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  Sally’d told us about it. Bhagwan Shiva’s theme community for gamblers: a self-contained city that adjoined Indian reservation land where he wanted to build casinos. Several thousand housing units plus a city center, restaurants, recreation centers, all designed to attract people from middle-income brackets; people with enough money to gamble, but not wealthy enough to buy property in Sawgrass.

  He was having a lot of permitting problems, Sally’d told us.

  From the road, though, construction seemed to be well underway, permits or no permits-although destruction seemed a more accurate term. There were several gated, dirt access roads, with modular offices, plastic Porta-Johns, temporary power poles. At each, were signs that read:

  FUTURE HOME OF CASINO LAKES, AN EXCLUSIVE PLANNED COMMUNITY. PRECONSTRUCTION PRICES AVAILABLE.

  The crews weren’t working on this Saturday morning. Hadn’t been working for several weeks, by the looks of things. The first stage of the operation, however, seemed complete. They’d brought in a fleet of bulldozers and scraped the earth bare. Several hundred acres of black earth were turning gray in the morning sun. Only a few bald cypresses out there were left standing, isolated, sculptured like bonsai trees on a massive desert plain.

  The cypress is an interesting, exotic-looking tree, with its connected, tubular base, bulbous knees and leaves as delicate as oriental lace. They grow in distinctive settings: on islands of elevated terrain in sawgrass marshes where, as a community of many hundreds of trees-even thousands of trees-they form a characteristic dome. Green rotundas of shadow out on the sawgrass horizon.

  Cypress also grows along floodplains on long, silver strands that can be miles long. South Florida’s interior was once an uninterrupted canopy of cypress domes and strands. Up until the late 1940s, they comprised America’s last virgin stand of bald cypress and pond cypress: trees well over a hundred feet tall and several centuries old.

  At the end of World War II, though, the big lumber companies arrived in Florida, motivated by a postwar construction frenzy that was hungry for building material. Dried and milled, cypress is a handsome conifer wood that is insect-and rot-resistant-perfect for houses. Rail lines were built, spur lines added; labor was imported. It took the companies nine years to girdle, bleed and cut an epochal forest that had been the centerpiece of an ecosystem that dated back to the Pleistocene. Many thousands of loaded freight cars; many millions of board feet.

  There’re still lots of small cypress trees in the ’Glades. But big cypresses, the old giants are rare. In this area, though, the loggers had missed a few. Now those few trees stood alone on the bulldozed plain, solitary dinosaurs revealed, naked in this new century.

  The three of us sat in the car, staring, until Tomlinson finally spoke. “There’s a kind of silence that’s really more like a scream. Listen. ” He’d lowered his window. “Hear it?”

  DeAntoni turned to me. “What’s he mean, because they flattened it like a parking lot? There’s gotta be at least two square miles of land out there.”

  I said, “Yeah. Maybe more.”

  “Permitting problems, my ass, man.”

  I told Tomlinson, “What could be happening here-one of the managers at South Seas was telling me about it-is what’s becoming a sophisticated developer’s device. It’s so tough to get permits to build anything, developers know it’s going to take them months, even years before they’ll get the okay on a project. So they’ve figured out they’ll actually save money by going ahead, building anyway, then paying fines later with inflated dollars. There’s a whole generation of bureaucrats out there who behave as if people in the private sector are enemies of the state. Which is just idiotic. So it’s become like a war-and everyone’s losing.”

  Tomlinson said to me, “Understand now why I call him a power-zapper? He’s a black hole, man, out there trying to absorb all the light he can. He’s feeding. He’s been feeding right here.”

  Bhagwan Shiva.

  A little farther down the road was a crossroads general store, Big Cypress Grab Bag. Shell parking, a pair of gas pumps, rusted tin roof, wire mesh over the windows, peeling yellow paint. Coke. Bud Light. Lottery tickets and food stamps accepted. On the other side of the road were two businesses in a single, elongated building built of cement block: Devil’s Garden Feed amp; Supply and Gator Bill’s Bar.

  Driving by slow, hitting his turn signal, DeAntoni said, “Pickup trucks and Confederate flags. Now you understand why I tried that chewing tobacco shit?”

  “Makes perfect sense now,” I said as I opened the door, then stepped out into the heat and a sawgrass humidity so dense it was like weight.

  It was almost noon. Gator Bill’s was a popular lunch place. There were a dozen or so cars and trucks, country music loud from inside, a jukebox, maybe, singing “… blow, blow Seminole wind!”

  Through the screen door, in the shadows, I could see men at the bar hunched over drinks, a woman with black hair braided long, muling trays.

  DeAntoni said, “We’ll hit this place on the way back. If they won’t let us eat at Sawgrass-one of the hot-shit restaurants they got in there-we’ll come back, grab a stool at the bar. That waitress, she doesn’t look half bad.”

  We walked along the road in the heat. There wasn’t much traffic: semis loaded with oranges tunneling the heat at seventy miles per hour; dump trucks and tractors with air-conditioned cabs. Their wind wakes created mini-tornadoes in the grass, whipped at our clothes.

  Florida is more than beaches and theme parks. It’s a major agricultural state and, consistently, the second or third leading producer of cattle in the nation. We were at the southernmost boundary, where pasture meets swamp prairie, the first and final edge of tropical wilderness.

  At the beginning of Casino Lakes development, we cut down one of the access roads, then across to Sawgrass. DeAntoni and Tomlinson both wanted to climb the wall, take our chances. But I told them why be obvious and give them an excuse to call the police if someone spotted us?

  I said, “Let’s try the easy way, first.”

  Most gated communities have service entrances-they don’t want the landscape soiled by all those dirty delivery trucks, or to require members to exchange pleasantries with the hired help. Sawgrass’s service entrance was off an asphalt spur at the western boundary: a chain-link fence, double-gated. There was a little guardhouse where an old man sat, feet up on his desk, reading the paper. He looked up from the newspaper as we approached.

  To DeAntoni and Tomlinson, I whispered, “Walk like you own the place.” A few paces later, I stopped and called to the old man, “Whoops, sorry. I didn’t realize this was the service entrance. We’ll hike around to the front.”

  He’d slid the front window open. “Who you fellas with?”

  “The Terwilligers, down here for first time. So we don’t know the area. No big deal, we’ll walk back to the front gate.”

  Maybe he knew the middle-aged man in the Mercedes convertible, maybe he didn’t.

  As I turned, the old man called, “Oh heck, go right ahead on in. They got too many rules at this place as it is. Hot as it is, you want me to have staff bring you a golf cart?”

  I said, “Nope, walking’s a good way to go.”

  Waving us along, smiling, the man said, “Ain’t that the truth? These days, ever’body’s in a hurry. You tell Mr. Terwilliger, Freddy says hey.”

  A nice old guy.

  When we were well away, walking on a brick sidewalk among manicured gardens, through tupelo trees and cypress, DeAntoni said to me, “You’re smooth, Mac. Very smooth.”

  I told him, “We’ll see.” chapter fourteen

  The bartender said, “Mr. Minster? Of course, I knew Mr. Minster. An interesting man. Such a tragedy. We miss him here at Sawgrass.”

  We were in the Panther Bar, which was part of the Big Cypress Restaurant, a place modeled after the old Rod amp; Gun Club in Everglades City. It was white clapboard, three stories high, pecky cypress inside with a wide veranda, ceiling fans, pictur
es by Audubon, Currier amp; Ives, framed and lighted. There was a formal restaurant-chandeliers and starched tablecloths-a light-fare eatery built on a deck over a cypress hammock, gators basking below in tannin-stained water, plus this ornate bar.

  The bar had a granite fireplace, tables of dense wood, walls that were a museum of taxidermy: old skin-mounted tarpon, snook, bass and sailfish. There were alligators twelve to fourteen feet long, green turtles, turkeys, coveys of quail, a bear snarling on hind legs and one spectacularly large feral hog with razor tusks.

  “Holy shitski,” Tomlinson said, eyes swiveling as we walked in. “They ought to have a couple of Michiganers tacked up there; human heads just to be fair. Give wildlife equal time. Or a Buckeye or two in travel garb, cameras around their necks. Mount them over there”-he pointed to the largest of the gators-“maybe partially ingested. A leg or two missing, but they’ve still got that Disney World smile on their faces. Tough-ass Ohioans not about to let anything ruin their vacation. A real Florida tableau. Don’t you think that’d up burger sales?”

  Shaking his head, DeAntoni said, “Jesus, burgers. That’s exactly what I was going to order, too. Why you got to be so fucking vulgar?” and left us standing as he walked toward the bar.

  The busiest of tourist times in Florida is a week or two before Easter. Even so, the lodge wasn’t crowded. At the most expensive clubs, hefty yearly dues ensure lots of personal room, lots of personal attention.

  Members and their guests were getting it here. There was a steady luncheon business out on the veranda, a couple more tables occupied inside, but there was only one person at the bar when we sat. A distinguished-looking man with white hair, pleated shirt and slacks. He was peering reflectively into a heavy Scotch glass, but turned long enough to allow us a pleasant nod.

  We ordered drinks and lunch; talked among ourselves for a while before DeAntoni attempted to coax conversation out of the bartender. Talked about sports, asked him about the fishing, how was business, how were tips, before he finally mentioned Minster.

  The question seemed to surprise the bartender, though he recovered quickly. Bartenders become expert at masking emotion or they don’t last long in what is a tough, tough business. He was as muscular as the guard in the pith helmet, but older: clean-cut, tan face beaming as he towel-dried glasses in his white shirt and black vest, with a name tag that read: KURT-LINCOLN, MASS.

  But there was something aloof in Kurt’s dark eyes, as if he were an actor too good for the role he’d been assigned, and knew it. He and the guard possessed a similar, polite facade that implied a well-hidden contempt.

  We listened to the bartender tell us how interesting Minster was, what a loss it was to the club, before DeAntoni said, “The three of us are all friends of his wife, Sally. You ever meet her?”

  “No, sir. I don’t think I had the pleasure. You’re guests of Mrs. Minster?”

  “That’s right. We’re friends of Geoff, too. We were his friends. Crummy luck, huh? Falling off the ass-end of a boat. Geoff was one smart operator. He was the guy behind developing this place, which you probably know. Right here where you’re working. Sawgrass. Him and some weird religious guru, but Geoff was the real brains-”

  For just an instant, the mask slipped a little as the bartender interrupted with exaggerated civility. “Excuse me, sir. Bhagwan Shiva is not some weird religious guru. He’s a gifted and enlightened individual. A very great man. Shiva comes here often, and we’re honored that Shiva has chosen Sawgrass as his personal ashram. In fact, he’ll be here this afternoon.”

  DeAntoni said, “Ashram,” in a blank tone that said he didn’t know what Kurt was talking about.

  “An ashram is a place for spiritual retreat. Like a church, only more than that. At Sawgrass, we have an indoor ashram for meditation, religious instruction. We also have a much larger outdoor ashram, which is at the end of the nature trail. Cypress Ashram. It’s an amphitheater beneath a really pretty cypress dome. It’s beautiful; seats nearly a thousand. Some people say they find grace and tranquillity if they just sit there alone for a few minutes. I suggest you visit it.”

  It was a subtle cut that DeAntoni missed. He replied, “Yeah, Geoff was into that stuff, too, meditation, religion-” but the bartender had already turned away, ending the conversation, walking off, telling us that he’d go check with the kitchen because our food should be up soon.

  When Kurt was gone, the white-haired man cleared his throat, a mild smile on his face, looking at us with eyes that were bleary, seemed a little sad. “Forgive me, but I couldn’t help overhearing that you gentlemen were friends of Geoff. I knew him well. A wonderful guy.” The man had the genial southern accent that I associate with moneyed people from Charleston society or, perhaps, old Atlanta.

  DeAntoni said too quickly, “Oh yeah, the best. Geoff was a real peach.”

  “Quite a raconteur,” the man said. “Told the funniest stories.”

  “Hilarious,” DeAntoni said. “Made your sides ache when he really got going.”

  My antennae were up. A lot of little warning bells were going off. I sensed we were being manipulated, even tested, as the white-haired man continued, “So you really did know our old colleague. I’m surprised I didn’t see y’all at the memorial service.”

  Tomlinson, typically, had already perceived what I was just beginning to suspect, because he spoke before DeAntoni or I could reply, saying, “My brothers, I think we have badly misjudged our drinking neighbor. Sir”-he turned on his stool to face the older man-“we deceived the bartender. Flat-out lied on purpose. He’s a young spirit, an inexperienced soul. But not you. So the truth is, we didn’t know Mr. Minster. I met him once-and he wasn’t impressed. But we are friends of his wife, Sally. Mind if I ask how you knew we were lying?”

  The man was swirling the whiskey in his glass, staring into it. I realized that he was already well on his way to being drunk, only an hour past noon.

  He said, “The way I know is, I’ve spent my life starting companies, overseeing corporations, sniffing every kind of man you can imagine. It takes balls the size of pit bulls to be successful in American business-especially these days. So an ol’ boy also has to have a finely developed, built-in bullshit detector.”

  His mild smile broadened as he added, “And you, gentlemen, set off my bullshit detector the moment you walked through the door. The moment your large friend opened his New York mouth”-he used his chin to indicate DeAntoni-“I knew he was full of manure. Besides that, Geoff Minster never told a funny story in his life. I don’t think the man knew how to laugh. Although, he was maybe trying to learn toward the end.”

  I expected DeAntoni to bristle. Instead, he stood and held out his hand. He waited as the older man thought for a moment, then finally shook it. “You got good judgment, Mac. The kind of guy who says what’s on his mind, which I respect. Truth is, I’m a private investigator trying to help Mrs. Minster. She doesn’t think her husband’s dead. Neither do I. Which is why I’m down here askin’ questions.”

  The white-haired man considered that through two delicate sips of his drink. His expression read: Interesting. Finally, he stood, pausing another moment to be certain of his balance. Then he said, “I’m going to find a corner table-away from that little Nazi of a Yankee bartender. Interested in joining me?”

  When DeAntoni said yes, the man told him, “Excellent. ’Far as I’m concerned, the only bad thing about drinking alone is that a fine Scotch never gets the time it deserves to breathe.”

  “Conversation,” Tomlinson replied agreeably, “can be the secret to getting a whiskey binge off to a good start.”

  “‘Conversation’?” the man said. “Son, I don’t waste my time with conversation. No businessman worth a damn talks for pleasure. If I open my mouth, it’s either to take a drink or to negotiate. Sometimes, it’s to barter. Which is what we’re doing now. I’m drinking thirty-four-year-old Blackadder Single Malt. Staff has it flown in special from Ben Nevis at a price that’s obscene. If I’m ta
lking, you’re buying. That’s the agreement. So I hope you brought a walletful of cash.”

  The white-haired man, who introduced himself as Carter McRae, said to us, “Before we sit down and get real comfy-like, I’d like to ask you a couple of questions. Does Miz Sally want to find out if Geoff’s dead ’cause she misses him? Or is it ’cause she’s worried about losing the insurance money?”

  I answered. “Neither. She wants to give most of the money to her church. Ethically, she can’t do that if her husband’s still alive.”

  The older man nodded, apparently pleased. “That there’s the only answer I’d have believed. Okay, so now I’d appreciate it if you’d haul out one of those cell phones ev’body carries these days and dial up the lady. Sally knows me. Not well, but she knows who I am. If you’re such old and good friends, you won’t have to bother lookin’ up her number now, will you?”

  We were dealing with one tough, shrewd old guy.

  DeAntoni had a phone and the number. After he’d dialed, McRae held his hand out, put the phone to his ear, pushed open the double doors, and walked out onto the veranda. I watched him through the glass. As he spoke into the phone, he maintained the same mild smile, but his sad eyes brightened slightly. Beyond and below him were cypress trees knee-deep in water; Spanish moss draped over limbs like blue mist.

  “Something’s wrong with him,” Tomlinson said softly, looking through the window. “Something happened to hurt him recently.”

  DeAntoni said, “What makes you think that? The guy’s ballsy. He likes his whiskey, but there’s nothing in the world wrong with a man liking his whiskey.”

  “It’s pure pain. I can see it.” Tomlinson started to add something, but stopped because McRae was coming back into the room. As he handed DeAntoni the phone, the older man looked at me, saying, “You’re Ford. Sally says you two’ve been friends since you were kids. Talks about you like you ought to be wearin’ shining armor and a halo”-his eyes narrowed slightly as he finished-“but I’d bet a good pointer dog she’s wrong about that. The halo part. Which is just fine by me. I don’t like saints. Righteousness-that’s for people who don’t have the spine to live like men.”