They had floated in a crane mounted on a barge. The crane was fitted with a dinosaur-sized bucket that would swing down onto the charred dock, bite off a chunk, then pivot shoreward to regurgitate the mess into a dump truck. When the dump truck was full, it would rumble away, only to be replaced by another.
A yellow Detroit diesel engine dominated the stern of the barge. The diesel made a deafening roar, exhausted a lot of blue fumes. The live-aboards were locked tight into their boats, probably trying to screen the noise with loud stereos. Or earplugs. Who knew? They certainly weren't out socializing on the dock, so there was no one to ask.
But Kelly was already laying out the platters of fried conch and shrimp on the picnic table. I could see a couple of industrial-sized Igloos that appeared to be straining at the seams. So the Dinkin's Bay Pig Roast and Beer Cotillion—'Perbcot,' as it is known locally—would go on as usual.
At the good marinas around Florida, the old and important traditions die hard.
I strolled over close enough to one of the dump trucks so that Mack would see that I was there. He is a compact, muscular man—a native New Zealander—whose laid-back Kiwi qualities have made him a big success on the island. But he wasn't laid-back now. He was having some kind of loud conversation with a man who was wearing a sports coat and carrying a clipboard. Not an argument, just loud, so as to be heard above the din of the diesel. The man with the clipboard was an insurance adjuster, I guessed.
Mack saw me, waved, then held up five fingers after pointing to his watch. Pantomimed a drinking motion and grinned.
Which meant we wouldn't be bothered by the noise much longer.
Beyond what was once a dock, I could see Nelson Esterline. Nels was hammering at the wreckage of his skiff. Trying to remove the jack plate, it appeared. His teal-green Hewes had once been a pretty thing indeed. Teal green, polished bright, with functional lines—the prettiest quality of any boat. Now it looked like a Clorox bottle that had been accidentally left on a hot stove.
I considered walking over to offer him a hand. Sound him out about my two early-morning visitors; see if he knew anything about it; see if he was still mad at me. Decided against it. Men like Nels make up their minds in their own fashion, their own good time. Instead, I put a coin in the slot and read the local newspaper.
The day before, the death of Jimmy Darroux had made front-page headlines. I had read the story carefully. Darroux had been described as Hannah described him: a native of Louisiana. A commercial fisherman who had migrated to Sulphur Wells only a few years before. The story related that he had had several minor run-ins with local law authorities. He'd been arrested in a bar brawl, charged with public intoxication, but the charges had been dropped. On his record was also a charge for misdemeanor battery related to spousal abuse. He had pled no contest, was fined five hundred dollars and given a year's probation. Within the last two months, he had been arrested for possession of less than three grams of cocaine. The case had been scheduled to go to court in early February. He had also been arrested and fined for fishing outside proscribed times, and for having illegal fish in his possession.
Judging from the newspaper article, Jimmy Darroux had been just one more habitual loser. Not so hard to imagine him getting a belly full of booze, or a head full of crack, and setting out with a jerry can of gasoline to punish the people he perceived to be responsible for the net ban and his own troubled life. The article said the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms was assisting local authorities in the investigation. An A.T.F. officer said it was too early to tell if an explosive device had played a role in starting the fire, or in the death of Darroux. I knew that the A.T.F. officer wouldn't have admitted it even if he had known.
I glanced over to where the crane was stilling gobbling up wreckage. The yellow crime-scene tape was gone. The A.T.F. people, apparently, had found all they needed to find. If not, they wouldn't have released control of the area.
In today's paper, though, Jimmy Darroux rated only a token mention. His name was included in a story about the increase in thefts and vandalism up and down the coast. The story implied a connection between the crimes and the recent vote to ban the nets. In the last two months, the story read, fifty-four boats had been stolen, stripped, and destroyed—most of them small sportfishing boats. Sixty-seven outboard engines had also been stolen. A sheriff's department spokesperson speculated that a well-organized theft-and-chop-shop ring was involved. Two other skiffs had been set afire at their dock. In Naples, an unknown and unsuccessful arsonist had attempted to raze a marine storage barn. A night watchman had smelled the smoke and put out the fire before it had a chance to spread. In other places, arsonists had been more successful—they had burned several of the few remaining old stilt houses to the water. Also, sheriff's department records showed a report of someone stringing a cable across a waterway near Useppa Island.
I was relieved to see it reported. The more people who knew, the better.
The story also named several local sportfishermen who claimed that net fishermen were harassing them on the flats. Intentionally spooking the fish, yelling threats, throwing bottles. Finally, the story quoted an anonymous net fisherman: 'They're taking our jobs away. They're taking our houses, boats, everything. They expect us to smile and be nice about it? You tell them paybacks are hell.'
I folded the paper and dropped it in the trash can beside the bench outside the marina store. I had grown so accustomed to the roar of the diesel engine that when the noise abruptly died, the fresh silence made my ears ring.
'Hey, Ford, get your butt over here!' I looked to see Rhonda Lister waving to me from the stern of her water-bloated Chris-Craft cabin cruiser. There were Japanese lanterns hanging from the cabin framework, and painted in red script on the stern was the name:
I walked over, accepted the bottle of Steinlager she held out to me, and said, 'You are unusually lovely tonight, Miz Lister.'
She curtsied daintily. 'Thank you, kind sir.' Then did a quick double take. 'Hey—how'd you get those scratches on your face? You get in a fight? You look like hell.'
I felt lucky that a few scratches and a knot above my ear were the only injuries I'd suffered.
'I spent the day wrestling sea horses.'
'Which means you don't want to talk about it?'
'Which means I'd rather talk about that gorgeous dress. Why the costume?'
Rhonda made a flittering motion with her hands; a regal effect. 'The ladies who inhabit this fish palace have discussed it among ourselves, and we've decided that tonight should be a special night. A real celebration. Our little family of gunkholers and misfits endured a great trial by fire on Thursday, and we . . . and we . . . we . . .'
'Triumphed?' I offered.
'Damn right we did. Triumphed. So what we ladies have decided is, we are all going to wear our best gowns this evening. Show you men just how tasteful we are. Show we own something besides boat shorts and aren't always up to our elbows in engine grease. But mostly to prove that those sonsabitches can't scare us!' She smiled demurely and fanned herself with an imaginary fan. 'Because we are, after all, ladies, sir.'
I laughed as she whirled around, billowing her skirts. 'What do you think, Doc? Pretty fancy, huh?'
'Stunning. The tennis shoes make just the right statement.'
'It was JoAnn's idea. She said we'd get stuck in the dock. If we wore high heels? She said it wouldn't be ladylike because we'd fall and spill our drinks. Plus, it would make us easy prey for you vultures.'
JoAnn wasJoAnn Smallwood. She and Rhonda were roommates, and co-owners of
Center. They've made way too much money to be living on a rot-pocked cabin cruiser in Dinkin's Bay. JoAnn says they stay on the boat because their business eats all their liquid assets. But I know, from a good source, that each of the women owns at least one island home—which they lease—plus a couple of choice building lots. I
