The Mangrove Coast

11

I called Amanda back into the room. She needed to be part of this.

She was staring at the screen, looking at the name- Darkrume — when I asked, “What do you think we ought to do?”

“Tell him to kiss off. Never write again or we’ll notify the AOL people. The jerk.”

I told her, “You don’t see this as an opportunity? I think you ought to write the guy, find out whatever you can about your mom. Maybe he knows where she is. Maybe he knows what happened to the money. Any information you can get, we’ll take it.”

I was standing, trying to make Amanda sit in the chair so she could use the keyboard. She wasn’t eager. She had her hands up, palms out-a “screw this” pose-as she said, “You think I’m going to be nice to this guy after the trash he wrote my mom? All that really sick stuff. No thanks. No way. Not me.”

The way she said it, there was a frustrating, petulant quality in her voice that I found irritating. The last time I’d heard that same infuriating tone was years ago in the jungles of Cambodia. No doubt that she was her father’s daughter.

“Just throw away a chance to get information? You don’t have to be nice. Get a conversation going and let’s see how we can use him. Pump him for whatever he might know. You think he wrote some sick, ugly stuff? Fine. Get even by tricking him. He thinks he’s writing to your mom. That’s what we want him to think.”

“If it’s so important, why don’t you do it?”

“Because you’re her daughter. And you’re a woman. The way you write is way more likely to resemble your mom’s sentence patterns. These two exchanged letters for months. Thousands of words. Even if they never met, they know each other intimately. He’s not going to be easy to fool.”.

She turned away from me, arms folded. I felt myself coloring, getting angry. “Goddamn it! Your mother was a sexual person-what a hell of a shock that must be to someone as high-minded as you. Gee, she had men friends. They talked dirty to each other. She probably looked forward to it. She probably thought it was fun. Maybe she even had orgasms. Isn’t that just awful!”

“Knock it off, Doc! That’s not fair.”

“Yes, it is fair. It’s not only fair, it’s the truth. You want me to help find her? Then you’d better sit your butt down in that chair and cooperate.”

She glared at me. She turned to look at Tomlinson, as if he might offer her refuge. To his credit, he slowly shook his head. Nope. He couldn’t help. It was only then that she put her hands on her hips, made a fluttering noise of contempt through her lips, plopped down in front of the screen and placed her long fingers on the keyboard. Gail73679: How’ve you been? Darkrume: Great as always.:-} But I don’t think this is Gail. This really the whore queen?

Amanda repositioned herself in the chair as she whispered, “Asshole. What a creep.”

I patted her shoulder as I watched the screen. Beneath my hand, I felt her take a deep breath. Gail73679: It’s me all right. And I’m so horny you wouldn’t believe.

There was a pause. A very long pause. Was he thinking about something? Maybe. Darkrume: Is it really you? I missed you. Missed you a lot. Where you been?:?? Gail73679: Been really busy. Darkrume: Sure but where you been busy?

I touched my hand to her wrist. Made her take a few seconds before replying. “What do those little symbols mean? The little things he adds after sentences?”

“Cyber faces. Look at them kind of sideways, you’ll see facial expressions. It’s what people use on-line to show emotion. You know, happy, sad, joking. Like that.”

My recurring question: Adults do this? I said to her, “Keep playing him along. If he and your mom are still close, he knows where she went. No matter what he says. Find out.” Gail73679: I thought I told you about the trip I was taking. Come on, my love. You forget already? Darkrume: You told me where you were going? Gail73679: Of course I told you where I was going. If you cared about me, you’d remember. God, all I can think about is getting dirty together. Darkrume: ‹- Remembering now. You went on a sailboat trip someplace. With Merl who wrote me those times. Merl who told you to stay away from me. What a jerk.: = (Was it Colombia? Gail73679: You know it was Colombia. Or maybe you don’t. Maybe you don’t care enough to remember. I told you the city and where I was going to be staying. Remember the name of the marina? Darkrume: Maybe. Did you screw Merl? Gail73679: No way. Are you kidding? He would’ve crushed me. You’re the only man I’m thinking about now. Darkrume: Crushed you? The E-mail Merl who hated me because he was jealous, your neighbor in Florida. He fat? Gail73679: Yes, crushed me because he’s so fat. Fat and disgusting. Darkrume: ‹- Laughing. Never liked him. He wrote me those idiotic E-mails, stay away from Gail. Jealous fat man.‹ Gail73679: Yes, he’s terrible. Huge. Darkrume: Know what’s on my mind all the time? Looking down and seeing your eyes. You on your knees looking up at me. ›:-{o} The way your lips felt on me when we finally met. God, you are even prettier than I thought you would be.

Beneath my hand, the pace of her breathing had increased. She said, “I can’t do this, Doc. I really can’t do this.”

“Those little arrows at the beginning of a sentence. What do they mean?”

“It’s like a present tense thing. The arrow means he’s doing it at the time. Laughing, remembering, whatever. With this guy, you can probably add whacking off.”

“I’m becoming a little uncomfortable with his approach.”

“He’s awful. And those little cyber faces. He’s disgusting.”

“Oh yeah, he’s that.” I was still patting her back. “Know what Amanda? You’re right. I was a dope to get you involved in this, way off base. Hell with it. Sign off. Or… whatever it is you do. This guy really is sickening.”

“I’m sorry, but… this is just too much. Pretending I’m my mom and him writing that stuff.”

“I agree. It’s awful. We’re all better than this. I had no idea.”

“But I didn’t get any information for you.”

“That’s okay. Yeah, maybe he knows something. But the key is Merlot. We’ll deal with it. You don’t need to put up with this kind of garbage. Forget it.”

She was still breathing heavily, but also thinking about it.

“Look… I’m okay now. Let me just try one more thing.”

“Nope. Drop the whole act. I feel bad enough as it is.”

“What you’re forgetting is I can make my own decision.

I don’t need you to tell me what to do. I’m an adult. I may not act like it sometimes, but I really am a pretty solid person.”

Her fingers began to move again on the keyboard.

Gail73679: I wish I was looking up at you right now. From my knees. Can just imagine the way you’d be. Call me on the telephone, sweetheart. Call me right now. I want to finish up hearing your voice. We’ll both have a wonderful time.

I patted her shoulder. It was a nice finesse. No one but Gail would risk asking him to call. Very convincing and completely safe. Darkrume: What you mean, call? Just tried to call you. Thought I’d give you a little surprise. Recording said the line was disconnected.:=(Gail73679: Damn! I guess the phone company only connected one of my lines. Because of the trip I was on. The dopes. Then let me call you, love. Give me your number so I don’t have to look it up.

As she typed she said, “We get his number, we’ll find out who he is.”

There was that fairy dust noise again. Darkrume: Maybe I’ll call later. Know what I’m thinking about right now? Remember the way we both got off the best? Gail73679: You always got me off. I hope I always got you off. Darkrume: No, this way was special. We were all naked. We were in a hot tub. We were drinking good wine and all three of us had a bottle of baby oil. Rubbing it on each other. I watched you rub the oil all over her body. It was you and me and what’s her name? Gail73679: Umm-m-m. Sounds wonderful. Tell me her name. I remember her name, but do you? I think I’m in love. Darkrume: Yes. I remember her name. It was the three of us. You and me and… If you remember, say the name.›:+{o} Gail73679: You say the name. I’m too hot to think. Darkume: Okay. Okay. It was you and me and… she had these weird eyes you told me. Not like yours. Different. Crossed eyes. Her name was Amanda. You and me plus your ugly daughter.

The chair went tumbling backward when Amanda jumped to her feet. “The son-of-a-bitch. He set me up!”

My hands were shaking, but I had my arms out and around her now.

Behind me, I could hear Tomlinson making a strange whoofing noise. Was he groaning or fighting back nausea?

“Let it go,” I told her. “Let it go.”

“My mom wouldn’t have done that! My mom would never have done that! I don’t care what he says! You bastard!” She was yelling and now she smacked the screen with her open hand. “You filthy-minded creep!”

I pressed Amanda into Tomlinson’s arms as I took her spot in front of the computer and began to type a reply. Gail73679: The trick’s on you. This isn’t Gail.

I could hear Amanda crying, still furious, as I waited for the fairy dust sound. Darkrume: I know that!): =) Gall73679: Why so sure? Darkrume: Wouldn’t you like to know. You’re Amanda. The daughter. Gail73679: Amanda’s not here. Darkrume: You’re lying. Either Amanda or some computer nerd friends. Someone to figure Momma’s password. Not smart enough to do it alone. Gail73679: You changed her password? Darkrume: Just in case. Someone has to protect our privacy. Gail73679: Pretending to know Gail, pretending to know Amanda, too. You’ve never met either of them. Darkrume: ‹- Smile smile smile! Right. Never met you. The ugly daughter.

I was fighting it, trying hard not to get mad. Gail73679: Why so mean? Darkrume: Not mean. I’m happy. HAPPY! Want to do to you what I did to your mom.

What then followed was a graphic litany of his sexual triumphs with Gail. Real or imagined, it was impossible to judge. But very specific. Each outrage was listed as a conquest.

I waited patiently. Then: Darkrume: You want the same things done to you? Gail73679: Love it. Let’s arrange a meeting. Tell me who you are. Darkrume: Figure it out. Gail73679: Okay. Darkrume: I’m serious. Try. Gail73679: We’ll go through your letters, they’ll tell us. Lots to choose from. Pick the best ones and take them to the police. Darkrume: Be my guest. Better hurry!

From behind me, Tomlinson said, “What the hell does that mean?”

He still had his arm around Amanda, reading along with me.

Gail73679: Why so evasive? You’re a friend of Gail, we’re friends of Gail. So what’s the problem. What are you scared of?

Tomlinson said, “That’s the wrong approach, man. This guy wants to be in charge, let him be in charge. Don’t push him.”

Darkrume: Why should I care about Gail? Already done everything I wanted to do to Gail. But I wouldn’t mind meeting you. Got any videos?

“This is a sick, sick person.”

“Yeah, man. He is truly and honestly twisted.” Gail73679: Got a great video. You’ll love it. Tell me where to send it. Darkrume: Find me, asshole.

“He’s not going to cooperate.”

“Nope, not a chance.”

“Then I’m done playing his game.”

“Don’t blame you. Fire away.” Gail73679: Find you. Exactly what I plan to do. Darkrume: Oh. You sound so dangerous. Gail73679: I’m not. Darkrume: Didn’t think so! Gail73679: No. Amateurs are dangerous. Darkrume: ‹- Shivering with goose bumps. That means nothing. You expect me to be scared? Gail73679: No, I expect you to be inept. Darkrume: You jerk. I don’t waste my time worrying about people like you. Gail73679: I’m counting on that, too. Darkrume: On what? Gail73679: Your stupidity. Darkrume: Fuck you! Darkrume: Fuck you! Gail73679: You illustrate my point. Darkrume: FUCK YOU!

Tomlinson said, “You’re getting to him.”

“Apparently. Let’s hope he’ll hang on until he lets some information slip.” Darkrume: You don’t have a goddamn clue who you’re talking to. Gail73679: Wrong. I know the type of person you are. So did Gail. That’s why she stopped writing. Darkrume: She never stopped, you idiot. Gail73679: But she refused to meet with you and she told me why. Darkrume: I’m the one refused to meet her, scum. That slut would have met me anytime anyplace.

“There,” Tomlinson said, “we just learned something.” Gail73679: Because of the problem you have, she said she felt bad for you. I’m your friend, too. That’s why I’m telling you this. Darkrume: You got the problem, not me. Gail73679: No, but I’m sympathetic. Impotence or homosexuality, nothing to be ashamed of.

In the long pause that followed, I suspect that he typed and erased a number of replies. I wish that I could have read them. Finally: Darkrume: You think I’m stupid. You must really think I’m stupid. Gall73679: Already told you: inept. Is your memory really that bad? Darkrume: Time to show you how smart I am. How much smarter than a cross-eyed hag like you ever thought of being. You say I don’t know you. You’re so wrong about that it makes me laugh. ‹- laughing right now. Remember the letters you planned on reading? Read them now. Bitch!

The Instant Message screen was suddenly filled with a series of strange figures.

Behind me I heard Tomlinson say, “What the hell… Hey… HEY!” He lunged over my shoulder, began to click the mouse frantically, but our cursor was now frozen.

“He’s pumping in some kind of… he’s uploading a file into our system. Look at that crap… it’s like taken complete control, shooting its way right in here…” Tomlinson slapped the desk with his hand. “Shit! Now he’s taken over the whole computer.”

The screen continued to pulse with line after line of figures:

Just before the screen froze, the last instant message from Darkrume read:

You lose! ‹: +))

“I appreciate the fact, man, that you’re trying to concentrate. Trying to pull off one of those total-recall deals. But do you really have to drive so slow?”

We were midway across Alligator Alley, the Everglades holding the horizon in all directions. Saw grass, globes of cypress shadow, gators baking mud gray on canal banks, black vultures cauldroning.

I’d asked Tomlinson to give me some silent time. Let me think about the few letters we’d had time to read.

“I suppose that means no radio, too.”

He’d been switching back and forth between WAXY 106 and ZADA 94. Miami and Lauderdale, all the old hard-rock classics.

“The radio’s fine. The radio I don’t have to think about.”

“Yeah, well… the radio doesn’t make you think ‘cause you weren’t the one who dated Janis Joplin. But don’t get me started on THAT weird episode.” He was tinkering with the dials. “Hey… you know, it wouldn’t kill you to have a tape player installed in this truck. Maybe a set of earphones for your noise-loving buddies.”

I just nodded.

What was it about the few letters I’d read and my exchange with Darkrume that I found so troubling?

Something. Couldn’t manage to nail it down. Perhaps it was tone or implication; a word or a phrase that nagged at me. But if it was important, really important, why couldn’t I dredge it up out of the narrowest processing conduits of my brain?

I kept fumbling with it, going over and over what details I could remember. Not that there was any alternative. Whatever data Darkrume had uploaded into Gail’s computer had destroyed or garbled the entire program system.

A call into Bernie Yager had confirmed it. “So you sit there, don’t switch off the machine, and let someone invade you? Doc, the memory bits that were destroyed were in HER computer, you didn’t even have to be on-line at that point. Now you expect me to help? Believe me, if there was anything left to save, I’d do it. But the virus you just described, what’s left after something like that?”

Nothing, apparently.

“The piranha programs, I’ve heard you can buy, them from the heavy-duty hackers,” Tomlinson told me. “I’ve come across cyber punks who pretended to have them. Same kind of weird crap shoots across your screen. But this was the first time I ever saw anyone actually do it.”

Darkrume had indeed done it. All trace of Gail’s correspondence was now gone.

So I’d spent my driving time trying to visualize the letters I’d read. Not easy because my brain kept slipping into a replay of the exchange with Darkrume-It was your ugly daughter! — and I became furious all over again.

Now Tomlinson said, “Maybe if you speed up to like seventy, it’ll bounce something loose in your noggin. Can’t hurt and might help.”

“Know what, Tomlinson? That was one of the cruelest things I’ve ever witnessed. What that guy did to Amanda. Gail Richardson must have extraordinarily bad judgment to get hooked up with someone like that. And to send him videos?”

“We’ve been through all this. Why keep going over it? Women in that situation, especially the nice ones, they’re just too damn vulnerable. Hey-you want me to drive? We can pull over, take a whiz and let me get behind the wheel.”

Tomlinson was a tailgater, a lane-weaver, a terrible driver.

“Nope.”

“I wouldn’t mind getting to Dinkin’s Bay before sunset, man. Brewskies on the dock with the guides. Maybe order in some appetizers. Chicken wings, they’re sounding tasty.”

“I’ll go faster.”

“Man, I wish I had a bottle of beer for every car that’s passed us this trip. Sixty-five, man, that’s Winnebago speed. Zoom zoom zoom the cars just crackin’ past and us tooling along like two catheter cadets in a Caddy.”

He chuckled. The alliteration was unintentional and pleased him.

I started to remind Tomlinson that he’d promised me at least twenty minutes of silence, but I stopped in mid-sentence.

I said softly, “Straightaways.”

“Yeah, man, you go slow, no matter what. Dozens assed us.”

I changed the inflection. “Straight away. Straight away. “

“Uh-huh, which is embarrassing ‘cause a couple of those cars were from Ohio, Indiana, the neck-bender places. No offense.”

“In Merlot’s letter to Gail, what did he write? ‘I was so upset that when I left your house, I drove straight away to the beach.’ Something like that. You remember that?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“That’s more British than American. ‘Straight away,’ used like that. Or a phrase you might hear in the British colonies. Hong Kong, maybe Kuala Lumpur.”

“Sure, it jumped right out at me, man. But then I’m a scholar. Colonial English-Merlot’s sentences had that kind of weird syntax. And honor, the way he spelled things. He spelled it H-O-N-O-U-R like the Brits do.”

Was it true? I couldn’t remember.

I said, “He used British spelling as well? You’re sure?”

“Positive. There was this line where he said that the first thing he wanted to do was take her to the beach, some secluded harbour-he spelled it O-U-R — ” Tomlinson stopped talking and looked at me, a new awareness in his expression.

I finished his sentence for him: “He spelled harbor H-A-R-B-O-U-R. But Merlot didn’t write that.”

“He… shit! You’re right. It was Darkrume, that’s what he wrote to her.”

“Exactly. Darkrume. The same British usage, the same spelling.”

“You’re saying… I’ll be damned. Okay, okay, this is really fucking with my composure, man. You’re telling me that Darkrume and Merlot, they’re the same person.”

I was waving my hand at him, telling him to be quiet. “Give me some time, let me think about this a little bit.” After a couple of minutes I said, “Yeah. Two different screen names, but the same person. Can you have two different names on the Internet?”

“Absolutely. And the dude could have been anywhere, Colombia, Fumback, Egypt, you name it, and sign on with either name.”

“What do you think the chances are of two people in different parts of the country, two American men who don’t even know each other, affecting the same limey style?”

“Zero. Almost zero anyway.”

“Then that’s what happened. Darkrume said he’s the one who refused to meet her. That’s what kept nagging at me. He was furious by the time he said it, which is why it had the ring of truth. But why would an on-line hustler refuse to meet with the woman he’s hustling? He’s seen her videos, he knows she’s beautiful. You’re more familiar with this business than I am, but my impression of this on-line romance stuff is that it attracts the lonely, the desperate and the predatory. Does that seem accurate?”

“Hey now, man, don’t forget I’ve got a couple of cyber mistresses myself.”

As much as I would have liked to, Tomlinson’s oddities were not easy to forget.

I said, “But generally speaking. Give me one other reason why Darkrume would have refused to meet with Gail. She expected to have sex, right? That’s a hustler’s whole objective, yet he chose not to. Why? Because if they met, Gail would know he wasn’t some handsome photographer from California. He was her fat friend, just down the street.”

He was nodding. “Somehow I felt it all along but didn’t know why. Merlot invented Darkrume. He orchestrated the whole thing, which is some serious sick shit, man. Very serious.”

I said, “He plays good cop, bad cop. He sets her up, has her send the videos to some mail-forwarding service with a P.O. box. Maybe in Florida but probably another state. Maybe sends her pictures of some good-looking guy through the same service and says it’s him, Darkrume, this sexy professional photographer. Then he springs the trap, blackmail, and Merlot is right there saying I told you not to trust Darkrume. Let me help you get out of the mess you’re in. He tells her, yeah, the smart thing to do is just pay the guy off. And the whole time, she’s becoming increasingly dependent on Merlot ‘cause only he knows her terrible secret.”

I mulled it over for a minute. “If he sent a blackmail demand by instant message, there’re no handwriting samples to worry about. And no record of it either, right?”

Tomlinson said, “Unless Gail copied it and saved it to a whole separate file, no.”

“Then that’s probably the way he played it.”

“Or maybe he’s got a partner. Some guy and he had him call Gail and play the roll of Darkrume. A guy with a nice voice. Convincing.”

We talked about that. There were several ways to make it work.

I said, “I’m supposed to meet with Frank Calloway tomorrow. He hired an investigator to dig up dirt on Merlot, and he’s going to let me see the file. But I think I’m going to call tonight and make reservations to fly down to Cartagena. You’re right, it seems serious. Leave Friday or Saturday if I can get a flight.”

“The sooner the better.”

“I agree. What I should have done is head down there right away. Now I’m worried. This guy really is a freak.”

When Tomlinson is very serious or concerned, he speaks more softly and becomes more articulate. “I think you need to find this lady, Doc. I really, truly do. Find her and make her believe the truth. Or scare the fat man away. Whatever it takes. He’s making a fool out of that nice woman. He may try to do worse.”

Yes, maybe a lot worse.

I drove in silence for a while, looking at the saw grass and the sky: gold on blue. The saw grass, the way it showed currents of wind, reminded me of elephant grass, the twelve-foot-high grass of the Mekong River and around marshy Tonle Sap Lake, Cambodia.

Once Bobby and I hiked into a bamboo village, drawn by the amplified buzzing of what we thought might be hiving bees.

But no…

It was the sound of flies, fat iridescent green flies. Thousands of flies, millions of flies, a gray haze. All drawn to what had been hung on hooks to die at the center of that village…

Thinking about it, seeing it again but not wanting to see it, I said to Tomlinson, “If Bobby were alive today, and someone like Merlot hurt his wife or child, I think he would probably-” I stopped. Was there any way to exaggerate what Bobby was capable of doing?

No. Just as there was no way to communicate some of the atrocities we’d witnessed in the jungles of Southeast Asia. So why discuss it?

I, on the other hand, was far removed from that place and time, so I would handle it differently.

Right?

I would have to handle it differently.

I listened to Tomlinson say, “I wish I could go with you to Colombia, man. But tomorrow, Musashi gets here with my little girl. I’ve been looking forward to it for months.”

I told Tomlinson not to worry about it. If Merlot and Gail weren’t out cruising, it probably wouldn’t take me more than a couple of days to locate them. I had photographs. There weren’t that many marinas. And very, very few hugely fat gringos visited the land of cocaine, cartels and kidnappers. So I’d track down the boat, play it by ear. And tomorrow what I might do is ask Frank Calloway to go along with me.

Tomlinson said, “You serious?”

Yeah, I told him, but first I had to meet the man, get a feel for how he’d handle himself on the road. A place like Colombia, you didn’t want a whiner tagging along, but I needed someone to vouch that I was on Gail’s side. Not Amanda, though. Not if I could talk her out of it. I’d had bad luck traveling with women in the past.

But Calloway, that was a different story. He should have a personal interest. Jackie Merlot had taken a lot of the man’s money.

I made plane reservations that night from the phone in my little stilthouse cabin. I also spent nearly an hour calling old friends and former contacts around the U.S. as well as Nicaragua and Panama, trying to get a line on any mutual friends we might have in Colombia.

I knew there was a naval amphibious base on Cartagena Bay because I had billeted there years ago. But the people I had dealt with were long gone. So I called old friends and contacts and played the game of Hey, is what’s-his-name still doing this-or-that? And, When was the last time you saw…?

The more connections these prospective mutual friends had in Cartagena, the better.

I didn’t come up with a name, but I did come up with a description: an Australian expat who ran a little marina on the island suburb of Manga, which is just across the bridge from the old walled city of Cartagena. The Aussie was the friend of a friend, maybe a former SAS guy, maybe not, the woman I was speaking with didn’t know for sure.

The name of the marina was Club Nautico, and the Aussie, she said, might be a good source of information.

“Down there, everyone knows everyone else,” she reminded me.

She was speaking of the broader community of English-speaking expatriates in Central and South America. She was exaggerating-but not by much.

Club Nautico: It was a place to start, anyway.

Something else I did was risk a phone call to my Tampa workout friend, Maggie. Always, always, she’d called me to arrange our meetings. What would I do if her husband answered? I felt ridiculously illicit as I dialed the number. We were just friends; I wasn’t doing anything wrong, so what did I have to feel guilty about?

Maggie answered. She sounded delighted to hear from me. Her husband was out playing softball, so she could talk as long as I wanted.

We didn’t talk long. I told her I was going away for a few days. Told her that we’d probably be able to meet in Pass-a-Grille next week.

“Dinner at the Mermaid,” I told her. “Run five or six, swim maybe for half an hour, then ruin it all with food and lots of beer.”

She laughed. Maggie had a nice laugh.

Before we hung up, she told me something that was not a surprise: “Doc? I’m thinking about leaving him.”

While I was on the phone making reservations, I could look through the window at the porthole lights of Tomlinson’s sailboat throwing yellow tracks across the water.

Tomlinson over there getting everything shipshape, nice and neat and orderly. His daughter was coming to visit. His young daughter and the mother whom Tomlinson was determined to win back.

The last time Musashi had visited him (this had been months ago), I had had the misfortune of overhearing one of her attacks on him. Not that I had a choice. Sound carries across water, and Tomlinson’s sailboat is not anchored far from my house. I don’t know what shocked me most: the gutter quality of the woman’s profanity or her venomous assault on Tomlinson. He was a good-for-nothing impiety who clung to an adolescent past, had wasted his life, was a terrible example as a father and who didn’t make enough money to provide his daughter with the eloquent life, the clothes and the private schooling that she deserved.

It was a painful, disturbing attack to hear.

Dinkin’s Bay is a quiet place, even serene in a goofy, bawdy, fraternity house way. Yes, there is the occasional fistfight on the dock and more than the occasional drunken beer bash, but the marina community is peaceful, very peaceful, perhaps because individual members are allowed to embrace the private lives of our own choosing. Respect is implicit in such acceptance.

Musashi’s attack on Tomlinson, however, seemed designed to destroy the delicate scaffolding of his personal dignity.

The next day, when Tomlinson boated into the marina, I could see him searching the faces of the other liveaboards: Had they heard? Were they embarrassed for him? In our long friendship, it was the only time I’d ever seen him unnerved by that old and eternal debate: Should I be ashamed of what I am? Of who I am?

This was the woman he had invited back to his boat. This was the woman he had asked to go cruising with him to the Tortugas.

There is no explaining or understanding the intricacies of the human male-female relationship and, in such a circumstance of obvious abuse, all a friend can do is stand back and pretend not to see or hear.

I could, however, agree with Rhonda Lister, who told me, “Jesus Christ, what a poisonous bitch that Oriental twat is. Every woman on the islands over the age of twenty-one is wild about Tomlinson, but he’s wasting his time getting beat up by her.”

It was a mystery.

I booked one of the Avianca flights out of Miami, a direct to Cartagena. The Friday-morning lunch flight and the food on that fine Colombian airline is almost always good. I asked the lady in reservations, tell me honest now, were there plenty of seats available? Told her I needed to know, because I was thinking about taking a friend, but wasn’t sure the friend could make it. I didn’t mind risking the money, but why bother if there would be seats available?

The nice lady chuckled and, in Spanish, told me, on Fridays the flight from Miami to Cartagena had plenty of open seats but the flight back would be full. The Sunday-night flight was just the opposite. Full going to Cartagena, plenty of seats coming back.

“On weekends,” she explained, “the Marimba people like to come to the States and party.”

By the Marimba people, she meant the happy people; people who’d made enough money in the drug trade to do whatever they wanted.

So I booked only one seat. A bulkhead seat, aisle.

The next day, among the strangest of the strange thoughts that went flittering through my brain was: Glad I didn’t book a second seat.

This was upon discovering Frank Calloway, my potential traveling companion, lying dead on cold Mexican tiles in his home on Gasparilla Island, village of Boca Grande, on a sun-dappled afternoon in April, a Thursday.