Lost Man's River(246)
“Well, they wasn’t used to smooth talk such as that, not from a swamp rat, it was pretty plain they was startin to come around to my way of thinkin. All but one, dang foreign-lookin cuss, might could been some kind of a dang Jew from New York City. This Jew says, ‘See here, old feller, what’s all these orchids and damn ligs doin in your boat?’ ” Speck fished a striped tree snail from his pocket. “Liguus—sounds dirty, don’t it? That’s what my customers call this purty thing, don’t ask me why. So anyways, he’s hollerin, ‘Don’t you know them ligs is federal property, old feller, property of the American darn people? Ain’t never heard how them darn things is gettin more rare by the minute, just on account of darn rascals like you?!’
“ ‘Nosir,’ says I, ‘I never knew no such a thing! Why, hellamighty, if I’da knowed ligs was so scarce, I’d of searched them hammocks top to bottom, stole every Christly one I could lay my hands on, make me some money!’ Well, none of ’em thought that was so comical, so I frowned at ’em, real serious. ‘Nosir,’ says I, ‘What I am doing is observin lig behavior!’ Didn’t want ’em to think they was dealin with some dumb cracker. And what they was messin with, I told ’em, was a famous lig o-thority, and a leadin orchid fancier to boot!
“ ‘Nosir,’ this Parks greenhorn says, ‘what you are is a liar, cause ligs ain’t got no dang behavior! Ligs just sets there mindin their own business! What you are is a scallywag by the name of Daniels!’ Called me a scallywag! Dirtiest name that you could call a man, back in my granddad’s time! I told that Jew I aimed to take him into court, jail him for slander, but it didn’t do no good. They stole my ligs, they stole ever’ damn orchid, and after that, they run me off with a last warnin. Didn’t care to look foolish draggin a crippled-up old alky into court, is what it was. Ligs and orchids ain’t the same as guns or gator flats, not when you aim to persecute in court. Them greenhorn sonsabitches seen right off that Old Man Speck had given ’em the slip! Done it again!”
Speck’s humor was cruel and his style mock stupid, and the laughter he elicited would always be uneasy. The man’s mood veered swiftly even while his closed face remained deadpan, that green stare flicking from one person to the next, showing neither warmth nor interest, missing nothing. “I’d help a few snook escape out of this Park, if I could find some. Sell ’em to the restaurants, y’know. They can’t catch a fisherman that can’t catch fish, now can they?
“Helio-copters!” he suddenly burst out, slamming his hat down on the sand. “Until today them rangers in this Park knew Speck Daniels by name only. Ain’t hardly ever seen my face. I come and go. Don’t roil the mud nor break no twigs, don’t leave no more track than a ol’ wood mouse. That’s the way I learned the trade from Joe Lopez and Old Man Tant, and I trained up Crockett Junior that same way. Course, it don’t look like he’ll need it, not the way he’s goin. Junior is lookin to get killed, and he’ll take them others with him, more’n likely.” Speck was matter-of-fact. He squinted bitterly at Whidden. “Course I trained up this Harden feller, too, only he quit on me—the one man with sense enough to keep them shell-shocked morons from bustin out their guns where another man would run or look for cover.”
“One time a feller from St. Augustine, had him a zoo, he paid me to hunt him up some crocs. Sure enough, he shows up at my house at Flamingo—‘Got muh crocodiles?’ I says, ‘Sure thing, got sixteen right out back.’ Only thing, all he had out front was a pink Cadillac. ‘What in the hell you aim to haul ’em in?’ I says. ‘Muh crocodile car! That’s her you’re lookin at!’ ‘Why hell,’ I says, ‘I got me a croc back here that goes twelve feet! Fill that whole limmo-zeen!’ ‘Twelve feet?’ he hollers. ‘I want that ’un now!’
“So we jump on that croc and rassle him around, roll him up into a ball, get him humped some way into the trunk, and that ol’ tail whacked that Cadillac a lick that rung out like a dang mule in a tin stall. I fling the smaller ones in the backseat, they hit that velveteen just a-snappin and a-crappin, and this croc fancier don’t mind one little bit. Takes off for St. Augustine bumpin the ground with the load of crocs he’s got in there, left a big ol’ ugly cloud of smoke right in my yard!
“Next time he showed up, he bought him a hen crocodile. Had a big hump on her shoulders, big as a coconut. Said, ‘That ’un don’t look so good, my friend, I’ll give you ten down and twenty-five on top if she goes two weeks.’ So he sent a letter with no money in it, notified me she had upped and died. Well, the next year I was passin through St. Augustine, dropped in to see him, and there she was, my humped-up crocodile! Star of the show!