“R. B. Collins,” the Major pronounced in a flat voice, as if scratching that name off some ultimate list. Again the stone blue eyes closed very slowly, and when they reopened, they were fixed on Lucius. The Major took the historian’s elbow and guided him toward the dining room, letting the old man fall in behind. “Let’s not beat around the bush,” he said. “The historian I’m sponsoring—the objective authority the sugar folks are sponsoring—is L. Watson Collins, the noted author of A History of Southwest Florida.” He strode a ways while that sank in, then summoned Arbie alongside to enlist his support. “Now, boys, I ask you,” he complained, “if a biography of E. J. Watson signed by the well-known Florida historian wouldn’t have more impact? Make the most of a fine reputation in the field?”
“How do you know so much about his reputation?” Arbie demanded.
Lucius said mildly, “I’ve never pretended to be a professional historian—”
“Avoid any suspicion that the author might be prejudiced? As Watson’s son?” Dyer raised those heavy eyebrows, thick as wedges. He leaned in closer as if to peer through Lucius’s eyes into his psyche, taking Arbie’s elbow in a confidential manner. “To answer your question, sir, I know all about him,” Dyer said in a soft voice, “and all about you, too.” He held Arbie’s eye for a long moment. “A routine background check.” He raised both palms to fend off any outrage. “Standard business practice. Underwriting a project, you first investigate the background of all participating individuals.”
“Routine background check,” Arbie exclaimed later in their room, rolling his eyes heavenward for succor. “Participating individuals.” When Lucius suggested that Dyer might be bluffing, Arbie shook his head. “You think that guy’s bluffing?”
“No,” said Lucius, “I do not.”
Awaiting a table, Major Dyer explained that yes, indeed, he needed affidavits from “the Watson Boys” to expedite the claim to the Watson property, and hoped Lucius would help in obtaining one from Addison, the youngest son. Arbie shot his hand up high like a schoolroom pupil. “What makes you think Bloody Watson had good title? How come nobody ever heard about this title until now?”
“Let the Major finish, Arbie.”
“Let the Major begin might be more like it,” said the Major, smiling shortly in an attempt at a fresh start. “Bear with me long enough to let me finish what I drove across the whole state to explain.” Again he stared the old man down. “Once our claim to a life estate is established—which avoids condemnation, in recognition of a prior right—why, we’ll negotiate for preservation of the house as an historical monument or whatever.”
Arbie said, “What’s the ‘whatever’ here? And who’s the ‘we’?”
Dyer winked at Lucius. “Well? What do you say? First, we get the newspapers to cover the Historical Society meeting at Naples where our famous historian, Professor Collins, will demonstrate that there is no hard proof that E. J. Watson murdered anybody! Next, we make a fuss at Smallwood’s store in Chokoloskee, get signed petitions from the locals against burning the historic home of the man who brought the sugarcane industry to Florida—”
“Oh, Lord!” Lucius shook his head. “I never claimed that!”
“See? L. Watson Collins just won’t be a party to a goddamned swindle!”
Arbie barked this impudence into Dyer’s face, and Lucius, afraid for him, recalled what he had witnessed long ago on a bear hunt with his father in the Glades—the morose animal biding its time, then the sudden swipe of long curved claws that gutted the raucous dog and left it whimpering, in awe of its own blood.
Major Dyer’s pale blue eyes considered Arbie. He said in an intense cold voice, “Tell me, sir, what is it that you call yourself, sir? Arbie?”
“None of your damned business—”
“Yes, sir,” Dyer insisted quietly, “it is very much my business, do you understand me?” Controlling great anger, he frowned at his watch and whacked his leg hard with his newspaper. When the hostess came for them, he tossed his loose newspaper onto the sand of the cigarette-butt canister and strode ahead.
At the table, Lucius showed the Major the synopsis of his notes on the Belle Starr murder, and Dyer read the entire document while the waitress stood there, awaiting their order. He paid no attention to Lucius’s impatience, far less to the poised pencil of the nervous waitress, but sat hunched forward over the table, mantling the papers like a raptor.