The bar had a granite fireplace, tables of dense wood, walls that were a museum of taxidermy: old skin-mounted tarpon, snook, bass and sailfish. There were alligators twelve to fourteen feet long, green turtles, turkeys, coveys of quail, a bear snarling on hind legs and one spectacularly large feral hog with razor tusks.
“Holy shitski,” Tomlinson said, eyes swiveling as we walked in. “They ought to have a couple of Michiganers tacked up there; human heads just to be fair. Give wildlife equal time. Or a Buckeye or two in travel garb, cameras around their necks. Mount them over there”-he pointed to the largest of the gators-“maybe partially ingested. A leg or two missing, but they’ve still got that Disney World smile on their faces. Tough-ass Ohioans not about to let anything ruin their vacation. A real Florida tableau. Don’t you think that’d up burger sales?”
Shaking his head, DeAntoni said, “Jesus, burgers. That’s exactly what I was going to order, too. Why you got to be so fucking vulgar?” and left us standing as he walked toward the bar.
The busiest of tourist times in Florida is a week or two before Easter. Even so, the lodge wasn’t crowded. At the most expensive clubs, hefty yearly dues ensure lots of personal room, lots of personal attention.
Members and their guests were getting it here. There was a steady luncheon business out on the veranda, a couple more tables occupied inside, but there was only one person at the bar when we sat. A distinguished-looking man with white hair, pleated shirt and slacks. He was peering reflectively into a heavy Scotch glass, but turned long enough to allow us a pleasant nod.
We ordered drinks and lunch; talked among ourselves for a while before DeAntoni attempted to coax conversation out of the bartender. Talked about sports, asked him about the fishing, how was business, how were tips, before he finally mentioned Minster.
The question seemed to surprise the bartender, though he recovered quickly. Bartenders become expert at masking emotion or they don’t last long in what is a tough, tough business. He was as muscular as the guard in the pith helmet, but older: clean-cut, tan face beaming as he towel-dried glasses in his white shirt and black vest, with a name tag that read: KURT-LINCOLN, MASS.
But there was something aloof in Kurt’s dark eyes, as if he were an actor too good for the role he’d been assigned, and knew it. He and the guard possessed a similar, polite facade that implied a well-hidden contempt.
We listened to the bartender tell us how interesting Minster was, what a loss it was to the club, before DeAntoni said, “The three of us are all friends of his wife, Sally. You ever meet her?”
“No, sir. I don’t think I had the pleasure. You’re guests of Mrs. Minster?”
“That’s right. We’re friends of Geoff, too. We were his friends. Crummy luck, huh? Falling off the ass-end of a boat. Geoff was one smart operator. He was the guy behind developing this place, which you probably know. Right here where you’re working. Sawgrass. Him and some weird religious guru, but Geoff was the real brains-”
For just an instant, the mask slipped a little as the bartender interrupted with exaggerated civility. “Excuse me, sir. Bhagwan Shiva is not some weird religious guru. He’s a gifted and enlightened individual. A very great man. Shiva comes here often, and we’re honored that Shiva has chosen Sawgrass as his personal ashram. In fact, he’ll be here this afternoon.”
DeAntoni said, “Ashram,” in a blank tone that said he didn’t know what Kurt was talking about.
“An ashram is a place for spiritual retreat. Like a church, only more than that. At Sawgrass, we have an indoor ashram for meditation, religious instruction. We also have a much larger outdoor ashram, which is at the end of the nature trail. Cypress Ashram. It’s an amphitheater beneath a really pretty cypress dome. It’s beautiful; seats nearly a thousand. Some people say they find grace and tranquillity if they just sit there alone for a few minutes. I suggest you visit it.”
It was a subtle cut that DeAntoni missed. He replied, “Yeah, Geoff was into that stuff, too, meditation, religion-” but the bartender had already turned away, ending the conversation, walking off, telling us that he’d go check with the kitchen because our food should be up soon.
When Kurt was gone, the white-haired man cleared his throat, a mild smile on his face, looking at us with eyes that were bleary, seemed a little sad. “Forgive me, but I couldn’t help overhearing that you gentlemen were friends of Geoff. I knew him well. A wonderful guy.” The man had the genial southern accent that I associate with moneyed people from Charleston society or, perhaps, old Atlanta.
DeAntoni said too quickly, “Oh yeah, the best. Geoff was a real peach.”
“Quite a raconteur,” the man said. “Told the funniest stories.”
“Hilarious,” DeAntoni said. “Made your sides ache when he really got going.”
My antennae were up. A lot of little warning bells were going off. I sensed we were being manipulated, even tested, as the white-haired man continued, “So you really did know our old colleague. I’m surprised I didn’t see y’all at the memorial service.”
Tomlinson, typically, had already perceived what I was just beginning to suspect, because he spoke before DeAntoni or I could reply, saying, “My brothers, I think we have badly misjudged our drinking neighbor. Sir”-he turned on his stool to face the older man-“we deceived the bartender. Flat-out lied on purpose. He’s a young spirit, an inexperienced soul. But not you. So the truth is, we didn’t know Mr. Minster. I met him once-and he wasn’t impressed. But we are friends of his wife, Sally. Mind if I ask how you knew we were lying?”
The man was swirling the whiskey in his glass, staring into it. I realized that he was already well on his way to being drunk, only an hour past noon.
He said, “The way I know is, I’ve spent my life starting companies, overseeing corporations, sniffing every kind of man you can imagine. It takes balls the size of pit bulls to be successful in American business-especially these days. So an ol’ boy also has to have a finely developed, built-in bullshit detector.”
His mild smile broadened as he added, “And you, gentlemen, set off my bullshit detector the moment you walked through the door. The moment your large friend opened his New York mouth”-he used his chin to indicate DeAntoni-“I knew he was full of manure. Besides that, Geoff Minster never told a funny story in his life. I don’t think the man knew how to laugh. Although, he was maybe trying to learn toward the end.”
I expected DeAntoni to bristle. Instead, he stood and held out his hand. He waited as the older man thought for a moment, then finally shook it. “You got good judgment, Mac. The kind of guy who says what’s on his mind, which I respect. Truth is, I’m a private investigator trying to help Mrs. Minster. She doesn’t think her husband’s dead. Neither do I. Which is why I’m down here askin’ questions.”
The white-haired man considered that through two delicate sips of his drink. His expression read: Interesting. Finally, he stood, pausing another moment to be certain of his balance. Then he said, “I’m going to find a corner table-away from that little Nazi of a Yankee bartender. Interested in joining me?”
When DeAntoni said yes, the man told him, “Excellent. ’Far as I’m concerned, the only bad thing about drinking alone is that a fine Scotch never gets the time it deserves to breathe.”
“Conversation,” Tomlinson replied agreeably, “can be the secret to getting a whiskey binge off to a good start.”
“‘Conversation’?” the man said. “Son, I don’t waste my time with conversation. No businessman worth a damn talks for pleasure. If I open my mouth, it’s either to take a drink or to negotiate. Sometimes, it’s to barter. Which is what we’re doing now. I’m drinking thirty-four-year-old Blackadder Single Malt. Staff has it flown in special from Ben Nevis at a price that’s obscene. If I’m talking, you’re buying. That’s the agreement. So I hope you brought a walletful of cash.”