Lost Man's River(245)
At Lost Man’s Key
Toward sundown an ancient cabin boat came down the river. Though the estuary tide was low, she made her way at near full speed, her wash carving the oyster bars as she circled up into the current with a grumpy gurgling. With her engine cut, her bow coasted ashore on the sand point with a hard crunching scrape.
A loud hoarse voice hailed the men around the fire. “You fellers seen any fish around this river that might like a ride in this old boat?”
“Oh Lord.” Sally rose and moved away toward the point.
“Heck, I know that feller,” Andy said, surprised. Whidden was yelling, “Well now, old-timer, are you lost or what? Maybe your eyesight ain’t so good no more. This here’s Miami!”
“That a fact?” The boatman heaved out a stern anchor—ker-plunk—then put his hands upon his hips, looking around him with proprietary satisfaction at the evening river. “Well, if I am lost, which ain’t too likely, I found the right place to be lost in, looks like to me!”
“Well, come ashore, then! Got good fish to eat!”
The boatman kicked old sneakers off and rolled up baggy coveralls on scrawny legs, which contrasted oddly with the thick brown arms matted with hair. “Sure it’s safe for a old feller over there? Don’t that ol’ scow belong to one them Hardens? What you damn fellers doin this far south? You fixin to run some of that marijuana dope?” He sat on the gunwale and swung over, lowering himself carefully into the water. “Be in over my diddley here before I know it. Don’t want to hurt my pride and joy, y’know.” He sloshed ashore, handing Harden his bow line, and pointed at a driftwood tree worn silver by coast weather. “Case you boys don’t know it, that snag is private property. There’d be hell to pay if I was to find your line hitched onto it!”
Under stained brown galluses, Speck Daniels wore a long-sleeved undershirt of soiled white cotton. On his head was a broken Panama with a tropical green feather that Lucius supposed had been scavenged from a parrot until he saw that it was painted on. Daniels gave Lucius a cold nod and shook hands with Whidden without looking either in the eye, but a grin split his face as he went to Andy House, who was grinning, too. “That you, Speck?” he called. “You making all that noise all by yourself?” And Speck yelled back, “God struck you so damn blind you don’t know who the hell I am no more? Well, that is pitiful!”
Andy, who had gotten to his feet, was tapping his sunburned nose. “Don’t need no eyes! I’d know you anywhere! Lord A-mighty, Speck! I sure would hate to smell as bad as you!” Laughing outright, he hung on to Speck’s hand with both his own.
“Well, for an older feller, I still smell pretty sweet, I reckon!” Speck took a long pleased sniff under his own arm.
“I want to talk with you,” Lucius said in a cold voice.
Daniels hawked and spat but otherwise ignored him. “Know somethin, boys? The goddamn Park is try in to run me off of my own territory! Damn helio-copter come racketin down on me this mornin—first helio-copter I ever seen over the Park! Told me I got to have a permit to come on this here public property! Never thought they’d pick on a poor taxpayer just livin his life away back in the rivers.
“Then it come to me! Parks don’t have no helio-copter! This damn thing was military, what my boys call a gunship. Had some kind of a Marine officer settin up there alongside of the pilot, ribbons all acrost his heart, looked just like eagle shit, and two Parks greenhorns settin in the back. This officer tosses me this stupid-ass salute, two fingers to the brow, y’know, and I says to myself, Don’t you know this fancy skunk from some damn place? I says, Speck boy, it’s goin to come to you, just in a minute, soon’s this sonofabitch opens his mouth. Well, maybe he figured out my thinkin, cause he never spoke! Turned away while them greenhorns searched my boat, like he had more important stuff to think about than old swamp riffraff.
“Naturally, they come up empty-handed, so they got ugly with me. Wanted to know what I was doin in the Park. I told ’em I was out here in the great outdoors enjoyin our great American damn Park on the advice of my personal physician: ‘You’re dead within the year, Speck Daniels, lest you don’t stop drinkin’! Better go back out in the swamp if that’s what it’s gone to take to make you quit! ‘Well, men’—this is still me talkin to ’em—‘Well, men, that is exactly what I’m doin! Follerin Doc’s orders! Cause if I go back to humankind, I get just a terrible ringin in my ears, and I got to drink up every last drop I can find, just to drown it out!’