I nodded. "Saint Lucia, too.” I didn’t want to fly directly to Saint Arc. Didn’t want the attention.
“Talk to Lags, man.”
Lageschulte and “the guys” were high school buddies from tiny Waverly, Iowa, who had founded a chain of sports bars. They’d done okay for farmboys.
I said, “Gulf Stream as in Gulfstream jet?”
“Yep. Five hundred knots, range four thousand miles, and a galley stocked with beer and chicken wings. A couple weeks back, the guys invited me along on a trip to Waterloo. We played pinochle, then hit some Amish auctions.”
“You’re kidding. Farm auctions?”
“The scene was incredible. Talk about drama. Lags had to outbid four or five bowed-neck Hawkeyes for a crosscut saw with a painting on it.”
I looked at Tomlinson, who was focused on the Sea Ray while combing a shaky hand through his hair. He’d been doing a lot of that lately- hanging with rock stars, business stars, jock stars, traveling, holding court among people who admired his writing, or his skills as a Zen roshi, or who felt set free by his Happy Hippie persona.
I hadn’t heard about the trip with Lags, but wasn’t surprised. Tomlinson was spending less and less time at the marina. There were long periods when we didn’t talk. Maybe he traveled to mask his bouts of self-doubt-there’s a fine line between traveling and running away. Or maybe it was because he’d achieved rock-star status of his own. His book One Fathom Above Sea Level had a growing cult following. Fans considered a trip to Dinkin’s Bay a form of pilgrimage. Because of that, the marina was no longer a refuge for Tomlinson.
“It’s flattering,” he had told me months ago. “But I worry that I disappoint people who love what I wrote. I can’t live up to my own words. I admit it. Words turn paper into stone-I’m not stone.”
Now, though, watching Coach Mike dock the Sea Ray, Tomlinson sounded right at home giving me travel advice.
“Flying commercial sucks. If you need a last-minute flight, talk to Lags, and don’t forget about Eddie. He’s a pilot. You could rent your own plane. You can afford it-why not?”
Eddie was a nephew of the late Frank DeAntoni, a man I had admired, but didn’t get to know nearly well enough before he was murdered. Eddie had called Mack in March, asking if there was space to moor his customized go-fast boat. Eddie had won a chunk of a New Jersey lottery and was interested in Dinkin’s Bay because Frank had talked about the fun people, including a guy named Ford, and some Tinkerbelle weirdo, Tomlinson. Before fate-or maybe mobster friendsmade him rich, Eddie had been a commercial pilot.
“Fly to the islands with Lags or Eddie,” I said. “That’s not a bad idea.”
“Skip Lyshon’s here, too-you said you needed a boat? Skip’s got boats everywhere.” He paused. “Doc, ol’ buddy, you’ve got your thinking cap on backward lately. Are you sure you don’t want me to come along? I’ll cancel the Zen retreat. That’s a serious offer. Please?”
A dozen times, he’d offered. Truth was, I didn’t want Tomlinson along. He would attract too much attention on Saint Arc, where ganja hustlers were on every street corner.
I was nodding my head, letting him know how helpful he was. “I saw Skip. You’re right-I have plenty of contacts. Why didn’t I think of it?”
“You’re on autopilot. We’re all on autopilot until something gooses us out of our routines. Last night-those sharks? We both died, you know. Best thing that could’ve happened to us.”
“We… died?”
“Yep. I’m certain of it. Hammerheads got us.”
I was smiling-funny the way the man said whatever came into his head when he was preoccupied. Like right now, watching Lags step onto the dock as Eddie lifted a box of something-fruit?-waiting to unload.
I said, “Died metaphorically, you mean.”
“No-but what’s the difference? We’re just as dead. That makes four times for me and at least twice for you-plus, you’ve got another big one already scheduled. Trust me, we both already have weeds growing through our ribs. This marina’s full of ghosts.”
He often said that.
“If you’re a ghost, why are you still scratching that bite on your leg? And why is my beer empty?”
“Death doesn’t explain everything. But it’s a perfect excuse for almost anything. Hey-” Tomlinson’s energy level jumped a notch, and he began walking toward the Sea Ray, grinning as he signaled me to follow. “I just realized what’s in that box-mangoes! Coach Mike went to Saint James City to load up. Pine Island mangoes are the best on earth, Dr. Ford. So why’re we standing here making small talk?”
As if I were invisible-ghostlike-Beryl said to Kathleen Rhodes, “I thought I hated mangoes. The ones I’ve tried-from supermarkets, you know? Those were like turpentine. Stringy, too, with this fibrous junk that sticks in your teeth. So you’d think that’s the way all mangoes taste, but there’s no comparison.”
Beryl spooned another slice into her mouth and closed her eyes. “Ummm. My God, these are ambrosia.” Then leaned back and smiled, showing Kathleen her perfect teeth, but also giving me her good profile, nose… chin… pert little breasts beneath a white blouse with creases. The white blouse darkened Beryl’s amber hair.
I started to say, "There are dozens of varieties-” but Kathleen raised her voice to cover mine, interrupting as she’d done several times already, only now it was to correct me.
“Actually, there are sixty-nine species of mangoes, and a thousand varieties. They originated in India, but I’ve eaten them all over the world. Every varietal is different-like wine.”
She added, “You can tell a lot by the shapes. The elongated mangoes-” the picnic table was draped with banana leaves; halved mangoes everywhere “-are from Indonesia. The round ones are East Indian stock. But some of the best cultivars were developed right here in Florida.” Kathleen favored me with a glance before asking, “Isn’t that right, Doc?”
She’d timed it so I had a mouthful, but I managed to say, “Pine Island… lots of types. My favorite-”
“My favorite is the Num Doc Mai from Vietnam. They taste like a blend of grapes and peaches. These Hadens? A wonderful custard apple flavor. I spent two years cruising Mexico, Central America, Cuba. Mangoes became a sort of hobby. Beryl? If Doc does decide to drag you along to Saint Arc, you have to try this wonderful liquor they make. Distilled from guess what?”
Beryl was right with her. “Distilled from mangoes?” She said it with a breathless edge that I hoped was sarcasm. Nothing I could do about it-the women had obviously discussed the trip. But the night would only get chiller if the two became buddies.
Kathleen’s jaw tightened for a moment-yes, Beryl was being sarcastic. But then Kathleen laughed, done with it. Done with Beryl, too, because now she addressed the table-Eddie, Lags, me on one side, Coach Mike with the women on the other. “Why don’t we have our own little mango tasting? A blind test. We sample five or six different types, and keep score on paper.”
Eddie was mashing slices of fruit into a paste-no idea why-but stopped to ask, “We don’t gotta wear blindfolds, do we? I’m not into that blindfolded crap. I come to have fun, not get weird.”
Earlier, when I’d asked Eddie to fly me to Saint Lucia, or to the private landing strip on Saint Arc, I’d received the same suspicious, tough-guy reaction. “Is Shay going? Or what’s-her-name, the pretty one-Beryl?” he’d asked.
When I told him no, they were staying in Florida, he made a faceAre you nuts?-and said, “Why the hell would I fly some guy, just the two of us alone, way down there where they got beaches, and girls don’t wear no tops? Did you fall and hit your head or somethin’?”
If I hadn’t liked Eddie’s uncle so much, I probably wouldn’t have invested the time it had taken to like Eddie. And I did like him, but the man took some getting used to.
Not so with women. Women adored the guy; couldn’t get enough of his bad-boy attitude and his dimples. Kathleen was clearly charmed; let me see how taken she was with this good-looking Italian guy with his broken nose, his New Jersey accent, his gladiator body, and his lottery fortune.