The Mangrove Coast (4 page)

I was wiping my hands on a towel when I heard, “Duke? Jesus, it used to be easier calling Truman than gettin’ holt of you. Back when I was guiding, I mean.”

I recognized the voice immediately … which is why I was immediately sorry that I’d answered the phone.

The voice said, “As in
Harry
Truman—you maybe heard the name? Which, a’course, was when both us was still alive and fishing the islands down off the ‘Glades.” There was a pause before he added, “Him being the dead one, of course. Me being still full of ginger.”

“Your fishing buddy, the president,” I replied. “Yeah, I think you mentioned him a couple of times before.”

I then heard the sound of a belch, part gas, part grunt, followed by: “Whew! Little bastard snuck right out the front hatch. Well … they say beer’s got body so it’s sure as shit got soul, and that was the sound of a six-pack headed south.
!Vaya con Dios, mi amigo!
The beer, I’m talkin’ about, Duke.” Then he belched again.

So the man was drunk. No surprise there.

Into the phone, I said, “Look … about that name—you can call me anything you want. Ford or Doc or even Marion. But not Duke. You say it, I look around, like, ‘Who’s he mean?’ I don’t know who the hell you’re talking about.”

He said, “You serious? Goddamn, you are serious.”

“It’s a small thing to ask,” I said.

“But, hell, I thought up that nickname my own self.”

I told him, “I think we’ve discussed that a couple of times, too.”

Said it nicely.

Why had I spent so much of my life trying to be nice to the man?

Tucker Gatrell: line up a thousand men and he’s the one you’d vote most likely to die in a trailer fire or while replacing the shocks on some beat-up half-ton Ford.

He was more than a decade older than my late mother. He looked seventy when I was fifteen. By the time I was thirty, he still looked seventy and he still wore skinny-legged Levi’s and pearl-buttoned shirts. Cowboy clothes, because he owned a mud-and-mangrove ranch in a backwater called Mango; little tiny fishing village south of Marco Island where he kept a horse and a few cows.

Journalists loved the guy; saw him as an Authentic Everglades Voice. That he claimed to have guided a lengthy list of rich and famous sportsmen added fabric. More than one writer said Tuck resembled an older Robert Mitchum, but that had more to do with his attitude than his looks. He had the Jack Daniel’s swagger, the polar blue eyes, the shoulders and scrawny hips, but he lacked the style. Not that any journalist ever nailed down the man’s deficits.

No. They saw in him whatever they wanted to see. That was an indicator of Tucker’s one true gift: He had the qualities of a mirror. That he lacked depth was part of the deal. Not that anyone, except for me, of course, was critical enough to notice.

There were reasons I didn’t like or trust Tuck. Several very good reasons, indeed.

So now he’d called, I’d answered, and I’d have to listen to him … but that didn’t mean I had to stand there wasting time when there were fish waiting to be dissected in my lab.

I said to him, “Did you telephone just to see if I got your messages? Or is there actually a reason?”

“So the boys at the marina told you I’ve been callin’.”

“They stick my messages on the board just like everyone else’s. But you never said what you wanted.”

He seemed momentarily miffed. “God dang! I got to have a reason to call my own nephew?”

“At midnight? Yeah, you need a reason. It doesn’t have to be a great reason, but a reason. I was trying to sleep.”

Another lie. The man brought out the very worst in me. Which he seemed to realize … and it delighted him.

“That right? You don’t sound the least bit sleepy. ‘Fact, you sound chipper as can be.”

His way of demonstrating that he had good instincts for what was true, what wasn’t. Infuriating.

I said, “I was getting ready to go to bed. That’s what I meant. I’ve been working in the lab.”

“Ah.”

“I’ve got a lot of things going on right now. Some of us have obligations.”

Jesus—he had a knack for making me sound like a pious little geek.

Tuck replied, “You were always the busiest kid I ever seen. Lotsa people get shit stacked on ’em, but you’d always grab a shovel and dig your way towards the bottom of the pile. Couldn’t tell if it was ’cause you got a bad sense of direction or just loved being alone.

“A man who can’t find time to have a little fun, I always kinda wondered about.”

Before I could reply to the implications of that, he asked, “Still studying them baby tarpon?”

This was another part of his ritual, talking about tarpon.

Knowing what was coming, I listened to him say, “Still putting them under microscopes and stuff just to figure out where they spawn? I coulda solved that one for you years ago, saved all you busy biologists the trouble. You want me to tell you where tarpon spawn?”

He was going to tell me anyway, so I said, “I’m all ears.”

He said, “The tarpon, they come shallow to spawn, which is why you find so many baby tarpon up the creeks in the Ten Thousand Islands. All you got to do is go out and look with your own eyes. I know places way up in the sawgrass the water’s so fresh they’s gar and bass and bullfrogs. But there’re plenty of them baby tarpon, too. Why else? ’Cause the males and big cows migrate shallow to spawn, just loaded with milt and roe.”

He was right about finding immature tarpon in fresh water, but he was wrong about everything else.

Typical Gatrell.

More than once, I’d patiently explained the facts to him: despite the folklore, research indicated that tarpon spawned in deep water … but I wasn’t going to waste my time going through it again.

I said, “Yeah, tarpon. I’m still working on tarpon.”

Another lie.

Truth was, for the last couple of months, I’d been helping doctors Roy Crabtree and Lewis Bullock of the Florida Marine Research Institute on a study they were doing on the age, growth and reproduction of black grouper in Florida waters.

I found the subject fascinating.

Tucker Gatrell would not.

So I did not tell him that, for the last many weeks, I’d spent my time in the lab preparing thin sections of otolith—ear bone—taken from grouper I’d caught, then counting annuli, or growth rings, using my powerful Wolfe compound microscope.

One ring equaled a year’s growth, just as with many trees.

And I did not tell him that I’d spent the last several days offshore with two Useppa Island friends and part-time treasure salvers, Harry and Jane Robb, aboard their forty-two-foot Shay, catching more grouper to bring back and dissect for a broader sample. Which is why I had only recently received his phone messages … not that I would have called him anyway.

Why bother? In Tucker Gatrell’s vision of existence, all fellow life-forms were treated as props and sundries to better stage his own little forays against boredom and normalcy. He had no interest in what I was doing. More to the point, he had no interest in a process that could be weighed and measured and proven to be true.

We were, in short, exact opposites. And, unlike some opposites, we repelled rather than attracted.

Which is why I pressed the lie, continuing, “Yeah, the tarpon studies have been moving pretty well. And now that you explained to me where it is tarpon go to spawn, I should be able to wrap up the whole business in another day or two. After that, I’ll take a couple of weeks off. Kick back and relax.”

There. Show him I could have as much fun as the next guy….

Which I thought was cynical and witty and rejoining until Tucker said, “Only a day or two? Perfect.”

Jesus, he believed me.

I said, “Yeah, two days at the most, I should have the whole tarpon puzzle solved….” But then I caught myself and said, “Perfect? Why’s that perfect?”

“Because that’s what I was hoping for.”

The way he said that, I felt a little chill; as if I’d stepped on a false floor of bamboo—a punji pit—and could feel the bottom falling away.

I listened to him say, “Reason is, I got a favor to ask and I felt bad about it. You being usually too busy and all.”

I hated the feeling that gave me, of being so stupid. The old bastard seemed to have the ability to anticipate my thoughts, my moves, and neatly manipulate my reactions, just as he had once manipulated herds of his damn wormy cattle.

I said, “Favor?”

He said, “Yeah. Now that I know you got the time, it shouldn’t be a problem.” Then he added quickly, “It’s not for me, understand. It’s for a woman. Pretty little woman, by the sound of her voice.”

Thinking,
Is he drunk or insane?
I said, “By the sound of her voice? You call me at midnight to ask me to do a favor for a woman you’ve never even met?”

“Oh, I met her. I met her on the phone when she called huntin’ you. It’s just that I never seen her. You ain’t, either. Or so she says.”

Was any of this supposed to make sense?

I said, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Ain’t you listening? The woman who called me, the one I’m bringin’ to your house tomorrow morning. Well … actually, I’m driving my pickup and she’s gonna follow me in her own car. Unless I can talk her into ridin’ with me … which I damn sure hope to do. She says she needs to talk to you, but the only address she had was from back in the days when you had mail sent to my ranch. So she had to track me down first. Amanda Calloway. That name don’t ring a bell?”

I said, “I don’t know anyone named Amanda Calloway.” I mulled it over a few more seconds before I said, “Nope … I’ve never heard of anyone by that name. So, with all the work I have to do, I don’t have time to meet her or anyone else—”

He cut me off, saying, “Wait, I don’t mean Calloway. That’s her what-a-you-call-it … her adopted name, the name she goes by now. The name she gave me, the one she said you’d know is Richardson. Amanda Richardson. That’s who she used to be.”

“Same thing. I don’t know any Amandas—”

“And she said to mention Bobby Richardson.”

It stopped me cold.

Bobby Richardson
…?

I hadn’t heard his name spoken aloud in fifteen, maybe sixteen years. Not that I had forgotten him. No. Men like Bobby Richardson, you don’t forget.

I said, “Amanda is Bobby’s widow? … wait a minute. That doesn’t sound right. His wife’s name wasn’t Amanda. Her name was …”

I couldn’t remember. What the hell was the name of Bobby’s wife? He’d talked about her often enough during those long, soggy nights in the rain forests of Asia. It was stored somewhere in my memory, but I was having trouble bringing it to the surface.

Tucker said, “The girl says her mamma’s name is Gail—”

Gail.
That was the wife’s name. Gail Richardson.

“—but this is his daughter; she’s the one I’m talking
about. Amanda. She’s the one who wants to see you, this man’s little girl. Or was the man’s little girl, I guess. She said he died when she was, what, less than five years old?”

I said, “Bobby died when his daughter was a child. That’s right.”

“Then she’s the one. The one who called me trying to find you and that I’m bringing with me to Sanibel tomorrow … now that you said you’re not too busy. ‘Cause she wants to talk to you and needs to ask a favor.”

Bobby’s daughter? Just hearing the man’s name brought back memories of a time in my life and of a style of life that now seemed as remote as the far side of the Earth or as distant as a comet’s bright contrail.

The girl was wrong about one thing, though. I
had
seen her before. I’d seen her in a photograph, long, long ago …

When I hung up the phone, I wandered around the lab putting things away, getting dissecting table and instruments clean and neat so I could start fresh the next day. But I was operating on autopilot. My routine in the lab is so entrenched that it takes no conscious effort. Good thing, too, because my mind had locked onto the task of digging out and dusting off memories that were nearly two decades old.

The photograph … I could still see the photograph of a little girl named Amanda Richardson in fairly precise detail … probably because Bobby had pulled it out and showed it to me so many times.

It was one of those quick-print Polaroid shots, Easteregg bright colors, that someone back in the States had had the good sense to have laminated before sending it to our APO address in Bangkok.

There’s lots and lots of rain in the jungles of Southeast Asia. Metal rusts. Cloth rots. Paper turns to paste. But, because it was laminated, the photo survived our months there.

Unfortunately, Bobby had not.

Here’s what I could reconstruct of the photo: a tiny girl with hair the color of freshly sheared copper wearing a frilly yellow dress, as if ready for a birthday party.

That was it: the photo had been taken on Amanda’s birthday. Third birthday or fourth, I couldn’t remember.

And … the girl wore plastic-rimmed, nerdish glasses … and gloves. Yes, gloves. Her small hands folded.

Nothing very distinctive about that, but what I remembered better than the glasses was that the child’s left eye was turned slightly inward, a malady that I knew to be strabismus, or lazy eye, as it is sometimes called. Bobby said they’d have it fixed when the girl was old enough, not that he was worried about it. And buy her some more stylish glasses, too.