Nicholes's jaw was working, but no words were coming out. He finally croaked, "Okay . . . just ga-get . . . leave."
"You sure you want to do that, Jeth?" Ford had moved up the dock, hands still in pockets, smiling good-naturedly. "These guys paid you to take them tarpon fishing, right? Well, you took them. You don't owe them a thing."
Willis turned a cold eye on Ford. "I don't see how this is any of your concern, friend."
Looking past the big man, Ford asked Nicholes, "How many tarpon did they have on?"
Nicholes started to say something, then held up five fingers.
Willis said, "Friend, I personally think you ought to get the hell out of here before you get yourself into trouble." He reached into his robe, took a cigarette in his lips, and lit it.
Ford said, "You had five tarpon on, which means you and your party lost four. Right? And I think I overheard someone say Jeth missed a gaff? Well, everyone makes mistakes. You guys made four of them. Jeth made one. But it sounds to me like you had a pretty good day anyway. I don't know any fishing guide anywhere who tries harder than Jeth to keep his people happy, and that's the truth. So why don't you just drop it?"
Willis looked at his three salesmen, made an open-handed gesture; lecture time again. "This is why it's good to get away from the office occasionally, gentlemen. Reminds us what happens when a man drops out. Loses that competitive drive. You end up a boat bum like the ca-ca-captain. Or one of the beach bums like my friend here who has nothing better to do than hang around a marina, poking his nose into places where it doesn't belong." He looked at Ford. "See, I know your type, friend. Can't make it in the real world, the business world, so you come down here and mix with people who have made something of themselves, act like a real person. Frankly, I don't have time for people like you. So now you can get the hell out of my way, buster."
Ford was still smiling, blocking the dock, but beginning to sweat a little, hoping he could find some way around having to actually fight the guy, thinking I haven't punched anyone since Coronado, but also thinking this pompous bastard had it coming. He said, "You're trying too hard, Willis."
The man looked at him. "I'm what?"
"I said you're trying way too hard. See, you've got those three junior executive types at your heels, judging you every step of the way, and you can't let them see you back down now, can you? They'll smell blood, maybe get ideas about taking your job. What are you, the president of some small company? No, you flinched. A vice president then—"
"More than you'll ever be, friend."
"But you'll probably never get to be president. Only the really good ones make it in the executive world, and the good ones would never mock a guy who stutters. They have too much style—something you don't have, Willis. You know it, so you try too hard. You talk too loud, and you bully people when you can—like Jeth there. Jeth takes a swing at a customer, and he's liable to lose his license. You're not smart, but you're shrewd enough to know when you're on safe ground. "
"I don't have to stand here and listen to this garbage—"
Ford moved to block his path once more. "But I'm not done, Willis. And you're going to stand right there and find out what it's like to have some stranger browbeat you in public. I tried to be nice; you had your chance. Now you're going to listen. Let's see . . . you drink too much and you smoke your two packs a day, and the blood pressure is way too high, but you've got to keep pressing, have to run hard to stay ahead of the parade, because these guys and probably a bunch of others are just waiting for you to drop. Now you're not sure what to do because I'm standing smack in your way. Some stranger who doesn't fit into your pecking order. And you may have to actually fight it out, and right now you're thinking you have twenty pounds on me, but you'll have to make that first punch count because you're lugging a lot of fat and you don't have much wind, and you could end up looking very, very foolish. So I'll give you an honorable way out, Willis." Ford stepped back, creating enough room on the dock for him to pass. "I admit it. I'm afraid you might connect with that first, punch. So go climb into your rental car, drive to your nice motel, sit around the pool with a fresh drink, and joke about what you would have done to me if I'd said one more word." Ford looked at Nicholes. "You're not going to give them their money back, are you Jeth?"
"Na-na-no way, Doc. He just had me so mad I ca-couldn't think right."
Willis was saying "He's a coward. There, that's putting it pretty plainly. Said so himself." His face was grayish, and the three junior executives were looking here and there, avoiding his eyes. "Nothing but a fucking nobody coward. I wouldn't waste my energy on a nobody like him."
Hearing something, Ford cocked his head: The pay phone was ringing. Maybe it was Bernstein; Bernstein finally calling from Central America. Miss this call and he'd have to go through the whole process again, maybe have to wait another day. He turned to trot toward the phone and, as he did, the creaking of the dock and a guttural grunt gave him just enough warning. He pivoted sharply, feeling the wind-wake of Willis's right fist sail past his face. Willis's follow-through left him teetering sideways on the dock, and Ford hit him in the stomach, hard, kicked him behind the right knee, and caught the big man as he fell, wrapping his left arm under Willis's right elbow and arm, clamping his hand around Willis's throat, putting just enough pressure on the carotid artery and the elbow to pin him immobile on the dock.
The phone was still ringing.
Ford glanced at the junior executives, all three of them shifting nervously, not quite sure what to do; Jeth Nicholes standing behind them, ready. Ford said, "Willis, you just had a spell of very bad judgment, " talking as he put enough pressure on the man's elbow to make the joint creak; watching Willis's eyes pinch, the flesh on his cheeks flush then mottle. "If you're smart, you won't try it again . . . friend." He released him abruptly, turned to run, but Willis got his foot out, tripped him, and Ford dove headlong onto the dock, almost into the water. Looking up, he could see MacKinley running toward them, a baseball bat in his hand.
"Mack! Get the phone!"
"What?"
"The phone!"
"I already called the police."
"Not that phone!"
A crushing weight hit him from behind, and Willis was on him, punching wildly. Ford rolled away, heard the big man's shoe smash into the planking by his face, wrestled his way to his feet suddenly not able to see so well. Where in the hell were his glasses?
Willis was coming at him, a big blurry shape pawing like some kind of boxer. Behind him, Nicholes was systematically wrestling the junior executives into the bay.
"Not now, Willis. I don't have time right now."
"Ha! That's what I thought . . . coward, trying to talk his way out."
Ford saw a big shadow coming at him, Willis's right fist. He batted the fist into a harmless trajectory and kicked him in the side of the leg, missing the knee. Willis stumbled forward, grabbed Ford by the shoulders, scratching at his face and eyes with his fingernails. Ford smacked him in the throat with his open palm, then whirled 360 degrees, his elbow out like an ax. Willis walked right into it, taking the elbow flush on the nose, blood spurting as he backpedaled into a piling and tumbled into the water.
"Jeth, make sure that asshole doesn't drown!" Ford was already running.
"Hell, Da-Da-Doc, looks like he's dead already. ..."
Ford sprinted past MacKinley toward the pay phone, forced his way through the crowd that had gathered, skidded around the corner of the office, and lifted the receiver just as the caller hung up. He rummaged through his pockets to find a quarter, remembered he didn't need one, and dialed zero.