The Man Who Ivented Florida (44 page)

When
the paramedic told Tuck, "The IV's kicked Mr. Short's blood pressure right back up—things are looking pretty good," he thanked the man, turned to tip his hat to Agent Walker, then walked back toward his ranch house, shaking hands along the way.

People would say to him, "Glad the state ain't taking your land, but too bad about the water."

Tuck would say, "Well, maybe it kills germs, being poisoned the way it is. One way or the other, it's keepin' me young."

He wanted to sit in his chair on the porch, just look at the view, enjoy the feeling of the land being his. Let Lemar Flowers handle things when Miz Walker stopped to ask more questions, as he knew she would. Just sit there smiling, watching her face as Lemar explained the facts of life when it came to old maritime law.

"As it so happens," Lemar would say, "I am also Mr. Short's legal counsel. And I hope you don't waste the court's time by trying to involve him in some frivolous charges."

Old Lemar, he knew how to weave words together. Like that land trust business. Lemar had said, "You want to sell your nephew seventy-five acres without him knowing it? Then you put it down on paper at appraised value, but only pay yourself a buck; do it all through a set-up corporate front. Name it Development Unlimited and Key Enterprises. Let the state try to figure out what it is. That's what you call him, isn't it? D-u-k-e?"

Tuck had liked that. Only he'd changed Key to Kamikaze— thought it had more flair. And Marion wouldn't know a thing about it.

"Until you die," Lemar had pointed out. "Then he gets it, free of inheritance tax."

Lemar had sounded kind of eager when he said that. After all, he had the same deal—only Lemar just got twenty-five acres.

Tuck already had plans for who got the rest.

Which made him think of Joseph.

That damn Injun. First time a plan of mine's ever worked right, and he's not around to see it. Maybe I'll call that Cypress Gate man, have him return the chickens and give back his horse in trade. Kinda miss the noisy little bastards, plus, it would keep Joe at home.

At the road, Tuck stopped to check for traffic—couldn't wait until all these damn tourists lost interest and headed home. First time in his life he could remember having to look for cars before crossing.

That morning, before saddling his horse, Joseph had told him, "What you done was make Mango just like the rest of Florida. That's saving it?"

But like Lemar said, "You got to break a few eggs to make an omelet."

From where he stood, Tuck could look beyond the sharp curve that led up Mango Road to the Tamiami Trail. A few cars were headed away, not many. People were too busy gawking at Henry Short down by the water. Even some of the state park people, standing there as if they might be able to help, but really just fascinated by the blood.

People don't get to see blood no more unless it's on TV or in a hospital. Like they're surprised we're made of it, blood and dust.

Tuck started to cross but then paused to watch the helicopter flap off. That took a minute or so, and the next time he glanced up the road, there was Joseph! That big black horse, Buster, had been quarter-gaiting in close to the mangroves, which is why Tuck hadn't seen him in the first place. It was always something Tuck took pleasure in, watching Joseph ride—though he would never have admitted it. The big man could sit a horse. Held himself on the saddle so that he flowed right along with the animal, no effort at all. Like he was doing now: Joe holding the reins in his left hand, wearing jeans and a pretty blue shirt one of the trailer park women had made for him. Had something in a white bag tied to the saddle horn, and... something else that was different, too, but Tuck couldn't figure it at first. But then he realized, Joseph wasn't wearing his roper's hat. Joe almost always wore his hat, especially when he was riding, but now he was bare-headed, except for a bright red ribbon of rag he had tied around his forehead so that the ribbon snapped in the wind.

Gawldamn, now he's even startin' to dress like an Injun.

Joseph looked up and waved, a look of amusement on his face. Tuck waved back, then stood there figuring how he'd work it. Joseph would ride up and say, "How'd the meeting go?" But Tuck decided he wouldn't answer right off. He'd say, "You want to know so bad, whyn't you stay here, see for yourself?"

Let Joseph stew a while, then just let the story slip out kind of matter-of-fact, like he'd expected to beat the park people all along, no problem.

Tuck grinned. Yep, that's just what he'd do. Make Joseph pull the story out of him; let the man see for himself just what a smart partner he'd had for all these years.

But then Tuck heard a woman yell, "Somebody stop that man!" and he stopped thinking about Joseph.

It was Miz Walker's voice, Tuck realized, and he whirled around to see that pretty woman sprinting away from the beach, pushing people aside as she ran toward the road.

A couple hundred yards ahead of her, someone else was running, too. A man, short little guy with muscles, that Tuck remembered from the marina, the day he'd used the chart to convince him that, by boat, the best way to Everglades National Park was through a narrow little cut. The Auger Hole, which was only about three or four miles from old Henry's island.

Herbott, that was the guy's name. Tuck had gotten another quick look at him, hog-tied in the bottom of Henry's boat.

Some cop. I deliver her four men and she's already lost two of 'em.

"I am ordering you to stop!"

Gad, now she had a gun out. Little black pistol—
that
made people scatter!

Tuck watched the man hesitate at the road, as if unsure which way to go. Walker was closing on him. That woman could run, even in a skirt! Then Herbott seemed to notice the white van—the engine was still running, keeping it cool inside. That quick, the man had the door open, jumped inside, and spun the tires, peeling out fast.

Tuck shook his head, chuckling to himself . . . but then he abruptly sobered, feeling a chill as if from a sharp wind. His eyes found Joseph, who was riding out on the road now, just east of where the blind curve swooped south. Then his eyes found the van again, accelerating fast from the south, with Herbott hunched over the wheel, no intention of slowing for the curve or anything else.

Then Tuck was running, too. Running hard toward Joseph, waving his arms at him, calling, "Get over, get over. Move that horse over, you gawldang fool!"

He was still yelling and waving when the van skidded around the curve, and then everything seemed to happen at once, but in terrible slow motion. Tuck could see surprise widen Joseph's eyes . . . the shock of being confronted by an out-of-control truck coming too fast to avoid hitting him . . . then a different kind of surprise—a kind of joyous bewilderment as his horse, Buster, exploded into one quick galloping stride and then jumped higher than any horse Tuck had ever seen jump before. . . .

As
Joseph Egret approached the last sharp curve into Mango, he saw the expression on Tuck's face, and he thought, I'll be damned, the old pirate won.

He could tell by Tuck's smirk, the way he had his hat tilted at a jaunty angle, thumbs in his belt loops, bowed legs and boots set firmly on the ground, like it was his forever, the land, the bay, the livestock, and everything else either one of them had ever cared much about.

It was Tuck's "you don't have to thank me now" pose.

Sure enough, he won, but he won't tell me about it. Not right off. He'll make me spend the whole night pullin' it out of him. Then I won't be able to get him to shut up about it for the next ten years.

That made Joseph smile, and he let Tuck see the smile as he waved back, talking to Buster as he did. "Know what this means, Buster? Means Tuck'll let me wash these spots off your butt. No more crazy business. For a while, anyway. Tuck always likes to take a little vacation after something big like this. 'Bout six months, maybe."

Joseph had been talking along to Buster all day. Talked to him as they crossed the Tamiami Trail and followed Fakahatchee Trace back to his old palmetto shack. Talked to him as he dug up the bones of his grandfather and set them in the shade in a neat pile, all the earth brushed away, before placing them in the white pillowcase Sally Carmel had given him.

"He never amounted to much, but he wasn't a bad granddaddy, Buster. Took me all over the islands, campin' and fishin', and told me all them stories." Joseph had looked up at the horse briefly. "He did a lot of fightin', too, but it was all inside. That's what took his energy. But a man don't have to make something of his life to be worth somethin', huh?"

Later, Joseph told Buster what he was gonna do was rebury his grandfather down in the islands, maybe Henry Short's place. "Tuck says it's got a couple of nice mounds there, and flowin' water. And the mosquitoes is so bad, the treasure hunters won't come look n'."

Before h i left his old shack, Joseph took the
Playboy
calendar off the wall, then tied the door back on its hinges. It made the place look more respectable, Joseph felt.

Two hours later, he stopped at Jimmy Tiger's Famous Reptile Show, where he tapped shyly at the door and gave the calendar to Jimmy Tiger as a present.

"Joseph, you sure you don't need it?" Jimmy Tiger had shuffled him inside, brushing aside crawling great-grandchildren, then found a place by an oil lamp where, by holding the calendar right to his nose, Joseph knew the old man could see the calendar, because he described the photographs in detail.

"Look at that one! Ooh, and looka this one!"

While Jimmy's pretty granddaughter, Maria, fried fish for lunch, Jimmy asked him, "Joseph, you had any white women?"

Taken by surprise, Joseph had answered, "Today, you mean? It's still pretty early."

The last thing Joseph did before he left Jimmy Tiger's was give his black roper's hat to Maria. He could tell by the way she asked about where he'd bought it that she liked it. "Havana," he told her. "Nineteen fifty-eight."

"The price?" she had asked.

"Uh ... no, the year. But me, I'm feelin' younger every day."

In return, she had tied a red scarf around his head. "A wind ribbon," she had told him. Then, standing back to look at him, said, "Oh—aren't you handsome!"

The whole way back to Mango, Joseph had wondered about the way she'd said that. Maria was a big, healthy girl—and such nice skin.

Before he rode off, Jimmy Tiger had told him, "When the signs is right to bury your grandfather, Joe, let me know. We'll do it in the old way. Get the drums out and maybe have some whiskey. Chekika's Son would like that."

Joseph had thought about that, too. He had felt good, sitting in Jimmy Tiger's chikee, with kids running around and the smell of food cooking over a wood fire. It would be nice to spend more time there. But Joseph wondered what kind of signs the old man meant. The sky still had its fiery look at night, only not so bright—but maybe that was because the moon was now full. There was still a strange red haze at sunrise and sunset, but now the haze touched the earth, drifting down in the form of fine brown sand.

Well, maybe that was a sign in itself.

Frustrated with himself, Joseph had told Buster, "Damn it, you'd think that was somethin' I'd be naturally good at. Knowin' what a sign is and what it ain't."

He had been puzzling over that—and thinking about Maria, too—as he approached the curve. But when he saw Tuck, he reigned the horse out into the road so he could cross at the curve . . . but then Tuck started making an odd swinging motion with his arms; had a strange pinched expression on his face, too.

"What the hell's Tuck runnin' toward us for, Buster—"

Joseph didn't finish the sentence ... or it was drowned out by the squeal of tires as the white van careened around the curve, still accelerating.

Joseph sat numbly in the saddle—not frightened, just numb, seeing nothing but the glare of the vehicle's windshield and grill, it was on them so fast, and he felt his body relax, his mind calming because the collision was inevitable and there was no escape.

Beneath him, though, the horse was not calm. Buster seemed to buck once, lunged right at the van, and then, Joseph realized, they were both airborne, flying. Looking down, Joseph watched the horse's hooves clear the vehicle's hood by a good six inches as they sailed across the road, and then he had time to catch Tuck's eye among the blur of faces, feeling very high and proud . . . until Buster jolted, untouched, back to earth and Joseph lost a stirrup.

The last thing Joseph thought before impacting with the asphalt was,
What kind of a sign is this? . . .

*  *  *

The
only time Ford had ever heard the same mixture of horror and hurt in his uncle's voice was long, long ago on a night that had been lost along with his own childhood.

"Duke! Get over here—make these vultures back off. He's hurt real bad!"

Tucker Gatrell shouting to him over the heads of a massing crowd and a hundred yards of mangrove beach.

Hearing that voice, that tone, again gave Ford chills. Made him want to walk the other way and just keep walking.

But he didn't. Instead, he began to jog toward his uncle.

Christ, now what? . . .

Ford hadn't seen any of it. Hadn't seen Walker chasing Charles Herbott, didn't see Herbott speed off in the van. He'd been down by the water, off alone, testing himself to see how he felt about being used by Tuck one more time.

That bastard knew all along about the water. Probably had the analysis done in Georgia or someplace, one of his redneck buddies up there, but needed an outsider to introduce the data. Me, the outsider.

Well, that sounded just about right.

Ford had been going through all the possible scenarios in his careful, obsessive way. Didn't want to think about it, but he couldn't help it. Tried to shift his attention to Sally Carmel, but that didn't last; even allowed himself to consider Agent Walker in a less than professional way—the woman had impressed him.

But then he saw something out in the bay that did focus his attention: a jade green flats skiff, poling platform like a roof over the outboard, hunched down and throwing a rooster tail as it planed toward Mango.