The Man Who Ivented Florida (41 page)

But Londecker hadn't given up yet. He had sweated blood over this project. It was his one chance to show Faillo just how competent he was, so he had worked nine-, ten-hour days to make sure the acquisition went through without a problem. But, goddamn it, he'd had nothing but problems. First, two of the men he'd hired to do the groundwork had gone out in boats and disappeared. So the project was still way behind schedule as far as the all-important environmental survey. Then, during the title searches, they'd discovered that one of the main landowners, Tucker Gatrell, had sold off a hundred prime acres to some blind land trust, so now the state was having to go through the courts just to find out who the principals were. Which was putting them even further behind schedule—all the while having to negotiate with Gatrell's shrewd, bullheaded attorney. And just when Londecker thought it couldn't get any worse, he had turned on CNN, to see that disgusting old cracker, Gatrell, telling a pretty blond reporter that he had found the Fountain of Youth on his property.

Outrageous! But the fools in the media loved it.

The key to success in government service included one unspoken rule: Avoid publicity. Now he was getting a dozen calls a day from newspapers, television stations—big-time national reporters who were damn disrespectful when he tried to sidestep them.

All Faillo had said to him was, "Are you up to speed with the Mango project?" As if she had no idea of what was going on.

She knew, though. But that goddamn steel maiden was too smart to let him involve her now in a project that was threatening to turn sour. Not this late in the game. For the last week, he'd felt like a leper; Faillo wouldn't have allowed him to discuss the problems with her if he had tried.

But three days ago, Friday, Londecker had finally gotten a break. Connie Dirosa, of all people, had come into his office and dropped a manila envelope on his desk. All she said was, "I was thumbing through some in-load over at Environmental and just happened to come across this." Then she'd stood there watching as he took out a sheath of papers and began to read.

They were water analysis results from a private lab in Tampa that, by law, had to notify the state when they found contaminants in water that grossly exceeded state DER standards. Dirosa had said, "The water samples came from your buddy's property, the old lunatic who's been giving you trouble down in Mango. It was a hell of a stroke of luck, me finding them."

Londecker had felt like kissing her—but was then instantly suspicious. Why did Dirosa want to help him?

"Look," she had explained, "let's put the knives away for a second, Alex. The way I see it, no matter who gets Margaret's job, we're still going to be working together. We're the senior staff of the department, so you help me, I'll help you." She had stuck out her meaty hand. "Deal?"

No, they didn't have a deal, though he took her hand, anyway.

He had said, "As long as I can memo Ms. Faillo, giving you full credit," watching Dirosa's expression for some trace of duplicity. Could just imagine her bragging to Faillo: "Londecker was in a mess till I saved his bacon."

But all Dirosa had said was, "Nope, Alex. It's your project; you take the credit. Leave me out of it entirely. Just promise that you'll do the same for me when I get in a jam."

So he had his ace in the hole! And maybe a new friend, too— Connie Dirosa. Who wasn't a bad-looking woman, except for her weight. He'd caught her staring at him lately, too—he knew that look. And if Connie did get Faillo's job, a little romantic involvement wouldn't hurt his career a bit.

Now, sitting at the table, fanning his hand at the bugs, Londecker jumped slightly when Margaret Faillo nudged him, then slid a note in front of him: "I'm going to take a break in the van. Speed this up!"

Londecker nodded without looking at her. The two stenographers were already trading off, taking turns sitting in the air conditioning, out of the bugs, so he wasn't surprised. Just so long as Faillo was present when the water tests were read into the record, as Londecker prayed they would be. He couldn't do it—this was a public hearing. And to wait until his department finally finished and published its own tests wouldn't have nearly the impact. The television cameras and the reporters were here
now.
The people who were whining about the state imposing on Tucker Gatrell's rights were here
now.
The pathetic lunatic fringe who believed Gatrell's claims about the water were sitting out there in the heat, waiting their turn to rail at him. Now was the perfect time for them all to hear the truth about Gatrell and his scam, the ideal time for Margaret Faillo to see how neatly he could cut the legs out from under park opposition.

But Londecker couldn't do any of that himself; had to just sit patiently, hoping that somewhere in that crowd, probably among the group of droaning environmentalists, was the woman or man who had commissioned those tests—someone named Dr. Marion Ford.

Lemar
Flowers leaned over a chair piled with a briefcase, papers, and two volumes of
Florida Statutes
so that he could whisper, "Goddamn it, Tuck, go sit in the house for a while, find some shade! You're sweating like a chain-gang coolie, but your face is as white as a baby's butt. I'll come get you when it's our turn to speak."

Tuck, who had his hat off, mopping his head with a red bandanna, glanced irritably at Flowers. "Judge, I hope you're not going to charge me for that advice. Say—" Tuck's face crinkled into a wicked smile. "You know the difference 'tween a catfish and a lawyer? One's a low-life, shit-eatin' bottom feeder, and the other's a fish!"

"You trying to hurt my feelings," Flowers said blandly, "you gonna have to get a lot more personal than that. I'm just sayin' it won't help none, you having a stroke in front of these vultures. They'll pick your bones clean—"

"Quit worrying about me and worry about the job I'm paying you to do!"

"I have to remind you again, Mr. Gatrell? I took this case on contingency. You haven't paid me a cent yet."

"Christ oh frogs, you got ways of making a man mad!"

"That's my job. Now sit down and cool yourself." Flowers took up a volume of the
Florida Statutes
and began to peruse it nonchalantly.

Tucker said, "Well, it ain't like I ain't got a reason"—meaning a reason for being mad.

He did have reason, too. Lemar hadn't said a word about people showing up to speak in favor of the park. Hell, Tuck had just thought they were more tourists, all these smart-acting people in their bird-watcher's clothes. Where was that damn Joseph when he needed him? Joseph didn't have any love for bird-watchers, but now he was out somewheres riding that big black instead of being here where he belonged, maybe scaring a few of these busybody gull-humpers with his mean Injun looks.

Worst thing, there was so many of them. And they all talked so long. The reporters and television people would probably get tired of it; just pack their things and leave before Tuck and his people got a chance to speak. That's what he was really worried about.

To Flowers, Tuck whispered, "I've heard funeral preachers more cheerful than these yardbirds. What I might do is bring Ervin T. down, have him start sawing on the fiddle. That'll change the mood!"

Flowers kept turning pages. "You'll do no such thing. Sit there and relax till it's our turn. Have yourself a chew of tobacco."

"I don't want a chew. I don't want to relax." Tuck stood momentarily and scanned the bay. No sign of Henry Short's boat. "Gawldamn it, things ain't going right! And don't get me started on that old idiot Henry. I tried to tell you, a nigger's got no more sense of time than a rabbit. Say"—Tuck pulled out his pocket watch—"what time is it, anyway?"

"You and Henry have been friends for fifty years. Who'd he come to for help when he was sick, living out there all alone on that island? He'll be here."

"Yeah, if he didn't fall down dead. That'd be just like him, too." Tuck flipped the watch closed. Almost 2:00 P.M. Up at the table, that man Londecker looked as if he was about to wilt. He was mostly alone now, with the women coming and going from the van. The heat and the bugs—well, good. Let them get a taste of what it was like for the people who near worked themselves to death trying to scratch out a living in these islands.

Flowers said to him, "For the next ten, fifteen minutes, I don't want you to say nothing. Just sit there and calm yourself. Like these young lawyers tell me: Think nice thoughts."

Tuck tried. Let his mind slip around, looking for something pleasant to settle on. Remembered that time Marion hit his first home run up there at the old Pirates spring-training park. That was nice. Big blond-haired boy with the same blue eyes Tuck still saw every morning in the mirror. Which caused him to think of the boy's mother, Melinda. Prettiest little snow-haired baby he'd ever seen, so young and tiny . . . but, no, he didn't want to think much further about that. But the old times, it was still nice to think about them, and Tuck began to try to recall what the Glades and the islands were like when he was still young—all the place names that were familiar in those days but now were lost, not to be found on maps. There was Devil's Garden, that shady place with all the wild orchids just north of Charlie Buster's Marsh. Hadn't some fancy-minded nudists tried to set up house there? Tried to breed what they called their own "superrace"?

That made Tuck smile.

The bugs had chased them out in less than a month, and now these were probably their grandkids, sitting here in their birdwatchers' clothes, running off at the mouth!

There was Ocaloachoochee Slough that flowed right through the Big Cypress Swamp. Before the damn government had straightened the rivers and diked Lake Okeechobee, you could canoe right up the thing, from Everglades City clear to La Belle. And there was Charlie Tommie's Hog Camp and Rock Island and Grover Doctor Split and Charlie Tigertail's Casino, all just little camps, places for a man to sleep or buy a little food from the Seminoles when he was hunting or working cattle, but they were the same as towns in those days.

And what about Deep Lake? A small lake set way back in, probably thirty miles from the Gulf, but every spring tarpon would show up there. Those wild mirror-bright fish would appear like magic, hobbyhorsing on the surface, no one knew why or from where, then disappear again, come fall.

One night, discussing Deep Lake around the campfire—this was back in the thirties—Tuck had said to Joseph, "The reason no one figured it out but me is because they think of Florida as if it's land. But she's not. Florida's more like a boat. Or like that thing in Babylon, a floating garden. There's fish probably swimmin' around beneath us right now. In tunnels! That's where those tarpon come from, and them tunnel walls is like an anchor. Keeps Florida from drifting off."

Deep Lake and the rest, it was pretty to think about, all those past places, all those old times. Florida had been so big and wild, jungle and oak flats clear to the sea.

Remembering it made Tucker feel good . . . then it began to cause him to feel bad. What the hell had happened?

Tamiami Trail was one thing. Sucked the soul out of the land as fast as it funneled new people in.

Me! I'm the one who caused that!

Another was all them big developers, come down from out of state, building their "wham-bam, thank you, ma'am" condos and corporation towns, then hightailing it with their pockets full of money.

Who's the one showed them around! Told them the best places!

And all the theme parks!

Give Dick Pope the idea, not even knowing I was cuttin' my own throat.

And then the government coming in, taking control, screwing up one thing after another. Them yahoos needed guidelines just to find their tallywhackers. But that didn't stop them from messin' with the way land and water worked.

Shit always flows downhill—Florida proves it. I shoulda told Harry, he wants to build a park so bad, start with Hiroshima.

"Gawldamn it now, I've heard just about enough!" Tuck was on his feet, not even realizing it; was surprised as anyone at the public hearing to hear his own loud voice.

At the table, Londecker was so startled that he sat up straight. "Excuse me?"

"I said these people have talked long enough! When you gonna give my side a chance?" Lemar Flowers was tugging at Tuck's shirt, trying to get him to sit down, but Tuck pulled away.

"You're out of order, Mr. Gatrell—"

"Mister, you whack that gavel at me one more time, I'll show you what being out of order is like!"

"Tucker!" Flowers was trying to get him back in his seat, but, behind him, the trailer park people and some of the others were starting to yell, too, demanding that they be heard. The whole crowd getting noisier and noisier, grumpy from the heat and the droaning boredom, while Londecker kept banging away with the gavel.

"Quiet, please! You'll have to wait your turn."

"My turn's come and gone, Londecker. That's what this whole business is about!"

"I said, QUIET!"

" 'Fraid you might learn somethin'?" Tuck spit ferociously. Didn't none of them understand? He felt like jumping up on his chair and shouting,
"Dumb shits! Don't tell me. I'm the one lived it!"
Instead, he noticed Ford at the far edge of the crowd, and called out, "Marion! Hey, Marion! Now you see what I'm up against?" before he suddenly felt so woozy that he had to quick sit down. Otherwise, he'd've collapsed right there in the grass.

Marion?

Londecker heard the crazy old cracker yell the name once, twice, before he picked out the man Gatrell was calling to: big blond-haired man with wire glasses, standing off by himself. Dressed more like a fishing guide than a scientist, but how many people named Marion could there be?

"I'll adjourn this meeting right now and leave the record as it stands! Order!"

Holding his anger in check, hoping the television cameras and the reporters recorded how professionally he was behaving despite all the noise. Londecker took a nervous glance toward the van. Margaret Faillo was still inside it, staying cool, but Connie Dirosa was right there beside him, neutral, showing no emotion, watching to see whether he could regain control of the meeting.