Randy White: Tampa Burn

“Remember when I used to call you Senor Feo? Mister Ugly. That was before him.”

I said, “Before Lake.”

Meaning our son, Marino Laken Fuentes. It was a name that, like the boy’s mother, had both Spanish and Mayan roots.

“I’m wondering if he’s grown at all to look like you. A little, perhaps, but not a lot. The eyes, maybe. The jaw?” She seemed to be thinking about it, comparing.

“So now you think I’m handsome, I suppose.” I grinned, hoping to make her laugh.

She didn’t.

“He’s such a fine young man. There’s nothing ugly in goodness, and he’s a good person. Kind and decent. The same qualities I saw in you when we first met.”

I wondered if she’d switched tense accidentally, or if it was because she no longer believed that I possessed those qualities.

I asked, “Is he with you? I’d love to see him.”

She shook her head quickly and then, for no apparent reason, rushed to me on tiptoes and squeezed my arm briefly. It was spontaneous, emotional-an involuntary action linked to the boy we’d made together. The temptation was to hold her there, to kiss her, and then carry her off to some private place.

I might have tried, but just as quickly, she backed away and put her face in her hands. It took me a moment to realize that she was crying.

Tomlinson cleared his throat-a rare moment of awkwardness for a man who is at home in the most bizarre situations- and said, “Wish I could stick around, but I’ve got to get back to my… to my gardening.”

Staring dumbly at Pilar-I’ve never known how to behave when a woman begins to cry-I asked him, “Gardening? What’re you talking about? You live on a sailboat, for God’s sake.”

His expression told me, I’m just trying to help, which I should have realized.

As I finally moved to put my hands on Pilar’s shoulders, I listened to him use words to blanket the sound of her crying. He was using them to provide her with a private space. “Hey, man, I’ve been growing chili peppers for years, you know that. Plus, I’ve been planting some very special flora on islands near here. The magic herb, if you must know, though it’s always been my impression mum’s the word, far as you’re concerned.”

Seeming to speak to Pilar, he added, “I’ve been target-farming deserted islands, the few with enough high ground to cultivate. Small Indian shell middens are the best. They seem to add a spiritual kick to my special crop.”

Pilar had allowed me to hold her for a moment, but now she disentangled herself, crossed the room, and found a tissue in her purse. “I’m sorry. It’s not like me to lose control like that. Marion will tell you.”

Not quite true. I’d seen her explode into rages a couple of times. Not often, but her temper could get out of control. And in bed, she had zero control-happily. Her abandon was unforgettable. That was especially true when she’d been through situations of intense stress. Get a couple of glasses of wine in Pilar, and sex became a vent without taboo. With some women, sex is more of a physical event than a coupling. Pilar was one of those.

Tomlinson replied, “Doc can tell you just as honestly that I am almost never in control. So rest easy. You’re among friends.”

That earned a tiny smile. “You really weren’t talking about hot peppers, were you? Ajis, that’s what they’re called in my language.”

Tomlinson nodded at her perceptiveness. “No, my dear, I am not talking about peppers. I think you know exactly what I’m talking about. One of the nights we were together in Central America, the night Doc was feverish, still unconscious. Didn’t we-?” He hesitated, unsure if he should continue.

Pilar wasn’t uncomfortable with the subject. “Yes. Yes, we did. It was very relaxing, and we laughed.”

Tomlinson smiled, tugging at his hair, his expression saying, I thought so. “If you’re still interested, I have plenty of flora to share. Our friend here does not partake.”

I was surprised, even shocked, when she replied, “I know. In the years I knew him, I never even offered.”

My Pilar?

He said, “You gotta love the big palooka anyway, though, huh?” The two of them simpatico, him standing shirtless at my galley stove in his diaper-style sarong, stork legs sticking out, his skeletal frame visible beneath black sailor’s skin, muscle and tendons traced with veins, one shock of samurai hair arcing unicornlike from the top of his head.

“The moment we started talking,” he continued, “I knew that, spiritually, you were an interesting soul. You got lots of stuff going on inside there, don’t you, my dear lady?”

He eyed her intensely for a moment. I found his tone and manner unusual when he added, “Some people live at the top of a whole pyramid of shishos. I had an instant… awareness of who you are, what you are. Same the first time we met in Masagua. You’ve got a complicated chemistry going on. You’re what we in the mojo business call a complicated spirit. Still evolving.”

She said slowly, “I have the same strong feeling about you, Tomlinson.”

I didn’t interpret what he said as much of a compliment. Even so, he placed his hands together palm-to-palm in front of his face, and bowed slightly at the waist.

Her expression focused, she turned to me. “Marion, do you trust this man?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. It’s important.”

“I’ve known him for a long time. I trust him with anything but my female friends. When he’s sober, anyway.”

“I can tell you’re joking.”

I was joking. Kind of.

I listened to her say, “I like him. There’s a quality about him. I get a sense of goodness and strength. I remember how kind he was to you when you were in the jungle, so badly injured.”

Turning her attention once again to Tomlinson, she added, “I made a decision while we were talking. It surprised me. I didn’t expect it to happen. I came here to tell Marion something important. I need his help. Perhaps you can help, too.”

Tomlinson said, “I’m trying to imagine how any man on earth could refuse to do anything you asked. Seriously-has anyone ever tried?”

Again this was said with an odd, insightful tone.

Pilar didn’t smile when she answered, “You may regret agreeing before you’ve heard what it is I’m asking. Let me tell you about it first. Then decide.”

Tomlinson said, “O.K., I’ll listen. But I already know what my answer’s going to be.”

Pilar said, “They’ve taken our son, Marion. He’s been kidnapped.”

Her words seemed to bang around, echoing inside my auditory canal. I had to wait for a moment until my brain translated the noise.

“ Kidnapped. When?”

“Five days ago. Slightly less.”

“ Who? Who did it?’

“Balserio.”

As Tomlinson said, “Oh God,” I banged my fist on my thigh and said, “Why didn’t you tell me right away? On the phone.”

“I’ll explain why. Now’s not the time to second-guess my decisions. Please.”

I said, “Wherever he is, we’ll find him. Don’t worry. I’ll find him.” My head snapped around. “Do you think they hurt him? Do you have any information at all?”

I watched her battle to hold the tears in check. “That’s the worst. I think they may have hurt him, but I don’t know how badly. Laken is so strong-willed. In his room, there was a struggle. Some furniture was broken. Some glass. Plus”-she paused for another moment-“plus, when you hear about the man who took him. Who did the kidnapping. He’s… he’s horrible. Sick. A monster. Everyone in Masagua is afraid of him.”

When I began to press for details-Who was the man? Had federal investigators been assigned to the case?-she shushed me with a warning finger. “I’ll explain it all. We don’t have enough time to waste it by rushing.”