While I was doing my gray-bar penance, two thoughts buoyed my mind. The first was skin-specific. Depending on a given day’s toss between nostalgia and resentment, any one of four women could’ve provided elevation. The second was culinary. I promised myself a fat fish sandwich and a bowl of lima bean soup at Alabama Jack’s. Sure as hell, my first time back I reconnected with the crusty crew. Once they knew I was ninety-percent clean and totally clammed up, they let me sit in, even fixed me up to buy a motorboat which I keep in Key Largo. I knew I could take James Task to the master dock jockeys and they would decide how to handle him. I could play spectator and try to guess the ending.
A three-vehicle convoy passed us, blew dust into our grille. A Cadillac SUV, whatever they’re called, an S-series Benz sedan, and a Lincoln Navigator. High-cotton members of the Ocean Reef Club in a hurry for their midday toddies.
“First pedal on the right,” said Task. “Step on the fuck, why don’t you?”
What did he expect? I was doing sixty-five in a fifty-five. The washboard road made it feel like ninety. “These are the Everglades, the real-life boonies, Task. This is your chance to commune with the quiet pace of undisturbed nature. You come down here to speed up your life, you’re wasting resources.”
“Middle of fuckin’ nowhere,” he said. “This two-lane got a name?”
“Card Sound Road.”
“You’re lugging it. You’ll clog my plugs.”
“Not until after your heart attack for worrying about your ignition. I hope you brought a package of cash.”
“If I didn’t, it’s less than an hour away — by the way most people drive.”
“Where we’re going, Task, I can’t float a balloon so you can say maybe. Do we need to go back a few miles?”
“Keep going. On second thought, pull over along here, let me drain the barracuda.”
“You don’t want to do that. Swamp skeeters are drawn to pecker temperature. We got all of six minutes to a flush toilet.”
“I wish to hell you’d goose the throttle.”
“Maybe not.” I lifted the gas pedal as we passed a ramshackle camp with BUY BLUE CRABS and JESUS SAVES signs tacked to spindly roadside posts. I tapped the brake pedal, slowed for a left bend in the road. Before our eyes was a scene you could sell to all-night TV. Two black and gold Florida Highway Patrol Camaros with their roof racks flashing had all three speeders pulled to the shoulder. I didn’t say a fucking word.
A half mile later Task said, “That’s either a bad sign or I’m glad I’m with you.”
“Both because I know the turf?”
“You’re not as dumb as you look, Whidden.”
A server near the door recognized me. She feigned exhaustion, teased her sweat-damp hair, and pointed to a round table near the waterside railing. Rigoberto and Duane. A third-generation Cuban-American and a fifth-generation peckerwood. Rigo was the old-timer; he was wearing a NASCAR T-shirt. Duane, in a fatigued guayabera sports shirt, was closer to my age. He’d started as an errand boy just like me.
We did the introduction, got invited to sit. Task said, “Pleased to meet you,” and Rigo and Duane sized him for a cop, trusted that I’d brought him for a reason. We were invited to share their brunch of conch fritters and the sliced pineapple that Rigo brought from his home garden in Coral Gables. I ordered a Bloody Mary and Task got a Captain Morgan on the rocks and Rigo joked to lighten things up. The gang had razzed me about getting rid of my stepmother’s doilies and trivets. Rigo asked if I’d had my yard sale yet, marked down the afghans and tea sets, held out for high dollar on her five-foot silk palm tree. Duane changed the subject, which I appreciated, and mentioned that a bonefish guide friend of his — he pointed to a large man at the bar — had released four tarpon that morning. The angler had tipped him a day’s pay.
Task gazed down to the southwest. “This is Card Sound?”
“Barnes Sound,” said Duane.
“We came down a road called...”
Rigo jacked his thumb to the northeast. “Card’s up there.”
Task looked in that direction. “Okay, then where’s the Gulf of Mexico?”
Rigo pointed back the other way. “Down past Blackwater Sound and Florida Bay.”
“A boy could get lost around here,” said Task.
“Plenty have,” drawled Duane.
Uh-oh, I thought.
Rigo focused the conversation. He pointed at a lumpy scar on Task’s forearm. “The chief make you lose that tattoo?”
“Family thing,” said Task. He tried to mask his disappointment in having been spotted as a cop.
“Your mother told you she’d die on purpose if you didn’t take it off?”
“Almost her exact words.”
“Just like mine,” said Rigo, “bless her soul.”
“But it’s good that it’s gone.” Task rubbed his scar. “It was a fuckin’ skull, dumb to start with.”
“Where you stay now? Whatcha into?” said Rigo.
“West Palm. Fab, Tide, and borax.”
“Ah, yes, the laundry. Into that long?”
“For a while it was a storefront, payday loans and check advances. We’d loan against car titles, that kind of crap.”
“You quit that? Sounds like cash flow to me.”
“We got asked nicely to close up shop. One of the polite requests you don’t ignore.”
“Let me guess,” said Rigo. “Not the mob.”
“Right you are,” said Task. “A legit company, branches all over the southeast. But they had muscle on their team, that’s for sure.”
“So now you’re into what, cleaning counterfeits, washing profits for importers?”
“No counterfeits, but everything else,” said Task. “As long as they print C-notes, somebody’ll build a stash of dirty ones.”
Rigo cut a slice of pineapple into one-inch sections, then used the knife to stick a piece into his mouth. “Discounting’s a growing industry.”
“Numbskulls coming in, their rookie mistakes, makes it tight at the top.”
“I hear they got a joint-ops group all over that shit.”
Task faked a chuckle. “That group is turning up five-year-old rocks. They ’bout as tuned-in as polka dot pants.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“We keep an eye out,” said Task. “That’s how it is.”
“So we need to get down to the gritty,” said Rigo. He looked at Duane and me. “You two wanted to sit at the next table, correct?”
The two of us left behind our near-empties, took new seats. Duane ordered fresh drinks for both tables and two more baskets of fritters.
“You’re a lot calmer since you went away.”
“I know. I’m four years older,” I said. “I didn’t think I’d changed so you’d notice.”
“You were so wired up, we called you the electric fence. How’s that Wellcraft you bought?”
“I don’t know. It sits lopsided, heavy to starboard. The gas gauge tells lies, so when you see it’s half-full you know it’s full empty. And with that seventy-five Mercury, if you go for optimum cruising tilt, the turbulence kills your water pressure.”
“Cavitation,” said Duane.
“So I change the tilt, ride ass high, the bow thumps. If I ride ass low, the water pressure lifts, but I get less RPM for more throttle.”
“Using ninety-three octane for your mix?”
“Always.”
“Mount that motor an inch lower on the transom.”
“I will do that.”
“He’s got you in a twist.”
“Do tell,” I said.
“Ex-cops don’t know how to cut pie. He’d rather shoot his knee than give you a percentage, so you didn’t get pushed here by money. Where’s he coming from?”