The Way of All Fish: A Novel (21 page)

“What bugger is that?” Clive had his money out. “I’m paying for gas.”

“Just you look here,” said Donny Lugz, who didn’t seem to care about the gas as he held up the photo.

Clive looked. What he saw appeared to be a wide field of wheat or sawgrass; given that this wasn’t Kansas, Clive went for sawgrass. In the middle of this field was a small dark blob. “What is it?” Clive felt a response was demanded of him.

“Skunk Ape. It’s the damned Skunk Ape. Dead to rights, I got him!” Donny pinched the picture closer to Clive’s face. “Clear as winter light on the Kissimmee.”

Clive did not want to be saddled with metaphors involving Indian names.

“Yeah, when I take this over to Dave, he’ll flip.”

Clive, used to Dante and Shirlee Murphee, was no stranger to beginnings in medias res, but, unlike
The Divine Comedy,
which gave the reader some toeholds, the Skunk Ape story left Clive dangling.

Donny continued: “Dave, now, he’s the expert on him over at Skunk Ape HQ.”

Him,
referring to the Skunk Ape, Clive concluded. He let Skunk Ape HQ alone.

“Yeah, he’s written him up in a factual way. He gives you chapter and verse. Now, me, I ain’t no expert, so I’m doin’ it like fiction.”

Fiction being completely irresponsible. “If I could just pay for the gas—”

Donny couldn’t care less. He had grabbed up the big magnifying glass. “Now you see him better.” What Clive saw through the glass was a bigger blob. “Ah. This is your Skunk Ape.”

“Right.”

“Well . . .” It could have been a moose, an ape, or a man, as far as Clive was concerned. “I can’t really make out any features.”

“Yeah, you can. You heard the Skunk Ape story, ain’t you?”

Clive did not want to open up any channel that would lead to a complete rundown of Skunk Ape history, habits, and habitat, so he said, “Certainly, yes.” Anyway, the word “story” was a dead giveaway. “Like Big Foot or Sasquatch.”

Waving his hand, Donny fanned that similarity away. “Are they real? That’s the question.”

That was the question for about 50 percent of everything. “Many people believe they are.”

Donny tapped the picture. “Here’s your proof this one
does.
And Dave, he’s got him on video. Vid-e-o. Can’t argue with that! Now, there’s but six or seven Skunk Apes in the Everglades—”

Donny was winding up. Clive knew he was never going to get out of this filling station unless he did something dramatic, like picking up that rifle and pumping a bullet into Mr. Lugz or maybe even himself, so he slid one of his cards out of a cramped slot in his billfold and handed it over. “This is my card. If you have some notion of getting your work published, let me know.”

Donny Lugz looked at first astonished, then absolutely heaven-bound, then just plain as pleased as if the Skunk Ape had stepped through the door to buy a Milky Way. “My God! You publish
books
and stuff   ?”

“I’m just an editor. Mackenzie-Haack is the publisher.”

Donny took off his cap and scratched his gray head. “Jesus! Just wait till I tell Dave.”

Please don’t. That would mean both fiction and nonfiction landing on his desk simultaneously. But having established some street cred with Donny Lugz, Clive could now break away. He handed over a fifty and said, “For the gas.”

Donny was still gazing at the card. “Clive Ester—”

“Esterhaus. If you could just give me the change, I’ve got to get going. Got an appointment.”

“New York. My God. Oh, the gas. Here, just forget it and pay me next time you drop by. Ain’t got no change anyway.”

“I’ll do that. Nice meeting you, Mr. Lugz.”

Clive banged out the door and into his gas-guzzling SUV.

The Sawgrass Motel was as he’d imagined it: like all of the other small motels lined up the Tamiami Trail or Route 29.

He tossed his overnight bag on the double bed (fast becoming a relic), switched on the palm-frond fan, which circled raspingly, and looked over the galley kitchen. The cups and mugs appeared to be various cast-offs from garage sales; the pots and pans had been hammered out back in the Industrial Revolution. He checked out the bathroom, just large enough for him to stand in the doorway and take aim at the toilet.

He glanced at his watch, saw it was approximately the time he’d told Simone Simmons he’d be calling on her, and opened the door. He was thankful that the ’Glades was not at his doorstep, waiting and panting.

A
fter he’d rung the surly-sounding bell, Clive stood outside her door, observing a large tree entwined—or one might say embraced (though he wouldn’t)—by some sort of ropelike smaller tree. How strange, he thought. But it was the land of the strange, and one had to get used to it.

Clive frankly thought it remarkable that Aunt Simone had ever been Uncle Simon. Even with the advantage of foreknowledge, he couldn’t really see it. She was shoed in Louboutin (ah, those red soles!) and layered in L’Heure Bleu (a scent recalled from a former lady friend). Yes, Simone had taken a hike away from Simon.

She wore her dark hair in a thirties bob, had unusually white skin and high cheekbones, and except for being reminded of the Addams family, he found her quite attractive.

“Mr. Esterhaus? How nice. Do come in.”

“Mrs. Simmons.” He smiled and did as he was bade. The cottage was large but not ostentatious. The furniture was typical Floridian, Tommy Bahama strewn with near-reckless abandon, white wicker and bamboo. What surprised Clive was the color that drenched the room, including Simone herself: She wore a drapery of silk on which great swirls of yellow vied with deep blue, as across one shoulder a random trail of marquisette looked like a trail of distant stars. Well, van Gogh’s signature had to be somewhere on that dress. The curtains and chair cushions were so jazzy with color that they had to be Jackson Pollock. Most surprising was the big Mark Rothko parrot, deep red and dead black, and squawking at him from its stand in a huge gilt cage.

“His name is Jasper,” said Simone.

Clive canvassed the room quickly. Jasper Johns hadn’t made the cut.

“Would you care for something? I make excellent martinis.”

“And I drink them.”

She drifted off to a dining room and a bamboo sideboard where bottles were clustered. He helped himself to a seat in a white basket-weave chair with a tall, deeply rounded back, more of a hut than a chair. He liked the privacy as he listened to the rattle of ice against glass and the gurgle of bottles. And Jasper punctuating this harmony with a squawk.

Back she came, carrying two very large fan-shaped chilled glasses with a lemon shaving floating on each surface. They were triples, at least, and icy-cold.

“I believe in chilling glasses and warming dinner plates. One shouldn’t compromise heat and cold.”

Clive gave some thought as to whether Sartre or Santayana might find some moral point to argue. He raised his glass to her, then sipped.

“Now, you wanted to see me about my nephew, Bass. You’re in publishing, you said on the phone.”

“Right. Mackenzie-Haack.” Clive was damned if he was going to say D and D. “Senior editor.” He also wasn’t going to bother with his imprint, since people outside of publishing didn’t know what that meant: “A Clive Esterhaus book.” Big deal to him, but not to many others. “I’ve known Bass for a long time. I know he visits you from time to time.”

“Every November. Thanksgiving. He stays for one week. He hates Florida.”

Clive feigned surprise.

“Loathes it.” She drew the word out to such lengths that it sounded multisyllabic.

Clive smiled. “Indeed.”

“As he’s the last of the family, I insist he come. He pretends to enjoy it, but he can’t unwind. It’s not New York that has him that way, it’s that Bass is such a tight-ass.”

Clive had just taken a drink of the martini and almost choked. He cleared his throat. “Really?”

“Oh, come, now. You know him.” She sipped her martini, placed it on the Tommy Bahama coffee table.

Clive considered dispensing with the ruse but decided against that
line of action. “I agree, he does seem hyper-controlled. Maybe that’s the trouble. He’s been acting very strangely.”

“Spare me. How much stranger can he get?”

Clive was having a hard time striking a tone. He doubted that Simone had been apprised of the Cindy Sella case. “I think Bass might be having an emotional crisis.”

“Bass? A nervous breakdown?” She laughed and then cut the laugh so short she might have taken scissors to it. “He doesn’t have nerves.”

She was hardly the doting aunt. Clive said, “Right now he’s caught up in a legal battle.”

“He’s very litigious.” She studied her flame-painted nails. “That’s because he always thinks he’s right.”

“I honestly believe a change of scene would help him. If you could get him to come here—”

“If my nephew is truly in a state of nervous collapse, this is the last place he’d want to be.”

“Hm. Well, he seems to have fallen out with the wrong people.”

Her heavily green-shadowed eyes widened. “He has?” She seemed more hopeful than distressed by this news.

“There was a shooting in a café. Police are quite certain it was a Mob hit. The shooters appeared to be after Bass. He was in the restaurant.”

“Good Lord, someone took a contract out on Bass? How intriguing.” She sipped her drink. “Whatever did he do?” Her brown eyes sparked.

Clive sidelined the truth. Turning down Fabio’s novel seemed a weight that the truth couldn’t bear. “Insulted one of the capos.”

All she could do was laugh. “You’re saying the spineless wonder actually stood up on his hind legs and told off the Mob? Well!” She polished off the rest of her martini, rose, and collected Clive’s half-empty glass. That Bass had no idea who he was dealing with when he refused to take on Fabio as a client was beside the point.

Simone said, as she made her way to the drinks table, “He won’t, of course, tell me who it was.”

Ice rattling in a shaker. Lovely sound. She continued talking over her shoulder from the dining room: “And he’ll say coming here is inconvenient. No, I don’t see how I’d ever persuade him.” She came back and placed Clive’s fresh drink on the table.

Clive was slightly buzzed already. If he drank this one off, he’d have had the equivalent of four martinis. Not bad. Made daring by vodka, he said, “I see a way. Tell him you’re changing your will.”

She looked twice surprised. “He told you he was the sole heir?”

Clive just smiled and drank.

She also smiled and drank. Then she said with a swish of a leg as she crossed them, “The thing is, Mr. Esterhaus—”

“Clive.”

“Clive. You see, Bass isn’t getting all he thinks he is. At least half of the money is going to the Everglades. I feel very strongly about the Everglades and its depredation over the last two centuries. Oddly enough, I was doing just that, changing my will. Changing it to favor the Friends of the Everglades. Bass will be speechless with fury.” She laughed and drank.

“Have you told him that?”

“No. Why is it you want me to?”

“It would get him down here.” Clive thought for a moment. “Or you could tell him you’re dying. And you want to talk over several points in your will. That this simply can’t wait until November. Is he the executor?”

“God, no. You think I’m barmy? No. My bank is the executor, together with my houseboy.” When she saw Clive look around, she added, “Oh, he’s not here. He watches over things when I’m away. He’s really quite clever.”

A houseboy as executor? “You trust him?”

“No, but he’ll get a salary, you see, while he’s taking care of things. I’m thinking that might keep him from trying to rummage around in the trust fund. Quite a lot of the estate will go to the Everglades Foundation. The houseboy will get enough. The rest will go to Bass. He’ll be unsatisfied, but it will be hard for him to contest the will.”

“You think he’ll contest it, then?”

“Of course he will.” She picked up her glass. “Dear me, I’m empty. You, too.” She rose and collected his glass and went to the drinks table.

With a furious flapping of wings, the Mark Rothko parrot vented its irritation at always being left out.

“Where did you get Jasper?” He was hoping she’d say at the Museum of Modern Art.

“I got him at one of those turn-in-your-exotic-pet things. It’s a way of keeping people from releasing their pythons into the swamp.” She was back, handing Clive his third—meaning seventh—martini before she sat down with hers.

“What will happen to Jasper when you die?”

“He’ll be well taken care of. I’ve arranged for a friend to take him in. This, too, is in the will. Now, are you sticking with the wrong sort of people?”

Clive frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

She sighed. “That’s the trouble when you’re less than truthful. You can’t recall the details. The reason you want Bass to come to Florida: that he’s in danger. I don’t believe this for a minute. And we’ve jettisoned his having a breakdown, so what’s left? What’s the real reason for your coming here? Not that I mind your coming, understand.”

Clive stretched out his legs and didn’t answer immediately because he could think of nothing inventive enough. He decided he might as well let the truth in. “Let’s just say we want to get your nephew off somebody’s back, and forgive me if I don’t say who or why.”