Randy White - Twelve Mile Limit

She jerked her head north toward a wooded point on the other side of the bay. “You’ll find him on the far side of Perico Island. He’s got some land there, a couple houses and some docks.”

“I take it you don’t like him. You and the people of Cortez.”

“We don’t claim him, if that’s what you’re asking. Let’s see… it’s Friday night? So at his place tonight he’ll be having dogfights-he raises pit bulls, lets ’em fight ’till their bellies are ripped open. Or snortin’ up coke with his redneck pals, shooting guns. Or that daughter of his, Shanay, she’s only fifteen or sixteen, and the word that describes her, I won’t say. Shanay’s a party girl and she may have her friends over. Which is maybe understandable what with Dex putting her mama in the hospital so many times she finally just run off and disappeared. Do the people of Cortez like Dex Money? No, sir, we do not.”

Her expression became grim when I asked for more detailed information about where the man lived. She said, “Just past Boca del Rio Marina, there’s a mangrove river cuts in. He’s up the river. Got a little boat way, his own docks. You’ll see the warning signs at the mouth. Keep out. Do what you want, you’re a grown man, but if you’re smart, you’ll do what the signs tell you.”

I paid, and took care not to overtip. The woman had described me as solid-looking when, in fact, she was describing what she valued in herself.

I liked her, wished it hadn’t been necessary to lie to her. A woman like this would not react kindly to the slightest suggestion that I was paying her for information.

I got my first look at Dexter Money just after sunset. The soft December light did nothing to soften the man’s features, or his manner. He came swaggering parallel to the docks, shoulders thrown back, belly pushing a black T-shirt away from his skinny hips, sleeves rolled to show his biceps, two bat-eared pit bull dogs trotting along behind, tongues lolling.

His was a territorial display. There was no doubt who the man was, who owned that land.

The guy was gigantic. Closer to seven feet tall than six, he had to weigh more than three hundred pounds, with a shaved, butter-bean head and a florid, alcoholic’s face. As he approached me, his right eye was squinched, a cigarette between his teeth. He carried a green bottle of beer, and there was something else, too: He had a holster clipped to his hip, the butt of a chrome-plated revolver showing. One of the big ones. Maybe a. 357.

“Buddy ruff, you either can’t read or you one dumbass Yankee! You didn’t see them signs at the mouth of the river you just come up?” He had a coarse, curiously high-pitched voice, a fried-okra twang; an accent that was intentionally emphasized to communicate his contempt for me, an outsider.

I’d seen the signs. Saw one at the mouth of the deepwater mangrove cut-No Trespassing! This Means You!-and a second sign just before I rounded the bend at dead idle and saw the two CBS houses through the oaks elevated above the river, an airboat and a couple of ATVs, a junked GTO, another GTO gray with Bondo up on blocks, a bunch of new pickup trucks parked in the shade, dog cages in the back, men with ball caps milling around as country music played, and a hulking, rusted shrimper tied adjacent a machine shop, Nan-Shan in white letters on her stern.

He’d been by the house when he noticed me, a foot or more taller than the other men. He turned, then ambled down the hill to intercept me. Now here he was, Dexter Money, a big man and a bigger disappointment-a disappointment because he was not one of the two men in the satellite photos. I would have recognized him. Did he hire people to run his boats?

I fixed a smile on my face as I turned the bow of my skiff toward the riverbank, Money still walking toward me, the two of us separated by only ten or fifteen yards, as I called to him, “I saw the signs. I thought they meant don’t come ashore. What I’m doing is, I’m scouting for snook spots, won’t harm a thing.” When he didn’t respond immediately, I added, “I didn’t know a person could own a river.”

He stopped at the bank, and his tone was without inflection, his eyes were glassy, drug-bright, fierce: “That’s where you wrong, buddy ruff. This river’s mine -and you just had your last warning.”

I started to reply-“In that case, I’ll…”-but didn’t get a chance to finish because Money pivoted, cocked his arm, and rocketed his beer bottle at me. I ducked as it shattered against the console, glass shards everywhere. Heard him scream, “Get the fuck outta here! Now! ”

I have dealt with enough Dexter Moneys in my life to know there is no point in dealing with them. But I’m not immune to anger, either. I stared at him for a moment before I jammed the throttle forward as if to run my skiff ashore, then spun the wheel hard so that the stern skidded toward him. The hull of the boat dug deep as it turned, plowing a high, waking wall of water that washed over Money and sent his two pit bulls running.

I stopped the boat, engine still idling, and looked over my shoulder. His clothes were soaked, his cigarette smoldering. Christ-he had his revolver drawn but was pointing it at the ground-a man who could snap that quick. “Motherfucker!” he said, his voice trembling. “I have killed men better than you!”

Before I touched the throttle again, planing away, I said in a voice low enough to force him to listen: “Mister, I hope that’s the only thing we have in common.”

I came back that night just after 3 A.M., the graveyard hour, when even the worst of insomniacs are asleep.

To the west, magnified by the horizon’s curvature, the moon was huge, the size of a setting sun, a disc of platelet orange, a scimitar fragment missing in earth shadow. The river reacted to contact with the moon, becoming a lighted corridor in the darkness, its water red.

I shut the engine down far from the mouth of the river and poled my way in, no noise at all, just the creaking of mangroves and water dripping onto reflected stars. A dog barked somewhere. There were owls conversing in the shadows beyond.

That afternoon, I’d argued it back and forth in my head. Stay or not to stay. How important was it that I got aboard the Nan-Shan and had a look around?

Could be pretty important, I decided. Even the most poorly run vessel keeps some kind of log. And if the operators were too sloppy to maintain records, they were usually sufficiently sloppy to leave behind some form of identifying spore aboard.

Yeah, I needed to have a look around.

With my evening free, I considered finding an open stretch of beach and camping. December’s a good time to be outside in Florida, looking up at the stars. But I was feeling sociable and in need of a hot shower, so I ran across the bay to the backside of Anna Maria Island. The Rod amp; Reel Marina was booked full, so I found a slip among the liveaboards at Bradenton Beach Marina and walked two blocks to the Pelican Post Inn. A rental cottage was available: a little place on stilts with knotty pine paneling, kitchen, couch, swivel chair and TV, plus an independent bedroom with a mattress that seemed firm enough. I called Amelia on the chance she was free for the evening, and I got lucky.

“Doc?” she said. “You don’t know how great it is to hear your voice! Damn, am I glad you’re here.”

We met for a drink at the Bridge Tender, then walked to the Gulf side for seafood at the Beach House.

I was touched by the fact that Amelia appeared to have taken special care in the way she dressed for the evening. Black dress and stockings, red hair brushed to a sheen, and makeup, too, a touch of eyeliner, peach gloss lipstick. The first time I’d ever seen her wear makeup.

She seemed surprisingly glad to see me. A lot of warm eye contact, a lot of brief nudges and illustrative touching after we’d greeted each other with a long hug.