Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,50
missing Avengers.
“The second number will be on the port side of the rudder,” I said, flipping the paper to illustrate. “If there is a second number. And if there isn’t, it proves we found Torpedo Bomber FT-3—one of the five missing planes. How many crew was she carrying?”
I moved to my own computer and opened a folder I’d created for research on Flight 19. Tomlinson was up and pacing, tugging at a strand of hair, when my cell rang. Dan Futch.
Ideas are in the air, Thomas Edison once wrote. Maybe so, because I heard Dan tell me, “We’ve got to get back there, Doc! I just realized something about that tail section—”
A minute later, I said to Tomlinson, “Dan’s booked the next four days, so we fly down Saturday morning. Or you and I take my new boat and go without him. He doesn’t have a problem with that.” Then I said into the phone, “Are you sure?”
I covered the phone with my hand because I didn’t want Futch to hear. “First, we need to have a serious talk about your married girlfriend,” I said. “Then we decide.”
14
AND I HAD SOMETHING ELSE TO DO AS WELL. MACK had given me some interesting info this morning. Bernie had given me even more.
At sunset, my shorts dripping seawater and sweat, I finished a long swim and gimpy run at A-Dock, my Clydesdale weight causing the planks to vibrate, which announced my presence to all deepwater vessels and passengers aboard.
Exactly what I wanted to do.
Sitting aft on the recently arrived Lamberti yacht, reading a magazine, was a lean, aloof man who could have played Zorro in the movies. Errol Flynn mustache, white cardigan sweater on this cool evening, a long Macanudo freshly lit—the vessel’s Brazilian owner, presumably, who jogged every morning when he wasn’t smoking cigars. His name was Alberto Sabino, according to Mack, and had paid cash in advance. Euros.
At my approach, the Brazilian looked up, then pointedly ignored me by finishing the last of his white wine and checking his watch. After a glance at the pumpkin moon blossoming from the mangroves, he stood, then disappeared into the cabin with a dancer’s easy grace that I’ve always envied but will never possess.
What does come naturally is imitating the cliché American boob. Big smile, loose-limbed, I clomped up to the boarding gate and rapped on the yacht’s hull. Twice I had to knock before the Brazilian finally poked his head out.
“You wish something?”
“You’re new to Dinkin’s Bay,” I smiled. “I always like to stop and say hello to the new ones.”
“Es fascinating,” the man replied with sarcasm, “I am, though, busy at this particular time.” His English was flavored with Portuguese and a whiff of German; articulate, but in a way that caused me to picture him as a boy practicing the tough words: fass-cin-A-ting, par-r-r-tic-U-lar. Working at it hard to impress important people down the road.
I said, “My name’s Ford, but everyone calls me Doc.”
The man stared at me as if he’d discovered a new type of bug. So I bumbled along, saying, “I’m not a real doctor, but you know how folks are. I’m a biologist. I hear you’re a runner—I’m always looking for running partners.”
Silence, the man staring at me through wire-rimmed glasses, not blinking. So I pointed down the shoreline to my stilthouse. “I’ve got a lab there. You’re welcome to stop by anytime—your wife, too. You have a wife? There’re some really nice places to shop on the island.”
The man was entertained, possibly also reassured by my vapidity, which accounted for his expression of contempt. “This area is private, no?” he said, then looked toward the dock juncture where a sign read Owners Only!
“That’s to keep outsiders away,” I explained, then hurried to add, “Great fishing here. Tarpon are already showing up. Maybe you’ve met some of our fishing guides—they’re the experts.”
For an instant, just an instant, I saw a glimmer of interest, but it didn’t last. “Already I have arranged this matter,” the Brazilian said, “now please you go,” then he closed the door with a sound that only oiled teak and brass can make.
For several seconds I stood there, then clomped down the dock to the sleek Kevlar Stiletto and banged on that hull. Lights showed through porthole curtains, but no telltale shift in trim to suggest the boat was inhabited. And still no response after I’d knocked again, so I backtracked to