On the first day of September, a Thursday, I dropped my boat at O’Neill’s Marina on the St. Pete side of the Skyway Basin. Two hours later, I was waiting for Delia in the lobby bar of the Vinoy Hotel. The Vinoy is a city landmark, a classic old matron, ornate with marbled history. The structure resembles an eight-story wedding cake that’s been frosted Easter egg pink. The veranda overlooks the waterfront of one of the most beautiful and vibrant cities in Florida.
I wore khaki shorts and a clean polo beneath a baggy, unbuttoned fishing shirt. When Delia entered, it took me a moment to recognize the aspiring ecologist and sailor. She was elegant in a black cocktail dress, heels, and pearls. Her cherry-black hair was layered up, a waterfall of curls that spilled onto spaghetti straps and bare shoulders.
An image flashed to mind—an oil painting again. She was one of those timeless, haunted beauties from the Renaissance. It was the fragility of her eyes more than anything.
“I’ll go change,” I said. Already I was thinking, Change into what? Slacks and a different polo?
She gave me a hug, a kiss on the cheek. “Don’t bother. I just want to sit here and drink until the party starts. Have you seen Tomlinson yet?”
Their group had reserved one of the smaller ballrooms for this first meeting of the bio siblings. A buffet and an open bar. Doors opened at 8. It was now ten till 7.
I said, “He’s holed up in the Presidential Suite on the top floor.”
“Presidential? You’re kidding. That sounds extravagant for a . . . It’s hard to believe he really is a Buddhist monk.”
“The mad monk, he calls himself,” I replied. “Ordained. He really is. But the vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience—I think he sees them more as loose guidelines. The suite’s got a balcony, and two bedrooms in case the party goes late. Now the dope’s worried about how to dress . . . Risk being too splashy in a tux? Or come like the boat bum he is? I told him it doesn’t matter, just not one of those damn sarongs.”
Laughing, the girl swiveled to face me. She seemed nervous, emotionally on edge and delicate. “Thanks. Thanks for being here. I feel better already.” She placed a tentative hand on my knee, then used it to inspect the bottle the bartender had just delivered. “What are you drinking?”
I had a Beck’s NA beer.
“Must be a sign,” Delia said. “Yesterday, my shrink told me to avoid alcohol. Among other things. It was a tough session. You ever do therapy?” She got a tissue from her purse and dabbed at her eyes.
I asked, “Are you okay?”
“I will be. Oh hell, no. I’ve been a mess lately, Doc. Dad’s funeral, and all the nitpicky details for this party. And that goddamn bully Phil, he’s always a worry. I don’t think the guy’s right in the head.”
“Bully? He’s still calling you?” This was unexpected. Weeks ago, in a pointed yet polite phone conversation with the man, I had referenced Tomlinson’s idea about a restraining order. After some blustering, Phil had been contrite, damn near on the verge of tears.
“That’s the weird thing,” Delia said. “Not a peep out of him, but, you know, it sorta hangs over me, the idea he could show up and make another big scene. It just adds to this thing that’s been happening to me lately. The counselor, she says they’re panic attacks. Tells me they’re harmless. But that’s impossible . . . She doesn’t understand . . . There’s no way to describe how it feels when . . . when all of a sudden, for no damn reason—”
The girl’s voice broke. Tears welled. I watched her face go pale, and she began to hyperventilate. “Is it happening now?” I asked.
She nodded rapidly. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
“Come on,” I said. I signed for the beer. I also asked the bartender if I could take the pen and a blank order pad. On the way out, I put my arm around her waist. “I want you to try something for me.”
“Can’t,” she said. “Have to walk. When it happens, it’s like a chemical . . . this feeling, my head. I can’t breathe. Like I’m dying.”
We walked Bay Shore Drive past a flotilla of yachts. The streets were alive with sunset joggers, people with pets who smiled and actually said “Hello” or “Nice day.” Could be their friendliness helped the girl. Or maybe it was what I suggested when we found a shady bench in the park across the street. I gave her the pad and pen and told her to write down a couple of math problems, then solve them.
She looked at me like I was nuts. “Can’t hurt,” I said. “Here, try this one.” I scribbled a multiplication problem that contained decimals and equivalent fractions.
“This is stupid.”
“We’ll see,” I replied.
Delia, when she concentrated, was a tongue biter. She solved the problem quickly, and I gave her another. Then a third problem, more complicated. Midway through, she paused, looked up at me. In a wedge of copper light, her eyes widened. “My god, it’s gone. That chemical sensation. Like a wave—that’s the way it feels—and I can’t even . . .” She put her hand to her breast as if checking her heartbeat. “Doc, it is gone. How’d you know?”
“I didn’t. Just that it works for me,” I said. “Sometimes, for no good reason, our fight-or-flight response kicks in. It’s a chemical thing.”
“I don’t know, man,” she said. “No way, it can’t be that simple.”
“There’s nothing simple about survival coding,” I said, then tried to explain. “When it happens, our lizard brain takes charge and gathers data from the right brain, the creative side. Usually, the data is imaginary bullshit. But the lizard brain doesn’t know the difference between fact and fiction, so we’re flooded with adrenaline anyway. The reason this little trick works—when it works—is that math requires a shift to our left brain, the linear side. There’s no emotion in the left brain, no fear. The lizard brain is immediately disengaged.”
The girl sat back and gave me that look again: Who are you? “Will it come back?”
“If it does, try the math trick again. Your counselor was right—scary as hell, but it’s a response to false data. Absolutely harmless.”
She wanted to believe it. “Did you learn this in therapy?”
“It was more like a class,” I said as an evasion. “Fear management, high-pressure situations, that sort of thing. A practical approach to dealing with panic.”
“Why would a biologist take a class on fear management?”
That required a longer conversation. Terms such as breath control and trigger press mode could not be used. We talked on the way back to the hotel. Delia, as a precaution, also calmed herself with an occasional puff of cannabis oil from a vaporizer that she held like a cigarette.
The doors to the ballroom were open. Inside milled a dozen people, a few with familiar Tomlinson-esque features. “Go have fun,” I said. “I’ll stop back later.”
“You’d better,” the woman said with emphasis. And a very different type of smile.
I made a slow lap around the hotel grounds. It was a security measure that also allowed me to skip the inevitable formalities. The group had had an hour to loosen up with a drink or three before I returned. In the corridor was a chair with a view through open double doors into the ballroom. It was an innocuous spot to sit with a Corona and observe before risking an entrance.
Inside, thirty people mingled, half brothers or sisters, some with their partners in tow. Genetic similarities were not obvious. The partners were easier to pick out. They stood apart, shielding themselves with fixed smiles. A few spun off into small groups of their own. They weren’t part of “the test tube kindred.”
Gradually, the siblings were separated, most near the bar, where Tomlinson held court. He wore baggy belted slacks and a sea-gray shirt, collar starched. His hair was tied back in a respectable ponytail. There was a lot of laughter, some raucous, most reserved. My pal appeared to be enjoying himself, but I could tell he was struggling emotionally. Around him were men and women, all in their mid- to late twenties, but with whom he had no real connection save for the salted flow of DNA.
A father orphaned by his past—that was the impression I got. He was the mystic cult hero who had written a book between visits to a sperm bank. Now here he was, live, a brilliant but haggard clown on exhibit.
The siblings knew the truth. Some resented it. They began to drift away to form their own group in this brightly lit space beneath crystal chandeliers. Among the disenchanted, there were no unifying flags. Expensive business suits mixed with blue-collar Levi’s, sandals, and just-off-the-golf-course attire. A man with bushy blond hair wore a Red Sox cap. A woman with Asiatic features was dressed as if her next stop was the gym.
Delia sensed trouble. As hostess, she began to ping-pong between the various factions. A red-bearded man in a wheelchair also worked the room—the Baptist minister from North Carolina that I recognized from his church Facebook page. There was a brief, contentious exchange between him and a large woman with hibiscus blossoms woven into her hair—Imogen, I guessed, the holistic medicine practitioner from Arizona.
Tomlinson realized the vibe was turning sour. He panned the room in desperation, then made a decision. He stood, grabbed two bottles of liquor, and turned them into bells by banging them together.
The place went silent.
“I’ve got an announcement to make,” he said. “No . . . Actually, it’s a confession. Let’s get down to the ugly bones of the matter.” Attendees cleared their throats while he struggled for words. “I’m . . . I’m not your father, not really. I never will be, and we all know it. So at least be kind to each other. You want to disagree with someone, choose me because I’m the most disagreeable goofball in this room.”
Nervous laughter was the response.
“Look . . . think of me as the guy who happened to live upstream of the great futures I hope you all have. You want the truth? Okay, here it is—I’m a selfish, egocentric asshole. A boat bum who didn’t realize how lucky I could have been all these years.”
His audience began to warm.
“I wish I could go back in time and somehow change what I”—my pal began to choke up, so I started into the room while he kept talking—“I really want to somehow make amends. And I’m gonna try, that I promise, in a way your kids and grandkids might appreciate.”
In the corner of the ballroom, an isolated trio suddenly paid attention.
“On the other hand,” he continued, “I can’t file this away as just another one of my major-league screwups. Not now. Not after having met you all. My god, I’ve never seen a more beautiful collection of people in my life. You could paint freakin’ Disney World with the far-out auras in this room.” He gazed and grinned.
Delia, the guy in the Red Sox hat, and a few others smiled back in response.
Tomlinson continued talking, shared some of the dumb mistakes he’d made in his life. A story about getting lost in a Key West cemetery with an escapee from a Cuban psych ward—Figgy—got a pretty good laugh. Then, tears streaming, he clanged the bottles together again. “No one gets to choose their genetics. But free will gives us other choices. Great choices, and tonight the choice is between rum and tequila. So let’s drink up and have some fun.”
The speech didn’t win everyone over. Several couples left. But it did get the party started. I joined in for a while. Delia wanted to dance—no thank you. Imogen wanted to debate politics after a snide comment about my clothes and the length of my hair. Up close, she was an oversized woman in a gauzy, gothic gown bejeweled with stars. And she was wearing ruby red heels. Her offer was declined.
I gravitated to the minister and the guy in the Red Sox cap. I liked them. They were smart. They stood back and took it all in. Chester—“You can drop the ‘Reverend’ stuff,” he instructed me—and Carlton, a financial adviser from Boston. Their questions about Tomlinson were general, at first, then more pointed. Mental health was a concern, since Chester already had a child and Carlton was engaged to be married.
I told the truth—a polished version—and they seemed to deal with it okay.
“Guess there’s a bomb of some kind buried in most people’s heads,” the former Marine reasoned with a Carolina accent. “Or maybe some talent, a genius—could be—waiting to pop up like a flower. It’s all about choices, like Daddy Tomlinson just said. That’s the way I see it.”
The mention of a bomb caught my ear. I also suspected that beneath the minister’s baggy, unbuttoned shirt there might be a gun. A decorated combat vet with a prosthetic arm and a wheelchair had every right to take precautions. Even so, I stuck around until the room was cleared so the bio siblings could meet privately. By then, I was convinced that Chester knew a lot more about his internet kindred than he was willing to share with me, a stranger—a reticence that was protective, not threatening. He’d even come to Imogen’s defense when I had asked about their confrontation.
“Don’t blame her,” he replied. “That girl’s had a harder time than most of us. She’s got a good heart, I’m hoping, and that’s about all I can say for now.”
His abruptness did not invite questions.
At 11, I did another security lap, then jogged up the stairs to my room.
A lively tapping on my door got me out of bed around 1 a.m.—Tomlinson stood there, grinning. “Hermano, did I wake you up?”
I replied, “Don’t be silly. I had to get up and answer the door anyway.” The irony went right over his head.
“Staying busy, that’s my ol’ pard. Got anything to drink in here?” He shuffled past me and began rummaging around in the honor bar. “What about ice? You mind calling room service?”
“How drunk are you?” I was pulling on my shorts in case there were stragglers.
“You kidding? I was on my best behavior tonight. Rationed myself to two beers and four tequila shooters. Dude, that Imogen can drink. Challenged me to a chugging contest. No way—not dignified, you know? She’s still down there in the bar with a couple of the staff she took a shine to. What I’m afraid of is, that girl inherited one of my other weaknesses, too.”
“It’s a long, dangerous list,” I agreed.
He stood, holding a handful of mini bottles. “Hey, tell room service to bring some kosher salt and a couple of limes, while you’re at it . . . No, have them send it to my suite.” Then fixed me with a pointed look. “She’s in love with you, you know.”
“Imogen?” The thought made me grimace. “She accused me of being a war criminal. Well, implied it anyway. Those tequila shooters—were you drinking them out of a beer mug?”
“Not her, numbnuts. Delia. She’s head over heels.” Mini bottles clattered as he placed them on the desk where I’d been studying a chart of Tampa Bay. “I know sensitivity isn’t your strong suit, but have you gone batshit blind, too? The poor kid gets all moony-eyed. I saw the way she pressed up against your arm—you know what I’m talking about. Want me to spell it out? Elbow tit. There, I said it. And it’s damn disgusting, you ask me.”
“Don’t be crude,” I warned.
“See?” he said. “There you go again. Doc, you’ve got to stop acting so noble around that girl. A few examples of what a tight-sphinctered dweeb you can be ought to set her straight. Is that too much to ask?” My pal sat on the bed I hadn’t used, slapped at the desk, and caught the phone in midair.
“She has a crush,” I said. “Nothing has happened. Nothing will.”
Tomlinson had already moved on. He ordered a bunch of stuff from room service, instructing with a flourish, “That’s right . . . Presidential Suite. Don’t bother knocking, someone might be on the throne. No, using the head, amigo. The toilet.” He hung up and his attention shifted to the chart of Tampa Bay. “What do we have here?”
“The houseboat party tomorrow night,” I said. The chart had been folded to show a collage of islands off the southern tip of St. Pete. The Skyway Bridge separated the islands from the shipping channel and the bay, with the mouth of the Manatee River to the southeast.
“I know this area pretty well,” Tomlinson said.
“Then tell me what you think. Delia wants to run the houseboat—just her and a couple of others aboard—from the Skyway Basin and meet you and the rest of the group here a couple of hours before sunset.” I touched my finger to Madeline Key. “It’s only about four miles. What bothers me is, why leave the dock so late?”
“You kidding? Hangovers,” Tomlinson replied. “Besides, they don’t want me along. Not really. And I don’t blame them. You and me, we’ll make an appearance, then split.”
He hunkered closer to the chart. “It’s a great area. Fort De Soto Park—yeah, man. Madeline Key is the entrance. It’s a gunkholing paradise. A thousand acres of some of the most beautiful beaches in the . . . And I don’t know how many islands . . . The kids will really get off on all the places to—”
I interrupted, “Yeah, but there’s car access from the mainland. A road and a boat ferry. There’ll be RV campers and tents. Not many people this time of year, but still . . .”
“So?”
To explain, I opened my laptop to a new chat page that Delia hadn’t mentioned until tonight. Already, the page was loaded with party photos taken earlier in the ballroom. I ignored them and went straight to something else she or Imogen had recently posted.
“A calendar of events,” I said. “Anyone can go to this page and find out when and where your group is meeting tomorrow afternoon. I didn’t even realize until I got back here.”
Tomlinson gave it some serious thought. “Deville—yeah, I get it. The worst of my bad seeds—Alonso Arkham. But he’s still in a federal pen somewhere, isn’t he? Unless you know something I don’t.”
I had yet to hear from my intel pal, Donald Piao Cheng, but I’d kept tabs on Arkham. “They had him at Wildwood Federal—that’s up by Ocala. Yesterday, they shipped him to maximum security in Atlanta. He’s gone for good. You would’ve been notified if there was a problem.”
Tomlinson relaxed visibly, but agreed, “Still, yeah, potentially bad juju. The calendar of events—it needs to be deep-sixed. Too many prying eyes in this crazy ol’ world.” He glanced up. “Did you try calling Delia?”
“At this hour?”
“Why not?” The Zen guru bio dad fumbled around for his phone. He dialed and gave me an adolescent grin as he said to Delia, “Hello, beautiful lady. Are you awake and sober? Well, that’s to be expected. Here—Mr. Excitement wants to speak to you. Say hi to Doc.”
He pushed the phone into my hands, Delia, already midsentence, saying, “. . . so funny, isn’t it? I was hoping you would call.”
I replied, “It’s me, Marion, not your . . . Not Tomlinson.”
“I know. Where’d you disappear to, you strange man? Get your butt up to the Presidential Suite. Really nice marble floors, where, you know, a person can just stretch out and stay nice and cool.”
Her speech was slurred.
“It has to do with your new chat page,” I said. “Something needs to be removed, but it can wait until morning, I guess. What time are you leaving for the houseboat?”
The woman made an unpleasant mewing sound. Then she burped. “Ooooh, yuck. When I get up off the bathroom floor, I guess. Where are you?”
“In my room,” I said. “You’re not really laying on the floor, are you?”
“What room number?” she replied.
“Me? I’m on the second floor. Don’t worry, Tomlinson is on his way.” I pointed my friend toward the door.
Delia groaned a sleepy groan, asking, “But Doc, how are you going to hold my head out of the toilet from way down there?”