. That makes it my business. Whatever they bring back belongs to my marina. Rules of salvage, my lawyers say.”
Smiling, I said, “Really?” I looked at Javier’s boat, the barn wreckage, the boats in the background. “Maybe your lawyers will get a chance to catch up on their admiralty law. While you’re in jail.”
I turned, intending to tell Tomlinson and Jeth to get aboard my skiff. Once we were away from marina property, we could hike to the road, and find Javier. Before I could speak, though, Heller reached and clamped his hand on my shoulder.
“Whoa there, Ford. You’re not going anywhere until I see what’s in the bucket.” He seemed more interested, though, in what was going on now at the entrance: Deputies moving along the inside of the fence, hands on their weapons.
Moe said, “I’ll get the bucket, Bern. And anything else I think belongs to the marina.” Moe began to walk toward the shoreline, but he was watching the deputies, too, who were now fanning out near the section of fence Javier had vaulted earlier.
I had tolerated Bern Heller—barely. But no way was I going to let some stranger go clomping around on my skiff. I said, “Heller?” then rolled my arm under his, and slapped his hand off my shoulder. I got him hard beneath the bicep, then turned immediately and started after the man in the straw cowboy hat.
I could feel Heller behind me, walking too close. I expected him to say something, or grab me again. But I didn’t expect to hear Jeth say, “Oh shit. We need to get over there. They’ll kill him!”