Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,72
spent the time getting dinner ready. The redfish had been filleted, washed, and stored on ice but kept dry. I dried the filets again, then poked holes in a Persian lime and drizzled the juice over the fish. In a plastic sack, I made a rub of salt, ground pepper, a pinch of cumin, and freshly powdered jalapeño, then turned my attention to the skillet. Peanut oil doesn’t burn at high temps, and is also acceptable to vegetarians like Tomlinson. I poured a quarter inch into a skillet, then turned the flames high. When the oil was spitting, I dumped the pan, then added only an eighth of an inch. While it heated, I applied the rub, and also tended to a skillet of plantains that was sputtering on the second burner of the little ship’s stone. I wanted to try fish gravy—a recipe I’d gotten in Panama—so I was adding spices to flour when Tomlinson reappeared. He carried two photos recently printed, his face and hands still wet from the bathroom sink.
“Is it him?” he asked.
I turned off both burners, saying, “Let me take a look,” and carried the photos to my reading chair.
“I hate lying to friends, and I couldn’t think of anything believable anyway, so I told Cressa it was better if we knew what her brother-in-law looked like—just in case he is snooping around. Which is sort of the truth.”
“Dean Arturo,” I said, turning on the lamp.
“Then it is him.”
No, but I didn’t say it. I was looking at photos of a rusty-haired man who had the height and moneyed bearing of Rob Arturo Jr. but none of the most commonly inherited features—earlobes, nose, chin, width between the eyes. Hair and height were similar, that’s all. But what I saw fit Cressa’s description of an adrenaline junkie who stayed fit by pushing the physical envelope.
In the first photo, the man had just completed what might have been a triathlon. He was at leaning rest, hands on knees, corded biceps and thighs extending into spandex shorts while he smiled at the camera: teeth of orthodontic quality and square chin, but a nose that had been broken, and oddly large eyes that were set close together. It gave the man a Bambi look. In the second photo, though, Bambi and an African tribesman were posed beside a recent kill: a small warthog hanging by its back legs from a limb. Both men wore a swath of cloth around their waists, and they’d used mud, or camo grease, to camouflage their skin. Only Bambi held a spear: a tri-edged steel point on a thin wooden shaft.
“Scary-looking dude, huh?” Tomlinson said. “Especially if he’s, well . . . if he is psychologically prone to being goddamn crazy.”
“It’s not the guy I met,” I told him.
Tomlinson stood straighter and wiped a hand across his forehead. “Really . . . you’re sure?”
I was reexamining the first photo. “Not even close. I’m not convinced it’s Rob Arturo’s brother, either. When you asked for a photo, did Cressa give you a hard time?”
“No, man. She was very tranquilo . . . which, you know, happens after smoking a doobie. Just a couple of tokes. Cressa’s wifely duties more or less orphaned her from the Toker’s Union, so I’m easing her back into the dealie.”
It crossed my mind that Vargas Diemer might benefit from Tomlinson’s efforts later in the evening. I asked, “She didn’t hesitate? She must’ve—why else use e-mail.”
Tomlinson exonerated the woman with a gesture and took the photos. “If you say it’s not the film guy, I don’t doubt it. But why do you think it’s not her brother-in-law?”
“Picture Rob and compare the faces. Do you see any family similarities?”
Tomlinson carried the photos to the window, saying, “This guy’s obviously not the investment type, which means he’s not a totally tight-assed dweeb. Couldn’t get sunlight up Robby’s khakis with a harpoon—that alone might throw you. Both of ’em, though, they’re tall . . . got that country club swagger . . . I don’t know, man, they look like they could be brothers to me.” Then, turning to me wide-eyed, added, “Jesus Christ, he kills animals with a spear?”
“It’s the latest thing with the survivalist types,” I replied. “I looked it up. They hold tournaments. The world finals are in South Africa. In the U.S., a leading manufacturer is Primal Steel. They sell six different types of spears, and they give the spear tips tribal names. Of course, purists prefer to make their