Randy White: Everglades

In barely a whisper, Shiva said, “Don’t threaten me. I won’t tolerate it. Other men have threatened me, other organizations, and you know what happened to them.”

Izzy allowed himself to smile. “Who you think you’re talking to- Jerry? I’m the one who makes it happen. Which is why you’d better be telling the truth about the money.”

“You’re worried? It’s already been deposited into a numbered account. The trustee I’ve appointed-”

Izzy interrupted, “I’ve talked to him.”

He had, too. The man’s name was Carter-a banking tycoon before he’d joined the Church of Ashram and was soon elevated to Shiva’s inner circle: the Circle of Twenty-eight.

To Carter, Izzy had said, “If you don’t answer your cell phone the instant I call, if the account numbers aren’t kosher, guess who I’m gonna come looking for first? Don’t even try to hide.”

Shiva referred to the money as a “bonus” not a payoff.

Izzy made a good salary working for the church. He’d invested in stocks and property. He’d done okay.

A few years back, he’d done what he’d always dreamed of: bought his own island. Made a sizable down payment, anyway. The island was in Lake Nicaragua, just a mile off the coast from Granada, a fun little town. His island was a hundred acres of palms, waterfalls, a beach so white that it hurt his eyes.

The bonus was big enough that he could pay off the island and build the house he wanted: native stone, tile roof, ceiling fans. Big enough that he could quit, hire servants, enjoy the local women, do anything he desired for a long, long time. Which meant no more hanging out at Palm Beach’s Chesterfield Hotel. No more dancing at the Leopard Lounge, seducing aging socialites. No more crossing the bridge into West Palm, searching for hookers.

Which is why Izzy patiently listened to Shiva say, “All I’m telling you is, if it works, we both benefit,” before he replied, “The question now is, when do you want the second blast?”

Izzy got up off the couch, adding, “You gave me some dates, if you can stop being pissed-off long enough to listen.”

He pulled a spiral notebook from his inside jacket pocket, and began to read, “May second is the last day of Ridvan-that’s three weeks from now, a Friday.”

He looked up. “What the hell’s Ridvan?”

Mulling it over, Shiva said, “A prophet, Baha, found enlightenment near Baghdad in the Garden of Ridvan. That’s where God spoke about another messenger. A prophet who would usher in an era of peace for all mankind.”

Izzy said, “Meaning you, of course.”

Shiva wasn’t listening. “May second… yes, that could work. It’s not a well-known holiday, though. And there’s a pretty long gap between it and Palm Sunday. What’s the next date I gave you?”

Izzy looked at the notebook. “The eighteenth’s Good Friday. A week from now. Sunday’s Easter, then Shavuot-that’s Jewish. Or we could wait for the Green Corn Dance in late May. You want to impress the Indians, that’s the time to do it.”

“We can’t afford to wait.”

Izzy said, “Okay. For the second blast, let’s say next week, Easter Sunday, in the afternoon. Which’ll give me time to make a quick flyover, make sure there’re no people in the area. We’ll have to postpone if there are, so maybe the Green Corn Dance can be a backup. In the area where you’re building the casinos, you sometimes get airboaters, people canoeing.”

Shiva was shaking his head, “No. No postponements.”

Izzy had been expecting this. He said slowly, “So you want me to detonate… no matter what. ”

Shiva nodded emphatically: Yes -no more discussion.

“Ohhhh-kay… which leaves one more little decision-and I mentioned this six months ago. I’ve read enough geology to know that an underground blast in the ’Glades-a big one-might crack the limestone plate. Limestone’s delicate stuff. It could screw up some of the water system between Miami and Naples. That could bring the Feds running.”

Shiva was focused on his computer, indifferent, no big deal. He replied, “What happens to a bunch of swamp water is the least of our worries.”

Then he sealed the subject, saying, “When I go to our Sawgrass Ashram, I want the new girl with me, the blonde. Her name’s Kirsten something, from Lauderdale.”

Izzy began to grin-the guy was shameless. “That’s going to piss off your old sweetie. What’d Mary donate, a couple hundred acres of hubby’s Colorado ranch land? That’s the way you want to do business?”

More controlled and formal now: “I keep telling you: I don’t run a business. This is a religion. ”

Izzy had heard him say that before. Lots of times.

At the door, remembering one last thing, he stopped and said, “That subject we discussed earlier. The woman who went to Sanibel. What if she and her friends start getting too close?”

Shiva said, “Oh yeah, her friend the old hippy bomber.” Giving it a double meaning.

“Umm-huh, the eco-freak who’s screwed with us before. I’m already thinking of that angle. If the guy starts sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong, what we could do is get the two of you together. Find a way to piss him off, get him to threaten you personally. Establish a motive, is what I’m saying-an eco-terrorist bomber to throw to the cops just in case things go wrong.”

Very calmly, in the deeper voice he used when giving sermons or making prophecy, Shiva said, “The souls of many are worth the lives of a few. Just make it happen, Izzy.”

Izzy had heard him say that before, too.

I finished my drink, then ushered Sally inside the house, where I built another tall one. I told her to make herself at home while I got cleaned up. Then I stepped outside, and walked toward the darker, rear section of deck. A single cloud, no bigger than a house, cloaked the moon for a moment, then floated overhead. It was holding water, and it began to rain again, fat, heavy drops. My own little dark cloud hanging over just me.

It didn’t affect the party going on across the water. I could hear music; and see Chinese lanterns, red, yellow and green reflecting off the bay. It was 8:20 P.M. Still early for a Friday night at Dinkin’s Bay.

My shower is outdoors, a big, brass water bucket of a spray head beneath a wooden cistern, sun-heated through coiled black pipe, gravity creating sufficient pressure.

I walked through the rain, stripping my clothes off as I went, and threw them in a heap onto the deck below-I’d bag them and toss them into the marina’s Dumpster later. Then I stood beneath the shower, rain slopping down from snow-peak height, warm water and cold mixing.

Tomlinson had left bottles of counterculture soap, the health-food-store variety-Dr. Bronner’s Hemp amp; Peppermint Castile. I used it to suds away the stink and grime of what had been a weird, but occasionally interesting, four days in the Everglades.

Much to my surprise, I realized that thinking about the trip brought a little smile to my face.

Surprise because, in the last year or so, I hadn’t been doing much smiling. Too many bad dreams, too many bad and haunting memories. Too many good people lost.

I am objective enough, scientist enough, to have recognized in myself an uncharacteristic slide toward clinical depression. I kept fighting it, kept thinking that, one day, the feelings of guilt and dread would dissipate.

It didn’t happen.

Something else I also recognized: My increasing dependence on alcohol was symptomatic.

On this night, though, I felt better. From any objective aspect, I had reason to smile, and those reasons seemed to be accumulating.

For one thing, anyone who lives on the mangrove coast of Florida, USA, is automatically one of the luckiest souls on earth. Except for going to the ’Glades, I hadn’t had to do any traveling for months, and the simple orderliness of a daily routine, awaking each morning on the bay, and doing my work, was helping me to heal.