“Are you kidding? Back in high school, I woulda never been named All State if it wasn’t for cannabis. Drugs give me the little extra edge that’s so important in athletics. Jesus, I didn’t even understand what baseball was really all about until I developed a personal relationship with the herb.”
We were on Palm Beach Boulevard, headed east, and I could see the entrance to Terry Park just ahead: a convexity of oaks and palms beyond railroad tracks, a military surplus store, a boat dealership. I said, “You really think Gail Calloway is in trouble?”
He nodded reflectively as he inhaled.
“You started to say something about the postcards.”
He was still nodding: “They were sent approximately one month apart.”
“Yeah. That bothers me, too. Even if they’re gunkholing, using Cartagena as a base, it’s the rare cruise that only gets near a post office once a month.”
“And you said the cards looked as if they were all written with the same pen.”
“That, too.”
“You see what I’m getting at?”
“Of course. That maybe the cards were all written at the same time and are being mailed periodically by someone other than Gail. But that’s melodramatic. And unlikely.”
“But it’s possible.”
“Sure.”
Tomlinson looked at me, trying hard to focus. “In that case, there are serious discrepancies between datum and reasonable, healthy expectations of normal behavior. So, yeah, you bet. The lady, she’s in trouble. Maybe more than you think, man. Fuckin’ A.”
7
That night, I telephoned Frank Calloway. He was in the middle of a dinner party, he said. Could I call back another time?
There was New Age music playing in the background. It sounded tribal: tom-toms and chanting and wind chimes only slightly softer than the conversational drone of people making polite conversation. I could picture them up there in wealthy Boca Grande, glasses in hand, Windows showing no horizon, the Gulf of Mexico probably, through the sea grapes right outside.
I said, “I’ll call you tomorrow at your office if you want, Frank. Or you can call me later this evening.”
He said, “You say you’re a friend of Amanda’s?” As if he had no idea why I was calling; as if he’d never heard my name before.
Maybe he hadn’t, but that was unlikely. According to Amanda, she’d told him that she and I were going to meet and that I might call to ask him some questions. But the big-money guys are necessarily suspicious, plus there is a behavioral dynamic that may well account for some of their success: They are very, very reluctant to give away information, or anything else, without getting something in return. To profit, they must get the upper hand. Gaining control of dialogue is a first step, a brand of gamesmanship for which I have zero tolerance or interest.
I told him, “I don’t know Amanda well enough to claim her as a friend, Frank. If you doubt my motives, talk to her. Get her on the phone. When you’re satisfied, she has my number. Call and we’ll talk.”
In an articulate baritone, the voice of a don’t-screw-with-me CEO, he said, “There’s no need to get indignant, Dr. Ford. I get a lot of calls from a lot of people. I want the best for my ex-wife, but I have to be careful. She has enough personal wealth to attract every third-rate con man for miles, thanks to our divorce settlement. Count on it, I’m protective. Without apology.”
Yeah, Amanda had briefed him.
I said, “Did you start protecting Gail before she ran off with Jackie Merlot? Or was it after he managed to slip through your security?”
“Making moral judgments is an attractive trap. Personally, I’m trying to evolve beyond that.”
“I don’t have much interest in evolving, Frank. As a biologist, I know it takes more time than I’ve got. I called because Amanda’s mother is apparently in trouble.”
His thin laugh said he wasn’t going to comment.
I said, “You have dinner guests to deal with. Check with Amanda, then give me a call.”
He said, “When I can,” and hung up.
I was up early, as always. Watched the sun push a mesa of gaseous pink light out of eastwardly mangroves. The circumference of the sun was precise, huge, orange as a Nebraska moon. It energized the shallow water of Dinkin’s Bay; changed the color from gray to cobalt to purple to tangerine as wading birds glided on an air-foil of their own reflection.
The birds ascended, then banked away to feed.
I lit a propane burner on my little ship’s stove, put coffee on and did my pull-ups while it perked. I did what we used to call a ‘Chinese series.’ I don’t know why we called it that, but we did. You do ten pull-ups, then nine, then eight; work your way down to one in decreasing increments. On the last set, you do as many as you can. Result: You end up doing at least fifty-five pull-ups, but usually more.
Pretty good workout for arms and shoulders.
I checked all the delicate pumps and filters on my main fish tank and smaller aquaria while I drank coffee and munched on an English muffin upon which I’d slathered a healthy layer of Vegemite. Vegemite is an Australian concoction; a yeast spread that’s as dense and meaty as bone marrow and once you get used to it (it takes awhile) the stuff is damn near addictive. Sat at a little table on the outside deck watching the morning and thinking about Gail Calloway. Decided that, if I hadn’t heard from ex-hubby Frank by noon, I’d call his office.
Maybe Tomlinson was right. Maybe the lady was in more trouble than I suspected.
Thought about Gail some more as I jogged Tarpon Bay Road to the beach, then turned toward Captiva Island. Occasionally, my thoughts strayed to Maggie, my married friend from Tampa. I hadn’t heard from her for a few days. Were we going to get together and work out this week?
I stayed on the harder sand near the surf line, running at a pretty good pace. The sun was behind me, gathering heat. A little-known but potentially useful fact: When children wander away from their parents while on a beach, they almost always go in a direction that puts the sun at their back.
Same with aging runners.
For some reason my thoughts shifted from Gail Calloway to the apparent difficulties of maintaining a marriage. Running promotes a random, free rein of thought, so it seemed a natural progression to end up thinking about my own failed relationship with a woman who was as impossible not to love as it was impossible to be her lover.
Pilar Fuentes Balserio, that’s who I was thinking about. Pilar is the prominent chief executive of the small Central American nation of Masagua. I’d met her when she was the wife of the President of Masagua.
We became lovers nearly a year before her husband’s term came to an end. Shortly thereafter, she gave birth to a son. It was also at about that time that she ascended to power.
I suspect I played more than a small role in her success, occupational and otherwise.
There were reasons, all political, why I’d been able to see Pilar only occasionally. It became clear to me that circumstances weren’t going to change. How? Pilar had sat me down and told me in unambiguous terms.
A very strong woman.
Here’s what she offered: We could have a few days at Christmas, perhaps. Maybe a week when the Masaguan National Assembly recessed for summer. Maybe a weekend if she could wrangle a few days in Miami for research. And secretly. Always, always secretly, arranged in ways so that absolutely no one could know.
But my feelings for Pilar are such that occasionally just wasn’t enough. So, slightly more than two months ago, I’d taken a few weeks to think about it, another week or two to build up sufficient courage, and then I sent her a telegram.
The guy at Western Union seemed surprised by the request. In this age of E-mail, he did mostly money transfers, not messages.
But I liked the style of the thing. Stupidly, I pictured a kid with a weird little hat pedaling up on his bike to
