Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,61

likely.

I was standing at the edge of the mangroves, waiting for the dog to finish, when Tomlinson appeared on the walkway. He wore a towel knotted around his boney hips, yawning while he rubbed a fist at his eye like some six-year-old who’s miffed about his missing Cheerios. When he was close enough, he cupped his hands and hissed, “What the hell did you say to make her so mad?” then motioned toward the porch.

“If you want to talk, get your feet wet,” I replied, which motivated him to drop down off the boardwalk and wade the sand perimeter. When he was closer, I told him, “We’ll go to the Bone Field tomorrow or Thursday. Something came up.”

“Tell me about it!” Tomlinson replied, which apparently meant something from the way he glared at the house before facing the bushes, then parted the towel. “A long piss on a cool morning has put a smile on more than one man’s face—but this one won’t be easy. Not after the night I had.”

Down the shoreline, my eyes found a pod of nervous water to inspect; behind me, the dog was breaking mangrove branches with his weight, or maybe his teeth, while Tomlinson added, “Medusa has nothing on Crescent Arturo, by god.”

A blue-hued fin breached the water’s surface—a fish rooting for crabs in the shallows. I watched a second tail fin appear, then a third, before I suggested, “Pretend you’re in an airplane. Maybe it’ll help.”

“Hey . . . that’s cruel, man.”

“Just an idea.”

“I’m trying to relax. Priapism is no laughing matter—check the medical journals.”

I said, “There’s a school of redfish over here.”

Tomlinson lifted his head. “Cool.”

“Feeding in a foot of water. Nice-sized, too. I’m tempted to get a fly rod.”

“Fish for breakfast, that would brighten up my day. Fried in a slick of peanut oil. Or poached in coconut water and lime. I’ve got fresh grapefruits on the boat—” After a long pause, Tomlinson made a victorious Awww sound, then continued. “And some nice mild jalapeños with a cold beer. I doubt if she’ll stay and eat, but we should at least ask.”

“Nope,” I said.

“You seem undecided.”

“I’m not.”

Now there were a dozen blue-hued tails teeter-tottering in the shallows, each dotted with one or more eyespots that, over eons, had evolved to flummox predators by mimicking a two-headed fish. I watched for what seemed like minutes before I heard Tomlinson sigh, “That’s better,” then return to the subject of the married mistress as he joined me at the edge of the mangroves.

“I think it’s okay to push our no-talk rule about women by saying it’s not easy to sleep in the same bed with the Crescent Arturos of the world—not if she won’t even let you spoon in a friendly sort of way.”

I said, “I’m surprised.”

“That was after I promised to keep my hands out of the goodie basket. True . . . I did try to sneak across the foul lines a few times, but it was strictly reflexive behavior. Like a guitar—Jimi Hendrix picks up a guitar, his fingers automatically go for the strings, right?”

I said, “You wouldn’t believe that, why should she?”

“No, but I’d be willing to pretend just to keep the peace. Or, you know, help a treasured friend deal with an obvious problem—it’s a matter of hydraulics, for christ’s sake, not morality. You’re the scientist.”

“I think that woman’s big trouble,” I told him.

“You’re being too hard on her. Crescent is confused—and she’s at one of life’s shitty little crossroads. Plus, she also has a bad case of Marion Ford—that’s the most recent affliction. It’s one of those alpha male phenomenon things. People think the beautiful ones have it easy, but nothing’s easy if you’re a woman.”

Eyes fixed on the water, I said, “A couple of those fish are right in the slot, eighteen to twenty-six or -seven inches.” Then added, “You usually have better judgment when it comes to sniffing out the bad ones.”

“When people are down, at their personal worst, those are exactly the ones who need me most. True, the fact that she’s a five on the Budweiser scale helped move her to the head of the line. But I would have found her anyway.”

Budweiser scale—I knew the crude punch line so didn’t ask. “You’re a regular bridge over troubled water,” I replied. “Which makes it easier for me to ask a favor. It’ll take half an hour at most. Today; hopefully this morning.”

Stand lookout while I snuck aboard Vargas Diemer’s yacht is what I wanted