The Heat Islands: A Doc Ford Novel (14 page)

Men with money taking a long weekend; not bad guys from the way they behaved, just out to have some fun. Drinking, fishing, now playing darts. Also getting their collective butts kicked by Dewey. judging from the expression on their faces.

Ford said. "Those guys aren't used to getting beat by a woman."

Walda was nodding. "If they are going to play with Dewey, they had better get used to it," looking at Ford, not smiling, but congenial, still wanting to make conversation. maybe beginning to feel the two Johnnie Walker Blacks she'd had, nearly finished with her third. She touched Ford's hand briefly, getting his attention. "Dewey speaks very well of you."

"That's nice."

"Forgive me for saying it... well, perhaps I shouldn't."

"Feel free. Say what you want."

"Okay. I was going to say you don't look like the men we normally meet. Your face, not handsome, but like you've been some bad places and it's made you kinder. No. not kinder. There's a phrase in Romanian:
Mai intelept decit batrinii.
That's the look you have."

Ford asked, "Which means?"

"If I could say it in English, I would." Like she wanted to do some verbal jousting, feeling him out. When he didn't react, she said, "It didn't bother you that I said you're not handsome? Some women would think you are. But the men we meet on the tour are often very handsome. And very rich. Docs that make you uneasy?"

"Nope."

"No big ego. Dewey said that's one of the things she likes about you. She beats you, but you don't mind. She says you are an exceptionally strong swimmer, you could pull boats. But she runs faster than you, and you don't make excuses. That's a rare thing in men."

"And in women."

"Oh?"

"Yes."

"But I can give you an example. See that man's face?" She meant the tall one. the one with the simmering look, holding his mouth like it was a steam valve while Dewey waved her arms around, yelling into his face, "Bullshit! That wasn't on the line! You don't know the rules, you shouldn't play!" Like she apparently sometimes talked to tennis referees. Or umpires. Whatever they called them. Ford didn't know.

Walda said, "Men act like that. She says you don't. That's what I mean."

The television was on the upright piano near the dart board, and Ford could see the screen just past Walda's right car. He was trying not to be obvious about watching. Usually, he sat at the bar with Terry, and Rob. the owner, but now they were over there and he was here.

On the screen. Boggs had doubled and now Mike Greenwell was up.

Ford said, "So it's hard to find guys who lose gracefully?"

"That's not exactly the point."

"She's a professional athlete, I'm not. Competing seems a little silly."

"Precisely!"

"We're in two different fields. Me trying to beat her at sports would be like ... like her coming into my lab and trying to beat me ... at... at—"

Greenwell hit a bullet with that great swing of his, but the shortstop flagged it, and they doubled Boggs at seeond. End of inning.

Walda said, "Beat you at what?"

Ford said, "At anything. Who cares?" He wasn't a fan of a particular team, but there were certain hitters he enjoyed watching—unless they got robbed with men in scoring position.

Walda was leaning toward him, nodding her head. "You are so right. In my own country, all over Eastern

Europe, wives are kept pregnant until they produce a son. Did you know that?"

Ford knew it but said nothing.

"My own father and mother kept trying until they had seven daughters. It's absurd, the importance of a person's sex, when there are so many things going on. Important things."

"Yep," Ford said. Now he was watching Clemens take his warm-up pitches, bringing that fastball from right behind his head, it seemed.

"Exactly. Only in a society that has so much free time— and so much freedom!—could the masses care about such matters. One group fighting against the other."

"Right."

"They don't communicate, they compete. Prosperity doesn't unify, it magnifies differences. That is why my countrymen united so quickly. No prosperity, none. I'll know Romania is doing well when Romanians begin to fight among themselves."

Three up, three down; Clemens, the rocket man. throwing gas right up to the commercial break: "I love what you do for me, Toyota." George Brett wouldn't get up until next inning. Ford stood. "I'm going to get another beer; you want anything?"

Walda swirled the ice in her glass. "Yes, but make this one something different. A margarita; a lot of salt. Hey, Dewey"—she was calling across the room, over the empty tables: these two women dominating the room—"why don't you try a margarita? They're not strong. Doc's going to the bar."

Dewey was pulling darts out of the board, distracted, probably calculating her score. "I'll have another iced tea, but I'm buying. Give me about two more minutes, and each one of these D.C. cowboys is going to owe me ten bucks." Laughing, saying it into the faces of the three bankers, she was standing there in the black T-shirt and shorts that were loose enough on her to suggest all the taut curves beneath, which is probably why the men had asked her to play in the first place.

At the bar, Terry, with his Buddha eyes and shaggy gray hair said. "That's a lively little woman there. What, she doesn't drink?"

Ford said, "Guess not."

"Back when I used to womanize, that always added about an extra week to the schedule. A woman who didn't drink. Got so I avoided 'em."

"Don't say that to her face. You might get your windows tinted."

"What?"

"Smacked."

"Ah. She's pretty tough on those guys."

"Get on the wrong side of her, and Dewey's no day at the beach. They been here before?"

"Nope. They came in this afternoon. Bossy; they wanted everything their way, but that's normal when people try to push too much fun into too few days. I don't think your friend is fitting into their game plan."

Ford was waiting on the drinks, leaning against the bar. "With Dewey, you either fit into her game plan or you don't fit at all."

"I think one of those bankers is looking to make the creature with two backs."

"Instead, they got a night of Dewey. Must be a shock. I kind of feel for them."

"Are you with her or the one at the table?"

"Both, I guess."

"She's pretty, too—but in a different way." Meaning Walda. "The more you look, the prettier she gets. But not really pretty—interesting. That kind. But not romantic, huh? With either one of them?"

From so much sun, the skin at Ford's eyes crinkled when he smiled. "Having trouble concentrating on the game? I'm not even sure what inning it is."

"Who knows. I just sit here for the companionship. It's just that she doesn't seem like your type, the one playing darts."

"I guess that's why I like her. She's not a type."

Ford was taking the can of beer, the iced tea, and the wide margarita glass in his hands, turning, and as he did, he saw back into the corner of the dining room for the first time.

There sat Karl Sutter.

Ford recognized the wide back and the blond hair poking out from beneath the fishing cap, and the puckered outline of Sutter's tiny pink mouth.

Ford stood there for a moment, looking. Thought about detouring past the man, stopping just long enough to say something about Sutter cutting his boat loose; let Sutter know he knew; not even let on it was only a suspicion. Pretend he had been seen parked in that white car back in among the mangroves. Pretend he knew Sutter had futzed up the bilge pump of his skiff, then snuck back later and cut the boat free. Put it on the line and see how Sutter reacted. But then Ford thought,
No. wait and see how far he'll take it. Give him plenty of rope.

Sutter sat across the table from another man: executive-looking type with carefully sprayed hair, a tasteful knit sports shirt; wearing those clothes like a pennant, permission to socialize. They were both leaning across the table. Low voices; an intense expression on the face of the executive. A serious conversation, and private, too, way back there in the corner.

Ford said. "What about that guy. over there at the far table. You know him?"

"The one's Karl Sutter, kind of a half-assed fishing guide—"

"No, the one facing us."

Terry said, "No-o-o-o, but the face is sort of familiar. You want me to check?"

Ford said, "I'd appreciate that," as he watched Dewey returning to their table; watched her give Walda a locker-room squeeze, both of them laughing, sharing something between them. Watched the tall banker peeling off bills from a wad and throwing them onto the table, pissed but trying to act like it didn't bother him. Watched the banker lean and say something into Dewey's ear, then saw Dewey's face change; saw it pale from tan to mottled white, and Ford thought,
Uh-oh,
taking his eyeglasses off and placing them on the bar.

Then he watched a blurry Dewey twist to the right as if in slow motion ... check herself, as if giving it careful thought... then twist back to the left before doubling her fist and hitting the yachtsman hard on the left cheek of his surprised face—could see the surprise in those wide, wild eyes of his—and watched him backpedal into the next table, falling over it backward, knocking off all the drinks, landing hard in the mess on the wooden floor as Dewey yelled, "Turd!" standing over the guy like a boxer, challenging him to get up.

By the time Terry said, "Oh, shit," Ford was already moving toward Dewey, watching the scene develop, people moving in all directions: people getting up from their dinner to see what in the hell all the noise was; Walda jumping up so quick her chair tumbled over behind her, the banker's two buddies charging in, one of them reaching out to shove Dewey away, but then Walda was there. Walda caught the man's arm as he was moving forward, then leveraged it downward and pulled, using his own momentum to swing him headfirst into the piano; hit so hard, the piano jolted sideways, knocking the dart board off the wall, signed dollar bills flying everywhere, swirling in the wake of the ceiling fan.

Ford caught the seeond guy in a loose bear hug just before he got to Dewey, holding him back and yelling at the guy, "She's done; she's not going to hit him again. Let's just stop it." But then the first banker got to his feet and Dewey did hit him again; smacked him right in the face, making a sound like plywood slapping together, and Ford knew his credibility was shot.

So he let the seeond guy break free, thinking maybe there was still hope of reasoning this thing out. But there wasn't. Not after the guy lunged at Dewey, trying to hold her, but instead fell over her as she ducked, both of them falling against the fireplace, swinging wildly, with Dewey still yelling things. Then the first banker was back into it, bleeding from the nose, and Ford jumped in front of him, getting his arms up. catching punches on his elbows and shoulders until a stunning impact buckled his knees, like being immersed in ammonia. Then he was on the floor, kneeling groggily. noise all around him, thinking he'd been punched—but then realized the slick substance on his face was pic filling, not blood, and saw the broken chunks of ceramic on the floor beside him.

Christ, he'd been hit in the head with a plate.

Someone was throwing plates ... Walda, that's who. Taking desserts and coffee cups off the tables, then hurling them, driving both bankers out of the bar—now the third one. too. as he got shakily to his feet over there by the piano. The three men backing fast onto the porch, hollering threats, but mostly ducking as Walda bore down on them, her dark eyes intense, as if she was sighting down a Baretta instead of throwing plates of half-eaten pic. Caught up in a rage that had silenced the whole bar—even Dewey was just standing, watching now—then Walda seemed to catch herself, as if on the edge of something, visibly pulling herself back.

In the sudden quiet, she spoke to Dewey. "What did that bastard say to you?"

Dewey was looking at the porch, as if the bankers might return. "He said I'd screwed him, so now I should let him screw me. Only he didn't say
screw."
Toning down her language with people listening. "No one talks to me like that. Never again. That's why I hit him."

Ford was sitting on a bar stool, leaning his weight against the bar. He was aware that the dining room had emptied, all the guests stacked up at the bar entrance, watching the show. Sutter was there, taller than everyone, his eyes fixed on the two women, his expression strange, slightly flushed.

Ford didn't like the way his face looked, like someone who enjoyed car wrecks.

Walda turned from Ford to Dewey, then back to Ford, and said in the silence, "Do you normally bring ladies to dumps like this?" Using her hands to indicate the mess on the floor and the overturned tables. Which caused the people watching to laugh.

Ford said, "No, so I thought you two might feel right at home." Which made Dewey smile, then chuckle as she put her arm around Walda. then they were both laughing, roaring, letting the tension go.

Walda was pointing at Ford. "I hit you in the head with a plate! I'm sorry; I didn't mean to. But you looked so funny! The way you ... the way you went down ...!" Laughing so hard she couldn't talk.

Wide-eyed. Dewey said, "You hit Doc? You missed and hit Doc? Hah! On the melon?" Which doubled her over.

Ford said. "I have key lime pie in my eustachian tube," holding up his index finger for inspection. He said, "You think that's funny? You thought the bill for damages Terry gave you was funny. You thought that banker threatening a lawsuit was funny. You girls think everything is funny. I could go deaf."

"Women! Not girls. Women!"

Dewey and Walda were in the kitchen of Dewey's Captiva beach house, making drinks. Maybe more margaritas; he could hear the blender. Terry had refused them service after the fight, and now Walda said she wanted to get a little drunk. Dewey said, yeah, they had earned it, and she might have a drink, too—which was a shocker. So Ford had made the midnight crossing from Cabbage Key to Captiva Island, running the Intracoastal to Captiva Pass, then cutting across the flats, all that dark water, to the docks at Blind Pass, where Dewey kept a slip.