A text from Tomlinson: When irony and lust collide, the detritus paints life as a hilarious absurdity. Don’t fall for that nihilist bullshit.
A second text was meant to be funny: At least she’s your second cousin, which is legal in border states and a few backward countries. Thank god, you-know-who is in Spain, far from the TCT. Go and sin some more.
You-know-who—Tucker Gatrell—was also Ford’s cousin. TCT stood for “The Coconut Telegraph.” Which was sort of funny, but only because Tomlinson had assumed the worst—or bawdiest scenario—after learning that Tamara had spent the night at the cottage.
Ford, smiling, pocketed the phone. He had tailed Middlebrook to a red beach rental just to prove he could, then flown his Maule amphib to a resort sixty miles east off Staniel Cay. Hubert Purcell’s boat was anchored near the fuel dock, as prearranged.
That was two hours ago.
The name of the resort was Silver Reef. It was an island fantasy with beach estates, a casino, and yachts, on a wafer of sand dwarfed by the enormity of the sea. A call to Tomlinson from a hotel landline was easily arranged. The staff was less cooperative when it came to questions about Nickelby and Lydia Johnson, who’d checked in four days earlier.
After Ford was done snooping, he joined Purcell aboard the Sandman to await something else that had been prearranged—a meeting with his Haitian drinking pals. That’s where Ford was, near the helm with a view of the water, as Tomlinson’s second text pinged in.
“Why you smiling, boss?”
Purcell’s deference was irritating after almost coming to blows last night. The fight might have happened if Ford hadn’t proved he could “fix” the boat’s GPS. Interrogation skills and a bottle of Bacardi had played a role.
“Something a friend sent,” Ford said amiably. “Call me Doc, okay? You’re the captain, I’m just a client.” Ford nodded toward the channel. “Is that who we’re waiting on?” A dilapidated lobster boat had entered the basin and turned their way, a lone man at the wheel.
“One of ’em anyway.” Purcell swiveled around in the captain’s chair, got up, then decided he didn’t need binoculars. “Yep, Quarrels is what he goes by. Too bad, I was expecting three other fellas, too. Let me talk to him private like, okay?”
So they could get their stories straight, Ford assumed, yet maintained an easygoing approach. “Whatever you say. When you’re ready, give me a wave. I’d like to meet him.”
“Not right off, man. I think he come here alone for a reason. The others are probably worried you’re the po-lice after what your friend said happened.”
Last night, Tomlinson’s call to Nickelby had ended with a woman—probably Lydia—screaming before the phone went dead.
Purcell frowned at the lobster boat. “Lord, what’s wrong with his face? Looks like Quarrels been beaten.” Even from a distance, the facial swelling was noticeable. “Yeah, man, he all buggered up. I’m afraid whatever them Haitians did was bad—don’t matter what the dock master told you. The group that fella runs with are the ones I warned you about. Same that laughed ’cause I was too cool, restrained myself, after the professor showed his foolishness.”
Ford responded, “It takes a big man to walk away from a fight.”
“There you go. But they like meanness. The staff here knows Quarrels, all them boys from Haiti, so they afraid to speak the truth. But don’t you worry. Sandman gonna find out what you need to know.” The man, surprisingly nimble, went down the ladder and waited with a stern line ready.
There wasn’t much Ford didn’t know after his stroll around the resort.
He sat and waited, and kept an eye on Purcell and Quarrels below.
Nickelby and the girl weren’t registered at the resort, according to a clerk he’d spoken with.
They’d checked out, in the words of the dock master, who’d accepted twenty dollars in exchange for information. The name Nickelby was unfamiliar, but he recognized Ford’s description of a small bald American traveling with a much younger girl.
A talkative man, the dock master, when properly motivated.
“Oh, those two, yes, sir. León, is what he told me. She, I think he called her Lady Anne. Or Liddy Anne. Our scrape-n-rake band plays so loud, it was hard to hear.”
“Leon or León?” Ford had asked.
“Like he was Spanish. Your friends had themselves quite a party last night up there at the Red Parrot. They was dancing to reggae and a bit drunk, you don’t mind me saying. Rum punch, I believe, was their drink of choice, which is the dancingest drink on this island. Only reason I met them was the bartender summoned me from my room at staff house. Mr. León was interested in a boat we got listed. See that little Grand Banks sitting over yonder?”
Nickelby didn’t buy the boat, so Ford pushed the conversation along. Last night, the pair had booked a room in the hotel, possibly because the lady had fallen and hit her head. This made sense to the dock master. Why else move their luggage from the most beautiful house on the property? And the most private. The rum punches had fixed her up fine—no swelling around the temple unless the light was just right.
“Maybe they went back to the house when they checked out of the hotel.”
“No, sir, they for sure gone. Can’t sneeze on this island without folks noticing. Musta chartered a plane after Mr. León decided that Grand Banks needed too much work. That had to be before first light. My job starts early. I’d have seen a hired boat.”
“They didn’t leave without paying their bill, I hope.”
“Doubt that, sir. The gentleman had plenty of money or the bartender wouldn’t have summoned me last night. It was close to eleven by the time I was dressed proper to greet clients. By then, those two had the guests, and most the staff, too, on their feet, doing what we call the snake crawl but others call a conga line.”
“Professor Leonard Nickelby,” Ford mused, pleased with the incongruity.
“Mr. León and Lady Anne, is how the staff speaks of them,” the dock master responded. “They a fun pair, those two. Oh, and there is something else I heard—well, I probably shouldn’t say. Even with you being friends of theirs and all.”
Another twenty changed hands.
Prior to taking the dance floor, Nickelby and the girl had been aboard a yacht. They’d returned to the bar with a satchel of cash. Blocks of hundreds—U.S., it looked like. The bartender had gotten a peek.
“Which boat?” The docks were a latticework of sports fishermen, sailboats, and blue-water cruisers, all large enough to be considered yachts.
“Man that rents it pulled out this morning,” the dock master said. “They weren’t aboard, if that’s what you’re wondering. I would’ve noticed when I loaded the gentleman’s luggage.”
“What kind of boat? Maybe I know him.”
“I couldn’t say, sir. What I was told was he come here a few years back and made a movie picture. Don’t know the name of that either. Just that them Hollywood people do love their partying.”
“The owner must be famous. Anyone else you could ask?”
“No, sir. A private plane, that was Mr. León’s most likely choice. I suggest you wait. I’m sure he don’t want a good friend like you to spend vacation alone . . . Is that all, sir?”
It was, as far as the dock master was concerned. He wouldn’t discuss the movie person or describe the yacht. A fifty-dollar bill was refused.
“One more thing,” Ford had pressed. “Are you sure there’s not another way they could’ve left? The landing strip here doesn’t have lights.”
The dock master hadn’t considered that. “Dogged, if you ain’t right. Couldn’t have been a plane. Nope, unless . . . Wait—the mailboat. Today’s Thursday, and Thursdays she pulls out early from the commercial quay north of here. Maybe they bought tickets.”
“Bound for where?”
“Lots’a stops. Exumas, Sapphire Creek, Arthur’s Town, maybe far as the Ragged Islands. I can grab you a schedule from the office. Mailboat’s how all us islanders travel, sir. Always been that way, but I don’t recommend it for guests. Too slow for folks in a hurry to have fun.”
Ford had returned to the Sandman, schedule in hand. The same schedule he opened when Purcell climbed down from the bridge to greet the dilapidated lobster boat.
It was almost six, nearly time to head back to Andros. He put the schedule away and walked to an aft window, where there was a view of mangroves and a swath of sand where his seaplane was anchored. The fuselage appeared darker than the Popsicle-blue water.
A window starboard side was a better place to observe Purcell. So far, the giant had not invited their visitor aboard. Quarrels, a muscular two hundred pounds, appeared slight by comparison. He wore baggy pants, a rope for a belt, no shirt. His face was grotesquely swollen like a plum grew from his ear. The fist of a powerful man might have caused the damage. Or a hammer . . .
Lydia Johnson had a head injury, too, according to the dock master. Maybe it was coincidence, maybe not. Last night, the GPS and a bottle of Bacardi had put Hubert Purcell in the mood to admit he was worried about something. It concerned his Haitian friends, Quarrels among them. That’s all he would say—at first.
Ford had been through enough schools to know that empathy and liquor were the most effective tools of interrogation. Half a bottle had loosened the big man’s tongue. It was possible, Purcell admitted, that he had bragged at too many bars that access to Nickelby’s equipment case and a logbook were worth a punch in the face from a little fella like him. And he might have hinted the logbook was better at finding ambergris than treasure. A puffy little professor and a girl would be easy targets if handled correctly—something his friends could’ve figured out on their own.
Purcell had offered Ford the same deal he’d probably offered his drinking buddies.
“You and me should partner up before them Haitians take what’s not theirs—and the book’s not the only reason. You say it don’t belong to the professor? Let me tell you about something else that don’t belong to him—the fifty-fifty split of whatever we sell. That will be thanks enough. Plus, my normal charter fee, of course.”
Purcell knew what was in the equipment case. He had palmed the keys while Nickelby was in the water—or so he believed at the time. Inside was a lot of expensive gear. There was also a small waterproof box.
“Two of the prettiest Spanish coins I’ve ever seen is in there. One was bright, shiny silver. The other, gold and shiny, but twice as big. Prof. Leo had carved out spaces in the foam. You know the kind of box I mean? A third space was empty, which explained why him and the girl had cash to charter my boat. Probably stolen, all three. Then they cheated me out of thirty thousand bucks by selling ambergris I found.”
Ford had asked where they’d found the ambergris, and how it involved the logbook, before hearing the rest of it.
“Me looking in that box is what led to the misunderstanding I mentioned. Know why? Because I was too fair-minded even when that little fool hit me. Thieves, is what they are. Here, look at these pictures—” Purcell had pulled out his phone. “Tell me if it’s worth going after what we both know don’t belong to them.”
There was a blurry photo of a silver coin, a Spanish real. In better focus, a larger coin, gold, ornate, a robust die. At the base, die marks read Tricentennial 1714. Ford had never seen a coin like it.
“At the bar, how many people saw these pictures as you passed the phone around?”
Many, judging from Purcell’s indignant denial. More questions had produced more lies before Ford offered his own deal in a friendly, empathetic way. “I hope your pals didn’t do anything stupid. The police could get the wrong idea and arrest you, too.”
“You think?”
“That’s the way they’ll see it, I’m afraid.”
“Oh shit. Yeah . . . those boys too dumb to do anything that ain’t stupid. You’ll speak on my behalf, won’t you, sir? I hear you got official papers from the Crown.”
“If I can help,” Ford had said. “Wouldn’t it be better to give your friends a call, maybe arrange a meeting before something bad does happen? I’d hate to see you in jail. Tell you what. I’ll charter your boat for a couple of days, then fly over and meet you at wherever it was you dropped Dr. Nickelby and the girl.”
“Why there?”
“Because the police can’t arrest you for preventing a crime. And Nickelby can’t say much if we lay claim to what didn’t belong to him in the first place. Just like you said.”
The mix of larceny and reason had worked.
Now here they were, maybe a day too late, maybe not. Instead of four of Purcell’s drinking buddies, it was only Quarrels, and he looked like he’d been beaten with a hammer. Ford, standing at the starboard window, took all this as a bad sign. If the other men were afraid to be seen in the area, it was possible that Nickelby and the girl hadn’t left the resort by choice. Or even alive.
The portal glass was thick. He couldn’t hear the men talking but could see that the exchange was becoming heated. The mailboat schedule went into his pocket when Quarrels pointed at something—an obvious distraction. Ford was opening the door as the first punch was thrown. By the time he got down, Purcell was on his back, dazed, and the dilapidated boat was moving, Quarrels slunk behind the wheel as if scared.
“Hit me when I wasn’t looking,” the giant bawled. “Goddamn it, I warned them Haitian fools they was badass. Warned them all, but Quarrels faults me for sayin’ it would be easy.”
Ford had to leave for Andros soon. He wangled what there was to know about the Haitians before bothering to ask, “Warned them about who?”