He thought of Pilar momentarily, but then the vultures brought his attention vectoring. He watched them circle overhead.
The surge of pleasure faded.
Where was Rafe?
Rafe Hollins had called the previous morning; called three times before he finally caught Ford at the marina. Out of all the gin joints in all the world, Hollins had said, trying too hard to keep his tone loose and easy, saying he'd been fine, staying busy, and how'd Ford like living on Sanibel Island again, the old stomping grounds, huh? Boy, they'd had some times, and, yeah, the reason Ford hadn't been able to get in touch was he'd been out of the country and the telephone company disconnected his phone cause he moved around so much since the divorce there just wasn't any reason to pay the bill. "I was living on Sandy Key, but now I'm mostly out of town," Hollins had said. "Traveling's the only kind of life insurance I got, Doc. When I'm travelin', there's no chance of me killing my ex-wife and spending the rest of my life in Raiford. The kind of policy State Farm doesn't offer."
The years had turned Hollins's voice gravelly, muted the Florida piney-woods twang, added something else Ford didn't recognize at first, an edge of desperation. In high school, they had been best friends: Rafe a left-handed passer and pitcher who threw bullets; Ford a mediocre linebacker and better catcher, the two of them cruising buddies. He had seen Hollins only twice after graduation: once while still in graduate school (he'd returned to Florida for a marine science workshop), then again three years ago in Central America, a coincidental meeting in San Jose, Costa Rica, that had shocked them both and should have turned into an all-night beer and talk session, but didn't. Hollins had been oddly distant, in a hurry, had to catch a plane. He never said why; Ford was in no position to ask. Hollins said he was looking for work outside the country. Ford gave him a few names, and that was that.
There had been no hint of desperation in Rafe's voice then. But it was evident on the phone that morning. Ford had stood at the marina desk looking out at the glittering elliptic of bay, listening while Hollins worked his way into whatever it was that was bothering him, talking about his wife like some cocktail lounge comedian. "She used my charge cards like Monopoly money. The mailman had to think she was having an affair with a guy named J.C. Penney. J.C. was probably the one guy she didn't hump. That woman handled more tallywhackers than an army urologist. And I was so busy traveling around, trying to earn enough to keep her happy, I never found out till later. Silly me."
There was the sound of traffic from Hollins's end, the wind-wake of passing trucks: Hollins was calling from a phone booth. Ford had already decided it was because he needed money, and he tried to gentle him along, saying "If there's anything I can help you with, Rafe ..."
There was a pause, and Hollins said, "Good ol' Doc. Christ, we used to get ourselves into some shit, huh? Goddamn high school and all that stuff seems about a million miles away." The careful thread of control was beginning to unravel, his voice wistful. "Remember after that game in Key West, we marched up to Customs House in our uniforms, and you had everyone stand at attention and salute while we stole the flag? I thought we'd go to jail for that one for sure, but naw, no way, not with you. Told the cops all about flag etiquette, and there shoulda been a spotlight on the damn thing at night, and they ended up apologizing to us for interfering. God, I never met anyone could think on their feet like you, Doc. I used to tell the other chopper pilots in Nam that I had a friend back home could think his way outta any kind of shit, had balls that clanked when he walked."
Ford said, "So this call's about old times, Rafe? If it is, let's meet someplace and get a beer."
"Well, it's more than that."
"I know." Still looking at the bay, Ford's eyes had come to rest on the little house built on stilts thirty yards from shore—his stilt house now. It was a pretty little house with very thick walls (before modern refrigeration, it had been used to store ice and fish), painted gray, with water all around it and a rust-streaked tin roof. Ford said, "If you need money, I've got some."
Hollins, uneasy now, said, "I never could bullshit you, Doc. So, okay, I'm in a jam, but it's not money, not really. It's something else."
"Then let's hear about something else. "
"I need someone I can trust. You believe all the years I lived here, I come up with exactly one name: yours. Plus, you speak Spanish good—"
"Spanish? Ah, Jesus, Rafe—"
"You lived long enough in Central America, that's what you told me that time—"
"This can't be legal—"
"Guatemala, you said, and Costa Rica, too. Come on, Doc, everything's legal down there but peeking up the Pope's skirts and certain kinds of murder. But it's nothing like you think. See, I got involved with some guys, real hard cases, and they owed me a lot of money; money I earned, but they wouldn't pay up. So I took something of theirs to make sure I'd get paid. Like collateral, only without their permission. Now they've taken something of mine, and I have to get it back. "
Ford said, "I knew it wasn't legal."
Hollins's tone changed, taking an edge. "I didn't think it'd bother you so much. After that time I ran into you in Costa Rica, I called the American Embassy in San Jose, trying to get your address. They said you weren't registered. Said you'd never registered. So then I called the embassy in Guatemala City. They said they'd never heard of you either. Alien residents have to register with their embassies, Doc—that's not the kind of thing a guy like you'd overlook . . . unless there was some reason you didn't want them to know you were around. So then I talked to some of the Americans I met. Funny, in those kind of places Americans always know about each other. But I only found one who knew of you—and she said you had a real good reason for not being on the books."
Ford said nothing for a moment. He picked up a pen and began to doodle on a tide chart, drawing tiny sharks and starfish. He said finally: "Okay, I'll listen, Rafe. No guarantees, but first I want you to tell me one thing. I want the truth, too. This problem of yours, does it have anything to do with running drugs? If it does—and I'm not kidding—you can count me out right now. I mean it." Jethro Nicholes, one of the marinas fishing guides, was sitting behind the desk reading Field & Stream. When Ford said "drugs," Nicholes looked up, mildly interested.
From the other end of the phone came a snort of laughter, derisive, self-directed. "It's not drugs. Shit, nothing that simple. "
"Then what?"
Hollins said, "I'd rather tell you about it in person."
"I'd do anything for you but go to jail, Rafe. Tell me now."
"Okay, okay. I guess I owe you that. Let's see ... it started with the divorce. My ex-wife got me over a barrel, man. She went into court wearing braids, looking like some kind of virgin homecoming queen. This young judge took one look at her and the horns started to grow. Sweat on his upper lip and everything, like he wanted to grab her by the hair and drag her off in his Porsche. You never saw her, Doc, but that's what she does to guys; God knows, she did it to me. I mean, she smells like she wants it.
"The son-of-a-bitchin' judge gave her everything: froze my assets, even got the bonds I'd been assembling to convert into a trust for my little boy. Then he provisoed my visitation rights on an alimony payment about the size of Great Britain's debt. If I didn't pay, they wouldn't let me see my son."
Ford had already heard most of this from old acquaintances. He said, "And that's when you began to press these other guys for the money they owed you. "