Randy White: Everglades

I said, “Okay, an hour. But, before I talk to Sally, I need more information.”

He looked at me. “What’re you, her fuckin’ attorney or something?”

“No, I’m her friend. You give a little, we’ll give a little. What’s the name of the company that hired you?”

“Whoa, whoa, not so fast, Mac. ’Til we get to know each other, let’s talk in whatta-you-call-it… generalities.”

“Generalities about what?”

“Just listen for a minute, okay? Who knows, maybe you’ll learn something.” When I didn’t reply, he said, “Let me ask you this: You know anything about insurance? About how the companies work?”

I said, “You could fill books with what I don’t know about insurance. I’m already assuming you’re working for an insurance company. ”

“You assume anything your little heart desires. But at least it gives us a place to start. Okay… what a lot of people don’t realize, the way it works with life insurance is, there’s a thing called an ‘incontestability clause.’ A man pays his premiums on time for two years or more, that’s when this clause kicks in. The companies never notify you, it’s just there. Like in the small print. You know about it?”

“Nope.”

I was leaning against a mangrove, looking northward across the bay. It was sunset, now, around 8 P.M.

Through the limbs, the music was louder, the marina’s speakers playing Jim Morris singing “Captain Jack is comin’ back…,” the Friday party just getting under way.

He said, “Insurance bullshit, yeah, I know, boring as hell. But when I decided to open my own agency, I had to learn about it because, let’s face it, doing investigations for them is where the money is.”

“So you are working for an insurance company.”

“Damn it, stop pushing. I didn’t say that. Just shut your hole and listen for a few minutes.”

I smiled. All the profanity, the way he used it as punctuation, made the guy oddly amusing, even likable.

“Okay…” He paused, getting back on track. “… yeah, incontestability clause. What that means is, if you, me, anybody, if we pay our premiums for more than two years, just about no matter how we die, the company’s still got to pay off.

“Let’s say I got cancer and I know it. So I get some-name a company-some Mutual of Omaha agent to write me a ten-million-buck life insurance policy, but never say a word about being sick. They make me take a physical, blood tests, all that bullshit. But if they miss the cancer, and write the policy anyway, all I got to do is survive for the next twenty-four months, and they still got to pay, even though I tricked them.

“Suicide?” he said. “Same thing. I get an agent to write me a big policy, then I make my payments like a good boy.” He used his index finger and thumb to imitate a revolver, touching it to his temple, his thumb hammering down.

“Seven hundred and thirty-one days later, I can take the Smith amp; Wesson cure for insomnia, and they still got to pay off. I leave my wife and kiddies rich, and no more sleepless nights for me.”

I said, “I didn’t know that. I’d always heard that insurance companies won’t pay off on suicides.”

“That’s what almost everybody thinks ’cause that’s what they want the public to think. Guys would be popping themselves left and right. But it ain’t true.”

“Are you saying that you think there’s a chance Minster intentionally drowned himself?”

DeAntoni shook his head, then rolled it experimentally, stretching the neck muscles, and I could hear vertebrae pop-a mannerism common to wrestlers and football players. “What I’m asking myself is why I should tell you anything. That’s a beautiful lady in there. Maybe you two are in on it. Maybe you wanted hubby to disappear.”

I stared at him for a long, focused moment before saying softly, “I’m telling myself the reason I’m not going to knock the nose off your face is because it’s already been broken too many times. But it might really be because I know I’d get my nose broken in return.”

He smiled. His turn to be amused. “So you and the lady got nothing secret going on. Men and women, there are only two kinds of friendship: vertical and horizontal. Yours is vertical. That’s what you’re telling me.”

“For the record, it’s none of your damn business. But the answer is no, the lady and I have nothing going on.”

He sniffed, took a big breath, smiling, and stood. “Okay, okay. Sometimes you got to trust your gut. So I take it back. You don’t strike me as the sneaky type. More important than that, she’s not the sneaky type. Mind if I tell you something weird?”

“Go ahead,” I said. “Weird is something I’m used to. Spend enough time around this marina, you’ll understand.”

“The weird thing is, I been following her for a couple of weeks now. She goes to church, she stops and helps these two or three elderly people, brings them food. She goes to the poor neighborhoods and plays with the little kiddies. She works at a local animal shelter. I mean, she’s like a fuckin’ saint. And pretty, too-not prissy pretty, but kind’a out doorsy.” He stopped for a moment. “What’d you say your name is again?”

I told him.

“Thing is, Ford, she seems okay. As a person, understand.” He leaned toward me slightly, lowering his voice.

“She’s been seeing a shrink, you know. Which is too bad, for someone nice as her. All because her asshole hubby decided to disappear.”

I said, “So I’ll ask again. Do you think he’s still alive?”

With his shoulders, DeAntoni gave me a noncommittal reply. “Maybe. It could be I got a picture someone sent that maybe proves it. That’s what the insurance company’s paying me to do. Check it out.”

“You have a photograph of her husband taken after he supposedly drowned.”

“Um-huh, one of those glossy digital printouts. Geoff Minster, the big shot, the rich business dude kicked back on some tropical beach, a beer in his hand and a real pretty girl beside him. One of those dark Latin types in a thong bikini.”

“Mind if I see it?”

“Depends. Maybe we can do a trade. This is business, understand. You work it so I can interview the lady, I’ll let you both see the picture.”

I told him, “Go get your hotel room, come back in an hour. I’ll let you know.”

I returned to the house to find Sally busy cleaning. It is not something one expects of visitors. She’d found a brush, had made a bucket of sudsy water and was scrubbing away at my sink and the counter where I prepare food. The house smelled of Clorox and Pine-Sol.

She turned to look as I opened the screen door, and said, “Are you okay? I was worried about you.”

“I’m fine. He’s a private investigator. He’ll be back to talk with you later tonight. If you’re willing.”

She asked if he got mad when I caught him; if he’d given me a hard time. I gave her an abbreviated account of our meeting, minus the fight and the photo.

“How’d you get so muddy? Whew! You kinda stink, too.”

“I’ll explain later.”

“Is he out there now?”

“No. We’ve got about an hour.”

She returned to her scrubbing. “Good. I’m almost done.”

I stared at her, perplexed, as she returned to her work. “Sally? Sally. What’re you doing? The kitchen may be a little messy, but I’ll take care of it. You used to kid me about it, what a neat-freak I am. Remember? I keep this kitchen the same way I keep my lab. Spotless.”

Which was a lie. I’d kept the lab up to standards, but, the last six months or so ago, I’d been slipping, doing less and less housework, less and less laundry.

She said, “I’m happy to help. All the beer cans? I put them in your recycle bin.”