Randy White - Everglades

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, pictures 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.