Carl Hiaasen (35 page)

“You’re running away. Admit it, Arthur. You stole some getaway money, and now you want to leave the country. Do you think I’m stupid?”

“No,” said the judge, “I think you’re practical.”

On the same Monday morning, the fourth of December, the real estate office of Clara Markham received an unexpected visitor: Bernard Squires, investment manager for the Central Midwest Brotherhood of Grouters, Spacklers and Drywallers International. He’d flown to Florida on a private Gulfstream jet, chartered for him by Richard “The Icepick” Tarbone. The mission of Bernard Squires was to place a large deposit on the Simmons Wood property, thereby locking it up for the union pension fund from which the Tarbone crime family regularly stole. After driving through Grange, Bernard Squires felt more confident than ever that the shopping mall planned for Simmons Wood could be devised to fail both plausibly and exorbitantly.

“We spoke on the phone,” he said to Clara Markham.

“Yes, of course,” she said, “but I’m afraid I’ve got nothing new to report.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

Clara Markham asked if Squires could come back later, as she had an important closing to attend.

Squires was courteous but insistent. “I doubt it’s as important as this,” he said, and positioned a black eelskin briefcase on her desk.

The real estate agent had never seen so much cash; neat, tight bundles of fifties and hundreds. Somewhere among the sweet-smelling stacks, Clara knew, was her commission; probably the largest she’d ever see.

“This is to show how serious we are about acquiring the property,” Squires explained, “and to expedite the negotiations. The people I represent are eager to get started immediately.”

Clara Markham was in a bind. She’d heard nothing over the weekend from JoLayne Lucks. Their friendship was close—and JoLayne was an absolute saint with Kenny, Clara’s beloved Persian—but the real estate agent couldn’t permit her personal feelings to jeopardize such a huge deal.

She waved a hand above the cash and said, “This is very impressive, Mr. Squires, but I must tell you I’m expecting a counteroffer.”

“Really?”

“There’s nothing in writing yet, but I’ve been assured it’s on the way.”

Squires seemed amused. “All right.” With a well-practiced motion he quietly closed the briefcase. “We’re prepared to match any reasonable counteroffer. In the meantime, I’d ask that you contact your clients and let them know how committed we are to this project.”

Clara Markham said, “Absolutely. First thing after lunch.”

“What’s wrong with right now?”

“I … I’m not sure I can reach them.”

“Let’s try,” said Bernard Squires.

Clara Markham saw that stalling was fruitless; the man wouldn’t return to Chicago without an answer. Bernard Squires settled crisply into a chair while she telephoned the attorney for
the estate of Lighthorse Simmons. Five minutes later the attorney called back, having patched together a conference call with Lighthouse’s two profligate heirs—his son, Leander Simmons, and his daughter, Janine Simmons Robinson. Leander dabbled in fossil fuels and Thoroughbreds; Janine spent her money on exotic surgeries and renovating vacation houses.

Leaning close to the speakerphone, Clara Markham carefully summarized the union’s offer for Simmons Wood, the key detail being the figure of $3 million.

“In addition,” she concluded, “Mr. Squires had delivered to my office a substantial cash deposit.”

On the other end, Leander Simmons piped, “How much?” He whistled when the real estate agent told him.

An old pro at conference calls, Bernard Squires raised his voice just enough to be heard: “We wanted everyone to know how serious we are.”

“Well, you got
my
attention,” said Janine Simmons Robinson.

“Me, too,” her brother said.

On behalf of JoLayne Lucks and the doomed wildlife of Simmons Wood, Clara Markham felt compelled to say: “Mr. Squires and his group want to build a shopping mall on your father’s land.”

“With a playground in the atrium,” Squires added coolly.

“And a Mediterranean fountain in front,” the attorney chimed, “with real ducks and geese. It’ll be a terrific attraction for your little town.”

From the speakerphone came the instant reaction of Leander Simmons: “Personally, I don’t give a shit if you guys want to dig a coal mine. How about you, Sis?”

Said Janine: “Hey, three million bucks is three million bucks.”

“Exactly. So what the hell are we waiting for?” Leander demanded. “Just do it.”

Bernard Squires said, “We’re ready to go. However, Ms. Markham informs me there may be another offer.”

“From who?” asked Janine Simmons Robinson.

“How much?” asked her brother.

Clara Markham said, “It’s a local investor. I intended to call you as soon as I received the papers, but they haven’t arrived.”

“Then screw it,” said the attorney. “Let’s go with Squires.”

“Whatever you wish.”

“Now just hold on a second.” It was Leander Simmons. “What’s the big rush?”

He smelled more money. Bernard Squires’ expression blackened at the prospect of a bidding duel. Clara Markham noticed some fresh veins pulsing in his neck.

As it happened, Janine Simmons Robinson was on the same opportunistic wavelength as her brother. “What’s the harm in waiting a couple three days?” she said. “See what these other folks have in mind.”

“It’s your call,” said their attorney. Then: “Ms. Markham, will you get back to us as soon as you hear something—say, no later than Wednesday?”

“How about tomorrow,” said Bernard Squires.

“Wednesday,” said Leander Simmons and his sister in unison.

There was a series of clicks, then the speaker box went silent. Clara Markham looked apologetically first at Bernard Squires, then at the eelskin briefcase on her desk. “I’ll deposit this in our escrow account,” she said, “right away.”

Gravely Squires rose from the chair.

“You don’t strike me as a deceitful person,” he said, “the sort who’d try to jack up her commission by cooking up phony counteroffers.”

“I’m not a sneak,” said Clara Markham, “nor am I an imbecile. Simmons Wood will be my biggest deal of the year, Mr.
Squires. I wouldn’t risk blowing the whole enchilada for a few extra bucks.”

He believed her. He’d seen the town; it was a miracle she hadn’t starved to death.

“A local investor, you said.”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t suppose you’d be kind enough to tell me the name.”

“I’m afraid I can’t, Mister Squires.”

“But you’re confident they’ve got some resources.”

“They do,” said Clara Markham, thinking: Last I heard.

Shiner’s mother overslept. The road machines woke her.

Hurriedly she squeezed into the bridal gown, snatched her parasol and sailed out the door. By the time she reached the intersection of Sebring Street and the highway, it was too late. The Department of Transportation was ready to pave the Road-Stain Jesus.

Shiner’s mother shrieked and hopped about like a costumed circus monkey. She spat in the face of the crew foreman and used her parasol to stab ineffectively at the driver of the steamroller. Ultimately she flung herself facedown upon the holy splotch and refused to budge for the machines.

“Pave me, too, you godless bastards!” she cried. “Let me be one with my Savior!”

The crew foreman wiped off his cheek and signaled for his men to halt work. He telephoned the sheriff’s office and said: “There’s a crazy witch in a wedding dress out here humping the road. What do I do?”

Two deputies arrived, followed later by a television truck.

Shiner’s mother was kissing the pavement, on the place she imagined to be Jesus’ forehead. “Don’t you worry, Son of God,” she kept saying. “I’m right here. I’m not goin’ nowheres!” Her
devotion to the stain was remarkable, considering its downwind proximity to a flattened opossum.

A vanload of worried-looking pilgrims arrived, but the deputies ordered them to stay out of the right-of-way. Shiner’s mother raised her head and said: “That’s the collection box on top of the cooler. Help yourselves to a Sprite!”

By now traffic was blocked in both directions. The crew foreman, who was from Tampa and unfamiliar with the local lore, asked the deputies if there was a mental institution in town.

“Naw, but we’re overdue,” said one of them.

They each grabbed an arm and hoisted Shiner’s mother off the highway. “He’s watching! He sees you!” she screamed.

The deputies deposited her in the cage of a patrol car and chased the curious tourists away. Before continuing with the paving job, the crew foreman and his men assembled in a loose semicircle at the center line. They were trying to figure out what the lunatic biddy was ranting about.

Bending over the stain, the foreman said, “If that’s Jesus Christ, I’m Long Dong Silver.”

“Hell, it’s fuckin’ brake fluid,” declared one of his men, a mechanic.

“Oil,” asserted another.

Then the driver of the steamroller said: “From here it kinda looks like a woman. If you close one eye, a naked woman on a camel.”

That was it for the foreman. “Back to work,” he snapped.

The TV crew stayed for the paving. They got an excellent close-up of the Road-Stain Jesus disappearing beneath a rolling black crust of hot asphalt. The scene was deftly crosscut with a shot of a young pilgrim sniffling into a Kleenex as if grieving. In reality she was merely trying to stave off dead-opossum fumes.

The story ran on the noon news out of Orlando. It opened with videotape of Shiner’s mother, tenderly smooching the sacred
smudge. Joan anxiously phoned Roddy at work. “There’s TV people in town. What if they hear about the turtle shrine?”

“Pretend we don’t know him,” Roddy said.

“But he’s my brother.”

“Fine. Then you do the interviews.”

Shiner’s mother was booked for disturbing the peace and after three hours was released without bail. Immediately she took a cab to the intersection of Sebring and the highway. The asphalt had hardened, dry to the touch; Shiner’s mother wasn’t even positive where the stain had been. She observed that somebody had stolen her collection box and most of the cold sodas. She was officially out of business.

She made her way to Demencio’s house and set her empty cooler in the shade of an oak tree, away from Sinclair’s crowd. Trish noticed her sitting there and brought a lemonade.

“I heard what happened. I’m so sorry.”

“Pigs tore my gown,” Shiner’s mother said.

“We can mend that in no time,” said Trish.

“What about my shrine. Who’s gonna fix
that?”

“Just you wait. There’ll be new stains on the highway.”

Shiner’s mother said, “Ha.”

Trish glanced at the front window of the house, in case Demencio was watching; he’d be miffed if he spotted the old lady on the premises. Her ice-blue parasol stood out like a pup tent.

“You should go home and get some rest,” Trish said.

“Not after I’ve lost the two things in the world I care about most—the Road-Stain Jesus, and my only son.”

“Oh, Shiner will be back.” Trish, thinking: As soon as he needs money.

“But he won’t never be the same. I got a feeling he is bein’ corrupted by the forces of Satan.” Shiner’s mother drained the glass of lemonade. “How about some of that angel food?”

“I’m afraid it’s all gone. Need a lift home?”

“Maybe later,” Shiner’s mother said. “First I got to talk to the turtle boy. My heart’s been steamrolled, I need some spiritual healing.”

“Poor thing.” Trish excused herself and hurried inside to warn Demencio. Shiner’s mother lit a cigaret and waited for the line around the moat to dwindle.

T
he Everglades empties off the Florida peninsula into a shimmering panorama of tidal flats, serpentine channels and bright-green mangrove islets. The balance of life there depends upon a seasonal infusion of freshwater from the mainland. Once it was a certainty of nature, but no more. The drones who in the 1940s carved levees and gouged canals throughout the upper Everglades gave absolutely no thought to what would happen downstream to the fish and birds, not to mention the Indians. For the engineers, the holy mission was to ensure the comfort and prosperity of non-native humans. In the dry season the state drained water off the Everglades for immediate delivery to cities and farms. In the wet season it pumped millions of gallons seaward to prevent flooding of subdivisions, pastures and crops.

Over time, less and less freshwater reached Florida Bay, and what ultimately got there wasn’t so pure. When the inevitable drought came, the parched bay changed drastically. Sea grasses began to die off by the acre. The bottom turned to mud. Pea-green
algae blooms erupted to blanket hundreds of square miles, a stain so large as to be visible from NASA satellites. Starved for sunlight, sponges died and floated to the surface in rotting clumps.

The collapse of the famous estuary produced the predictable dull-eyed bafflement among bureaucrats. Faced with a public-relations disaster and a cataclysmic threat to the tourism industry, the same people who by their ignorance had managed to starve Florida Bay now began scrambling for a way to revive it. This would be difficult without antagonizing the same farmers and developers for whom marshlands had been so expensively replumbed. Politicians were caught in a bind. Those who’d never lost a moment’s sleep over the fate of the white heron now waxed lyrical about its delicate grace. Privately, meanwhile, they reassured campaign donors that—screw the birds—Big Agriculture would still get first crack at the precious water.

For anyone seeking election to office in South Florida, restoring the Everglades became not only a pledge but a mantra. Speeches were given, grandiose promises made, blue-ribbon task forces assembled, research grants awarded, scientific symposiums convened … and not much changed. The state continued to siphon gluttonously what should have been allowed to flow naturally toward Florida Bay. In the driest years the bay struggled; turned to a briny soup. In the rainiest years it rebounded with life.

The condition of the place could be assessed best at remote islands such as Pearl Key. When the mangroves were spangled with pelicans and egrets, when the sky held ospreys and frigate birds, when the shallows boiled with mullet and snook—that meant plenty of good water was spilling from the ’Glades; enough for a reprieve from the larceny perpetrated upstream.