Randy White - Twelve Mile Limit

“Is he gonna live, mister? He’s slept with me every night since my mama ran away. Never left me alone. I don’t know what I’d do without my Davey dog.”

I wanted to tell her that, sooner or later, her companion would die, leaving her alone in her father’s nightmare world. I wanted to tell her that if she did not break away from that world soon, it would drag her in and destroy her.

Sometimes we get the urge to help even when we know we can’t.

Instead, I said, “I hope he’s okay, Shanay. He seems like a nice dog, and you seem like a nice girl. I really do hope the best for both of you.”

I was waiting on the dock when she returned and handed me a sheet of paper. The security lights were bright enough that I could read her childlike printing: Hassan Atwa Kazan had a P.O. box in Tangier, Morocco.

Tangier?

Years ago, I’d been in Marrakech and in Casablanca. Just a week or two, then gone. But my knowledge of the region’s geography wasn’t good, though I’d certainly heard of Tangier.

Kazan’s telephone number, however, had a familiar prefix: 57-5. It was the country and city code for Cartagena, Colombia. Same with a man named Earl Stallings. Not surprisingly, his address was the Hotel de Acension, Cartagena.

As I read the names, the girl said, “Hassan whatever-the-rest-of-it-is, I guess that must be the albino’s name. He’s sick-white looking, but his features ain’t what you’d call American. He was in daddy’s book under P for Puff.”

I said, “Thanks. This helps me a lot. Something else, Shanay? I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone you gave me this information. You’d be doing me a big favor.”

“I’m going to tell you again, mister: Stay away from them two. I think they even scare Daddy a lil’ bit.”

“I’ll be careful. But it’s not going to help if they know I’m looking for them. Would you promise me?”

Her voice had a touching, needy quality as she replied, “I don’t even know your name, mister. I couldn’t get in touch with you even if I just wanted to talk, so why would I make you a promise?”

I reached out, squeezed her shoulder, saw her face tilt upward toward me, felt her body soften. Sometimes, you have to operate on instinct, and I decided to trust her. I told her my name and that, if she was ever in trouble, day or night, she was welcome to contact me. As I talked, I opened my little waterproof pouch, stored the paper therein, and walked to where the Nan-Shan was moored to retrieve my mask and fins.

The girl said, “Marion? That’s a funny name for a guy. You don’t mind, I think I will call you. Just to talk some nights. It might be nice to have a man friend who isn’t tryin’… well, it just might be nice to have a man friend.”

Then she stopped as if stunned at the sight of my snorkeling gear, and added in a voice of surprise, “You’re kiddin’ me, dude-don’t tell me you swam up this river?”

Her concern made me smile. “Not far, don’t worry. My skiff’s just around the first bend, less than a hundred meters from here. I’ve had a lot of experience swimming at night.”

She grabbed my arm, pulling me back from the water. “Marion, you’re nuts. Jesus Christ, I’m surprised you’re still alive. Get in my little boat, I’ll take you.”

“I don’t mind the swim. It’s not a problem.”

“Oh yeah? Hand me that little flashlight you got-no, look, don’t even bother. There she is right by the dock. Lizzy Pig. You can see her in the light. I hate her. She still gives me nightmares.”

Lizzy Pig? What kind of name was that?

Then I saw, and understood. Drifting alongside the Nan-Shan was one of the biggest alligators I’ve ever seen. Had to be close to fourteen feet long and so broad that it resembled an Australian croc-or the empty fuel drum I’d mistaken it for on my swim in.

When the girl took my fins and mask and stepped toward her little boat, I didn’t protest. “Lizzy Pig, Daddy’s had her for years. She gets real excited the nights he puts on dogfights. Big old fat lizard. She knows, next morning, he’s gonna feed her the losers.”

On Tuesday morning, December 16, I caught an American Eagle Flight to Miami International-not my favorite airport in Florida-and stood in line at the Avianca desk until I had tickets to Cartagena in hand.

Two tickets, not one.

I had an unexpected travel companion at my side: Amelia Gardner.

Early Saturday morning, just before dawn’s first gray light, when I’d returned to my rental cottage at the Pelican Post on Bradenton Beach, her green Jeep was in the driveway, the hood cool to the touch. I tapped on the door before entering and found her curled on the couch, windows open, Gulf breeze blowing through the curtains.

When she asked where I’d been, I used the first alibi that came to mind, saying, “If I’d known you were coming back, I wouldn’t have stayed out so late snook fishing.” It didn’t account for being dressed in tactical clothing, but I’m not the most creative person around nor the quickest thinking.

She pursed her lips as she rubbed her eyes and said, “Bullshit.” Then she reached, switched on the floor lamp, and held up the piece of notebook paper on which I’d made notes while talking to Dalton Dorsey.

Dexter Money’s name was on the paper, as well as the name of his shrimp boat, the Nan-Shan. Stupidly, I’d left it atop the chest of drawers in the bedroom.

She said, “When you called the second time, almost two-thirty, I started to feel bad about not picking up. I know I’ve got a temper, and I work hard at controlling it. So I decided to call you back. No answer. I called a couple of more times, still no answer. By three, I was worried sick. So I got in my Jeep and came looking.”

I crossed the room, saying, “Like I told you, I was out fishing. There was a great tide tonight at Longboat Pass.” I opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of Coors. I was exhausted but still wired.

“Sorry, Doc, I don’t buy it. I deal with professional liars every day, and you’re no professional. You weren’t here and your boat was gone. Your shaving kit was still in the bathroom-I could see it through the window, so Mrs. Post gave me a key. I found this note in the bedroom. I admit it, I’m a snoop. So who’s Dexter Ray Money?”

“Nobody. A guy I wanted to see about a boat. What I’m wondering is, why are you so suspicious?”

“How do you know him?”

“Friend of a friend. Boaters are a pretty tight bunch.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

Amelia tossed back the thin bedspread and stood. She’d changed out of the black dinner dress into neatly pressed jeans and a white blouse. No makeup now, but her red hair still held the light. “I’m suspicious,” she said, “because I’m a public defender in this county and I know who Dexter Money is. I know what a piece of trash the guy is. I’ve had to defend some of his sicko buddies. And I’ve heard the rumors about how he makes a living with his shrimp boats.”

She took a step closer, staring into my eyes. “There’s something you’re not telling me, Ford. You had an appointment with him tonight, didn’t you? Or someone. That’s why you made me leave. You’re not up here for a meeting with Bell Fish. That’s bullshit, too.”

“Would you feel better if I said yes?”

That made her smile; she couldn’t help it. “Goddamn right I would! I’ve got feelings. But only if it’s true. No woman likes throwing herself at a man, then being told thanks but no thanks. And only if you’re not involved with some kind of illegal crap with that redneck slime. Which I wouldn’t believe even if you told me yourself.”

She was standing so close to me now that I could feel the warmth of her breath when she spoke. Her eyes were the luminous green of fresh mint. When I didn’t answer right away, she put her hands on my arms and said, “You’ve heard something about them, haven’t you? Our missing friends. It has something to do with Janet, Michael, and Grace. I can sense it. Why else would you be sneaking around at night, talking to criminals who own shrimp boats? Were you trying to buy information from Dex Money?”