I gave it a moment, thinking, then swallowed hard- uhoh -because I was remembering how Balserio handled the knife, passing it back and forth from hand to hand.
“What I noticed,” Starkey said, leaning toward me, his voice rising in a sort of victorious intensity, “is the man you say fired at you woulda never done it the way you said. There ain’t no way in Hades. That’s because the man’s left-handed. Ain’t no way a left-handed man is gonna fire from the right window of an empty back seat.
“Just to be sure, I had the deputy undo the tall man’s cuffs. I made him take the little test where you sight a target through your fingers with both eyes wide open-” The old detective formed a circle with thumb and index finger, holding it away from his face, to demonstrate. “Close your left eye, and if the target stays in the circle, your right eye’s strongest. Jorge’s not only left-handed, but he’s got a dominant left eye. No lefty with a dominant left eye shoots right-handed. Ever. So I knowed you was lyin’ even before we met.
“You staged the whole dang business, Ford. You fired them rounds. That spooky old Sig Sauer with no serial numbers we found in the Chevy was planted by you. For some reason, you want them boys jailed real bad.”
I was thinking to myself, Tucker Gatrell outsmarted this guy? as he continued, “I told Miz Tamara all that before we got you in the car. But something clicked between you two. Man and woman stuff. I seen it happen to some of the best. They get a gut feelin’ about who they can trust, and their brain stops. I knowed it when she started askin’ questions in a way so you knew how to answer. Poor girl didn’t even know she was doin’ it. So I’m gonna give you one last chance to do the honorable thing. The right thing.”
I shook my head slowly again- No -saying, “I’m not involved in anything that’s going to hurt her or her career, I promise you.”
He snorted, spit as he banged his stick on the ground hard, like a gavel. “That ain’t gonna cut it. So here’s the deaclass="underline" If she takes any grief because of your lies, I’m gonna come down on you like a marble ceiling. I still never got my revenge on your uncle. Not yet, anyway. Maybe I’ll get ’er through you.”
I looked at my watch-8:57 P.M.-then looked at the black cypress canopy above, a pearling sky beyond, thinking, All I want to do is get home. Back to my fish and boats and books-and find my boy.
Even so, I still had to ask the question. Had to ask because I needed to know how much hatred I was dealing with. How far was this old man willing to take it? In getting him to talk, I also hoped maybe he’d soften a little and give me a few hints about who was responsible for the boat fire.
Even though I was exhausted, I tried my best to sound empathetic when I asked Merlin T. Starkey about Tucker Gatrell, and how, exactly, that old con man had managed to ruin his career.
And he told me.
FOURTEEN
As I pulled onto the Tamiami Trail, headed west toward Sanibel, I got the number from information and had the girl at the Miami Radisson’s front desk ring Tomlinson’s room.
No answer.
The first time, I left a message for him saying, “I’ve got a classic Tucker Gatrell story that you’re not going to believe. Actually, you will believe it. It’s so typical. Plus there’s interesting news about the black car.”
I think I sounded upbeat. Not a hint of suspicion in my voice.
How Tucker had ruined the career of Merlin T. Starkey-I told myself that was the reason I tried Tomlinson’s room again ten minutes later, then redialed a third time a few minutes after that. Told myself I was eager to share the wild tale, and also confirm that Pilar and Tomlinson were safe. That seemed reasonable. Hadn’t I told them not to leave the room?
True, Balserio, Hugo, and Elmase had probably already been booked into Collier County jail. But my friend and my former lover weren’t aware of that. They should have been inside the Radisson with the bolts latched.
I checked my watch: 9:30 P.M.
So where were they?
Or… maybe they were in the room, but ignoring the phone. Inside all alone, but having too much fun to answer.
Yeah, that was certainly possible…
I plucked up the cell phone, hit redial again, and told the irritable desk clerk, “This is kind of important. Would you mind trying that room one more time?”
Nothing.
My primary concern was that they were in some kind of trouble. Someone had gotten to them. But I was also aware of an undercurrent of adolescent-grade suspicion.
My behavior, I lied to myself, had nothing to do with Tomlinson and how he behaved with women. I also told myself it wasn’t because of the secret, sexual Pilar that tumbled out under a lot of stress, and after a couple of glasses of wine.
I simply wanted to let them know that it was safe for them to unlock the door and leave Miami. That maybe they should get on the phone and grab the first fast cab back to Sanibel.
I’m not the suspicious type. Too mature, too rational to be jealous, so that’s not why I kept calling.
That’s what I told myself.
I also wasn’t already regretting exchanging my Sig Sauer for Balserio’s freedom, nor did some secret part of me consider that gun a mighty good-luck talisman.
Right.
In the next few minutes, I received two calls. But it wasn’t the missing couple. First time, it was one of Tomlinson’s Zen students, who told me in a rush that she felt the mantra he’d assigned her just wasn’t working because, she now realized, it was similar to the name of an old boyfriend.
“Please tell the respected Daishi it’s becoming a real downer, picturing that asshole’s face every time I work on my sutra. ”
I said I’d pass the information along if and when I ever spoke to the great Daishi again.
The second caller didn’t pause even when I tried to interrupt.
“Hey, man, how’re you doin’? Nothing urgent but my outboard’s about bone dry. Hear what I’m tellin’ ya? We need it at the Marco Island store. I hear a buck fifty a gallon sounds right. So I’ll take two bags. Gallons, I mean. Only if it’s high test, though; got a big race tonight. Catch you at the shack. Same place-and tell your delivery boy not to be late this time.”
As I said “Huh?” he hung up.
At ten till ten, I slowed for the orange blinker and gas station fluorescence that is the turnoff to Everglades City at the intersection of Route 29. Down that rural two-lane was the Rod amp; Gun Club, the classic old fishing lodge where I’d waved a last goodbye to my parents.
Suddenly, I wasn’t thinking about Tomlinson and Pilar anymore.
To the southwest, beyond mangroves, the lights of the village reflected off clouds. Once again, the image of the departing boat, my father, my mother, her eyes and smiling face, appeared. My father’s secret hand signal. Once again, the freshness of detail startled me.
Had that scene ever come into my mind before?
No.
I was certain it hadn’t. Not as an adult, anyway. Yet, how could I have forgotten a moment like that?
It seemed impossible, but I had. Until today.
It was a psychological anomaly that I’d never experienced.
I have little patience for nostalgia; seldom linger in the past. I’ve lived an independent, self-reliant life in which family hasn’t played a role. After so many years on my own, my recall of those long-dead people had faded more completely than the photo I’d found of Ervin Rouse.
Yet on this day, they’d reappeared, alive in memory.
I found that puzzling and remarkable. It also seemed somehow important.
Why?
I couldn’t fathom. What I’d learned about Tucker Gatrell wasn’t a factor. No, it was more personal than that.
I considered making the turn to Everglades City, traveling the four or five miles to the Barron River to stand beneath the old moon-globe streetlights. To stand on the dock once again, where I’d said goodbye a final time. That reconnection might suggest an answer.