Alligator (7 page)

Lee tried to shake it off. He decided to buy the Johnson that he knew he couldn't afford; then he turned his thoughts to an early and tranquil retirement, which likewise he knew wouldn't happen. Finally, he decided to take another drink, which just might be enough to send him into the land where everything was possible, even Johnson 125s.

Unfortunately, all it did was clear his head. The problem was of his own making, he decided. If he stopped turning down so many clients, maybe in fifty years or so he could scrape up enough money to start thinking about new motors. He considered being less choosy, but quickly rejected the thought. The clients he took out were bad enough as it was. They were all just a pack of big-mouthed, rich, fat bastards, going after deer, muskrat, red fish, anything that bled; they didn't know the difference.

It galled Lee to help those cretins get antlers to hang on their rec-room walls like coat hangers, and swordfish they could send out to be painted up like tarts. To Lee, animals were more than trophies to be bragged about; they deserved respect. It didn't seem fair. They gave you a fight, usually a pretty good one, and on your terms; then you hung them on your knotty-pine walls.

Just as Lee was coming up with a long sentence of expletives about those kind of people, the granddaddy of them all, Rye Whitman, made his way toward him.

All it took was one glance at the big, handsome, middle-aged fat cat who was bearing down on him for Lee to wish he were a lot drunker. He sank farther down into his skiff and regarded Rye with the fascination and disgust of a man watching a cockroach.

"Hey, Dan'l Boone," shouted Rye, climbing onto the wooden pier.

Lee greeted this obvious reference to his worn-out old buckskin clothes with silence, under the mistaken impression that Rye could be ignored.

"Hey, Dan'l Boone!"

Lee looked up with a cocky grin. "You talkin' to me?"

"Don't see no other Dan'l Boones around."

Lee made something of a display of looking around and seeing that this was true.

"My name is Whitman, Rye Whitman, from Miami. You up to carryin' me and my friends tomorrow?"

"Sorry, I already got customers the whole week," answered Lee.

"Cancel them and come with me." To Rye, a prior obligation was something your secretary got you out of.

"Like I said, sorry." Lee pushed his hat over his eyes and pretended he was going to sleep.

Rye sat down on the pier, stripped the cap off a bottle of Wild Turkey, and handed it to Lee. Lee opened up one eye and looked at it. He could tell that bottle wasn't a gift—it was a contract. Let it be known that I, Lee Ferris, in return for one bottle of Wild Turkey, do sign over all rights, claims, and ownership over my private parts to Rye Whitman, in perpetuity, till death us do part, amen. The way men like Rye Whitman saw it, contracts were negotiated one way: I win, you lose.

On the other hand, Wild Turkey did not walk into Lee's life every day. He opted to show Rye his stuff at a later date and reached for the bottle.

"Good, eh?" said Rye with a smile, watching Lee drink. "I always take along a case of the good stuff when I go out. Got any idea what time we can get started?"

"I told you, I'm booked."

Rye shifted uneasily. He realized he hadn't bought anything with his money except a bottle of booze.

"I'll make it worth your while. How much they payin' you? Fifty? A hundred? Two hundred?"

"Enough."

"Listen, boy," said Rye, his patience becoming perilously thin, "I'm makin' you a business proposition."

"It ain't got nothin' to do with business. I give my word to a client and I keep it."

"How much do you want?" Rye growled.

"Like I told you," answered Lee, "I ain't for sale."

"Who's talking about buyin'?"

"You are, Mr. Whitman, you are."

Rye and Lee stared at each other like two bears sizing each other up before a mating war. Finally Rye got up from the pier, brushed off his pants, and snarled, "Well, if you should happen to change your mind, you'll find me at the Rod and Gun."

As he walked off the pier, he could hear Lee call after him, "I won't be changin' my mind."

"We'll see," Rye murmured to himself, "we'll see."

Dawn broke with faceted morning light, glancing over sweet bay and custard apple, spilling through spindly mangrove roots that ankled the brown swamp water. Streaks of red morning light reflected off the rotted-out shell of an old school bus that Lee used as his home and made the bus glow an even ghastlier yellow than usual.

Inside, on a broken-down bed that was wedged between the emergency door and the back seat, Lee lay tossing and turning, fighting an insistent dream. He had had the same dream often enough to sense it wasn't real, yet it was close enough to reality to carry a lot of power. Lee managed to block out all memories of Viet Nam during the day, but he couldn't control his nights.

Lee fought himself into wakefulness and squinted at the clock. It was only five fifteen. He fell back with a low sigh and closed his eyes. The thought of a repeat performance of the dream made him open his eyes again. Next to him, Cindy Clarke was all curled up in a ball, far down on the bed. He could feel the warmth of her body spreading across the sheets to him. He slid his hand along the bed to her body. He couldn't be exactly sure what he was touching at first, but the damp warmth of her was pleasing to him. Slowly he moved his hand down until he recognized the gentle slope of her belly. She moved slightly under his touch but didn't wake.

Lee smiled. It was always a discovery to touch Cindy. After three years, he should have known her like a map. But Cindy was only eighteen, and her figure was still changing. In the past year, he had seen her small breasts ripen and swell, and her belly, once flat, become rounded. He had liked her body before; its angular, sharp boyishness had promised romping and playfulness. But now a new silken layer of flesh covered her, changing her body and making it slower, subtler, more voluptuous. It had deepened his pleasure.

Cindy suited Lee more than any other woman he had ever known. He had sensed it the first time he met her at the Rod and Gun, where she waitressed, and he had never been disappointed. Cindy always reminded him of a cat, not just because of her smooth, liquid movements, but because of the way she acted. She was fiercely independent. Cindy made no demands, and she made no promises. He never knew when he'd come home and find her waiting for him. He'd just find her there, sitting cross-legged on the bed, her red-brown hair tied in braids and her smiling face all rosy from the sun. The next day she'd be gone.

Lee looked for nothing more from her; he knew what she offered him was better than most men ever had, and he knew that he could offer no more of himself.

Lee looked at Cindy's touchingly childish face, the wisps of auburn hair clinging to her sleep-dampened cheeks, and suddenly felt a deep sadness. Cindy was becoming a woman, and soon she'd want more from a man than he would be able to give her. One morning, she would leave and never come back. He would never know when that morning would be, until it happened, and he would mourn but understand. Lee cursed himself for not being able to give completely like everybody else.

He looked at the clock again. It was five twenty. In a few minutes, he would have to get up and meet his clients. He glanced back at Cindy. Red, glowing morning light spilled over the window and spread ripe across her sleeping body, touching it with warm browns and yellows and rosy pinks, breaking over planes and curves, and casting dark, mysterious shadows. Lee watched Cindy for several moments. The sadness he had felt before had vanished, and he felt the urgent pull of the dark, secretive shadows.

He softly awakened Cindy. She looked up at him, and her eyes held him. They were touching, yielding, child-brown. But in the center, the dark pupils called to him with the prismatic clarity of womanhood.

Lee relinquished his hold on the bed, the room, and even the earth itself, and allowed himself to drown.

By the time Lee got up, the watery sun was the color of butter. He went to the window and looked out at the muted morning with pleasure. Lee was one of the few men who, seeing the same thing every day, still really saw it. He glanced back at the clock and realized there wasn't time for enjoying the morning. He grabbed a package of stale doughnuts, shoved them into his pocket, and walked out of the bus. Then, quickly untying his hound, Rab, he took off for the icehouse.

The dock area of Everglades was nothing more than five rotting piers, two rusty gas pumps, and a sideless wooden shelter called the icehouse. There were only four other skiffs tied up next to Lee's, and one of them was swamped. Most people kept their boats outside their houses. The only reason Lee parked there was because it was a short walk from the Rod and Gun, and easy for his clients to reach. At one time, when there had been a large commercial fishing fleet in Everglades, the icehouse had been a center of activity. Now all that was left of Everglades's fishing industry was the smell of fish.

Lee could see his two clients waiting impatiently as he came up to the pier where his skiff was tied. Rab started to growl, and from what Lee could see of the two men, he had to agree with his judgment.

General Randolph P. Hutchins was decked out in a
de rigueur
plaid hunting shirt that must have been much too hot. As Lee approached, he picked up his Ml6, sucked in the tiny paunch that had collected around his middle, and stuck out his Dick Tracy jaw, allowing Lee to get the full benefit of his six-foot-two military bearing. "I was beginning to give up on you," Randy grunted, and angrily glanced at his watch. It showed that Lee was exactiy three minutes late. He'd crucified men on the base for less. "Well, we'd best be off," he said, "time's awastin'."

Clete Hutchins, Randy's hairless, round-cheeked son, shot a disapproving look at Lee. "What kind of gun is that?" he sneered.

"Thirty-thirty Winchester," answered Lee.

"Kind of old, huh?" asked Clete.

"It'll serve," said Lee.

Clete turned away from Lee with a superior sneer that was meant to communicate that, while Lee might have it all over him so far as age, ability, looks, and intelligence went, Clete's daddy was the one who was paying, and for that reason Lee had better be good and sure that his superiority was not made evident.

"Where do you plan to start?" asked Randy, shifting from foot to foot to show his impatience.

"A bobcat was spotted near Dead Man's Hummock last week. It's a bit of a ride, but it could be worth it"

"I want bear," Clete whined.

"Who doesn't?" said Lee. "But bear's tricky."

Randy imposed his presence. "Nonetheless, that's what we're going after."

"You ever shot bear? They can get to be a problem in the wrong hands."

"That's what we hired you for, isn't that right, Mr. Ferris?" Randy's tone closed all further discussion. He picked up his rifle and indicated that he, for one, was more than ready to be off.

This trip was going to be a lot of laughs, thought Lee. Just his luck to get a trigger-happy kid and a killer father. The clients he got through the Rod and Gun were always the worst, though these two were taking advantage. He looked at Randy's tall, stiff body. It screamed "General." He probably served through all three wars; then, when he had lived the good life long enough, with ten privates to mow his lawn, they retired him to Coral Gables, where he addressed the American Legion every Friday night on the dangers of the clap.

Clete shoved his hat down on his pudgy head. It was a red Day-glo hunting cap with sharpshooter badges all over it, which Lee decided probably didn't belong to him. Clete looked to be the perfect son for Randy, just good enough to present something of a challenge to him, without ever embarrassing him by winning.

The three men watched one another cautiously. It was one of those cases of instant and mutual dislike. Lee hoped they could make it through the day without an incident, but he sincerely doubted that they could.

"We won't be taking the skiff," said Lee. "If we're goin' after bear, we better go to Lopez Hummock, and the only way to go there is on foot."

"Whatever is necessary," said Randy.

Lee took one last look at the two men. They didn't look as though they could walk right on a sidewalk. Then he turned and headed into the forest, followed by Rab, who yapped and whimpered excitedly, making expectant dog circles around his legs.

In a few minutes, they veered off the main path. The country right outside of Everglades was heavily wooded, and even though there was the occasional tar-paper shack, the area could hardly be called built up. The soft, spongy earth was carpeted with ferns, and huge live oaks, red bays, willows, and buttonwoods grew there. Strangler figs wound tightly around many of the trees. Several were already choked off and were no more than wooden poles playing host to the clutching thick vines.

Lee had often done some pretty good hunting there, so he and Rab moved quietly. Even so much as the breaking of a twig could serve as a warning to the animals. Their quietness was wasted, though, since behind them Randy and Clete were crashing through the brush, making as much noise as the entire American Army. He had known just by looking at them that they'd be bad out in the brush. Lee could always predict right off how a man would handle himself.

"Careful how you go," he called back to the two men, "them branches have a way of snapping back."

"I know my way around," Clete said with a sneer. Just as he said it, he pushed through a thicket, and one of the branches snapped back in Randy's face.

"Son of a bitch," growled Randy. He wrenched the offending branch off the tree and tore it into a dozen pieces, as if the assault had been personal.

Lee felt the distinct and strong urge to laugh. It took an effort to control it, but he did; he knew it was in his best interest. The general was a man who needed very little provocation to come back with Lee's head for his trophy room.

Lee turned back to the trail and pulled out one of his doughnuts. He could see Rab looking back every once in a while to watch him eat. He felt bad that he couldn't share his breakfast with him, but Rab was better on an empty stomach.