Randy White - Shark River

No wonder Izzy and Clare had not reacted calmly when introduced to the shark pen.

“I love the Rastas, love their spirit and their faith. The Holy Piby, man, I read it. The black man’s Bible, that’s what some call it. Inspired, some very powerful stuff in there. It was first printed back in the 1920s in the Ethiopian language of Amharic. It says that God and all of his prophets were black, and some believe it contains the lost verses of the Old Testament. The reasoning makes more sense than some people want to admit. The way it goes is, Ethiopian nobility always considered themselves direct descendants of King Solomon. They were black, so Solomon was black. If Solomon was black, then Christ had to be black, too. Which is very cool, I think.

“When I was in Jamaica, I lived with a Rasta group called the Twelve Tribes of Israel. For a time they were very heavy into the Black Power movement, which they needed to be, but in a very positive and peaceful way. Reform through education and political action. Some of the splinter groups, though, they believed violence was the answer. Still do. They were serious racists, too. Kill the whites-all whites-and there would no longer be oppression.”

I had the ring under the binocularscope again. Nothing ornate about the typeface. Plain, very American: NEW YORK. Without looking up from the microscope, I said, “I remember that time. Kill without remorse for political gain. A lot of whites and blacks were doing it. Assassinations. Bombings. Overthrow the government at any cost. What was it Mao Tse-tung wrote? ‘In the struggle for socialism, the death of a million innocents means nothing.’ ”

Tomlinson stood suddenly to leave. “Ransom? If I were you, I’d get in touch with some Rasta people you know and trust. Or I’ve still got some friends with the Twelve Tribes if you want me to do it. Tell them you have a ring, maybe Haile Selassie’s ring, and want to give it back. Today, I mean. By phone. Before the rumors start to spread. Before more of the violent types come looking for you.”

As I walked with Tomlinson to the marina to get the mail, he said, “All that stuff with the Rastas reminds me of something I’ve been meaning to bring up, Doc. Lately, more and more, the older I get, the things I did in my past really bother me. Some truly shitty stuff, man. I’d like just the two of us to sit down one day and talk about it, you don’t mind. About something I was involved with a long time ago, but it concerns you. I think it’s a talk long overdue.”

In some inexplicable and maybe perverse way, I’d been goading him when I brought up revolutionaries and bombings. I wasn’t certain why. Perhaps it was because I was beginning to have second thoughts about the deal I’d made with Harrington. But I said, “Sure, we can talk. Another time, though. Getting beaten up, getting shot, arguing with Ransom about my uncle. Little stuff like that, I’m kind of pooped out for some reason.”

“Okay. But soon.”

“Yeah, soon. A couple of weeks, a couple of months from now, when we both have some time. If you can help me get this business with Ransom squared away, that would be a good way to start.”

“Absolutely,” he said. “No worries.” He walked on in silence for a time before he spoke again. “I went through the stuff Tuck sent to Ransom. What a circus act that guy was. And what a romantic. He sent her drawings, which I know you saw, but also this cryptic letter.”

I said, “You read it. I’m not going to waste my time.”

“That’s my point. You don’t have to read it. I’ve already figured out where Tuck hid the six grand. It’s at his ranch. We’ve got to meet a guy there and he’s going to give us another letter. We can go get it tomorrow, you want. Or Sunday.”

“Make it Sunday. I’ve got at least a full day’s work in the lab, plus a lot of phone calls to make. The Aquaculture Lab at Gainesville has been working on reintroducing Gulf sturgeon south of Tampa Bay, and I’ve been doing research for the director. Then I’ve got to contact all the offshore stone crabbers I know and see if I can buy some of their old rope because of an order I’ve got for gooseneck barnacles. But first I need to check with Jeth, see how the fish did while I was away.”

Tomlinson said, “What?” already preoccupied with private thoughts. When I repeated myself, he said, “Did you hear what happened to Jeth? Between him and Janet?”

Jeth was one of the marina’s fishing guides, a huge, good-looking guy with a big heart and a slight stutter. Janet was Janet Mueller, who lived up at Jensen’s Marina on her little blue Holiday Mansion houseboat.

“What happened?”

Tomlinson’s attention had wandered again. “Huh? What happened to who?”

I stopped walking. Put my hand on his shoulder and turned him. “I gather that things didn’t go well with Nimba, did they? On your trip back from Guava Key.”

He laughed bitterly. “It couldn’t’a gone worse, man. It was terrible. A faithful woman who finally decides to go out on her abusive husband, but the guy she chooses can’t consummate the relationship. A woman with her religious background, it was like having God in the room telling her she was a sinner and damned to Hell. Like that was the reason He wouldn’t allow me to perform. The moment we got back, she threw her luggage in the trunk of a cab and headed for the airport.” He sighed. “I don’t blame her, man. She worked and worked on me, the whole trip down. Zamboni tried to rally a few times but never really made it across the blue line.”

“Maybe it’s time you spoke to a physician. I hear they’ve got drugs now for that. Some kind of pill?”

“I’m way ahead of you. I talked to Dieter today when he got back from lunch. He’s got his license to practice in the States now, which I really don’t give a shit about, but it means the drug companies give him all kinds of interesting samples. He gave me a pill to try.”

Dieter Rasmussen was a retired Munich psychopharmacologist who lives over on A Dock in his gorgeous Grand Banks trawler, Das Stasi. He’s a big guy with a shaved head, good-looking-judging from the reaction of local women-brilliant, rich, and he loves the kicked-back, happy life of Dinkin’s Bay. I hadn’t liked or trusted the man at first, but he’d done a good job of fitting in with the marina community, so now we played chess occasionally, or sat around on my deck at sunset talking science, genetics, natural selection-things that interested both of us.

“What’d he give you?”

Tomlinson was wearing baggy surfer shorts, no shirt, veins and ribs showing, his gaunt face serious beneath matted blond hair. He stuffed a hand into his pocket, and produced a small, blue, diamond-shaped pill in a blister pack. “Viagra,” he said. “It’s the only one he had left, but he’s got so much respect for me as a fellow scientist, he said what the hell. I had no choice but to accept. You know how I hate to use prescription drugs, but I’m desperate, man.”

He sounded desperate. He had the same air of preoccupation and depression he’d been projecting for the last several months. It’s normal for Tomlinson’s personality to vary with his moods. I’ve learned to recognize his highs and emotional lows. When he’s down, in a funk, I know, for instance, to leave him alone, give him time and the black mood will pass.

But this mood wasn’t passing and it was beginning to worry me.

“I wasn’t aware that you had an aversion to any kind of drug,” I told him.

It was a friendly barb calculated to make him smile, but he didn’t smile. I listened to him say, “When it comes to pharmaceuticals, I’m an explorer not a commuter. You’re not going to see me on many subways. But if I find a space shuttle available? Look out. Plus, with prescription pills, I worry about side effects. Like this pill. Some folks say it can blur your vision and give you a slight headache, too. Doctor Dieter tells me about all that and immediately I think, Jesus, what a dangerous drug. First it screws up your vision, then it gives you a hard-on.” He made a sound of frustration and disgust. “But it’s worth the risk. I don’t have many options remaining. So tonight, after the marina’s party, I’m going to test the little blue pill and see if my goddamn pecker has an ounce of manhood left in him. Fortunately, I’ve found two humanitarian-minded ladies willing to participate in the experiment.”