Stuart Kaminsky - Midnight Pass

“And that is bad,” I said.

“Some say it was good, that nature was about to close the Pass anyway and will close it again if it is opened. New ecosystem for marine life, a rare Florida ecosystem they think makes it worth keeping the Pass closed. Then came the studies ordered by the county commissioners. Bottom line and a quarter of a million dollars later, the county was told it could reopen the Pass for five and a half million dollars and keep it open for another two hundred sixty thousand dollars a year.”

“The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers?” I prodded.

“Right, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers reviewed the study and weren’t all that happy with it. Now, before the commissioners can apply for state and federal money to open the Pass, there would have to be another study, a big one, estimated cost, one million plus.”

“And the commission is voting tomorrow on whether to have another study,” I said.

“And if they vote to have it, they’re pretty well locked in to going ahead with opening the Pass if the study says they should. And I think that’s just what the study will say if it’s approved. That answer your question?”

“Yes,” I said. “And who makes money on this?”

“Besides the company being paid for another study? Landowners. People with land in Little Sarasota Bay if the Pass opens. People with land on the Gulf Coast if it stays closed. But money’s not the only issue. A lot of people with plenty of time and money look for religions to invest their time, heart, and money in. Midnight Pass is nearly a religion for a lot of people in South County.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Welcome. So what do I look for?” he asked.

“Be at the commission meeting,” I said. “Stay till it’s over. Then you might want to interview one or two of the commissioners after the vote on the Pass is taken.”

“And the commissioners will talk to me about it? I mean talk and say something with shark teeth?”

“At least one will be quotable, possibly more.”

“You’re sure?”

“Since I have no reputation, I can’t stake mine on it. It won’t cost you anything but a few hours sleep.”

“I’ll be there,” Rubin said. “I gotta get back to my suicidal speargunner. You still smiling, Fonesca?”

“Always,” I said, and we hung up.

I put on my blue slacks, my only white shirt, and my only tie, blue-and-red striped. I put on blue socks and my ancient black Rockport shoes.

I was going to a party.

Hoffmann’s fortress was on the mainland opposite Bird Keys. The sun was just going down when I got there. I had stopped at Walgreen’s on Bahia Vista and Tamiami Trail to pick up Hoffmann’s present.

I parked next to the ten-foot-high brick wall. I could hear the surf somewhere in the distance behind the wall. The black steel gate was locked. I pressed the button in the wall to the right of the gate and waited. The gate opened a few seconds later. I walked up to the house on the inclined, cobble-paved driveway. The house, big, Spanish-looking, was on a small ridge, a few feet of added protection from rising bay water when a hurricane or gale storm hit.

The door was open. The man standing in it was a little over six feet tall, lean and well-muscled, a little younger than me. He was wearing dark slacks and a short-sleeved green polo shirt. He was also wearing glasses.

“Fonesca?” he asked.

“Stanley?” I responded, recognizing his voice.

He stepped back to let me in, closed the door, and led me into a gigantic living room with a long bar to the right and an open French door to the left, facing the water. A man stood with his back to me, looking out at the water. He was about my height but broad across the shoulders. His white hair flecked with black was cut short and glistened as if he had just gotten out of a shower or pool.

He turned. Kevin Hoffmann’s face was unlined, handsome. I had seen his picture in the Herald-Tribune. He looked even better in person. He was wearing white slacks and a short-sleeved New York Yankees shirt. On his feet were white deck shoes. No socks. I was overdressed.

Hoffmann looked at me with an Arnold Schwarzenegger grin. Stanley stood off to my right, adjusted his glasses, and stood at ease, military at ease.

“You like baseball,” Hoffmann said, looking at my Cubs cap.

“I like the Cubs,” I said.

“Right,” he said. “You’re from Chicago. Process server now. Used to work for the state attorney’s office in Cook County. Lost your wife in an accident. Sorry about that. I lost my wife about the same time.”

I wondered how much more he had learned about me in the time since I had called. I knew he wanted me to wonder.

“Come with me,” Hoffmann said, motioning with his right hand.

I followed. Stanley didn’t. We moved into a dark room beyond the tasteful Southern plush furniture in the living room. He flicked a switch and motioned for me to step in.

The room was an office with an antique desk and chair in the middle with a phone on it. No computer. There was a window on one wall, facing the water across a wide stretch of grass and sand. There was a small dock but no boat that I could see. The walls of the room were covered ceiling to floor with glassed-in cabinets. Inside the cabinets were hundreds of baseballs, and in one corner were four racks of baseball bats.

Over my shoulder I sensed Stanley standing in the doorway.

“All autographed,” Hoffmann said, bouncing athletically on his heels and looking around. “All fully authenticated. I’ve got Babe Ruth, Ty Cobb, Ted Williams, DiMaggio, Hank Aaron, Clemente, Sandy Koufax, even a Carl Hubbell. Cubs corner is on the lower shelf over there. Banks, Dawson, Pafko, Sandburg, Sosa, Hank Sauer, Frankie Baumholtz, thirty Cubs. Almost two hundred Yankees. Take a look.”

I moved forward, holding the small box I had brought, and looked at the baseballs Hoffmann was pointing to. I was impressed.

“And the bats,” he said, picking one out of the rack. “Brooks Robinson. And I’ve got a Willie Mays, Roberto Clemente, Orlando Cepeda, a Mark McGwire, and a Pie Traynor.”

Hoffmann took a cut through the air with Brooks Robinson’s bat. It swished about three feet in front of my face.

“I still play,” Hoffmann said. “Senior softball league out on Seventeenth Street. Had a doubleheader this morning. A few of the players were in the majors, a lot played college ball or minor league. Of course we use aluminum bats. I keep mine in the back of my car.

“Want to handle one of these?” he asked, shouldering the big bat.

“Some other time,” I said. “Let’s talk about William Trasker.”

I looked back at Stanley in the doorway.

“Let’s,” Hoffmann said. “A great man. Lots of people don’t like him, but I admire him. He lets people know what he wants and he lets them know he plans to take it. We’ve had business dealings together for years. I’ve learned a lot from Bill Trasker.”

“You know where he might be?”

“I know where he is,” said Hoffmann with a smile. “Like something to drink?”

“No, thanks,” I said.

Hoffmann looked around the room.

“I don’t just collect these things,” Hoffmann said. “I told you I play. Two leagues. All year around. One of the great things about Florida. One of many reasons I moved here when I was younger.”

“Twenty years ago,” I said.

He nodded, holding the bat in front of him and examining Brooks Robinson’s autograph.

“Something like that. You play baseball, softball, Fonesca?”

“Used to, a little. Babe Ruth League. Good field. No hit. I got to the point where I just waited for walks and hoped the pitcher didn’t hit me with a fastball. Gave up the game after one season.”