Shark River (3 page)

I am a creature of routine.

So, obviously, were they.

From old habit, though, and having once lived a life that required necessary wariness, I still practice a very simple precaution: I always vary my route and my routine. You never know who might be out there watching, logging your movements, waiting. I was never officially attached to any branch of the military, but I endured enough military training to have certain behaviors stamped so deeply that they have become part of the autosystem.

More than once when I saw them, that same ambient awareness noted the rich-girl genetics, knew the wealth that membership on Guava Key implied, and a secret little room in my brain sounded warning bells. It was an ancient alert, warning how easy it would be for a predator to become aware of these two women, track their movements, isolate them and take them.

As it turned out, I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed.

There seem to be more and more predators these days.

 

 

Tomlinson gestured toward the swimming pool. “See the woman on the beach chair closest to us? The one with the Egyptian skin and hair down to her waist? Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

Oh, I’d noticed. I’m not a gawker; not the sly woman-watcher type, but there are certain females who move with such animal grace, who exude such a fertile sexuality, that it’s impossible not to react. It’s also impossible not to follow them with the eyes.

Through palms, the pool was a gelatinous blue. A dozen or so Guava Key members, mostly women, soaked or dozed in the late sunlight. Some day, a brave sociologist may write a paper that explores why a high percentage of very attractive women will predictably interact, socially and sexually, with only a tiny percentage of wealthy men.

It would be an unpopular paper, indeed, with the disingenuous and politically correct types.

These were the beautiful ones: women with sculptured hair and nails, wearing Saks straw Bahamas hats and boutique poolwear, women whose bodies illustrated the discreet attentions of plastic surgeons and silicone implants, and of hours spent laboring with personal trainers.

There was something different about the dark woman, though. She possessed a girlish reserve, a muscle and bone indifference that set her apart.

Now she lay on her back, one arm thrown behind her head, eyes closed, breasts flattened beneath their own weight, body a-glistening with oil. Her bikini consisted of three white napkin swatches connected by string. In contrast, the white fabric turned her skin a deep and vivid mahogany.

“Takes your breath away, doesn’t she?”

I said, “She reminds me of women I saw on the Ivory Coast. Something about the cheekbone structure. Or maybe North Africa, with those legs.”

“Her mother’s from Senegal; her father’s Saudi Arabian.”

“You know her, then.”

Tomlinson’s voice had a sad, rueful tone. “Oh, I know her all right. Remember last year when I spent two weeks in Aspen at the International Bodhi Tree Conference?”

I nodded, suddenly more interested than before. I’d forgotten the name of the conference, but I remembered that he’d gone to Colorado.

Thus the increased interest.

Tomlinson was, apparently, much in demand at such events. There are very few westerners who are Rinzai Zen masters and
roshi
s—a Japanese word for teacher. The man has his accomplishments but also his quirks. He can be infuriating, but he possesses an amazing intellect and his intuitive powers are the best I’ve ever witnessed. More important, he makes me laugh.

He said, “Nimba flew into Aspen via Paris and enrolled without her husband. That’s her name—Nimba Dimbokro. It was a very confusing and painful time in her life. Her husband, supposedly, is a Saudi prince, but he acts more like some abusive camel-jockey redneck. You’ve read about vaginal circumcisions? He’s exactly the sort who advocates that sort of thing.

“He’s rich, of course. His family’s made billions in oil. I mean literally
billions.
They have private jets; they own politicians in several countries; they have homes all over the world. Whatever she wants, Nimba gets. Except for one thing—freedom. Happiness. A couple of the biggies, huh?”

“I hope you’re not telling me you slept with one of your students. What is she? Twenty-two, maybe twenty-five years old?”

Tomlinson’s tone seldom approaches anger, but now it did. “Please tell me you’re joking, then apologize. You think I would violate my moral obligations to a student?”

“I’m sorry. I apologize and withdraw the comment.”

“I should hope so. Nimba came to the retreat in absolute emotional turmoil. She went through ‘Beginner’s Mind.’ She learned how to sit, how to count her breaths. All very basic stuff. I was working with the advanced students, holding
dokusan
three times a day, and serving as monitor at
sesshin
s, so I wasn’t her teacher. We had no interaction at all at the retreat.”

I said, “Then you
were
lovers.”

He shook his head. “Through karmic intervention, we met coincidentally at a ski bar. A place called The Slope.”

“I’m familiar with the bar,” I said, looking at him closely.

“The place happened to be holding a limbo contest that night. You may remember what a superb limbo dancer I am.”

I shook my head. “Un-uh. The last time I can remember you limboing was at the marina. It was almost a year ago at the Friday cotillion, maybe longer. You were wearing that red sarong you like, nothing else, so I left. Walked out on the docks, along with most of the other people there. Some things, you just don’t want to see.”

“Then take my word for it. I’m one of the all-time great limbo dancers. It’s like a gift from God, the rhythm, the balance—actually a very delicate form of levitation if done properly. The great poet Basho wrote about it once. Metaphorically, of course—he didn’t use the word ‘limbo.’ ”

I said, “Ah.” I’d returned my attention to the woman. She was lying there with her eyes closed, stretched out in the winter heat. “So you met her at the bar. Then what?”

“We danced. We laughed. We drank. As you know, people tend to trust and confide in me quickly.”

“Yep, that I can certainly confirm.”

“Before I knew it, she was leaning against my shoulder, crying. She told me the whole long, sad story. She’d been holding in the hurt for so long that, clinically, she was on the verge of a complete breakdown. I couldn’t go off and leave her alone. No way. That night, she slept in my bed. But I didn’t touch her—not in any romantic, sexual sense. She was much, much too vulnerable. Sometimes, being a moraled man in an immoral world is a gigantic pain in the ass.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” I said, smiling. “You were on your best behavior. But somehow the relationship changed.”

“Not then. We were together for the next three nights. Gradually, I talked her into a more peaceful frame of mind.

“We’ve stayed in contact since, and she’s finally worked up the nerve to leave her asshole husband. She agreed to meet me here—not as a student, but for a few days of rest and relaxation. That was coincidental, too. I’d actually invited someone else, a woman I’ve never seen face to face. It was someone I really wanted us both to meet. But she backed out at the last minute.”

There was something odd about his tone, but I didn’t inquire.

Now, as his head turned toward the pool, his expression became a slow description of frustration and sadness. “Nimba arrived three days ago, the afternoon of my last Beginner’s Mind class. You wondered why I haven’t been here for the last few sunsets? I’ve spent all three nights in that gorgeous woman’s duplex, and I couldn’t perform. I tried and tried, and I just couldn’t. The little bastard’s turned traitor on me. Not that I’m so little,” he added quickly. “Let’s face it. Everybody at the marina knows. No way to hide the damn thing. I’m hung like a bull dolphin.”

I said, “Very famous with the island women, no question about that. How’d she react?”

“Not good. She blames herself, of course. That abusive husband of hers has absolutely destroyed her self-confidence. Then I come along and add to her pain.” He looked at me. “You understand now why I want to get that tattoo on my ass?”

“I think you’re making too much of it. You say the problem’s not physiological, so you need to back up a couple of steps. Take your own emotional survey. Figure out what’s going on. Are you feeling any unusual amount of stress? Depression, maybe?” I hesitated before adding, “Or guilt? From what I’ve read about the brain’s chemistry, guilt can be a very powerful inhibitor. Affects all kinds of behavior and body functions. Because of certain chemicals released, and there’s another one—serotonin, I think—it creates a shortage of serotonin so there’s a direct physiological reaction.”

He wasn’t looking at me as I added, “Or maybe it has something to do with all the dope you’ve been smoking and alcohol. Seems to me you stepped it up a few notches in the last six months or so.”

Tomlinson was nodding, thinking about that. “Could be, could be. The source of all
karma
bondage is delusion, and there’s a very fine line between being seriously fucked up and fucked up seriously. Now that you mention it, I
have
been having an unusual amount of werewolf mornings.” When I didn’t respond, he explained, “A werewolf morning, that’s when you wake up, look around the room hoping not to see blood because you can’t remember what happened the night before.”

I said, “I’m no physician, but I suspect that’s not a good sign. Once again, maybe you need to take that survey. Depression or guilt. Something’s going on up there in that great big brain of yours, old friend.”

He sighed. “Doc, some of the things I’ve done in my life, I’d give my left nut to change. Know how, on a computer, you can drag down, highlight, then hit delete? I’d trash a couple years of my life, no problem. Maybe even a whole decade, I was such a crazed asshole. Some mistakes, though, there’s no going back. You just keep paying and paying. The masters teach that there are five deadly sins, and one of them is destroying your own Buddha nature. Maybe way back, that’s what I did. And wouldn’t you just know that my dick would be the first to show symptoms.”

I told him, “Most people, the honest ones, would like to go back and change a few things. Some of the dumb things we do, some of the idiotic things we say. I’m talking about myself, by the way. You’ve got your demons, who doesn’t? Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

He turned to face me. “You mentioned guilt, man. It’s like you just tuned right into my brain frequency. Your intuition, it just keeps getting better and better, which, if you don’t mind my saying, is a good thing for someone who started out with no more emotional sensitivity than a meat thermometer. No offense.”

I was smiling again. “None taken.”

“But this guilt thing . . . what might be bothering me, is some of my old screwups have come back to mess with my brain. Like in my dreams. Bad stuff I did, I mean
really
bad stuff. Just in the last few months the memories have come back, so yeah, maybe that’s what’s taking the lead out of my pencil. Doc . . .” I watched his fingers search and find another strand of hair to tug, the tremor even worse. “Doc . . . there’s something I’ve been wondering about, but never had the balls to ask.”

“Ask away.”

“I’ve always kinda wondered if . . . well, do you know about some of the shit I got involved with? A long time ago, I’m talking about. It worries me that you’ve always known, and I’ve never taken the time or had the courage to try and explain.”

I don’t often lie, particularly to friends, but sometimes it’s necessary. “Nope. I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t want to know. Whatever you did, whatever you think you did, all the good you’ve done for people—all the good I’ve seen you do—that should more than make up for it.”

Beyond the tennis courts and the palms, I made peripheral note of two yellow Scarab-type high-performance boats idling in the direction of Guava Key’s small back dock. I recognized the boats as being from the Mercury engine test center at Placida, fourteen miles north. All day long, those yellow boats could be seen flying up and down the Intracoastal Waterway, logging hours on experimental engines. Why were they out this late in the day? And why were they now idling into Guava Key?

Another little alarm bell went off in my head.

I stood and said, “It’s time for my run.”

“That’s it? No more advice? No encouragement?”

I smiled. “I encourage you to take the lady home, sit her down, and tell her exactly what you’ve already told me about your so-called problem. If she’s as bright as you’ve described, she’ll understand and she won’t blame herself and she won’t blame you, either. I then encourage the two of you to drink a bottle or two of wine and have fun—whether your equipment works or not.”

I stepped through the French doors into the master bedroom, where I changed to shorts and Nikes. I stretched for a couple of minutes, then headed out along the island’s conch-pink sidewalk. From above me and behind, I heard Tomlinson call, “Hey, I almost forgot—did you get your message from the front desk?”

I turned to see him still balanced cross-legged on the roof, a curious scarecrow shape, sitting as if he were, indeed, levitating. I answered, “I didn’t get any messages. But then, I don’t expect any messages so I never stop to check.”

“Exactly what I figured. I was at the office this morning and the lady gave it to me to give to you. Someone called from the mainland—wanted to come over on the boat taxi to see you. The island’s got to give permission, you know. Someone named Ebanks.”

I said, “Ebanks? I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“They left a number to call.”

I told him, “Maybe when I get back,” and jogged away.

 

 

 

G
uava Key is contoured by high hills and valleys, which are really the remains of pyramidlike temples built of shell by contemporaries of the Aztecs, a people known as the Calusa. After a couple hundred years of neglect and detritus rot, the shell base was now covered by loam and trees and designer landscaping.