and forcing me to bed years ago. After getting me fallin'-down drunk the night of the seance. He didn't say nothin'. Not a goddamn word. Just turned his back and walked away.'
Seventeen
Just before sunset, Ted Bauerstock brought his 36-Hinckley cruiser through some invisible cut west of Ron- rico Key, running at speed through water I would have guessed was way too shallow for a boat that size. He had to be doing at least thirty knots, throwing a wake as streamlined as the Hinckley itself, one of the most beautiful yachts in the world.
Tomlinson and I stood beneath a thatched chickee at the end of the boat basin, watching. Tomlinson, who followed yachting magazines, said, 'That's their new hull, they call it a Picnic Boat. It's got a water-jet propulsion system, only draws eighteen inches. Base price is over three hundred grand.'
'A half-million-dollar picnic boat?'
'Yeah, when you add a few options. But think, of all the money you save not going to restaurants.'
Nora came up beside us. We'd been in the bar listening to Bauerstock talk to Delia on the VHF radio. He told her he was only ten minutes out, could she have a pot of fresh coffee ready for him and his two-man crew? Maybe some sandwiches to go, too. They didn't have a lot of time to spare. He had to scoot back across Florida Bay for a fund-raiser in Naples the next afternoon.
Now Nora stood, hands on hips, watching the yacht with obvious admiration. 'Is that thing gorgeous, or what?'
It was, too, with its flared hull of midnight blue, its water-line trimmed with apple red and its white lobsterman cabin.
Her expression of admiration didn't change much when Teddy Bauerstock appeared on the aft deck after backing the boat in smartly and tying off. He wore a white pressed guay-bera shirt, a Latin touch, plus khaki slacks and white boat shoes. He had the wind-blown look of someone who'd gone to a good fraternity, owned more than one tuxedo but who could also tell a joke or two. He swung down on the dock wearing a big smile, combing fingers through his black hair, and singled out Delia right away. He went to her, hugged her like he might have hugged his mother, then saw Nora. He hesitated, looking from Tomlinson to me, then swept up Nora, too, lifting her feet briefly off the ground. He said to her, but loud enough for everyone to hear, 'Sorry, but I couldn't help myself. You've got the most beautiful eyes!'
Then he was done with her, moving down the dock shaking hands, his left arm thrown over Delia's shoulder, leaving his crew to tend the boat. There was a tiny man, thin-haired, dressed in white-the actual skipper of the boat, I guessed. B. J. Buster, with his pumpkin-sized head, was coiling a line on the stern, wearing a black T-shirt stretched over his shoulders and biceps, bunched up at his skinny waist. In golden letters, the T-shirt read: 'Bauerstock for Senate.'
On the stern of the boat, in much larger golden letters, was the yacht's name: Namesake Key Marco.
Tomlinson was kneeling, trying to see the boat's underside. There had to be a state-of-the-art jet system down there. Some kind of tunnel hull with no propeller. To me, he said, 'The man knows how to make an entrance, you have to give him that. I like his style.'
I watched Nora using her long legs, hurrying to stay close to Delia and Bauerstock. 'Everyone does, apparently.'
Buster had moved across the aft deck and was looking down on Tomlinson. 'Hey… you there. Get yourself away from the back'a this here boat.'
Tomlinson glanced up. 'I was trying to see the stern drive. The mechanics of it. How it works.'
'I don't know nothin' 'bout no stern drive. But you get your ass away. Hear?'
As Tomlinson and I walked toward the bar, I said, 'I suppose you like his bodyguard, too.'
He shrugged, not upset. 'No, but I understand the philosophy. It's easier to be a genuinely humane person if you can afford to hire your own personal son-of-a-bitch.'
Theodore Bauerstock was sitting across the picnic table from Nora, Tomlinson and me. He was sandwiched between Delia and Conch Jerry, one of the locals.
No telling why Conch Jerry was sitting in. He floated around from table to table, listening, hearing, but not saying much. The Mandalay was that kind of place.
On the table before him, Bauerstock had a nonalcoholic beer and a laptop computer, the screen opened to our side of the table. Attached to the top of the screen was a dime-sized micro-camera with a cord that was linked to a satellite cell phone, its antenna blossomed round like a metallic daisy.
As Bauerstock pieced together the components, he told us that his boat had a fully integrated electronic computer system, everything-Global Positioning System, weather satellites, telephone and single sideband radio, satellite Internet and World Wide Web, plus a special mobile Doppler radar system mounted forward on the cabin roof right next to the aircraft-rated spodights.
'I've been watching the satellite shots and the Doppler. The storm's… well, here, I'll show you.' His fingers made a plastic sound on the laptop, and, a moment later, we could see the swirling red shape of the tropical storm, just like on the TV back at Sharkey's Bar. 'Okay… what do we have here? The storm's moved north and west a few tenths of a degree, wind speed at a steady sixty.' He looked up. 'That's good for us. It's moving offshore, away from land. Got lots and lots of rain in there. Big bastard, though, isn't it? It's got to be a hundred miles wide, maybe more. The eye's already clearly defined. Let's see how deep the eye is.' He touched more keys, and we could see a cross section of the storm; the picture transmitted carrying an explanatory line at the bottom: 'Graphic based upon NOAA 41-C Aerial Photo.' He gave a low whistle. 'She's already thirty thousand feet deep. Do you folks know how a Doppler radar system works?'
Before he could continue, Tomlinson said, 'It's named after an Austrian physicist, the Doppler effect. It's like when we hear a train or a plane, the pitch of the sound is higher as the object comes toward us. Then the pitch drops as it passes and moves away. The radar calculates wind speed and precipitation by measuring the distance between sound waves. At least, that's what I've read.'
Bauerstock was smiling at him. 'I defer to the more informed man. What I know is far more basic, but here I am trying to explain it. You like computers? Modern gadgets?'
'Nope. I keep spilling stuff on them. But I find symmetry interesting. Think about it: we use our eyes and ears to measure speed and distance. Built-in Doppler. We've all got it, but few of us make an effort to get in touch with our own gifts.'
Now Bauerstock was laughing; he really seemed to be enjoying Tomlinson. He was enjoying Nora, too, judging from all the eye contact, the private winks. To Delia, he said, 'This is a very intelligent man. You have good taste in friends.'
'Tommy-San? Oh, he's been a blessing to me. Been here just over a week, and he already draws a lot of water at the Mandalay.'
He returned his attention to Tomlinson, gesturing to the computer. 'You want to give her a test drive? It's the fastest portable system around. My family's in the business, so I get first crack at all the new toys.'
'Normally, sure, I'd love to. Fast computers and fast women, huh? But, hey, I need to be honest: I'm a little too drunk to be trusted with anything breakable. Been overserv-ing myself all day.'
More laughter. 'Then let me show you. If you like computers, modern technology, you're going to love this.' He punched the keyboard again. There was a dial tone, the sound of electronic digits, then a warble. Now, instead of the tropical storm on the computer screen, we could see the face and upper body of an older man, thick silver hair combed back.
It was Ivan Bauerstock.
He was wearing a dark sports coat, sitting in a red leather chair, books, plaques and mounted cattle horns on the wall behind him, looking at us; looking into his own computer screen, I realized, apparently seeing a wide-angle shot of the Mandalay, because first thing he did was smile a formal smile and say, 'Good evening! You've got quite a crowd there with you, Theodore!'
'Before noon tomorrow,' Ivan Bauerstock said, 'I will issue a formal, written apology to the Everglades Museum of Natural History, its employees and board of directors. The fact that employees of mine are robbing
