“What we might have to do is hop on a plane, fly to Cartagena and have a look around,” I said, “but let’s hope I can fit a few pieces together and narrow down the options.”
My saying it-we may have to fly to Cartagena-seemed to make the prospect real, and I could tell that it set her back a little. “Colombia,” she said, her tone a little less vivid. “That’s like one of the drug countries, right? Do you know anything about the place?”
“Some,” I said. “A little.”
The less she knew about my years in Central and South America, the better.
Something else I told her to keep in mind was, If we did find her mom, and if Gail still refused to leave Merlot, there was absolutely nothing we could do about it.
“I know, I know,” she replied. “All I want is a chance to get her alone and talk some sense into her. If we go, I can cover our expenses. I’ve got some money in savings and there’re some bonds I can cash in. Plus, Frank’s offered to kick in if things get expensive. The big spender, he’s so damn worried. Right. “She let that settle before she added, “The point being, I’m not asking you to pay your own way.”
I told Amanda that her offer was premature. What I didn’t tell her was that, if we could find Merlot’s sailboat, I didn’t think I’d have much trouble prying her mother free. Not if it seemed like the right thing to do.
Probably wouldn’t have to do much more than scare Merlot a little. Get the guy off alone for an hour or so, tell him some tough-guy story about Gail having family ties to the mob. Or maybe say she had ties to some drug cartel; that would make more sense. And how she doesn’t even know it, but she’s under the personal protection of some honcho with an Italian or Latino name. Watch the guy, Merlot, turn white and start shaking, then sit back and wait while he raced off to tell Gail to leave him alone, get the hell out of his life forever. Sneaky predatory types are also usually very predictable cowards.
The problem was, finding a lone sailboat with all that coastline, all that water.
But I didn’t go into any of that. Instead, I gave the girl a job to do. I asked her to visit her mother’s house, gather all the mail from the neighbor who was collecting it, then open and read it, just to see if she found anything interesting. And while she was at it, I told her to try to find any old letters from Merlot or photographs of the guy just to give me a better handle on who I was dealing with.
The idea offended her. Open her mother’s personal letters? She didn’t think she could do that.
I said, “You had to hunt around to find your father’s letters, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, but they were put away in her hope chest. I’d been looking for old photographs, and I’d just about given up. For some reason, my mom had packed them all away.”
“Old pictures of you?”
She made a snorting noise. “No way. Those were hidden away a long time ago, and I’m the one who did it. I’m talking about a picture of my mom with my real dad, that’s what I wanted. But they were packed. Every single one of them, she’s such a neatness freak. So I wasn’t prying, it was more like researching family history.”
I said, “What’s the difference? Look, Amanda… if you’re serious about locating your mother, we may have to do some stuff you wouldn’t normally do. Behavior-wise, I mean. You used some kind of saying when you were describing your mother’s face; some Hindu maxim. Well, there’s a truism that your father and I came up with while we were in Asia. One of the Great Laws, we called it. Just for the hell of it, we wrote it on a piece of paper and passed it back and forth, each of us trying to take out or replace words. Like editors, see? We were trying to make the law just as simple and precise as we could. You care to hear what we ended up with?”
I waited for the girl to nod before I continued. I had no trouble remembering: “Okay, here it is: ‘In any conflict, the boundaries of behavior are defined by the party that cares least about morality.’”
She thought about it for a moment before she spoke. “Repeat that one more time.”
I did.
“My father, he thought of that?”
“We batted it around for a week or so. We were bored as hell during the daytime. I remember we spent an hour debating whether the last word should be morality or ethics. Your dad won.”
“He had to be a smart man. Very wise to put something so clearly.”
“Yeah, he was. But what I’m saying is, if your judgment of Merlot is correct, we’re going to have to adapt. Does he strike you as the type to play fair?”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t be worried about my mom if he were.”
“Then we have to play by his rules, not ours. If we don’t, he’s at a big advantage. But what I’m hoping is, we can track your mom down by phone. When she realizes how worried you are, she’ll either fly home or agree to meet with you down there. Or better yet, you’ll hear from her in the next day or two; get a phone call or a letter saying she’s come to her senses and she’s leaving the guy.”
Amanda looked up at me with burrowing brown eyes; eyes that, in their reluctance to stand fast, illustrated the painful memory that she had once been different. Her eyes had once been unlike the eyes of other children and so were things of which to be ashamed.
But I liked those eyes. I liked them in a long-ago photograph seen in the waxy light of a military lantern, and I liked them now. The awareness of individuality is implicit in the face of anyone who, as a child, is forced to stand apart from the crowd. The reason doesn’t much matter. It might be because of skin color, problems at home, clothing that doesn’t come up to the expectations of peers, perceived differences in social worth, acne… or one wayward, lonely eye.
That strength was in Amanda’s face.
Something else I liked was the attitude she’d brought with her to meet me, the stranger who had once been a friend of her late father. She was businesslike, tough, but she wasn’t one of those women who plays the cast-iron role of feminist, thereby sacrificing her own personality along with her credibility as an individual. Nope, I liked her. A good woman; one of the private people who sat back, watched carefully and thought about things.
Standing beside her car, I listened to her say, “Doc, for the first time in about a month, I feel pretty good about the chances of helping my mom. My confidence, I’m talking about. Just talking to you, it’s made me feel better.”
I leaned to give her a quick hug good-bye-felt her body go tense as I did, so I did not prolong it-as I told her, “You have a safe drive across the Glades. And just to make a nerdish, middle-aged bookworm feel better, why don’t you give me a call when you get to Lauderdale? Let me know you made it.”
“Okay, okay, I guess I deserve that. I shouldn’t have judged you so quickly. By the way you look. Me of all people, I mean…”
“Why not? I read lots of books and I’m kind of a nerd. Ask anybody.”
Which earned me a sheepish smile, a quick little peek at the girl who lived behind the barriers.
6
Tuck’s spackle-gray Dodge pickup, the one with the buckle-high tires and a bumper sticker that read A COWBOY’S WORK IS NEVER DONE, was still sitting in the heat of the marina parking lot as I watched Amanda exit through the gates onto Tarpon Bay Road, headed for the toll bridge and then Alligator Alley, Lauderdale bound.
The man was probably still regaling Mack and Jeth with stories about Old Florida; probably attracting an audience of tourists with his tales about fishing with Ike Eisenhower and teaching Ted Williams how to fly-cast in the early bonefish days, down on the Keys with Jimmy Albright and the other pioneer guides.
Or maybe he was using his Deep South voice to describe to listeners how he helped train Cuban troops on nearby Useppa Island for the Bay of Pigs invasion, or how it was him and Dick Pope, founder of Cypress Gardens, who took Uncle Walt Disney around and convinced him Florida was a can’t-miss choice for a second Disneyland.
“Disney, he favored the east coast,” Tucker liked to add, “all those hotels, all those built-in customers. But I says to him, I says, ‘Walt, in the last twenty years, just how many hurricanes you figure has tore the east coast its own new asshole? And I’m not just talkin’ about them official whirly-girls, neither. I’m talkin’ about the no-name gales that you folks in California never hear about; the ones your fancy lawyers ain’t gonna find in the record books. From Miami to Palm Beach, they get more heavy wind than a Puerto Rican chili parlor, so, you build her on the east
