Captiva

Tomlinson said very softly, 'He's got a gun.'

I released Julie and told Tomlinson, 'Kill the engine.'

I had my glasses on, trying my best to be conciliatory. The man's name was Futch, Arlis Futch—he told us that—and he was the founder, sole owner, operator, and the only one who much mattered around the docks of Sulphur Wells Fish Company. He told us that, too.

Judging from the way the fishermen deferred to him, I didn't doubt it.

'You boys get back to work. This ain't no dance. I need any help, you'll hear shots. By then I won't need no more help.' He didn't laugh when he said it.

Futch had a body type that I had come to associate with the male descendants of Gulf Coast settlers: narrow shoulders, blunt fingers, bandy legs, but with hands and forearms large out of proportion, and trapezius muscles so pronounced that his head seemed to sit atop a pyramid. Also, he had the characteristic myopia. His eyes, magnified by thick glasses, were owl-sized.

'You hurt bad or just making noise?'

Julie had his arm over his partner's shoulder, sucking in air. 'The sonuvabitch 'bout crippled me.'

'He draw blood?'

'I'd rather bleed than have my nuts squished out my nose. That cleat liked to ruin me.'

'Well, don't be feelin' your thingumabob around me, goddamn it! You want to inspect your personals, find a bush. Now somebody tell me what happened.'

Julie still had enough wind to talk. 'What happened was, these here two come in high and mighty thinkin' they could tie up. When I told 'em it was private they got smartmouthy, kind'a pushy. He tripped me, the big one, and I fell wrong or they wouldn't be here botherin' you now.'

'That's how it happened, huh?'

'Ask J.D. Ain't that how it happened?'

J.D.: Julie's partner had a name.

Arlis Futch looked down at me, asked, 'That the whole story?'

I said, 'Not much that I recognize,' but didn't offer any more.

'You gonna believe him? Shit.' Julie was up pacing around now, kept glancing over, eager to take another shot at me, I could tell. 'I was just tryin' to help, Mr. Futch. They come in here acting like big shots, what you want me to do?'

Futch had the shotgun tucked in the crook of his arm. Now he levered it open, looked as if to make sure it was loaded. 'What I-want you to do is mind your own affairs. Someone wants a slip, they ask me, not you. That's just about exactly the way she goes round here.'

'I didn't know you wanted flats boat business.'

'Don't use that tone to me. What I want ain't none of your concern. You ain't from around here and you ain't no kin—'

'We been sellin' you fish for the last month, that's all—'

'And I paid you cash for 'em. Don't owe you diddly-squat. Don't even know your damn names and I don't want to know 'em. What I do know is, you and some of the others camped up the shore drink way too much whiskey, smoke your damn dope, and you're tryin' to get my local boys mixed up in matters they're damn near desperate enough to try. Somethin' else I know is, you're trouble. Just plain dog-mean trouble.' Futch snapped the shotgun closed, but kept it pointed at the dock. I noticed just the wryest hint of a smile as he added, 'So what you boys gonna do is jump in your skiff and disappear. Want to take a minute, hunt around the dock for any small things you lost, your thingumabob, whatever, that's fine. But don't come back.'

'You sayin' you ain't buyin' no more fish from us?'

'You find someone else to haul it in, that's your business. Just don't let me catch the two of you on my property.'

J.D., it turned out, was a talker too. He took turns with Julie hollering at Arlis Futch. They made obscene and impossible suggestions; they offered vague threats. Each was prefaced by 'old man.' Futch ignored them until he'd heard enough; then he looked at his watch before saying softly, 'You boys want me to tell you when your time's up? Or should I jes' surprise you?'

Which sent the two of them walking toward their boat. When they were under way and out of the canal, Futch turned his attention to us. Because of the way he'd treated J.D. and Julie, I expected him to assume that we were the wronged parties and behave cordially. He didn't. He popped open the shotgun and shoved the shells into his pocket, saying, 'What you waiting on? Get out. I don't want you around here neither.'

Tomlinson said, 'We need a spot to tie up,' and told him who we were looking for and why.

Futch worked at appearing indifferent—he yawned a couple of times—but I could tell the story touched a chord. When Tomlinson had finished, he asked, 'You was there when Jimmy Darroux burnt up? Maybe you're just sayin' that 'cause you're a cop or somethin.' '

Tomlinson said, 'Do I look like a cop to you?'

'You look like just one more damn Yankee tourist to me.'

'I was with him at the hospital. When he died. That's why we're looking for Hannah.'

'Hannah, huh? Tell me somethin'—did he suffer real bad. At the end, I mean. Jimmy?'

'It didn't last long. If you were a friend of his, you can take comfort from that.'

'I don't need no comfort, not from you I don't. Common sense gives me all the comfort I need.' Judging from Futch's tone, his expression, I got the impression that he hoped Darroux had suffered, and was irritated that Tomlinson didn't offer more details.

'Jimmy Darroux made a request of me on his deathbed,' Tomlinson said. 'I'm determined to honor it.'

Futch thought for a moment, stared along the dock where the commercial fishermen had returned to work but were still keeping an eye on us. 'You looking for Hannah,' he said finally, 'that would be Jimmy's wife, Hannah Smith.' In reply to my sharp look, Futch added, 'I won't call her by her married name. She was always Hannah Smith to me, still is to this day.'

'Do you know where we can find her? If she doesn't want to talk, considering what she's been through —-'

'Hannah ain't no prissy, mopey kind'a woman. She doesn't want to talk, she'll tell you plain enough. I ain't the one to make her decisions for her. She lives down the road a couple hundred yards, the yellow cabin up on the Indian mound.' Futch pointed vaguely. 'The cops've already talked to her, so if you're here to ask more questions she'll figure that out quick enough, too.'

'So it's okay to tie up?'

'Didn't say that.'

'We . . . can pay you.'

'Don't want your money. You boys just ain't clear about the way things stand, are you? You own this here boat?' He was talking to me. I nodded. 'Let me explain the way it is. You paid more for this fancy boat then some a these men make in a year. Boat with a fancy platform over the motor so you can stand up there, dressed real nice, and look for fish when you got the time. Well, mister-man, those used to be our fish. Used to be our bay until the rich sports got their lawyers together and found a way to push us out.

'Time was I'd see only one or two of these here boats in a month. Helped 'em out many a time, too, tellin' where I saw the tar-pawn schoolin' or when the tripletail was around the traps. Tarpon and tripletail weren't nothin' to me, and it was the neighborly thing to do, I figured. Now'days, though, there're hundreds, hell, thousands'a these boats ever' where you look. Can't hardly strike a mess'a mullet without one'a these here flats boaters blastin' through givin' us their dirty looks.' Futch hacked, spat, hacked, and spat again. 'What you think it does to our boys, see a boat like yours? They got the whole world comin' down on their heads, sick kids, payments to make, banks yammering for their money and not a cent comin' in after the nets is banned in July. A lot of 'em didn't even finish high school, figuring they could always make a livin' fishin'. Now what they gonna do? You sports in the fancy boats got it all. You sports in the fancy boats took it all. Now you come in here lah-de-dah-de-dah askin' to tie up?' Futch had his face squinched into a thoughtful frown. 'I reckon I jes' couldn't be responsible, you tie your boat here. One of the boys might mistake her for a two-holer and poot his mess on the deck. Or maybe worse. Lines might break and it'd drift off and catch fire, nobody's fault. My advice to you fellas is get the hell out an' don't come back. Hannah wants to talk to you, that's her business. But my docks ain't got no room for a boat like yours.'