Everglades Assault (6 page)

“Duty calls.”

“Damn your duty.”

“That's not a very democratic attitude.”

“And what does democracy have to do with pure animal lust?”

I laughed with her, kissed her briefly as I stepped onto the dock, and took her hand. The early tourists, dressed in their Bermudas and gaudy shirts, roamed along charter-boat row, and they watched us from the corners of their eyes. I could almost read their thoughts:
See that beautiful young girl with that big scarred-up man? Why, he's almost old enough to be her father! You can bet that sort of thing doesn't go on back in Davenport or Steubenville. What a weird place this Key West is....

What a weird place indeed.

I grinned and gave a half wave to a middle-aged couple with cameras around their necks.

The woman actually lifted her nose and sniffed.

April saw it, and we laughed together. “Are we scandalous, Dusky?” she asked.

“In Key West, we're as conservative as a brown suit. Back in Iowa we'd probably be tarred and feathered and run out of town.”

“Pshaw! You've never even been in the Buckeye State.”

“Yes I have. And it's Hawkeye, not Buckeye. When I was a kid with the circus we'd spend a long week there every summer. In Davenport they'd stick us at the low end of town where the river had flooded. You could always tell the circus people—their legs would be coated with mud.”

“Sounds nice.”

“Lovely.”

“And you aren't bitter a bit, are you?”

“A nice guy like me? I'm just proud to have associated with those corn-fed folks. If I ever meet the Pope, I'll know how I'm expected to act.”

“Scrape and bow, huh?”

“Yeah, but light on the scraping.”

I had wanted to tell Steve Wise, the dockmaster at my marina, that I was going to be away for a while and unavailable for charter. But Steve didn't look as if he wanted to be interrupted. Steve lives on a big gaudy houseboat at the docks—the inside of which looks like a floating strumpet parlor.

Steve's a little younger than I am—about thirty two—and he's as well known around Key West for his enthusiastic bachelorhood as he is for his endless weekend parties.

With his windblown brown hair and movie-star looks, he seems to the pretty tourist ladies who come to the island to be the perfect adventure to cap their holiday.

And Steve is always happy to oblige. He has seen more women come and go (the pun is not accidental) than the average YWCA. They love him so because there is absolutely nothing predatory about him. He treats them like royalty, wines and dines them aboard his
Fred Astaire,
and shares a tearful good-bye with them when it is time to say farewell.

He makes no promises.

They want no promises made.

And they all live contentedly ever after.

You can always tell when Steve has had a particularly strenuous week with one of his tourist lady friends. He sits in the sun on the deck of his houseboat blinking like some weary loggerhead that has just made the Gulf Stream crossing alone. He sighs a lot and speaks of things profound.

But Steve wasn't working his way toward recovery now. He was working his way toward something very different indeed. Three of them sat on the upper deck of his houseboat, talking animatedly: Steve and a pair of mahogany-haired twins who appeared to have all the qualifications for carbon-copy Playmates of the Year.

Steve felt me grinning at him; he turned, waved two regal fingers, and grinned back.

“How are things with you, Steve?” I yelled across the water.

“Very interesting—that's how things are,” he yelled back.

He grinned and waved again. I walked April around the harbor to the parking lot at the edge of Roosevelt Boulevard.

She had brought Hervey's old pickup truck. It was an ancient Chevy that had more wear than rust.

April took her place behind the wheel, found something Latin and tinny on the Havana radio station, and shifted gears expertly as she drove us through the light September traffic of Key West.

“Did Daddy tell you that I'm going to the Everglades with you?” she said nonchalantly.

“No,” I said. “And he never told you that, either.”

She flared at me. “How can you be so sure, MacMorgan!”

“Because I know Hervey, that's how I can be so sure. You figure that if I say it's okay, he might go along with it.”

“Ooh, you make me so mad sometimes.”

“Why, because I know what you're thinking?”

“Yes!”

She took her eyes from the road momentarily, leaned over, and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and ran her fingernails across my bare knee.

“Do you know what I'm thinking now?” she asked vampishly.

“I do. Because I'm thinking the same thing. But who will drive?”

“I know a nice shady spot by the water where they haven't built any condominiums yet.”

I put my arm around her and kissed her on top of the head, smelling the shampoo fragrance. “One of the make-out spots from your high school days?”

“Darn right. I used to lure all the boys there.”

“Really.”

“A cast of thousands.”

“I know.”

“And just how do you know
that,
Mr. Dusky MacMorgan?”

“Because I read the bathroom walls when I go to the bars in Key West. ‘For a mediocre time, call April Yarbrough'—everyone writes the same thing.”

She slapped at me and gave me a scolding look. “Mediocre time! Why, I'm much better than that!”

“I wouldn't know.”

The smile left her face, a new look of uncertainty in her eyes. Suddenly done with our bedroom flirtation, she said seriously, “No one knows, Dusky. Isn't that awful? I'm nineteen years old and about as experienced as a Swiss nun.” She hesitated as she drove, then added, “That's why you kind of scare me.”

“I scare you? Come on.”

“No. You do.”

“How?”

“How do you think? You've probably had all sorts of women.”

“Right.”

“Maybe dozens.”

“Dozens?”

“Maybe thousands!”

I took her hand. “I think that would more than cover it.”

“But can't you see why you scare me?” she said. “Let's say—let's just suppose—that you do lure me into your bed. I'll be awkward and clumsy. I won't have a clue about what to do.”

“It's a technique that's always worked for me.”

She smiled. “You're just trying to be nice.”

“No,” I said. “I'm not. I've never read any of those sex manuals, or those magazine forums. Makes it a little too clinical for my taste. People study those things as if they're trying to get ready for a majorleague tryout or something. When it comes to love, you just sort of follow your nose.”

She wrinkled her nose impishly. “Hum,” she said. “That sounds nice.”

I reached over and mussed her hair. “When your time comes, lady—whether it's with me or someone else—I have a feeling you'll do just fine.”

“Just fine?”

“Just great, maybe.”

“That's what I wanted to hear.”

Even after helping me recover the treasure, the Yarbroughs had not changed their lifestyle.

They still lived in the old Florida plank house with the tin roof down by the sea. Ragged chickens scratched in the lawn, and their big Chesapeake Bay retriever, Gator, slept in the shade of a giant oak. In West Virginia, the rural folks have junked cars in their yard. In coastal Florida, it's junked boats. And the Yarbroughs had their share: old boats up on blocks; a big wooden Chris hauled out on ways for painting; chunks of engine parts and outboards rusting in the weeds.

The mahogany Chesapeake thumped its tail lazily when he saw the family truck.

But when he noticed me, his attitude changed. He jumped to his feet, roared a warning, then came trotting up stiff-legged, tail like a scythe. He punched me once in the leg with his nose, growled, then looked at April for orders. He had bright-yellow eyes, like a wolf.

“It's okay, dog. You remember Dusky.”

The Chesapeake grudgingly admitted that he did, pulled away when I tried to scratch his ears, then sidled back and plopped down in the shade with a sigh.

“I think he's starting to like me,” I said.

“Oh, he'll never really like you—until you become part of the family,” April added cryptically.

Hervey was in the house. He looked up when the screen door slapped shut. He had his gear packed in a khaki sea bag. As always, he had a big chew of Red Man in his cheek. He seemed almost embarrassed when we saw what he was doing.

The cleaning oil and cloth were spread before him on the floor. He had the cleaning rod in his meaty right fist.

“You never know,” he said in explanation. “Up there in the 'glades, Dusky, things can get real rough real quick.”

On his lap was an old sawed-off twelve-gauge.

There were two boxes of shells on the table beside him.

“Daddy, you don't really think you're going to have to use that, do you?” April looked half mad, half just plain scared.

“Damn it, girl—this ain't none of your concern. This is man business. You just go on along into the kitchen and fix us something to eat.”

That was not the thing to say to someone like April. Now she was just mad.

“Man business! Daddy, there's no such thing as just plain ‘man business' anymore! And if you want something to eat, fix it yourself!”

“They teach you how to be uppity there at the state university?”

“You're damn right!”

“You know I don't like you swearing.”

“And I don't like you and Dusky going places where you might have to use a gun!”

They glared at each other for a minute, then both broke into laughter.

They were a match for each other: both stubborn and smart, with an underlying sensitivity.

Like father, like daughter.

“I'm taking this here shotgun,” he said.

“And I'm not going to fix you anything to eat until you get back.”

“It's a deal,” he said. And they both laughed again.

I helped Hervey pack his gear into the pickup. None of us liking farewell scenes, Hervey's wife and April said good-bye to us at the door. April hugged her father, kissed him on the cheek—then surprised me with a kiss full on the lips.

When she did it, her face flushed with a heretofore unseen shyness, and she disappeared quickly into her room.

Hervey got behind the wheel of the pickup truck and pedaled it roaring to life. And just when we were about to pull out, he snapped his fingers.

“Damn, almost forgot something.”

“Yeah?”

He looked at me. “What do you think about taking that big ugly dog of mine?”

“Hervey, you know I love dogs—but I'm not wild about the prospect of walking out on my own boat some night and getting attacked by that Chesapeake of yours.”

“Oh hell, he's just mean around the house here. Friendly as a pup when you get him away.”

“I'm not sure I believe that.”

“Besides, he's a good tracker. He'll help us run down that Swamp Ape thing.”

“Haven't you read the books? Dogs are supposed to be scared to death of Abominable Snowmen.”

Hervey picked at something on his hand. “He ain't what you'd call a normal dog. Besides, you and me both know there's no such thing. I'm telling you, Dusky, that dog's a regular damn genius in the swamp. Remember? I found him in the swamp. He'd gone clear wild and was making his living eating small gators and God knows what else when I found him.”

“Yeah, but we're going to be spending a lot of time on the boat.”

“Hell, he's the best boat dog you ever saw! Just jumps overboard when he wants to crap, then swims to catch up when he's done.”

“You expect him to swim and catch up—”

“Besides, it'll make my family up there in the'glades feel better with him around. They got a couple of small cur dogs, but they just ain't up to snuff. Be nice to leave him with 'em when we have to go someplace.”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “I'm convinced.”

“Fine,” said Hervey. “I'll just go and get him.”

“You don't have to.”

“What?”

“Look in the mirror—or just turn around.”

The big Chesapeake had already jumped into the back of the pickup. He sat on his haunches, his nose against the cab window. The yellow eyes glared at me—as if he knew which side of the discussion I had been on.

“Ready to go, Gate?” Hervey yelled out the window.

The dog plopped down on Hervey's duffel bag and went to sleep.

 

Florida Bay spread away from the oasis splotches of mangrove islands, vast and green and seemingly endless.

Florida Bay is a tricky pocket of water. On a spring low tide, there are thousands of acres of exposed grass flats, all rivered with a complex network of deeper troughs that would take a lifetime to know well.

It's easier to follow Northwest Channel out of Key West, then cut a rum-line northeast for Nine-mile Bank where you can pick up the intercoastal waterway for Flamingo.

So that's what we did.

I ran
Sniper
from the flybridge, fresh dip of Copenhagen between lip and gum, a cold ration of Tuborg in my hand.