Shark River (24 page)

Tomlinson said, “People think Rastafarians just sit around smoking weed, singing, and dancing. That’s a part of it, yeah, but it’s not an easy religion to follow. Rastas aren’t allowed to eat just any food. A true Rasta only eats I-tal food. That’s food cooked but served as raw as possible. It never touches chemicals; it’s natural, never canned. Lots of Rastas are vegetarians since eating almost raw meat isn’t what you’d call appetizing. The ones who do eat meat can’t touch pork because pigs are the scavengers of land. Same with shellfish, because they consider lobsters, crabs, shrimp, stuff like that to be scavengers, too. They can eat fish, but the fish can’t be more than a foot long. Anything bigger is a predator, a danger to their spirit.”

No wonder Izzy and Clare had not reacted calmly when introduced to the shark pen.

“I love the Rastas, love their spirit and their faith. The Holy Piby, man, I read it. The black man’s Bible, that’s what some call it. Inspired, some very powerful stuff in there. It was first printed back in the 1920s in the Ethiopian language of Amharic. It says that God and all of his prophets were black, and some believe it contains the lost verses of the Old Testament. The reasoning makes more sense than some people want to admit. The way it goes is, Ethiopian nobility always considered themselves direct descendants of King Solomon. They were black, so Solomon was black. If Solomon was black, then Christ had to be black, too. Which is very cool, I think.

“When I was in Jamaica, I lived with a Rasta group called the Twelve Tribes of Israel. For a time they were very heavy into the Black Power movement, which they needed to be, but in a very positive and peaceful way. Reform through education and political action. Some of the splinter groups, though, they believed violence was the answer. Still do. They were serious racists, too. Kill the whites—all whites—and there would no longer be oppression.”

I had the ring under the binocularscope again. Nothing ornate about the typeface. Plain, very American: NEW YORK. Without looking up from the microscope, I said, “I remember that time. Kill without remorse for political gain. A lot of whites and blacks were doing it. Assassinations. Bombings. Overthrow the government at any cost. What was it Mao Tse-tung wrote? ‘In the struggle for socialism, the death of a million innocents means nothing.’ ”

Tomlinson stood suddenly to leave. “Ransom? If I were you, I’d get in touch with some Rasta people you know and trust. Or I’ve still got some friends with the Twelve Tribes if you want me to do it. Tell them you have a ring, maybe Haile Selassie’s ring, and want to give it back. Today, I mean. By phone. Before the rumors start to spread. Before more of the violent types come looking for you.”

 

 

 

As I walked with Tomlinson to the marina to get the mail, he said, “All that stuff with the Rastas reminds me of something I’ve been meaning to bring up, Doc. Lately, more and more, the older I get, the things I did in my past really bother me. Some truly shitty stuff, man. I’d like just the two of us to sit down one day and talk about it, you don’t mind. About something I was involved with a long time ago, but it concerns you. I think it’s a talk long overdue.”

In some inexplicable and maybe perverse way, I’d been goading him when I brought up revolutionaries and bombings. I wasn’t certain why. Perhaps it was because I was beginning to have second thoughts about the deal I’d made with Harrington. But I said, “Sure, we can talk. Another time, though. Getting beaten up, getting shot, arguing with Ransom about my uncle. Little stuff like that, I’m kind of pooped out for some reason.”

“Okay. But soon.”

“Yeah, soon. A couple of weeks, a couple of months from now, when we both have some time. If you can help me get this business with Ransom squared away, that would be a good way to start.”

“Absolutely,” he said. “No worries.” He walked on in silence for a time before he spoke again. “I went through the stuff Tuck sent to Ransom. What a circus act that guy was. And what a romantic. He sent her drawings, which I know you saw, but also this cryptic letter.”

I said, “You read it. I’m not going to waste my time.”

“That’s my point. You don’t have to read it. I’ve already figured out where Tuck hid the six grand. It’s at his ranch. We’ve got to meet a guy there and he’s going to give us another letter. We can go get it tomorrow, you want. Or Sunday.”

“Make it Sunday. I’ve got at least a full day’s work in the lab, plus a lot of phone calls to make. The Aquaculture Lab at Gainesville has been working on reintroducing Gulf sturgeon south of Tampa Bay, and I’ve been doing research for the director. Then I’ve got to contact all the offshore stone crabbers I know and see if I can buy some of their old rope because of an order I’ve got for gooseneck barnacles. But first I need to check with Jeth, see how the fish did while I was away.”

Tomlinson said, “What?” already preoccupied with private thoughts. When I repeated myself, he said, “Did you hear what happened to Jeth? Between him and Janet?”

Jeth was one of the marina’s fishing guides, a huge, good-looking guy with a big heart and a slight stutter. Janet was Janet Mueller, who lived up at Jensen’s Marina on her little blue Holiday Mansion houseboat.

“What happened?”

Tomlinson’s attention had wandered again. “Huh? What happened to who?”

I stopped walking. Put my hand on his shoulder and turned him. “I gather that things didn’t go well with Nimba, did they? On your trip back from Guava Key.”

He laughed bitterly. “It couldn’t’a gone worse, man. It was terrible. A faithful woman who finally decides to go out on her abusive husband, but the guy she chooses can’t consummate the relationship. A woman with her religious background, it was like having God in the room telling her she was a sinner and damned to Hell. Like that was the reason He wouldn’t allow me to perform. The moment we got back, she threw her luggage in the trunk of a cab and headed for the airport.” He sighed. “I don’t blame her, man. She worked and worked on me, the whole trip down. Zamboni tried to rally a few times but never really made it across the blue line.”

“Maybe it’s time you spoke to a physician. I hear they’ve got drugs now for that. Some kind of pill?”

“I’m way ahead of you. I talked to Dieter today when he got back from lunch. He’s got his license to practice in the States now, which I really don’t give a shit about, but it means the drug companies give him all kinds of interesting samples. He gave me a pill to try.”

Dieter Rasmussen was a retired Munich psychopharmacologist who lives over on A Dock in his gorgeous Grand Banks trawler,
Das Stasi.
He’s a big guy with a shaved head, good-looking—judging from the reaction of local women—brilliant, rich, and he loves the kicked-back, happy life of Dinkin’s Bay. I hadn’t liked or trusted the man at first, but he’d done a good job of fitting in with the marina community, so now we played chess occasionally, or sat around on my deck at sunset talking science, genetics, natural selection—things that interested both of us.

“What’d he give you?”

Tomlinson was wearing baggy surfer shorts, no shirt, veins and ribs showing, his gaunt face serious beneath matted blond hair. He stuffed a hand into his pocket, and produced a small, blue, diamond-shaped pill in a blister pack. “Viagra,” he said. “It’s the only one he had left, but he’s got so much respect for me as a fellow scientist, he said what the hell. I had no choice but to accept. You know how I hate to use prescription drugs, but I’m desperate, man.”

He
sounded
desperate. He had the same air of preoccupation and depression he’d been projecting for the last several months. It’s normal for Tomlinson’s personality to vary with his moods. I’ve learned to recognize his highs and emotional lows. When he’s down, in a funk, I know, for instance, to leave him alone, give him time and the black mood will pass.

But this mood wasn’t passing and it was beginning to worry me.

“I wasn’t aware that you had an aversion to any kind of drug,” I told him.

It was a friendly barb calculated to make him smile, but he didn’t smile. I listened to him say, “When it comes to pharmaceuticals, I’m an explorer not a commuter. You’re not going to see me on many subways. But if I find a space shuttle available? Look out. Plus, with prescription pills, I worry about side effects. Like this pill. Some folks say it can blur your vision and give you a slight headache, too. Doctor Dieter tells me about all that and immediately I think, Jesus, what a dangerous drug. First it screws up your vision, then it gives you a hard-on.” He made a sound of frustration and disgust. “But it’s worth the risk. I don’t have many options remaining. So tonight, after the marina’s party, I’m going to test the little blue pill and see if my goddamn pecker has an ounce of manhood left in him. Fortunately, I’ve found two humanitarian-minded ladies willing to participate in the experiment.”

That, at least, sounded more like the old Tomlinson. “Anyone I know? Or is it confidential?”

“You remember Barbie and Bobbi, the Verner twins who work at Hooters?”

I said, “Sure, the two redheads.” Hooters was where we went for cold draft beer and chicken wings after playing baseball.

“Barbie and Bobbi, they are two smart ladies. Both’re working their way through college, majoring in psychology with a minor in comparative religions, which is one reason we’ve become good friends over the last year. They’re not kinky, they’re not promiscuous, but those two girls have the instincts of surgical nurses. They’re familiar with the problem; they know I need help. I called and spoke to both of them before I came to your place. So guess what? Didn’t even hesitate; they both volunteered to get naked with me, bless their hearts. They’re coming to the party, then we’re going for a short midnight shake-down cruise on
No Más.
”

I was laughing now. I couldn’t help myself. “Then why are you so depressed? You ought to be grinning like you just won the lottery. You know how many men in this country who’d give anything to trade places with you? Two Hooters girls, for Christ’s sake.”

He shook his head from side to side, disconsolate. “They don’t know about this pill. What if it doesn’t work? If I can’t make it with two Hooters girls, I might as well stick my dick in the dirt and use it as a tomato stake. The worst thing, though, man—and this is what’s really bothering me—if the pill doesn’t put serious lead in my pencil, I’ll never be able to face those girls again. After something like that, where can we go to eat wings?”

 

 

Dinkin’s Bay Marina is three hundred yards or so up the shoreline from my lab. If the mosquitoes aren’t swarming, it’s an easy walk along the shell road. If you want to get to the marina by boat, you head north under the Sanibel Causeway, then turn left just past the power lines and run in close along the deepwater of Woodring’s Point. To get there by car, follow Sanibel’s Tarpon Bay Road past Bailey’s General Store, down the shell road, into the mangroves, and through the gate to the bay.

Lots of people come by boat and car and bike because Dinkin’s Bay is an unusual place.

Beyond the shell parking lot, there’s a community of old wooden buildings that extends out onto the water via a latticework of wobbly docks. It is a welcome anachronism on an island known for tourism, busy beaches, thousands of real estate salesmen, reclusive artists, designer homes, and elegant restaurants. There are plank tables for cleaning fish, a big wooden bait tank whose pump hisses twenty-four hours a day, and picnic tables beneath a tin roof so visitors have a place to sit while they eat the marina’s fried fish and crab cakes and chowder. There is a gift shop, too. It’s called the Red Pelican, and it smells of incense and imported cotton and silk. It offers blouses and dresses, sarongs and knickknacks from all over the world, plus paintings by local artists.

Next to the Red Pelican is the marina office and store. It’s a two-story building. Stocky, pragmatic Mack, owner and manager of Dinkin’s Bay, runs the office below. Jeth lives in the one-bedroom apartment above.

As I walked toward the office, I heard a woman’s voice call, “Hey there, Doc! You coming to the party tonight?” I looked to see JoAnn Smallwood waving at me. JoAnn is part owner of the soggy old Chris Craft cruiser
Tiger Lily,
one of Dinkin’s Bay Marina’s gaudier floating homes. She’s a skinny-hipped, busty woman who, along with her roommate and partner, Rhonda Lister, runs a very profitable weekly newspaper,
The Heat Islands Fishing Report.

I stopped to talk with JoAnn for a while while the other liveaboards worked or washed their boats, or carried grocery sacks or coolers along the docks, everyone seeming to move faster than usual. Nearly every person who passed me had to stop, say hello, and ask why my arm was in a sling.

To each and every one, I told them, “Fell off a dock.”

To the few who said they’d met my sister, that she was gorgeous and charming and funny, I replied, “Funny’s right. That’s her little joke. She’s actually my cousin.”

It was Friday night, the official end of the workweek on the connected barrier islands of Sanibel and Captiva. Saturday and Sunday were the busiest days of the week, but Friday night is still the traditional gathering time for the liveaboards and marina employees, a brief quiet time before the weekend rush, when all the locals come together as a community to drink and laugh, to complain about the traffic and the tourists with no one around to offend.

It was nearly five P.M. JoAnn and Rhonda had hung Japanese lanterns on the stern of their boat, a sure sign that it was a party night. Music was already booming from inside the trawlers and sailboats and cruisers that lined liveaboard row. I could hear showers running; could smell the shampoo odor of soap mixed with the more common marina smells of diesel and rope and varnish. Could see that Mack and Jeth had already set out the big Igloo coolers filled with ice and beer. Could see Eleanor and Joyce and Kelly loading the picnic tables with food. Knew that, within an hour or so, Mack would walk out, close the steel gate and lock it, a necessary ritual that is also symbolic: The outside world could no longer intrude on our small marina stronghold.