Night Moves (Doc Ford)

23




THAT AFTERNOON, I WAS ALONE IN MY LAB AWAITING a telephone update from Lt. Kerry Brett while I also kept an eye on the drug dealer, Kondo Ogbay. With Ogbay were three associates, all voodoo devotees judging from their head nets of red and black, who had loaded themselves into a rental boat—a twenty-foot tri-hull with a sun awning and red plastic upholstery from a marina on the other side of the causeway. When they were seated, the little sumo-shaped man freed the lines, then idled out the channel. Tomlinson’s dinghy was ashore, but his absence didn’t stop the drug dealer from waving at No Más and calling a cheery greeting that sounded like: “How you doin’, mon? We gone check’n you maggy drops! Be fun, you joyin’ us!”

Which was nonsensical until I played with the phonetics, replaced a few words, and finally understood. “We’re going to check on your magic crops!” is what the witch doctor had said. It was a reference to mangrove islands with enough high ground to plant seeds and harvest crops. Pot was the money crop, in Tomlinson’s case, and there were several secret spots he tended with a shepherd’s tender care. Now Kondo and friends were on a raiding trip, apparently, and had challenged Tomlinson to interfere with this cryptic taunt.

Watching through the north window, I spoke softly to Kondo, who was a football field away, saying, “Break a leg,” and I wasn’t smiling. One option was to get in my boat and follow. Instead, I called my cousin Ransom, who knows about voodoo and obeah because she was raised in the Bahamas and who might even recognize Kondo if she stepped out on her dock—she’s popular with the wealthy nightclub set from Naples to Sarasota. The channel from Dinkin’s Bay exits at Woodring Point, where Ransom lives—rents among the last of the old Cracker houses—and Kondo’s boat would soon be passing by.

“Why you think I be home on a Thursday ’stead of working?” she asked after answering her cell phone.

When I told her why I hoped she was home, Ransom said, “That not his real name, why you have truck wid that bad man? His real name, it Sylvester—like in the Rocky movies his uneducated mama probably loved, but who knows?” After a thoughtful pause, she then asked, “You say Kondo’s in a rental boat? A man wid his money, what the hell he doin’ in a damn rental boat? Think he lives in Kingston, but he got a place in Naples, too. A bad boy like Kondo, he’d have him a fast boat.”

“You’ve met him?” I asked.

My stubborn cousin replied, “Tell me how much Tomlinson owe that midget ’fore I tell you another damn thing.”

“Ransom,” I said patiently, “this might be important.”

She sighed, but gave in. “Even a dumb Haitian know an island woman not put up wid his bullshit, so, no, Kondo, he avoid me. But the money people—at parties, at the clubs, I’m sayin’—they treat him like somethin’ special. You know what does. Sells ’em herb, then a Santeria blessing if they pay four, five hundred cash to buy a damn dirty pigeon that Kondo call a dove. Or cast an assault obeah on some business enemy—these smart people, I’m talking about, good-looking, wid cars and houses. I hear them at parties whisperin’, thinkin’ they very cool to have they own Haitian voodoo man can invite for drinks when they in Jamaica, Saint Martin—that boy get around. You know what else he do . . . ?”

As I listened to Ransom talk, I slipped outside to the porch and peeked around a corner at the yacht Seduci. The Brazilian was there, sitting with coffee on the flybridge. He, too, was following the progress of the rental boat, but was only vaguely interested. If he had wanted details, there were binoculars next to him.

I retreated behind the corner, asking, “Have you told Tomlinson any of this?”

In her mellow, singsong way of speaking, my cousin replied, “Mary, Mary, you quite contrary today—Marion. Why waste time speaking reason to a scarecrow who think wid his dick, not his brain?”

I knew better than to reply, Because you’re still in love with him? so postponed more details, saying, “I’ll be away this weekend, but how about dinner next week?”

“Don’t you bring that damn Tomlinson. He better off standin’ in some cornfield. Not speaking wid that particular person never again.”

“Just us,” I assured her. “I’ll leave him behind, and you promise not to bring one of your brownnosing boyfriends.”

For some reason, Ransom thought that was hilarious. “Brownnosing, ho-ho-ho, oh lordy, the words come out your mouth! So quick ’n’ clever, I love you, brudder!”

Not clever at all because the joke was accidental, which I didn’t figure out until watching the Brazilian again, who still hadn’t reached for his binoculars.

Fascinating, Diemer might have commented because I still couldn’t fit the man into a schematic that made any sense. True, unexplained elements noted within a similar time frame aren’t necessarily related, but I had witnessed, with my own eyes, the Brazilian’s talent for black ops and burglary. His skills were too finely tuned to risk inactivity, plus he thrived on the adrenaline rush—why waste time on anything but a working vacation?

He wouldn’t. Yet, a Caribbean dope dealer would be of no concern to Diemer or his wealthy clients. Neither I nor Tomlinson were his targets, I was convinced. And it was unlikely a man of his experience would’ve risked burgling Cressa’s home in advance of executing someone who could be linked to the place. So why the hell was the Brazilian in Dinkin’s Bay?

I stepped out from behind the corner and picked up the dog’s water bucket. Diemer failed to notice, so I emptied the bucket over the railing just to see how he reacted. As I did it, he looked up, focused, and then acknowledged me with a slight bow—a European touch that I returned via a friendly salute.

Maybe he won’t be such a bad partner after all, I was thinking.

—

DIEMER HAD BEEN RIGHT about the burglary—so far. I had no idea what he’d stolen in that shoulder pack, and was still disturbed by his treatment of a woman he wanted to seduce, but I couldn’t fault his expertise. Cressa Arturo, according to Tomlinson, had been actress enough to feign surprise when told that Deano had been arrested and his partner had fled, but she showed nothing close to the agitation of a woman who’s discovered her house has been robbed.

Months go by, and they never look, Diemer had told me about the wall safe. Theft for personal gain is gutter behavior, but the guilt I should have felt was blurred by the victim’s own twisted conduct. Cressa had damn near gotten us killed, she’d lied to us, insulted my running partner, and she had finagled information from Tomlinson about the Avenger wreckage and then passed the details along to Deano, who, I was convinced, had booby-trapped our plane. If my assessment was right, and if Bambi was to be believed, she had also used Tomlinson either to sabotage her marriage or to end an affair with her own father-in-law—maybe Deano, too—and had then tried to seduce me, a “dangerous man,” to protect her from the fallout.

The woman was poisonous even from a distance. I was done with the married mistress, which is why I focused on matters at hand as I carried the bucket to the lower deck and filled it with fresh water.

Pull the trigger and you can never stop the bullet, Diemer had told me, which now applied to the deal we’d made. But even if working with him turned out to be a pain in the ass, I could accept that, because some good had already come from it. Along with eliminating Deano and his spear-happy partner from the scene, the Brazilian playboy had canceled his fishing trips with Hannah. Good news, particularly because it had been Diemer’s idea to cancel, not mine. He would be meeting Tomlinson, Dan, and me off Lostman’s River on Saturday morning, so had to get his boat ready for the trip. Hannah hadn’t returned my calls, but if the subject came up, I looked forward to explaining that aside from telling Diemer he should pay for the canceled trips I was innocent of all involvement.

It was pleasant to linger on how our conversation would go—me saying something like, “All you’ve got to sell is your time, so of course you should be paid.” Then Hannah saying, You’re such a thoughtful man! Or, I owe you dinner, Doc. Maybe after swimming the No Wake buoys off Blind Pass? Back on friendly terms again, which would be nice.

Which is why I was in a cheery mood when the retriever appeared, already dry after swimming the afternoon away, and grunted his request to visit the mangroves. I still hadn’t heard the dog bark and was picturing how a snakebite, or constriction, might damage canine vocal cords as I filled his bowl with Eukanuba, then flipped the recliner pad where he slept. I’d replied to the pair of inquiries regarding my lost-and-found ads so might soon have to explain the injury to the dog’s rightful owner. That’s when my landline phone rang, so I hurried inside to answer. Lt. Kerry Brett calling.

First, my cop pal gave me some unsurprising news: Deano had been committed and would be transferred from county jail to a hospital once his family had been notified. Two bottles of generic Vicodin, plus pot, assorted pills, powders, and a cube of hash, found in the man’s backpack would add to his legal difficulties. Deano’s partner, whose name actually was Luke Smith, had been stopped and questioned in the Hertz lot at Southwest Regional but released because, as I’d already told Kerry, I didn’t want to press charges. I just wanted the guy gone from my life.

Then, phone to my ear, Kerry told me something so totally unexpected I replied, “If this is a joke, people here won’t find it funny.”

“Come see for yourself,” he replied, and I went out the door again in search of Tomlinson. At a jog, I crossed the boardwalk, through the mangroves, then picked up speed as I approached the marina, fighting the absurd urge to call out what I’d just heard like some horseless Paul Revere. Mack, who’d stepped out to light a cigar, gave me a lunatic look as I ran past and asked, “Where’s Tomlinson?” The man pointed and said something, but I didn’t hear.

My hipster friend was by the boat ramp, leaning over a spigot, using some kind of biodegradable goop to wash grease off his hands. Instead of blurting out the news as I clomped to a stop, the adolescent in me decided to play it cool.

“Working on your engine?” I asked, even though I knew that was unlikely. He’d just bought a new kicker for his dinghy and the thing was under warranty.

“Nope,” Tomlinson said in an airy, self-satisfied way that was unusual.

The marina’s good tool chest, I noticed, was open near his feet—another oddity. “Mack didn’t give you permission to use those, did he?” Mack didn’t let anyone touch his tools.

“Nope,” Tomlinson said again while his eyes drifted toward the mouth of Dinkin’s Bay, then studied the area. He, too, had been following the progress of Kondo Ogbay’s boat, I realized.

“Ransom had some interesting things to say about your Haitian buddy,” I told him. “I just talked to her—he’s bad news, pal. Did you hear what the guy yelled as he went past No Más?”

Tomlinson found a mechanic’s towel, and began to clean a ratchet he had used. “Yep,” he replied, “every word.”

A spark plug ratchet—that’s what he was cleaning. It caused me to hope there was an association. “You were screwing with Kondo’s engine, weren’t you?” I said. “While they were eating lunch.”

Tomlinson stood, offered me a wink, and said, “Yep.” Then inquired, “How far would you guess it is between here and the sky bridge at Fort Myers Beach? Tide’s ebbing—a full moon tide.”

He had loosened one of the spark plugs, that was my guess. “He’ll be running on only three cylinders, so the tide will push him into the Gulf and he’ll have to idle twice the distance. Like a warning to leave you alone—good for you!”

No, Tomlinson had done worse than that because, instead of answering, he explained, “You’re a bad influence, Doc. I decided you’re right—maybe there’s not a peaceful solution to everything. The dude tried to put me in the loony ward—bad LSD, that’s what he used to lace that grass. Crescent’s still a wreck. He deserved more than just a warning. Maybe it’s the rank acid or because I’m sober, but I don’t feel bad about what I did. In fact, man . . . I feel good.”

Had the peacenik guru really said those words? “Tell me you didn’t do anything crazy,” I pressed. Rig the gas tank to blow up, reverse the polarity of the bilge pump, and sink the boat—there are all sorts of ways.

Tomlinson held a hand up to reassure. “Just the spark plugs,” he said, “all four cylinders. Depending on how hard he pushes the engine, the first plug should blow before he gets to the causeway. Which should really piss him off. A dude like Kondo will take it out on the throttle, so the last three spark plugs will hit the cowling like rockets. Scripture tells us, ‘Render judgment into God’s hands, not thine enemies,’ so that’s what I’m doing. By midnight I’m guessing Kondo and his witch doctor posse will be somewhere between Lighthouse Point and the Yucatán—within easy reach of the Lord. No help from the Coast Guard, either, because someone stole that bastard’s flares.”

You’re really coming along, I wanted to tell him, but I had kept the news to myself long enough. “Kerry called,” I said. “You and I are going back to the West Wind Inn.”

Tomlinson’s ears or instincts had been right about hearing a cat.

“They found Crunch & Des in the adjoining room,” I told him, “but I don’t want to tell Rhonda and JoAnn and the rest until we’re sure.”

“He’s alive? Did those bastards hurt him?” Tomlinson sounded damn-near savage.

“Let’s take my truck and find out.”