The Mangrove Coast

9

Tomlinson said, “I’m surprised at you, man. Thinking viscerally like this. Gathering information with your instincts, finally letting yourself cut across the meadow instead of taking that long-ass linear road. Yep, I think you’re making progress. Becoming an actual human being.”

We were face-to-face at the dining booth in the cabin of his boat. I could smell kerosene and wood oil, hemp rope, old books and diesel fuel. There was something else… soy sauce maybe, and cold rice. Yeah, and incense, too. Sandalwood, that burned-musk smell. He must have just finished lunch. Or meditating.

I was sitting with my back to the cockpit. Up the varnished steps, through the open hatch, if I turned, I could see the binnacle, the boat’s big stainless steering wheel, the folded steering vane, a black plastic bag with black tube hanging from the boom: a solar shower.

On the table to my left was a paper tube unevenly scrolled: a chart of the Dry Tortugas, an anchorage off Garden Key marked in pencil.

Tomlinson was planning a trip. I’d looked. A straightedge course, Sanibel lighthouse to Tortuga’s Channel, with compass headings and the piddly little amount of deviation figured in.

And the man chided me for being obsessive?

I said, “I didn’t come here to discuss my heart or my brain. I came to get your advice. So let’s try to stick to the topic.”

But he wasn’t done with it. “Nope. Sorry. No can do. This is what my first sensei, Jasper Freeberg, would have called a minor breakthrough. You said the guy seemed dangerous from the way he looked in his picture. That was your strong first impression, the way you felt. Don’t deny it.”

“Freeberg? Jasper Freeberg? You’re telling me that you learned Zen Buddhism from a guy named… Jesus, I don’t want to hear it. I was asking what you thought about the bank statements. Here… you haven’t even read them yet. The bank statements and the photographs.”

He wouldn’t relent “Any other time in your life, you take a look at the photograph of a first rate maloojink like… like this oddity, this dude Jackie Merlot, you’d say, ‘The human eye can’t communicate emotion.’ You’d say, ‘Some of the most prolific killers in history had faces like choir boys.’ You’d say, ‘I don’t judge people by the way they look,’ when, in fact, we all do. You’ve never admitted any interest at all in letting your senses interpret what your eyes see. Until now.”

“Mal-what? Mal-oo-jink? What the hell does that mean?”

“It’s Tahitian. Or maybe from the lost language of the Easter Islanders. It means evil man. No… that’s not a precise translation. It means evil being. I look at this guy, the first thing I see is something… unhealthy in there hiding behind that smile. You felt the same way when you saw his picture, I’d bet on it The intuitive knowledge, go ahead and ‘fess up. This person is… different. I’ll tell you something else”-Tomlinson’s iridescent blue eyes seemed amused-“this person scares you. The first man I could ever say that about. Not that you’re some asshole macho kind of guy, Doc, no. It’s just that you’re always in control, the way you size men up, like in two seconds, because you’ve met about every kind of man there is. You know what they’re like, so what’s there to fear? But you’ve never met a guy like Jackie Merlot, because he’s not really a man. He’s a being and that scares you. You want to know something else?”

I waited.

“He scares me, too.”

I said, “Oh?” wondering if it was true. Was I frightened of the man in the photograph?

Tomlinson said, “He scares me because he’s empty. Like a pit. That kind of emptiness.”

When Tomlinson takes off on a tangent, the best course is to play along. In the long run, it saves time. I said, “You can tell all that just from looking at his picture?”

“Can’t you?”

“No. You’re taking the few facts we have and dramatizing the guy’s negatives. His powers, too. What I think is-and I’m not judging him by his appearance, understand-but what I think is, he’s a user. A small-time con man, that’s my guess. Nothing more.”

“So you don’t think you need to be in a big rush to find your old buddy’s wife?”

He had me there. Since seeing the photograph I had, for the first time, felt a pressing urgency. Gail Richardson Calloway was in trouble. How I knew, I wasn’t sure, but I was now convinced that it was true. “Seeing the guy’s picture has had an effect on me,” I said. “I’m willing to admit that.”

“I thought so. All things in nature are repetition on a theme, man.”

“So you’ve said many times,” I replied dryly.

“Make fun of me if you want, but you’ve heard of what the astronomers called ‘dark anomalies’? They are these extraordinarily dense… I forget the name for them… uhh-h-h, these things in space. Not planets, not suns, nothing that’s orderly and normal. They are energized globs created by negative energy. Anti-matter. Black holes. You’ve heard of them, haven’t you?”

I sat there listening.

“Mark my word, amigo, certain people have that same kind of anti-matter energy. Strictly negative. You’ve met women like that. Destructive bitches unrelated to their sex. Same with men. A very, very heavy counterproductive gig that gauges success by the amount of chaos and pain they can cause. You don’t believe me, take another look at this photograph. Not just at his face, but what the dude is doing.”

Tomlinson slid the photo of Merlot across the table. Looked once more at Gail’s mild, expectant smile; saw the shape and richness and warmth of her, plus something else. Uncertainty? Maybe. She appeared uncertain and there was a curious glaze to her eyes, an expression that I associate with people in shock. Then I turned my attention to Merlot. Studied him for a while before I said, “The way he’s got his arm around her, it’s a possessive gesture. Is that what you’re talking about? Merlot’s hand is on her ribs, but his thumb has been elevated just high enough so that it touches the underside of her left breast. He’s making a statement. Familiarity. Intimacy. Ownership. He could be saying any of the three.”

Tomlinson was leaning across the table, head tilted to see, twisting a strand of his shoulder-length hair, a familiar gesture. “Right, right, that’s exactly what he’s doing. But he’s claiming more than intimacy. You’re trying too hard, man… which is so typical of you. Relax, soften your senses, look at the picture and just let it happen.” Tomlinson waited impatiently for a few seconds before he added, “Don’t you see what he’s doing with his fingers, man?”

Once he said it, I wondered how I’d missed it before. The middle finger of the hand Merlot had placed around the woman’s waist was extended ever so slightly, as was the middle finger of his right hand, the hand he had folded on his bloated marshmallow stomach.

Tomlinson said, “He’s looking at the camera, flipping everyone the bird. Merlot picked out this photo. I’d bet anything on it. The daughter said she found it framed on her mother’s mantelpiece? Guaranteed, Merlot’s the one who had it framed and maybe even placed it over the fireplace where it was easy to find. See how the lens caught the woman’s eyes? A flash was used and it created a glare. She wouldn’t’ve had a picture like this framed, because she doesn’t look her best. That’s how I know Merlot did it. He had it framed because he’s telling the ex-husband, his old business partner, fuck you. Using finger-a-grams to do it. Probably got a big kick out of imagining this rich guy, the guy who helped put him in jail. Calloway? What’s his name, imagining Frank Calloway walk into the room, finding the picture and going ballistic. Saying to him, I’m screwing your wife, asshole! Like that. You see it now?”

Yeah, I could see it.

“The guy is evil, Doc. Slimy. One look and I knew. Your instincts are right, so why bother to be so intellectual about it? He’s sneaky evil but a force, so it’s no wonder he scares you.”

No… that wasn’t true, I decided. I wasn’t frightened of Merlot; not just from looking at his photo, anyway. That he used his middle fingers to send a message seemed idiotically adolescent, not evil. What else? I didn’t like him… okay, that much I was willing to concede. And partly because of the way he looked. I could understand now why Calloway had reacted the way he did when he learned that Merlot was sleeping with his ex-wife.

Revulsion, yes. There was something about Merlot’s expression, his appearance, that triggered the gag reflex. Another admission: The fact that Merlot was apparently manipulating Gail infuriated me on a visceral level. The worth of a man or a woman is established wholly by the worthiness of the people who are devoted to him or her. Gail had been the lifetime love of a good, good man, Bobby Richardson. That a person like Jackie Merlot could defile that bond seemed to illustrate the tragic potential of all life.

What I knew of Merlot didn’t frighten me, though. Indeed, what I knew gave me confidence. Yeah, the guy was gigantic, but he was prissy huge, all fat. Something else: Demonstrations of ego-like pyromania-were strictly for amateurs. Clearly, the guy was an amateur.

No, I was not frightened of Jackie Merlot.

When I explained that to Tomlinson, he shook his head, refusing to believe me. “You fight your own instincts, man. You always have. Already you’re intellectualizing, telling yourself there’s no good reason to feel what you really feel.”

“I’m afraid of a lot of stuff, Tomlinson. More things than you realize. But not of photographs. And I’ve got no fear of a tub like that.”

Tomlinson’s expression said, You should, man. You should.

He put the photograph away-end of subject-and began to inspect Gail’s withdrawal and deposit slips. Abruptly, then, he stood, removed the wooden hatch to the ice locker and began to paw around, searching for something.

“Good God,” I said. He’d been sitting shirtless across from me. I’d assumed he was wearing shorts. Or maybe the sarong he favored. But I was mistaken on both counts.

I said, “You mind putting some pants on, Tomlinson?”

He was now holding a bottle of Hatuey, that fine Cuban beer, in hand, blinking at me, bare-ass naked. Seemed surprised that I’d noticed or that he’d forgotten, one or the other. Said, “Whoops. Sorry. Gets to be a habit living out here all alone. I was up on the bow taking an air bath. You know, letting oxygen molecules cleanse my pores. Refurbish all the little shadowy places that don’t get much sun.” He looked down and spoke in the direction of his waist. “Isn’t that right, boys?”

I stood to leave. “I’m going. Take a look at the bank slips when you get a chance. You want, we can have dinner tonight and talk about it. I’ll call for reservations at the Timbers or maybe drive to the mainland and try the University Grill. I hear it’s pretty good.”

Tomlinson’s chin was still on his chest. “Know something, Doc? Every problem I’ve ever had in my life started with this little bastard. Hey-y-y-y… I’m talking to you. Hello, hello!” Tomlinson chuckled, as if not the least bit surprised. “See that? The little son-of-a-bitch is listening to every word. And things haven’t much changed ‘cause he’s still causing problems.”

I was standing on the top step of the ladder. “The Timbers would be good if it’s not too crowded. We can walk there and have a few beers, don’t have to worry about driving. I’d like to get this thing with Amanda’s mother in better focus. That’s why I want you to look at those bank slips, give me an opinion. Some behavior-and-cause scenarios.”

“You want me to just look at the withdrawal slips? Or do you want me to get down and dirty, really try to figure out what the hell’s going on? We’ve got like five or six hours till dinnertime. I can do some serious kick-ass research on the subject by then.”

“Then do it. It’s just possible I may have to fly down to Colombia and shake her loose from the guy. You could be right: She really could be in trouble.”

But Tomlinson was once again lost in his own thoughts, alternately speaking to me and his own male member. He said, “You’re the only one I’ve confided in, the only one who knows I’ve been trying to get back together with Musashi.”

“Me, you mean?”

“Of course. Who you think I’m talking to? I invited her down from Boston to go on a cruise this week. The Dry Tortugas in spring, catch some dolphin, maybe see some sooty terns. Told myself it was to spend time with the mother of my sweet little daughter, but I’m afraid the truth is that Mr. Zamboni and the Hat Trick Twins are up to their old tricks.”

“Mr. Who?”

“Yes, they’re aching to win that little Japanese vixen back again. Musashi I mean. Set her free from the asshole politician she’s been sleeping with. And don’t mistake that for some kind of racial slur.”

“Right, of course not. Not from an enlightened person like you.”

“Little Japanese scum.”

I was still lost. “Mr. Zamboni and the Hat Trick Twins? Who the hell are… oh. Okay, okay, a reference to your hockey days at Harvard. Now I know what you’re talking about. Yep… I’ve really got to run.”

“Thought maybe the air baths would help, that’s what I was hoping. So… what you think, boys? Feeling any better after all that fresh air?”

He looked up at me for the first time since starting his strange dialogue. “Let them breathe free, that’s my motto. I do my best, but you think it makes a damn bit of difference? Nope. Oxygen and assholes-the two most common elements on earth.”

I shrugged.

“They’re still obsessed with Musashi, and I can’t do a damn thing about it. Something about her body, those Japanese knobs of hers. And her voice. Zamboni is crazy about her voice. I’ll tell you something, Doc: Just ‘cause I can aim this bastard doesn’t mean I’m in command.” Then, to himself: “So I’ll tell you what, my stubborn little friend. How does a pair of bikini underwear sound to you? The tight kind without that little fucking escape hatch! No more midnight maneuvers. Think about it!”

I was stepping out onto the cockpit, looking astern where my flats skiff was cleated. I said, “Call me on the VHF, Tomlinson. About dinner, I mean. Nels just sold them some fresh pompano. I know that for a fact, so even if it’s not on the menu, Matt will make sure we can have it if we want.”

Speaking a little too loudly, as if he wanted to be overheard, Tomlinson answered, “Oh, I’ll be ready. You can count on it. And if I’m walking a little funny, we’ll all know why.”

In April, Sanibel and Captiva Islands are as crowded and animated as any Carnival cruise ship, but with a basic difference: People who come to the islands tend to be like-minded, outdoors oriented and energized by a longing for quiet beaches and immersion in the subtropics: wading birds, gators, crocs, manatees, littoral fish, coconut palms, ospreys, you name it. Look at the people who come year after year, who make the islands part of their lives, and you will think of L. L. Bean catalogues. You’ll think of Audubon magazine. Or maybe Outside. The fact that the islands maintain more wild space than hotel space is precisely why they continue to be so widely treasured.

Which is the reason I don’t mind getting out in the tourist rush occasionally, eating dinner at a favorite restaurant. The people you meet are usually pretty nice. Interesting, too.

Tomlinson came tapping at my door at twilight, looking dapper in blue jeans and silk Hawaiian shirt, pink flamingos and golden tiki huts thereon, his bony hands offering two cold bottles of beer.

“Its very important to rehydrate in this hellish spring heat,” he explained. “But if you want to wait for dinner, I’ll drink both bottles. Waste is a terrible thing. As we speak, there are Christian alcoholics absolutely Jonesing for a drink in places like Iraq and Libya. Parts of… somewhere else, too. Arkansas? Yeah, probably Arkansas. I’m telling you just in case you feel like refusing this beverage.”

I took one of the beers from him. “Nope, I’m thirsty.”

“Just checking.”

“Did you go over Gail’s bank slips?”

“I did indeed. Three, nearly four solid hours of pure cerebral exercise. I made a few phone calls, too. So… I have some ideas on what’s going on. Some very strong opinions, you might say.”

“I thought you might. Frank Calloway left a message for me at the marina. He wants to get together in Boca Grande on Thursday. Which means I can work all day tomorrow. I hope. I’ve got to call him back.”

“I don’t know why the hell you just don’t get an answering machine like everyone else. This fucking decade has cut the nuts off every male between here and Fumbuck, Egypt, but it hasn’t even scratched your paint. I think it’s because you haven’t been paying proper attention. Seriously, Doc, you haven’t been playing fair. The damn decade’ll be gone before you even realize it was here.”

“Spare me, Tomlinson. But… yeah. I may get a recorder. I keep thinking maybe someone important has tried to call and I wasn’t home. That feeling, like I’ve missed something… I don’t deal with it as well as I used to.”

“I know whose call you’re afraid of missing. Pilar calling from Central America.”

“Nope. I don’t even think of her much anymore.”

“ Right. Just like you seldom think of Hannah Smith anymore. I’m going to tell you something you may not like: I still miss Hannah. She was the most sensual woman I’ve ever met in my life.”

“If you know I don’t want to hear it, why say it?”

“No disrespect intended.”

“None assumed. So let’s not discuss her anymore.”

“The island bookstores, they all say they’ve sold a bunch of her books.”

“That ought to make you pretty happy. You wrote it”

“Hannah wrote it. Orally, at least. I just typed it up.”

I increased my pace. “Is there a reason why we’re still talking about her?”

We’d crossed the boardwalk, through mangroves, onto the island. Now we were walking the shell drive from the marina that became Tarpon Bay Road. It was an hour after sunset. Dark. I could hear chuck-wills-widows making their whippoorwill sounds. I could hear screech owls and car traffic and Ralph Woodring running his bait shrimper on the grass flat outside the mouth of the bay. When he cranked the nets up or down, the rusty booms screamed like something that should be chained behind bars.

Through tree limbs overhead I could see the demarcation between night horizon and stars. That line of trees, the muted colors, were as distinctive as a Navaho sand painting. It was a warm night with lots of island smells: jasmine and sulfur and windy beach. It was nice seeing the stars through the trees.

We crossed Palm Ridge past the gas-pump fluorescence of the Pick Kwik and stayed on Tarpon Bay Road. The Timbers was just off to the left, across from the fire station, a restaurant decorated as if by beachcombers: life rings and mounted fish, bamboo umbrellas, driftwood and shadows.

After Matt showed us to our corner table and after Lin brought us each another beer, Tomlinson folded the napkin across his lap saying, “The withdrawal slips and the deposit slips. I went over and over them. I even called a banker friend of mine to see what he thought. Well… actually, he’s not a friend, he’s an acquaintance. Bankers, the respectable types, tend to… let’s just say they tend to be very uncomfortable around me. As if I’m widely known as the islander voted most likely to climb the fucking bell tower. With a firearm, I’m talking about, which frankly, Doc, really pisses me off because I’ve never even fired a damn cap pistol… at least, not since that ugly incident in Chicago-”

“Tomlinson… Tomlinson. You’ve drifted way off the subject.”

He appeared surprised that I’d interrupted. “What?” Then: “Oh. Right. Okay, what the banker said was, with all that activity, the woman was either investing in something or gradually changing banks. Maybe transferring the money to accounts outside the country. Which can be illegal if you don’t go about it the right way.” He paused. “So that’s one possible explanation we’ve got to consider.”

“Not just possible,” I said, “but probable. In any circumstance like this, the simplest solution is almost always the correct solution. So that’s your best guess? That she was moving her money?”

He said, “No. As much as you hate to admit it, Doc, we think so much alike about stuff like this, the serious stuff, I bet you already know what my best guess is.”

“Tomlinson, we so seldom think alike that I can count the times on one hand. Five times, max.”

“Oh, is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, it’s six times now. Or maybe six dozen.”

“We’ll see. Tell me why Gail Calloway withdrew so much money before she left the country with Jackie Merlot.”

He smiled. “You’ve gone over those withdrawal and deposit slips as many times as I have. Why do YOU think she was moving around all that money?” Before I could answer, he chimed in, “Blackmail, that’s my guess. Judging from the deposit slips, it’s blackmail. Same with you, huh? Tell the truth now.”

I said, “I’ve got blackmail down as one of three possibilities.”

Tomlinson’s expression said that he wasn’t surprised. “Damn right, blackmail.” He smiled. “You want me to tell you the other two most probable scenarios?”

“No. I’d rather hear about the deposit slips.”

I told him that the deposit slips were the only things I couldn’t make fit neatly into a plausible chain of action. I meant it.

“Don’t feel like the Lone Ranger,” he said. “It took me a solid hour of very intense brainwork to figure out why they’re important. You got any ideas at all about them?”

I shook my head.

“But blackmail, you figured blackmail as a possibility. How the feds could miss this one is beyond me. See? We do think alike.”

“Two peas in a pod, you and I.”

“Exactly. I meant it when I said you’re starting to come along. That’s great news for the people who think your heart’s about half the size of your brain. No offense, Doc, but you’re working your way up to becoming a real human being.”

Tomlinson surprised me by ordering the pompano cooked in parchment paper. He’s been an uncompromising vegetarian since the day I met him but, in the last few months, he’d broken form often enough for me to know that he was going through some changes in his life… as we all do.

“I’ve decided that eating animal flesh is a way of ingesting cellular communion,” he explained when the waitress had finished taking our orders. “And let’s face it, if I dropped dead in a field tomorrow, every goddamn animal for miles would be scrambling to bite a piece out of me. A chunk of biceps, a chunk of my beezer. They wouldn’t give a damn. Protein is protein, when the shit really hits the fan. For those omnivore bastards, it’s any port in a storm.”

I said, “I never looked at it from an animal’s point of view before.”

“You’re damn right. The realization about how the food cycle really works flashed into my brain one night. The vegetarians of the world? If animals were in charge, every two legged tofu humper would be gutted, jointed and deep-fried in about the time it takes to watch a couple of episodes of Wild Kingdom. “

“Wholesale slaughter,” I suggested.

“Jesus, you know it. Culinary anarchy. And there’s nothing a vegetarian hates more than looking stupid. The way it came to me was, I imagined myself out sailing and what would happen if I fell overboard and couldn’t get back to the boat. The damn fish would think they’d died and gone to heaven, man. We’re talking feeding frenzy. And then I pictured myself visiting a farm, nobody around but me and Mr. Zamboni and the two of us have a heart attack near the hog pen. Jesus Christ, what an ugly scene! The cloven-hoofed scum were on me like red sauce on frijoles.”

He was shaking his head… yes, he’d given the subject a lot of thought. “Fair’s fair, man, that’s what I say. They’d swallow me down like beer nuts, so what makes me better than them? Not that I plan to eat meat regularly. No. Only when, say, there’s fresh pompano available or a really outstanding piece of beef.”

“Selective vegetarianism. That actually makes a little bit of sense.”

“A way of paying tribute to all life forms.”

“Sure. Why avoid something just because it tastes great?”

His smile illustrated tolerance. “That’s my point And by the way, I was kidding about the beef. I draw the line at anything they didn’t gather and eat on Gilligan’s Island. Unknowingly, those seven stranded castaways pioneered the recipe for a healthy, happy life.”

Tomlinson went on to explain that the professor wasn’t the only one who was ahead of his time. I listened and nodded along, saying, “Uh-huh, Uh-huh. Yeah, sure. Ginger and Mary Ann, you bet.” I almost asked, “So what was wrong with the skipper?” but decided screw it, never ask what you don’t really care about knowing.

When Tomlinson gets on a subject like that, something that’s strange and far off the charted byways, even I sometimes wonder if the man has all his faculties. But then he’ll say something so rock-solid reasonable or so insightful that I’m actually a little ashamed that his oddities continue to give me pause.

I’d ordered stone crab claws with lime wedges and a brick of garlic toast. As an appetizer I had the waitress bring grilled shrimp and slices of fresh mango. Tomlinson, who knows something about wine, ordered a bottle of cold Riesling from the snow country of southern Australia. He insisted that I try a glass with the shrimp. Not bad. We both peeled shrimp and sipped wine and talked about Gail Calloway while we waited for dinner.

I told him that, in my mind, three consecutive withdrawals of $40,000 suggested payments. And it was unlikely that any of those payments had been anticipated by Gail. The fact that the withdrawals were made only a couple of weeks apart indicated unconventional circumstances or an unconventional billing source. “If she was going to buy something for $120,000 and had the money, why not write a check for the whole sum?”

“Plus a big chunk of the money was transferred to other accounts,” he pointed out.

“Exactly.”

“That’s one reason I think it’s blackmail. I can just see some asshole deciding, okay, we sent one note or made one call and she sends us forty thousand. Nothing to it. So let’s keep writing notes or making calls until she stops sending money. Which is where the deposit slips come in.”

That’s what I wanted to hear about.

“Did you take a close look at all the information on those slips?” he asked. “I described them to my banker friend. What they actually are are receipts from wire transfers. There are ten slips total and the deposits are divided evenly among twelve numbered accounts.”

“You’re kidding me. I didn’t notice that.”

He was nodding. “Twelve different accounts for a total transfer of slightly less than one hundred and ninety-eight thousand dollars. The reason you didn’t realize there were so many accounts involved is because there are no individual names listed on the slips. I missed it, too. Just numbers.”

“I don’t know much about numbered accounts, and I’ve got one. An account in the Caymans. But there’s always a name associated, right?”

“Nope, I don’t think there has to be. It’s weird to us because American institutions, they’ve got a thing called the Banking Security Act. For someone to open an account, they have to provide creditable identification. In other words, there has to be a name attached to the account. It’s to put a crimp into money-laundering, among other things.”

“So you’re saying Gail’s money had to have been wired to a foreign bank.”

“Foreign banks, plural. I know where the money went because each of the wire receipts has a numerical code that corresponds to the bank where the money was sent. It doesn’t mean that the money has to leave the country. Miami’s got plenty of foreign-based banks. Among them are the Banco de Colombia and the National Bank of Panama.” Tomlinson used his fingers to pick up a slice of mango. “That’s where Gail Calloway’s money was wired.”

“Jackie Merlot spends most of his time outside the country,” I said, “Frank Calloway told me that.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, but wait till you hear the rest of it. After my banker friend translated the numerical codes, the first thing I asked him was why would anyone go to so much trouble? Why divide the money among twelve different accounts? The banker says the obvious: There must be twelve different people or businesses involved. But I don’t think so. You know what I think’s going on?”

“You’re still operating on the premise that Gail’s being blackmailed.”

“It’s making sense so far, right? See… the problem with blackmail is how to collect the money. Blackmailers and con men always get nailed when they pick up the ransom. Drop the money at X-spot, throw it out of a moving car, follow directions from phone booth to phone booth, it doesn’t matter. I don’t think anyone’s ever come up with a safe way to make an exchange like that.”

I said, “So?”

“So, I think the person who got Gail’s money is smart as hell, because I think they finally did it. Found a safe, untraceable way to get ransom money. What I think they did was set up these foreign accounts, probably used fake names to do it, but it doesn’t much matter because everything goes by a PIN number and they have no reason to return to those banks ever again.

“They have Gail wire her payments to the account number they’ve provided her with. Once the money’s been transferred, they can visit any ATM machine in the world and drain the accounts dry. They can tell her they’re in Lauderdale, just around the corner from her house when they’re actually on the other side of the earth. No way she can find out. Same with the feds-not if the blackmailer stays on the move. Pop the card in, punch in the PIN number and the cash comes shooting out in guaranteed unmarked bills. A week, two weeks later, the feds get a black-and-white picture from the ATM camera. Some dude or chick in a floppy hat and glasses and a scarf. What’s that gonna tell them?”

I said, “You figured all this out from the deposit slips.”

“No, from the fact that there were twelve numbered accounts on each slip. You’re the logical one. It was unlikely that twelve kidnappers were involved, so why have so many accounts? Answer: Keep the balances low enough so they can wipe out each account fast.”

“But even with the money in that many fake accounts,” I said, “it would still take awhile to drain it from ATMs.”

“Not really. Twenty-some days, that’s all. But what do the blackmailers care? There’s no rush, no way the feds can anticipate where they’ll be. Like I said, as long as they stay on the move. The way I figure it, it was so clean and easy, they probably got greedy, which is why Gail’s final transfer was for seventy-five thousand.

“Maybe their last ransom note or call demanded a hundred grand, but she tells them she only has seventy-five left, an uneven number. Why? She’s trying to be smart for once, make it believable. She’s tired of the whole gig. She doesn’t want to do it anymore. She’s willing to try anything, so she lies and says that’s all I’ve got left, screw you.”

I said, “It’s plausible. It really is. But think about this finesse: Merlot’s right there with her the whole time she’s being blackmailed. He’s offering her advice, pretending to be her friend when, from the very beginning, he’s the one behind it. It’s his idea, he’s coordinating the whole thing.”

“That picture of him, man, that picture really got to you, didn’t it? Admit it.”

“I’ll admit I think the guy’s a user. I already said that. I think it’s possible that he had something to do with Gail’s withdrawing so much money.”

“Sure… I can see something like that happening. But if he’s behind it all, why didn’t he clean her out completely? He hates the ex-husband, so why not go for the kill?” Tomlinson came up with the answer before I could reply. “Okay, okay, he lets her keep a little money so he’s entirely above suspicion. He not only doesn’t want the cops to catch on, he doesn’t want the woman to doubt him even for a second.”

I was nodding. “Right, I thought of that. It’s one of the things that really bothers me. If he’s doing this crap for revenge, he’ll ultimately want her and Frank to know that he’s the one who conned them. It’s his final move, the way he wins. As in checkmate. The act isn’t over till he sees the hurt in Gail’s face and he hears the anger in Frank’s voice. So, if he’s taken precautions against Gail finding out, it means he’s not done with her yet. He has other ways he can use her.”

Tomlinson’s expression was grim. “The word checkmate in chess,” he said, “I hope it’s not appropriate.”

“What?”

“ Checkmate, the word: It comes from the Persian phrase Shah mat, which means ‘The king is dead.’ Jesus. That’s just so sick. He takes her money and he still wants to take more.”

Where did Tomlinson come up with this stuff?

I said, “Yeah, it’s a bad deal… if we’re right about the blackmail angle. But neither one of us knows for sure if we’re right.”

I told him there were other possibilities. We talked about them, batting them back and forth. I described two different cons that weren’t much better than blackmail. One, Merlot weasels his way into her confidence. She’s emotionally damaged, very vulnerable. Sleeping with her’s not enough. To get back at the ex-husband, he wants the woman’s money, too. That old saying that you can’t cheat an honest man is baloney. Honest, caring people are the easiest marks in the world and, according to Amanda, her mother was sensitive and caring to a fault.

“The guy knows she has money,” Tomlinson added. “All he’s got to do is find the right approach.”

Exactly. I kept going, thinking out loud, trying to put myself in Merlot’s place. With a woman like Gail, my guess was he either played on her sympathy or he leveraged the trust he’d very carefully built in her. One possibility? He goes to her and says he’s sick. Or a friend of his is sick. Or there’s a sick child and the only surgeon who can help has to be paid up front because it’s South America and insurance doesn’t cover it. Merlot’s not sure how much it’s going to cost, but she can start by sending forty grand.

Tomlinson was following along. “Yeah, I can see how that would get to her. One of the scenarios I came up with had her making these huge payments to keep some Colombian orphanage from being repossessed. Or an old persons’ home. A hospital maybe, it’s the same angle. Any variation would work. The big lie, man, the big lie. Honest people always fall for the big lie.”

I said, “I know. It’s infuriating, because it speaks so badly about how we’ve progressed as a species. Except for the predators among us. They’ve gotten better. They’ve gotten smoother. The predatory types, they’ve got an instinct. Frank Calloway said that about Merlot. They realize that emotionally troubled people are very pure in their motives. People who’ve been hurt want the hurting to stop. It’s as simple as that. People who are damaged want to be whole again. They tend to be very kind and without device and ready to give anything they have if it will help take the pain away. That’s what’s so damn sad about someone like Gail being nailed by a jerk like Merlot.”

Tomlinson looked at me for a moment. “You don’t even know the guy. Isn’t that what you told me earlier?”

“Okay, I hate the way he looks. His picture gives me the creeps. You satisfied?”

“Now you’re showing an empathetic side, too, man.”

“I’m just parroting you,” I said.

“Bullshit. You’re growing as a person, but you’re too damn stubborn to admit it. Hey… you know what we really need to do? To get a handle on this whole thing?”

Tomlinson said what we needed to do was read Gail Richardson Calloway’s E-mail. If I’d been right when I told him that their affair started through E-mail, then we needed to read the letters, get a feel for how he played her.

He said, “I guarantee you, if they wrote much, every trick he pulled is right there in black and white. I’ve been involved with E-mail for mucho years, man. People will say shit in E-mail that you seriously would not believe.”

I told him that Amanda had promised to go to her mom’s house tonight and track down the correspondence if she could. “We can call her cell phone number when we get back to my place, see how it went.”

The waitress was bringing the food on heavy platters. It looked good. The aroma of baked pompano is meant to mingle with beach air.

Tomlinson said, “I’m surprised she has her mom’s password, man. People don’t give out their passwords.”

I had the first stone crab claw off the plate and was tapping it with a spoon, creating fault lines in the heavy shell. The claw was shaped like a boxing glove, orange and white.

When I’d explained to him about Gail’s password, he told me “Yeah, well… if Merlot had the kind of control over her that we both think, he didn’t let her leave Florida without covering his tracks. You know that as well as I do. He would’ve made her change the password. Or dump the whole account.”

He had a point. “If the password’s been changed, does that mean we’ve lost all that information?”

“Nope. Just access. There’ve been whole civilizations lost out there in cyberspace, so the words of two little people don’t amount to a hill of beans. Poof! All gone.”

What the hell did that mean?

I looked across the table at Tomlinson. He’d brought his own chopsticks and was using them to pinch off the tentative first chunks of steaming pompano. I said, “You’re the only computer expert I know. If Amanda can’t get into her mom’s files, do you think you could do it?”

“Try to figure out some random password? I wouldn’t get your hopes up on that one. We’ve got a better chance of finding pearls in those claws you’re eating.” He continued using his chopsticks, but his eyes never wavered from mine. After a time, he said, “But there ARE people who’ve got access to software that can find passwords, track activity, recover just about any file that hasn’t been drowned or gobbled by some badass virus. Get on the horn to one of your old CIA buddies and they’ll know just what we need. They can send the program to my computer or Gail Calloway’s computer as an E-mail attachment; won’t even have to put it on a disk.”

I poured myself another glass of the Riesling. Why was I drinking wine when I wanted a beer? I connected with his eyes as I sipped the wine. “Some things you just won’t let drop. I’ll tell you again: I never worked for the CIA.”

His smile was not entirely sympathetic. “Well, if Amanda calls tonight and tells you she can’t access her mom’s account, my advice is get on the phone and contact whatever hot-shit-right-wing-deep-spook agency you DID work for and tell them what you need. If the bastards aren’t too busy fucking around, destroying some small country, I mean. Personally, I’d rather spend my day watching the weather channel and whacking off in a hanky than trying to guess someone’s password.”

Gail Calloway’s password hadn’t been changed, though. That’s what Amanda told me over the phone when we got back to my stilthouse.

“But there’s nothing in her letter files,” she added. “Not a word. So I guess it’s like one of those good news, bad news things.”

When I told Tomlinson, he said, “Same difference. If you’re serious about getting all the information you can about this weird love affair, you better seek help from one of your warmonger compatriots. Also, I think we better drive to Lauderdale tomorrow or Thursday. Better use me while you can, man. Musashi arrives Friday. After that, we’re aboard No Mas and out of here.”

I told him fine, then he needed to give me some privacy.

I had a couple of calls to make.

When I heard the outboard on Tomlinson’s little inflatable clatter to life, I picked up the phone and dialed a two-one-two area code, plus a number which, as fewer than a hundred Americans and well-placed Israelis knew, actually rang at a secluded, nondescript but beautifully tended farm on the border of Virginia and West Virginia.

When a woman’s voice answered, “Malabar Grain and Silo,” I spoke a four-digit identification number and was immediately transferred to a computerized security system which, I knew, was searching its own memory banks, attempting to match a graph of my recently-recorded voice with the vocal prints of men and women who had sufficient security clearance to speak with an actual human being.

I did not have to wait long. From this fastidious place, this picture-perfect farm with its forest of grain silos (and a forest of complex transglobal listening systems, passive and invasive, housed therein) came a voice on a screechy, scratchy answering machine that told me, “Sorry, neighbor, you’ve reached Malabar Grain and Silo and we’re probably uptown shopping. If you think you got the right place, leave your name and number and we’ll catch you on the comeback!”

Which meant that the computer had recognized me as a person who had once had full security clearance but who was no longer operative, was no longer considered an asset, was, most likely, a potential liability but who might, just might, have a useful tidbit of information to offer.

Without hesitating, I spoke a second four-digit identification code and then, after a series of beeps, I said, “Ford, Marion D. Secondary listing: North, Marion D. I’m calling for Bernard Objartel Yager. My telephone number is-” and I gave it.

Four beeps later, the jolly farmer’s voice told me, “Sorry, neighbor. You mustuh got the wrong number. Nobody here by that name. Have yourself a great day!”

I hung up the phone and began to futz around the lab, neatening this, straightening that. As always, I was annoyed by the high-tech game-playing and the Hollywood-style trappings that, to me, seemed an adolescent adjunct to a business I had once found as complex as it was dangerous.

Why couldn’t they have a secretary like everyone else? Someone trained to screen calls? What was so compromising about a real, live human being who could decide to accept or refuse a telephone call?

But no… they reveled in theatrics and their own little venues of power… and every year it seemed to get sillier. More tricks, more complicated electronic gags that suggested to me that the intelligence-gathering community was becoming a parody of its own excesses, and so probably was neither as powerful nor effective as it had once been.

I kept reminding myself: Ford, aren’t you glad to be out of this business?

I continued working in the lab, going over how I was going to ask Bernard Yager, a computer and electronics genius by all accounts, for his help in breaching the security of a housewife’s desktop computer. To even make such a request was embarrassing.

It was Yager who had single-handedly unscrambled the Soviet/Soviet nuclear sub code progression. It was Yager who had invaded and compromised computer communications between Managua and Havana during the Sandinista wars in Nicaragua.

His was not a name seen in the newspapers, nor would it ever be seen. Yet the man had been a legend in the business for more than a decade. By now, I suspected that his underlings looked upon him as some kind of wizened old electronics guru.

About fifteen minutes later, when my phone rang, I answered to hear, “Hey Doc, you old so-and-so! It’s Bernie!”

I began by saying, “Bernie, is it safe to talk?”

“On my line? You’re making a joke, right? Such a funny man with the jokes. The president, he should be so confident in his phone security. What? You think I’m such a nebbish that I’ve gotten old and rusty like a certain Viking-sized field hand? Why do you waste our time with such questions?”

“So I take it my side of the line is also fine.”

“Marion, Marion, you are trying an old man’s patience. Is my line okay? he asks. Is your line okay? he asks. We’re having this conversation, you hear words coming from my lips, so of course the lines are okay. What else do you need to know already? Why don’t you just come out and ask me, ‘Bernie, my old friend, have you become old and senile and stupid?’ Because that’s what your questions say to me.”

“Hey, that’s not what I’m saying, Bernie.”

“To me, that’s exactly what you’re saying. You’re saying that you no longer have confidence in my expertise. This from the man whose ass I personally saved after he’d slept with a certain president’s wife in Masagua. Name another person in the business who could have electronically lifted information from the poor husband’s office and still had the good sense to telephone you in the bedroom of His Excellency’s beautiful wife? So what did you have to spare? Five minutes? Ten minutes, tops. The man’s elite guard hunting you like dogs, but you were warned in time. All thanks to the person you keep asking these offensive questions.”

I was laughing. Everything he said was true. I said, “Well, I’ve got to risk offending you again.”

When I told him what I needed, he feigned indignation. “Any teenage hack can do what you’re asking me to do. Such a waste of time and talent!”

“It’s what I need, Bernie. I don’t think you ever met Bobby Richardson, but his wife is the lady in question.”

“I’ve heard of Commander Richardson, so I don’t need to meet him. He’s a friend of yours, so he’s a friend of mine. The man was part of the old guard. One of the rare good men. So what else do I need to know?”

“What you need to know is that Bobby and I went through some very heavy business together. You know the kind of stuff I’m talking about. I owe the man. He’s been dead a long time, but I still owe the man. His girl is in trouble and so is his daughter. I’m going to do whatever I can to help out.”

“Okay, okay, so maybe I owe you a favor or two myself. You ask, it’ll be done. What you need to do is tell the daughter to switch on her mother’s machine and modem. It’s a PC or a Mac? Of course, someone like you wouldn’t know. Doesn’t matter. I’ll have my equipment invade the poor little thing and install the software you’ll need in a program called… I think I’ll label the folder Pilar. “He had a curiously high-pitched giggle. “Will you be able to remember that? If remembering is such a problem, I’ll have everything on her screen changed to red, but the folder-the folder, I’ll make green. Or maybe interesting colors. Just so you can find it.”

“You’re a bastard, Bernie Yager.”

“A bastard I am not. And neither do I ever forget. When my poor sister, rest her soul, got herself in trouble in Boulder, you were the one, the only one, who went there and spoke with her and helped bring her home. Eve liked you, Doc, she really did. And she trusted you. You may have been the only person in her life that she truly trusted. I don’t know why she went back to the streets, but she did. God rest her soul and the souls of all who loved her. Her going back, that I will never make sense of.”

I said, “She was a good woman, Bernie. And thanks a lot for your help.”

“There isn’t something else you want to tell me, Doc?”

I said, “No… I don’t think so.”

Bernie Yager, the tough electronics guru, said, “The number, I need her mother’s phone number. And her E-mail address. I need to be able to access the machine if I’m going to upload software. What, I’ve got to take your hand and lead you through this?”