Chapter 5
Stress and alcohol had taken a toll on Buck's body and it was later that afternoon before he finally inspected Aunt Emma's marina. He followed a grassy path to the main dock jutting out into shallow water where pier-like walkways led to a frame building coated with fresh white paint. The sign on the roof said Fitzgerald’s Landing.
Gasoline pumps, minnow bins and an old-fashioned red Coke machine dominated the building's exterior. Business was booming, customers milling about, some fishing, others buying bait or filling gas tanks. Buck found Raymond Johnson behind the cash register of a business that resembled a very bucolic quick-stop service station.
Raymond Johnson sported a Texas-sized grin. “Didn't figure you'd make it out of bed today, Mr. McDivit.”
“Can't keep a good man down,” Buck said, caught up in Raymond's ebullient mood. “Call me Buck.”
This time they shook hands under more pleasant circumstances than the previous night.
“Fine,” Johnson said, delivering a hearty slap to Buck's shoulder. “Pearl says you seen a ghost last night.”
“Maybe.”
Raymond nodded toward a younger man sitting behind the counter. “Wiley will have to take you to Mama Toukee's for a charm to ward off them evil spirits.”
Wiley, a younger, trimmer version of Raymond smiled at the mention of his name. He leaned against the wall on the back legs of a cane chair, his dark boots resting on a can of motor oil. His red shirt and khaki pants seemed a size too large for his slender frame.
“How you doing?” he said. “Daddy can get you that charm next time he visits Mama Toukee's. He's about due for a fresh jug of her home brew.”
Raymond wagged his finger and shook his head. “Wiley's my boy, but I swear he must have got his mouth from Pearl's side of the family.”
“Don't you believe it,” Wiley said. “He can tell a story bigger than Miss Emma's record garfish.”
“Keep your eye on him,” Raymond said. “I got a customer to wait on.”
Wiley and Buck listened to Raymond's booming voice as he returned to the cash register. “Loud, ain't he?” Wiley said as he picked up his magazine and leaned back against the wall.
Wiley's laugh reminded Buck of Raymond's. “Nice operation you have here.”
“You bet it is. Like to take a look around? You can see most everything through that door,” Wiley said, pointing.
Buck saluted, exiting through the back door. Outside, board planks protruded like centipede legs from the center walk. Red canvas awnings, used to shelter some of the walkways from the weather, added a festive touch to the surroundings. He explored the marina, finally reaching the end of the walkway where outboard motor parts lay strewn on old wood. Seeing a young black man working on a motor inside the open door of a work shed, Buck strolled over to meet him. From the man's muscled frame, he could have passed for a running back on a pro football team.
“Afternoon,” Buck said.
The man glanced up from his work, not bothering to acknowledge Buck's greeting. When he turned to leave, he bumped into Raymond Johnson.
“Hey Buck, you meet Ray, my oldest boy.”
“No, but it would be my pleasure.”
“Ray, this is Mr. Buck McDivit, Miss Emma's niece and the new owner of Fitzgerald Island.”
When Buck reached to shake his hand, he received the same reaction as before. “Why you wanta be that way?” Raymond said. “Don't know where he gets it from.”
“No problem. Ray and I can talk later.”
“Sure you can,” Raymond said, grabbing Buck's shoulder and steering him back toward the concession. “I closed early for the day. Let's have a cold drink and you can tell me and Wiley all about yourself.”
Raymond kept up a lively patois on the way back to the concession, their footsteps echoing against the walkway. Lifting the lid on the old Coke machine he grabbed two cans, handing one to Buck. Taking the other inside, he hoisted his bulky frame to the counter top.
“The letters you wrote Miss Emma said you're from Oklahoma City. A private investigator.”
“That's right. I've made a career tracking other people's missing heirs. I thought I might as well find some of my own.”
Buck gave him a brief history of his life for the last thirty-one years, and then fished inside his pocket for the cameo brooch. He placed it on the counter beside Raymond.
“Aunt Emma had this clutched in her hand when they found her. Any idea what it means?”
Raymond picked it up, turning it in his hand before tossing it to Wiley.
“Seen this before?”
Wiley caught the flying object. After a glance, he pitched it back to Raymond, his only response a simple head shake.
From behind, an educated voice said, “It's an antique.” It was Ray Jr., a cold drink in his hand. “Lila Richardson can tell you all about it.”
Ray disappeared through the door in back of the store before Buck could ask him the next logical question. Raymond responded to the unasked query.
“Miss Lila runs an antique shop in Deception. Her daddy owns half the county.”
“I'll look her up,” Buck said, “Does Ray work here full time?”
“Teaches at East Texas State. Works here during summer vacation. Finishing his Doctorate.”
“Impressive. His major?”
“History,” Raymond said, the word seeming strangely incongruous as it rolled off his tongue.
“What do you know about Hogg Nation?”
Raymond's big grin disappeared abruptly. “He's a lying, thieving dog who's trying to steal this island from Miss Emma.”
Mention of Nation quickly dampened Raymond's friendly manner and caused Buck to recall the events of the previous day. “Your scuffle with those two men yesterday didn't happen just because you walked through Nation's restaurant, did it?”
Johnson slammed his Coke against the counter. “Since I was there to pick you up anyway, I decided to have a little talk with Mr. Hogg Nation.”
“About what?”
“About who he paid off to wipe out my recorded deed from the records in the county courthouse. I took my own copy to show him I could still prove who really owns it.”
“Daddy really scared him. You can tell by the bump on his hard head.”
“Shut up, Wiley,” Raymond said.
“Put your copy of the deed in a safe place,” Buck said. “That's all the proof of ownership you need.”
“That's what I told Nation. Deacon John just laughed in my face and asked me if I'd forgot who the Judge is around here. Said niggers were too dumb to own property.”
“What judge?”
“Judge Jefferson Travis is Hogg Nation's real close friend,” Wiley said. “In this county there's white justice, and then there's black justice. Deacon John was just telling me how the cow eats the cabbage, as if I didn't already know.”
“Cute,” Buck said. Because of Raymond's defeated expression, he regretted prodding him for answers. Curiosity overcame his reservations. “Why does Nation want this island anyway?”
“Because of his world-class fishing and hunting resort,” Wiley said. “He's got a jet airport already built. He needs Fitzgerald Island as part of the package.”
“Isn’t there some other island more accessible to Deception than this one?”
Wiley shook his head, leaned back against the wall and returned to reading his magazine. By now, Raymond's former cheerful demeanor had dissolved into a dark funk. Seeing little use in pumping him for more information, Buck finished his drink and grabbed the brooch from the counter. Flipping it once, he returned it to his pocket as he paused at the door, his hand on the knob.
“I enjoyed our talk. See you around, Wiley. Maybe you can show me the island when you have some free time.”
“You bet I can.” Wiley said in a friendly voice.
Sounding distinctly concerned, Raymond said, “Say, Buck, what's gonna happen with this place?”
“I'm going to check into things. Poke around here and there.”
“Keep us in mind,” Johnson said.
With a twinge tugging at Buck's conscience, he returned to the lodge feeling better, despite his growing concern, than he had all morning. The sky was azure and streaked with streamers of milky clouds. High above the marina a turkey buzzard, caught in a thermal updraft, looped toward the ground in a slow downward spiral. Before Buck reached full stride, his neck had grown damp from rampant heat and humidity.
Halfway to the lodge the non-muffled engines of a boat racing across the lake caught his attention. He watched as the driver cut the power and let the sleek craft nose into shore. Mired in mud, it halted a few feet before reaching solid ground. The man behind the wheel was Hogg Nation.
“Dammit, DJ,” he said. “Jump out and pull us to shore.”
Humpback cast a grinning glance at Deacon John and began winding loose rope into a spool on the floor of the boat. It was Buck's closest look at the little humpbacked man. His face was a mess, his flattened nose canting hard left and his ears jutting forward. Oily hair sprayed from beneath his slouch hat. His front teeth were missing, a cigar stub in his lips.
“You do it, Hump,” Deacon John said.” I got my new shoes on.”
“Mr. Nation said for you to do it,” Humpback countered, not looking up from the rope.
“Somebody do it,” Nation shouted over the motor. “Now!”
Deacon John's spindly legs faltered momentarily as he jumped from the boat. Grabbing the bowline, he eased the big runabout into shore, and then wiped his muddy hands on his red-checked golfing pants. When Humpback followed him to shore, Deacon John kicked mud from the toe of his shoe into the little man's face.
“Ain't no call for that,” Humpback said, his grin vanishing.
“Shut up, both of you,” Nation said. “Give me a hand out of here.”
Humpback and Deacon John ceased bickering, helping Hogg Nation out of the boat as if they were assisting a fine lady. When Humpback stepped on Deacon John's new shoes with his own size eights, he caught a smart slap across the forehead. In retaliation, Humpback kicked Deacon John's butt, lost his balance and fell on his own doff into the mud.
“Cut the shit,” Nation said. “Now.” He forgot the two men's antics when he saw Buck watching from shore. “Hope you enjoyed our hospitality last night.”
“The catfish was tasty. Your specialty drink left me with a splitting headache this morning.”
Humpback and Deacon John snickered, but Nation's glare shut them up. “You considered my offer yet?”
“It's crossed my mind.”
“Then let this cross your mind. Here's a cashier's check for $200,000.” He held the check in one hand, a contract in the other. “Sign this document and the money is yours. You'll have two days to vacate the premises.”
Waving away the check and contract, Buck said, “I can't consider selling the island until you answer a few questions. What about the Johnsons?”
Nation's expression remained unchanged. “What about them?”
“I’d like to know if you intend to continue running the marina, and if you’ll take care of Raymond and Pearl.”
Nation's arm went limp to his side. “Not your concern.”
“I'm afraid it is. Anyway, I've decided to stay awhile. Maybe fix up the marina and reopen the lodge.”
“Well you're crazier than that aunt of yours. I'm offering ten times more than this sinkhole is worth.”
“I'm not convinced you're doing me a favor. Why do you want the island?”
Nation's already ruddy complexion reddened even further. “None of your business.”
“You're wrong,” Buck said, turning toward the lodge. “Sorry to waste your time, but I'm not interested.”
“You better reconsider, or the bank and Judge Travis will change your mind for you.”
Nation's threat sounded ominous. Before Buck could consider the implication, the familiar whop-whop-whop of an approaching helicopter muddled his attention. The little chopper landed in a flurry of swirling dirt and blowing vegetation. After Nation had climbed into the flashy bronze chopper, it elevated in a burst of wind and engine noise, quickly disappearing over the cypress trees surrounding the island. Water rippled and Spanish moss billowed in the resultant eddy.
Deacon John and Humpback didn't stay for conversation. Climbing back into their boat, they stormed off in the wake of a fan-tail wave that blew water fifteen feet into the air. Buck gazed across the lake for a good five minutes before realizing that sudden and intense silence had hypnotized him into inaction. He felt another sinking spell coming on.
Returning to his room he found Tiger purring and kneading dough against the pillow. He joined him, soon falling fast asleep until Pearl knocked on the door later that evening.