Right?
I would have to handle it differently.
I listened to Tomlinson say, “I wish I could go with you to Colombia, man. But tomorrow, Musashi gets here with my little girl. I’ve been looking forward to it for months.”
I told Tomlinson not to worry about it. If Merlot and Gail weren’t out cruising, it probably wouldn’t take me more than a couple of days to locate them. I had photographs. There weren’t that many marinas. And very, very few hugely fat gringos visited the land of cocaine, cartels and kidnappers. So I’d track down the boat, play it by ear. And tomorrow what I might do is ask Frank Calloway to go along with me.
Tomlinson said, “You serious?”
Yeah, I told him, but first I had to meet the man, get a feel for how he’d handle himself on the road. A place like Colombia, you didn’t want a whiner tagging along, but I needed someone to vouch that I was on Gail’s side. Not Amanda, though. Not if I could talk her out of it. I’d had bad luck traveling with women in the past.
But Calloway, that was a different story. He should have a personal interest. Jackie Merlot had taken a lot of the man’s money.
I made plane reservations that night from the phone in my little stilthouse cabin. I also spent nearly an hour calling old friends and former contacts around the U.S. as well as Nicaragua and Panama, trying to get a line on any mutual friends we might have in Colombia.
I knew there was a naval amphibious base on Cartagena Bay because I had billeted there years ago. But the people I had dealt with were long gone. So I called old friends and contacts and played the game of Hey, is what’s-his-name still doing this-or-that? And, When was the last time you saw…?
The more connections these prospective mutual friends had in Cartagena, the better.
I didn’t come up with a name, but I did come up with a description: an Australian expat who ran a little marina on the island suburb of Manga, which is just across the bridge from the old walled city of Cartagena. The Aussie was the friend of a friend, maybe a former SAS guy, maybe not, the woman I was speaking with didn’t know for sure.
The name of the marina was Club Nautico, and the Aussie, she said, might be a good source of information.
“Down there, everyone knows everyone else,” she reminded me.
She was speaking of the broader community of English-speaking expatriates in Central and South America. She was exaggerating-but not by much.
Club Nautico: It was a place to start, anyway.
Something else I did was risk a phone call to my Tampa workout friend, Maggie. Always, always, she’d called me to arrange our meetings. What would I do if her husband answered? I felt ridiculously illicit as I dialed the number. We were just friends; I wasn’t doing anything wrong, so what did I have to feel guilty about?
Maggie answered. She sounded delighted to hear from me. Her husband was out playing softball, so she could talk as long as I wanted.
We didn’t talk long. I told her I was going away for a few days. Told her that we’d probably be able to meet in Pass-a-Grille next week.
“Dinner at the Mermaid,” I told her. “Run five or six, swim maybe for half an hour, then ruin it all with food and lots of beer.”
She laughed. Maggie had a nice laugh.
Before we hung up, she told me something that was not a surprise: “Doc? I’m thinking about leaving him.”
While I was on the phone making reservations, I could look through the window at the porthole lights of Tomlinson’s sailboat throwing yellow tracks across the water.
Tomlinson over there getting everything shipshape, nice and neat and orderly. His daughter was coming to visit. His young daughter and the mother whom Tomlinson was determined to win back.
The last time Musashi had visited him (this had been months ago), I had had the misfortune of overhearing one of her attacks on him. Not that I had a choice. Sound carries across water, and Tomlinson’s sailboat is not anchored far from my house. I don’t know what shocked me most: the gutter quality of the woman’s profanity or her venomous assault on Tomlinson. He was a good-for-nothing impiety who clung to an adolescent past, had wasted his life, was a terrible example as a father and who didn’t make enough money to provide his daughter with the eloquent life, the clothes and the private schooling that she deserved.
It was a painful, disturbing attack to hear.
Dinkin’s Bay is a quiet place, even serene in a goofy, bawdy, fraternity house way. Yes, there is the occasional fistfight on the dock and more than the occasional drunken beer bash, but the marina community is peaceful, very peaceful, perhaps because individual members are allowed to embrace the private lives of our own choosing. Respect is implicit in such acceptance.
Musashi’s attack on Tomlinson, however, seemed designed to destroy the delicate scaffolding of his personal dignity.
The next day, when Tomlinson boated into the marina, I could see him searching the faces of the other liveaboards: Had they heard? Were they embarrassed for him? In our long friendship, it was the only time I’d ever seen him unnerved by that old and eternal debate: Should I be ashamed of what I am? Of who I am?
This was the woman he had invited back to his boat. This was the woman he had asked to go cruising with him to the Tortugas.
There is no explaining or understanding the intricacies of the human male-female relationship and, in such a circumstance of obvious abuse, all a friend can do is stand back and pretend not to see or hear.
I could, however, agree with Rhonda Lister, who told me, “Jesus Christ, what a poisonous bitch that Oriental twat is. Every woman on the islands over the age of twenty-one is wild about Tomlinson, but he’s wasting his time getting beat up by her.”
It was a mystery.
I booked one of the Avianca flights out of Miami, a direct to Cartagena. The Friday-morning lunch flight and the food on that fine Colombian airline is almost always good. I asked the lady in reservations, tell me honest now, were there plenty of seats available? Told her I needed to know, because I was thinking about taking a friend, but wasn’t sure the friend could make it. I didn’t mind risking the money, but why bother if there would be seats available?
The nice lady chuckled and, in Spanish, told me, on Fridays the flight from Miami to Cartagena had plenty of open seats but the flight back would be full. The Sunday-night flight was just the opposite. Full going to Cartagena, plenty of seats coming back.
“On weekends,” she explained, “the Marimba people like to come to the States and party.”
By the Marimba people, she meant the happy people; people who’d made enough money in the drug trade to do whatever they wanted.
So I booked only one seat. A bulkhead seat, aisle.
The next day, among the strangest of the strange thoughts that went flittering through my brain was: Glad I didn’t book a second seat.
This was upon discovering Frank Calloway, my potential traveling companion, lying dead on cold Mexican tiles in his home on Gasparilla Island, village of Boca Grande, on a sun-dappled afternoon in April, a Thursday.
12
C alloway had been expecting me, right?
Right.
So why couldn’t I find the file on Jackie Merlot?
I went through the whole house room by room, no luck. The more carefully I searched, the more frustrated I became.
The file had to be there. The reason I’d boated from Dinkin’s Bay to Boca Grande was not just to meet and speak with Calloway, but because he’d said the information he had on Merlot was too delicate to risk allowing it to circulate outside his personal control.
Well… he hadn’t said too delicate, but that was the implication.
Read between the lines: Long ago, Calloway had been Jackie Merlot’s psychologist. Merlot wasn’t being treated for some simple emotional difficulty, there had been pathology involved. Why else would Calloway have observed aloud to Amanda that he was surprised Merlot hadn’t yet been institutionalized? Ethically, Calloway could not go to his ex-wife and tell her about Merlot’s psychological problems. But he could and apparently did tell a private investigator where to find the information he wanted to share with Gail. Probably directed him to specific places: schools or military offices or police records. And maybe, just maybe, Calloway had told the investigator where his old files were stored and maybe just maybe there’d been a recent break-in.