want.”
Showing off his tough-guy attitude for the uncle who was also his boss.
Augie and Uncle Bern, a pair.
Near us, an engine started, and the security truck spun away toward the marina entrance, Oswald now inside beside the driver. An emergency of some sort, judging from the warble of sirens in the distance. And getting louder.
The man with the white cowboy hat had stayed behind. He was putting the hat on now, ducking his head into it like he’d maybe seen rodeo riders do. Showing forearms that were colored with script and decorations, a guy who was no stranger to passing out in tattoo parlors.
“Mr. Heller? This is important.” His tone was urgent.
The owner still had his fingers knotted in Tomlinson’s hair, but he shifted his attention to cowboy.
“The fella who said he’d be back with a gun? The front gate just radioed—they spotted his truck parked down the road. The cops are on their way.”
That got the big man’s attention. He straightened, holding Tomlinson’s head off the ground like a trophy. “Just the truck or did they see him?”
Behind me, one of the hard hats said, “If you’re talking about Javier Castillo, he was just here. We caught him and the hippie moving the boat.”
“Javier’s got a gun?” Jeth looked unconvinced but concerned.
The owner spoke to Tomlinson, but he was studying me. “What were you doing, helping him steal our boat? You fellas don’t care what you steal, huh?”
Meaning the contents of the bucket.
Uncle Bern was evaluating. Apparently, he decided that I was the threat so he shook his hand free of Tomlinson’s hair and stepped in my direction. He glanced at his nephew, who was approaching from the right. “I’ll take care of this, Augie. But stick close. Moe?”
Cowboy hat, who was edging closer, stopped.
“The same goes for you. We don’t want the Cuban’s friends getting in the way.”
What the hell did that mean?
Moe understood, though. He touched a finger to the brim of his hat.
I stopped an arm’s length away, looking up at the man’s box-shaped face, his fake smile, the jaw muscles flexing as he said, “I hope you’re not thinking of doing something stupid, Mr….?”
“His name’s Ford.
Jeth said to Augie, “Hey, you can kuh-kuh-kiss my butt,” as Heller said, “Doctor! Well, we should be able to talk this out.”
The smile broadened, telling me he was a reasonable guy, but I could see the menace. He wasn’t nervous. Seemed right at home in nose-to-nose confrontations, this one just beginning, both of us aware. Wondering how far the other would take it.
He took a moment to check over his shoulder as two sheriff’s cruisers lurched to a stop, light bars strobing. The cars scattered people who’d been massed at the gate. He waited for a third cruiser to appear before saying, “Augie claims you’ve got something that belongs to us.” The man let that hang for a moment before asking, “What’s in the bucket, Dr. Ford?”
“It’s none of Augie’s business. Or yours.”
“They were using my boat and my gear. That makes it my business. Whatever they bring back belongs to my marina. Rules of salvage, my lawyers say.”
Smiling, I said, “Really?” I looked at Javier’s boat, the barn wreckage, the boats in the background. “Maybe your lawyers will get a chance to catch up on their admiralty law. While you’re in jail.”
I turned, intending to tell Tomlinson and Jeth to get aboard my skiff. Once we were away from marina property, we could hike to the road, and find Javier. Before I could speak, though, Heller reached and clamped his hand on my shoulder.
“Whoa there, Ford. You’re not going anywhere until I see what’s in the bucket.” He seemed more interested, though, in what was going on now at the entrance: Deputies moving along the inside of the fence, hands on their weapons.
Moe said, “I’ll get the bucket, Bern. And anything else I think belongs to the marina.” Moe began to walk toward the shoreline, but he was watching the deputies, too, who were now fanning out near the section of fence Javier had vaulted earlier.
I had tolerated Bern Heller—barely. But no way was I going to let some stranger go clomping around on my skiff. I said, “Heller?” then rolled my arm under his, and slapped his hand off my shoulder. I got him hard beneath the bicep, then turned immediately and started after the man in the straw cowboy hat.
I could feel Heller behind me, walking too close. I expected him to say something, or grab me again. But I didn’t expect to hear Jeth say, “Oh shit. We need to get over there. They’ll kill him!”
I stopped, and turned. In the far distance, I could see Javier, cops crouched on one side of the fence, Javier on the other, as he ducked through a mangrove thicket, no idea he was being watched. He was wearing shorts and a red T-shirt, carrying something in his hand that was hammer-sized. He held it beside his face, pointed skyward.
I hurried to find my glasses.
A gun.
7
“Augie! Stop them!”
Jeth and Tomlinson were hurrying toward the fence, yelling at Javier, trying to stop him from climbing over the fence onto marina property. I watched Augie and three of the hard hats move after them, but that’s all I saw because Bern Heller grabbed me by the shoulder again, and spun me around.
Showing me his pasted smile, he said, “You think you can steal from me?” He reached his right hand toward the stitches on my forehead. “That the problem? Someone hit you with an ax? The way farmers do to get a jackass’s attention?”
The natural reaction when a stranger’s fingers stray within a few inches of your eyes is to flinch. That’s what I did…and Heller used his left hand to slap my face, open-palmed. I saw the hand move, a gunslinger blur, and didn’t have time to react. Then he slapped me with his right hand a micromoment later. A boxer’s technique: fake right, then attack with a left-right combination.
Both caught me square.
Too stunned to respond, I stood and let it happen, hearing the same raw sound as when I’d slapped his arm away. Skin on skin, but louder because he banged my left ear hard. It caused an instant ringing in my head.
Even so, I heard a jumble of voices, Jeth, Tomlinson, Augie, all reacting simultaneously, their words vague and faraway. Vague, because I was furious—a fast chemical transformation. My concentration imploded in an emotional burst. Vision and concentration narrowed as adrenaline spiked, so it was like staring down a tunnel, or the bore of a gun. I felt an ether chill move up my neck, a chemical blooming.
I looked hard at Bern Heller. Saw him in shades of black and white beneath a tropic sky that had been drained of color.
“Look at this. The guy’s kind of mild lookin’ until he gets mad. Are you mad, Dr. Ford?”
I saw the blurred movement of Heller’s right hand as he swung to slap me again. I crossed with my right to block. Wanted to catch his wrist because, once I got his hands under control, this obnoxious bastard was going to the ground no matter how big he was…then maybe into an ambulance.
Or maybe not. Uncle Bern, jumbo-sized and rubbery, was also quick. Quicker than me—since my concussion, anyway.
I didn’t get my hand up in time, and he connected on the left side of my face. Hit me hard enough with his palm to create starburst colors behind my eyes. Then slapped me with his left.
“Don’t let him do that to you!
Jeth’s voice? Tomlinson? I couldn’t sort it out. In some faraway synapse, I realized that Heller had found this clever way to keep both of them from warning Javier.
